chapel, as they have not scrupled to do in France, to Notre Dame de la Haine, Our Lady of Hate, yet I cannot forget that the corruption of good-nature is the generation of laxity of principle.  Good-nature is our national characteristick; and though it be, perhaps, nothing more than a culpable weakness or cowardice, when it leads us to put up tamely with manifold impositions and breaches of implied contracts, (as too frequently in our publick conveyances,) it becomes a positive crime, when it leads us to look unresentfully on peculation, and to regard treason to the best Government that ever existed as something with which a gentleman may shake hands without soiling his fingers.  I do not think the gallows-tree the most profitable member of our Sylva; but, since it continues to be planted, I would fain see a Northern limb ingrafted on it, that it may bear some other fruit than loyal Tennesseeans.

A relick has recently been discovered on the east bank of Bushy Brook in North Jaalam, which I conceive to be an inscription in Runic characters relating to the early expedition of the Northmen to this continent.  I shall make fuller investigations, and communicate the result in due season.

Respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

P.S.  I inclose a year’s subscription from Deacon Tinkham.

  I hed it on my min’ las’ time, when I to write ye started,
  To tech the leadin’ featurs o’ my gittin’ me convarted;
  But, ez my letters hez to go clearn roun’ by way o’ Cuby,
  ‘T wun’t seem no staler now than then, by th’ time it gits where you be. 
  You know up North, though sees an’ things air plenty ez you please,
  Ther’ warn’t nut one on ’em thet come jes’ square with my idees: 
  I dessay they suit workin’-folks thet ain’t noways pertic’lar,
  But nut your Southun gen’leman thet keeps his perpendic’lar;
  I don’t blame nary man thet casts his lot along o’ his folks,
  But ef you cal’late to save me, ’t must be with folks thet is folks;
  Cov’nants o’ works go ’ginst my grain, but down here I’ve found out
  The true fus’-fem’ly A 1 plan,—­here’s how it come about. 
  When I fus’ sot up with Miss S., sez she to me, sez she,—­
  “Without you git religion, Sir, the thing can’t never be;
  Nut but wut I respeck,” sez she, “your intellectle part,
  But you wun’t noways du for me athout a change o’ heart: 
  Nothun religion works wal North, but it’s ez soft ez spruce,
  Compared to ourn, for keepin’ sound,” sez she, “upon the goose;
  A day’s experunce’d prove to ye, ez easy ’z pull a trigger,
  It takes the Southun pint o’ view to raise ten bales a nigger;
  You’ll fin’ thet human natur, South, ain’t wholesome more ’n skin-deep,
  An’ once’t a darkie’s took with it, he wun’t be wuth his keep.” 
  “How shell I git it, Ma’am?” sez I.  “Attend the nex’ camp-meetin’,”
  Sez she, “an’ it’ll come to ye ez cheap ez onbleached sheetin’.”