FOURTH OF JULY ORATION.

DELIVERED JULY 4TH, AT WEATHERSFIELD, CONNECTICUT, 1859.

BY ARTEMUS WARD.

[I delivered the follerin, about two years ago, to a large and discriminating awjince. I was 95 minits passin' a given pint. I have revised the orashun, and added sum things which makes it approposser to the times than it otherwise would be. I have also corrected the grammars and punktooated it. I do my own punktooatin nowdays. The Printers in Vanity Fair offiss can't punktooate worth a cent.]

FELLER CITIZENS: I've been honored with a invite to norate before you to-day; and when I say that I skurcely feel ekal to the task, I'm sure you will believe me.

Weathersfield is justly celebrated for her onyins and patritism the world over, and to be axed to paws and address you on this my fust perfeshernal tower threw New England, causes me to feel to feel I may say it causes me to feel. (Grate applaws. They thought this was one of my eccentricities, while the fact is I was stuck. This between you and I.)

I'm a plane man. I don't know nothin' about no ded languages and am a little shaky on livin' ones. There4, expect no flowry talk from me. What I shall say will be to the pint, right strate

out.

I'm not a politician, and my other habits air good. I've no enemys to reward, nor friends to sponge. But I'm a Union man. I luv the Union-it is a Big thing-and it makes my hart bleed to see a lot of ornery peple a-movin' heaven-no, not heaven, but the other place and earth, to bust it up. Too much good blud was spilt in courtin' and marryin' that hily respectable female, the Goddess of Liberty, to git a divorce from her now. My own State of Injianny is celebrated for unhitchin' marrid peple with neatness and despatch, but you can't git a divorce from the Goddess up there. Not by no means. The old gal has behaved herself too well to cast her off now. I'm sorry the picters don't give her no shoes or stockins, but the band of stars upon her hed must continner to shine undimd, forever. I'm for the Union as she air, and withered be the arm of every ornery cuss who

attempts to bust her up. That's me. I hav sed! [It was a very sweaty day, and at this pint of the orashun a man fell down with sunstroke. I told the awjince that considerin' the large number of putty gals present I was more afraid of a DAWTER STROKE. This was impromptoo, and seemed to amoose them very much.]

AN OLD TIME CELEBRATION.

Feller Citizens-I hain't got time to notis the growth of Ameriky frum the time when the Mayflowers cum over in the Pilgrim and brawt Plymmuth Rock with them, but every skool boy nose our kareer has bin tremenjis. You will excuse me if I don't praise the early settlers of the Kolonies. Peple which hung idiotic old wimin for witches, burnt holes in Quakers' tongues and consined their feller critters to the tredmill and pillery on the slitest provocashun may have bin very nice folks in their way, but I must confess I don't admire their stile, and

will pass them by.

I spose they ment well, and so, in the novel and techin langwidge of the nusepapers, "peas to their ashis." Thare was no diskount, however, on them brave men who fit, bled and died in the American Revolushun. We needn't be afraid of setting 'em up two steep. Like my show, they will stand any amount of prase. G. Washington was abowt the best man this world ever

sot eyes on. He was a clear-heded, warm-harted, and stiddygoin' man. He never slopt over! The prevalin weakness of most public men is to SLOP OVER! [Put them words in large letters-A. W.] They git filled up and slop. They Rush Things. They travel too much on the high presher principle. They git on to the fust poplar hobbyhoss whitch trots along, not carin' a sent whether the beest is even-goin', clear sited and sound, or spavined, blind and bawky. Of course they git throwed eventooally, if not sooner. When they see the multitood goin' it blind they go Pel Mel with it, instid of exertin' theirselves to set it right. They can't see that the crowd which is now bearin' them triumfantly on its shoulders will soon diskiver its error and cast them into the hoss pond of Oblivyun, without the slitest hesitashun.

Washington never slopt over. That wasn't George's

stile. He luved his country dearly. He wasn't after the spiles. He was a human angil in a 3 kornered hat and knee britches, and we sha'n't see his like right away. My friends, we can't all be Washington's, but we kin all be patrits & behave ourselves in a human and a Christian manner. When we see a brother goin' down hill to Ruin let us not give him a push, but let us seeze rite hold of his coat-tails and draw him back to Morality.

