No gravestone. Perhaps overthrown when new hea.r.s.e-house was built, 1802.

He was probably the son of John, who came from Bilham Comit. Salop.

circa 1642.

This first John was a man of considerable importance, being twice mentioned with the honourable prefix of _Mr._ in the town records. Name spelt with two _l_-s.

"Hear lyeth y^e bod [_stone unhappily broken_.]

Mr. Ihon Willber [Esq.] [_I inclose this in brackets as doubtful. To me it seems clear._]

Ob't die [_illegible; looks like xviii._] ... iii [_prob. 1693._]

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... paynt ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... deseased seinte: A friend and [fath]er untoe all y^e opreast, Hee gave y^e wicked familists noe reast, When Sat[an bl]ewe his Antinomian blaste, Wee clong to [Willber as a steadf]ast maste.

[A]gaynst y^e horrid Qua[kers]...."

It is greatly to be lamented that this curious epitaph is mutilated. It is said that the sacrilegious British soldiers made a target of this stone during the war of Independence. How odious an animosity which pauses not at the grave! How brutal that which spares not the monuments of authentic history! This is not improbably from the pen of Rev. Moddy Pyram, who is mentioned by Hubbard as having been noted for a silver vein of poetry. If his papers be still extant, a copy might possibly be recovered.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The reader curious in such matters may refer (if he can find them) to "A Sermon preached on the Anniversary of the Dark Day," "An Artillery Election Sermon," "A Discourse on the Late Eclipse," "Dorcas, a Funeral Sermon on the Death of Madam Submit Tidd, Relict of the late Experience Tidd, Esq." &c. &c.

THE BIGLOW PAPERS.

No. I.

A LETTER

FROM MR. EZEKIEL BIGLOW OF JAALAM TO THE HON. JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, INCLOSING A POEM OF HIS SON, MR. HOSEA BIGLOW.

JAYLEM, june 1846.

MISTER EDDYTER:--Our Hosea wuz down to Boston last week, and he see a cruetin Sarjunt a struttin round as popler as a hen with 1 chicking, with 2 fellers a drummin and fifin arter him like all nater. the sarjunt he thout Hosea hedn't gut his i teeth cut cos he looked a kindo's though he'd jest com down, so he cal'lated to hook him in, but Hosy woodn't take none o' his sa.r.s.e for all he hed much as 20 Rooster's tales stuck onto his hat and eenamost enuf bra.s.s a bobbin up and down on his shoulders and figureed onto his coat and trousis, let alone wut nater hed sot in his featers, to make a 6 pounder out on.

wal, Hosea he com home considerabal riled, and arter I d gone to bed I heern Him a thrashin round like a short-tailed Bull in fli-time. The old Woman ses she to me ses she, Zekle, ses she, our Hosee's gut the chollery or suthin anuther ses she, don't you Bee skeered, ses I, he's oney amakin pottery[4] ses i, he's ollers on hand at that ere busynes like Da & martin, and shure enuf, c.u.m mornin, Hosy he c.u.m down stares full chizzle, hare on eend and cote tales flyin, and sot rite of to go reed his va.r.s.es to Parson Wilbur bein he haint aney grate shows o' book larnin himself, bimeby he c.u.m back and sed the parson wuz dreffle tickled with 'em as i hoop you will Be, and said they wuz True grit.

Hosea ses taint hardly fair to call 'em hisn now, cos the parson kind o'

slicked off sum o' the last va.r.s.es, but he told Hosee he didn't want to put his ore in to tetch to the Rest on 'em, bein they wuz verry well As thay wuz, and then Hosy ses he sed suthin a nuther about Simplex Mundishes or sum sech feller, but I guess Hosea kind o' didn't hear him, for I never hearn o' n.o.body o' that name in this villadge, and I've lived here man and boy 76 year c.u.m next tater diggin, and thair aint no wheres a kitting spryer 'n I be.

If you print 'em I wish you'd jest let folks know who hosy's father is, cos my ant Keziah used to say it's nater to be curus ses she, she aint livin though and he's a likely kind o' lad.

EZEKIEL BIGLOW.

