I inclose, as usual, a contribution from Mr. Biglow, and remain, Gentlemen, with esteem and respect,

Your Ob’t Humble Servant,

HOMER WILBUR.  A.M.

  I thank ye, my friens, for the warmth o’ your greetin’: 
  Ther’ ‘s few airthly blessins but wut’s vain an’ fleetin’;
  But ef ther’ is one thet hain’t no cracks an’ flaws,
  An’ is wuth goin’ in for, it’s pop’lar applause;
  It sends up the sperits ez lively ez rockets,
  An’ I feel it—­wal, down to the eend o’ my pockets. 
  Jes’ lovin’ the people is Canaan in view,
  But it’s Canaan paid quarterly t’ hev ’em love you;
  It’s a blessin’ thet’s breakin’ out ollus in fresh spots;
  It’s a-follerin’ Moses ‘thout losin’ the flesh-pots.

  But, Gennlemen,’scuse me, I ain’t sech a raw cus
  Ez to go luggin’ ellerkence into a caucus,—­
  Thet is, into one where the call comprehens
  Nut the People in person, but on’y their friens;
  I’m so kin’ o’ used to convincin’ the masses
  Of th’ edvantage o’ bein’ self-governin’ asses,
  I forgut thet we ‘re all o’ the sort thet pull wires
  An’ arrange for the public their wants an’ desires,
  An’ thet wut we hed met for wuz jes’ to agree
  Wut the People’s opinions in futur’ should be.

  But to come to the nuh, we’ve ben all disappinted,
  An’ our leadin’ idees are a kind o’ disjinted,—­
  Though, fur ez the nateral man could discern,
  Things ough’ to ha’ took most an oppersite turn. 
  But The’ry is jes’ like a train on the rail,
  Thet, weather or no, puts her thru without fail,
  While Fac’s the ole stage thet gits sloughed in the ruts,
  An’ hez to allow for your darned efs an’ buts,
  An’ so, nut intendin’ no pers’nal reflections,
  They don’t—­don’t nut allus, thet is—­make connections: 
  Sometimes, when it really doos seem thet they’d oughter
  Combine jest ez kindly ez new rum an’ water,
  Both ’ll be jest ez sot in their ways ez a bagnet,
  Ez otherwise-minded ez th’ eends of a magnet,
  An’ folks like you ’n me, thet ain’t ept to be sold,
  Git somehow or ’nother left out in the cold.

  I expected ’fore this, ’thout no gret of a row,
  Jeff D. would ha’ ben where A. Lincoln is now,
  With Taney to say ‘t wuz all legle an’ fair,
  An’ a jury o’ Deemocrats ready to swear
  Thet the ingin o’ State gut throwed into the ditch
  By the fault o’ the North in misplacin’ the switch. 
  Things wuz ripenin’ fust-rate with Buchanan to nuss ’em;
  But the People they wouldn’t be Mexicans, cuss ’em! 
  Ain’t the safeguards o’ freedom upsot, ’z you may say,
  Ef the right o’ rev’lution is took clean away? 
  An’ doosn’t the right primy-fashy include
  The bein’ entitled to nut be subdued? 
  The fact is, we’d gone for the Union so strong,
  When Union meant South ollus right an’ North wrong,
  Thet the people gut fooled into thinkin’