Imagine G. Washington and P. Henry in the character of seseshers! As well fancy John Bunyan and Dr. Watts in spangled tites, doin the trapeze in a one-horse circus!

I tell you, feller-citizens, it would have been ten dollars in Jeff Davis's pocket if he'd never bin born!

Be shure and vote at leest once at all eleckshuns. Buckle on yer armer and go to the Poles. See two it that your naber is there. See that the kripples air provided with carriages. Go to the Poles and stay all day. Bewair of the infamous lies whitch the Opposishun will be sartin to git up fur perlitical effek on the eve of eleckshun. To the Poles! and when you git there vote jest as you darn please. This is a privilege we all persess, and it is 1 of the booties of this grate and free land.

I see mutch to admire in New Englan'. Your gals in particklar air abowt as snug bilt peaces of Calliker as I ever saw. They

air fully equal to the corn fed gals of Ohio and Injianny, and will make the bestest kind of wives. It sets my Buzzum on fire to look at 'em.

Be still, my sole, be still,

& you, Hart, stop cuttin up!

I like your school houses, your meetin' houses, your enterprise, gumpshun &c., but your favorite Bevridge I disgust. I allude to New England Rum. It is wuss nor the korn whisky of Injianny, which eats threw stone jugs & will turn the stummuck of the most shiftliss Hog. I seldom seek consolashun in the flowin Bole, but t'other day I wurrid down some of your Rum. The fust glass indused me to swear like a infooriated trooper. On takin' the secund glass I was seezed with a desire to break winders, & arter imbibin' the third glass I knockt a small boy down, pickt his pocket of a New York Ledger, and wildly commenced readin' Sylvanus Kobb's last Tail. It's dreadful stuff-a sort of lickwid litenin, gut up under the personal supervishun of the devil -tears men's inards all to peaces and makes their noses blossum as the Lobster. Shun it as you would a wild hyeny with a firebrand tied to his tale, and while you air abowt it you will do a first-rate thing for yourself and everybody abowt you by shunnin all kinds of intoxicatin lickers.

You don't need 'em no more'n a

cat needs 2 tales, sayin' nothin' abowt the trubble and sufferin' they cawse. But unless your inards air cast-iron, avoid New Englan's favorite Bevridge.

My friends, I'm dun. I tear myself away from you with tears in my eyes & a pleasant odor of Onyins abowt my close. In the langwidge of Mister Catterline to the Rummuns, I go, but perhaps I shall cum back agin. Adoo, peple of Weathersfield. Be virtoous & you'll be happy

THE PARSON'S HORSE-RACE.

HARRIET

BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

BEECHER STOWE, the author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," the most famous novel ever written, and of other works of world-wide celebrity, was born at Litchfield, Conn., in 1812. She was married in her twentyfirst year to Calvin E. Stowe, and removed from Hartford to Cincinnati, where she wrote her first books, and gathered the material for her great work. She has, since 1850, lived in the East, and now divides her year between Hartford and Florida. "Oldtown Fireside Stories" is one of several volumes of New England sketches.

“WAL, now, this 'ere does beat all! I wouldn't 'a' thought it o' the deacon.”

So spoke Sam Lawson, drooping in a discouraged, contemplative attitude in front of an equally discouraged looking horse, that had just been brought to him by the Widow Simpkins for medical treatment. Among Sam's many accomplishments, he was reckoned in the neighborhood an oracle in all matters of this kind, especially by women, whose helplessness in meeting such emergencies found unfailing solace under his compassionate willingness to attend to any business that did not strictly belong to him, and from which no pecuniary return was to be expected.

The Widow Simpkins had bought this horse of Deacon Atkins, apparently a fairly well-appointed brute, and capable as he was good-looking. A short, easy drive, when the Deacon held the reins, had shown off his points to advantage; and the widow's small stock of ready savings had come forth freely in payment for what she thought was a bargain. When, soon after coming into possession, she discovered that her horse, if driven with any haste, panted in a fearful manner, and that he appeared to be growing lame, she waxed wroth, and went to the Deacon in anger, to be met only with the smooth reminder that the animal was all right when she took him; that she had seen him tried herself. The widow was of a nature somewhat spicy, and expressed herself warmly: "It's a cheat and a shame, and I'll take the law on ye!"

"What law will you take?" said the unmoved Deacon. “Wasn't it a fair bargain?"