Thrash away, you 'll _hev_ to rattle On them kittle drums o' yourn,-- 'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle Thet is ketched with mouldy corn; Put in stiff, you fifer feller, Let folks see how spry you be,-- Guess you 'll toot till you are yeller 'Fore you git ahold o' me!

Thet air flag 's a leetle rotten, Hope it aint your Sunday's best;-- Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton To stuff out a soger's chest: Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't, Ef you must wear humps like these, Sposin' you should try salt hay fer 't, It would du ez slick ez grease.

'T would n't suit them Southern fellers, They 're a dreffle graspin' set, We must ollers blow the bellers Wen they want their irons het; May be it 's all right ez preachin', But _my_ narves it kind o' grates, Wen I see the overreachin'

O' them n.i.g.g.e.r-drivin' States.

Them thet rule us, them slave-traders, Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth (Helped by Yankee renegaders), Thru the vartu o' the North!

We begin to think it 's nater To take sa.r.s.e an' not be riled;-- Who 'd expect to see a tater All on eend at bein' biled?

Ez fer war, I call it murder,-- There you hev it plain an' flat; I don't want to go no furder Than my Testyment fer that; G.o.d hez sed so plump an' fairly, It 's ez long ez it is broad, An' you 've gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in G.o.d.

'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers Make the thing a grain more right; Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers Will excuse ye in His sight; Ef you take a sword an' dror it, An' go stick a feller thru, Guv'ment aint to answer for it, G.o.d 'll send the bill to you.

Wut 's the use o' meetin-goin'

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, Ef it 's right to go amowin'

Feller-men like oats an' rye?

I dunno but wut it's pooty Trainin' round in bobtail coats,-- But it 's curus Christian dooty This ere cuttin' folks's throats.

They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they 're pupple in the face,-- It 's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So 's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An' to plunder ye like sin.

Aint it cute to see a Yankee Take sech everlastin' pains All to git the Devil's thankee, Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?

Wy, it 's jest ez clear ez figgers, Clear ez one an' one make two, Chaps thet make black slaves o' n.i.g.g.e.rs Want to make wite slaves o' you.

Tell ye jest the eend I've come to Arter cipherin' plaguy smart, An' it makes a handy sum, tu, Any gump could larn by heart; Laborin' man an' laborin' woman Hev one glory an' one shame, Ev'y thin' thet 's done inhuman Injers all on 'em the same.

'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks You 're agoin' to git your right, Nor by lookin' down on black folks Coz you 're put upon by wite; Slavery aint o' nary colour, 'Taint the hide thet makes it wus, All it keers fer in a feller 'S jest to make him fill its pus.

Want to tackle _me_ in, du ye?

I expect you 'll hev to wait; Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye You 'll begin to kal'late; 'Spose the crows wun't fall to pickin'

All the carkiss from your bones, Coz you helped to give a lickin'

To them poor half-Spanish drones?

Jest go home an' ask our Nancy Wether I'd be sech a goose Ez to jine ye,--guess you'd fancy The etarnal bung wuz loose!

She wants me fer home consumption, Let alone the hay 's to mow,-- Ef you 're arter folks o' gumption, You've a darned long row to hoe.

Take them editors thet 's crowin'

Like a c.o.c.kerel three months old,-- Don't ketch any on 'em goin', Though they _be_ so blasted bold; _Aint_ they a prime set o' fellers?

'Fore they think on 't they will sprout (Like a peach thet's got the yellers), With the meanness bustin' out.

Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'

Bigger pens to cram with slaves, Help the men thet 's ollers dealin'

Insults on your fathers' graves; Help the strong to grind the feeble, Help the many agin the few, Help the men thet call your people Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!

Ma.s.sachusetts, G.o.d forgive her, She's akneelin' with the rest, She, thet ough' to ha' clung fer ever In her grand old eagle-nest; She thet ough' to stand so fearless Wile the wracks are round her hurled, Holdin' up a beacon peerless To the oppressed of all the world!

Haint they sold your coloured seamen?

Haint they made your env'ys wiz?

_Wut_ 'll make ye act like freemen?