I am aware that the Rev'd Jonas Tutchel, in a recent communication to the Bogus Four Corners Weekly Meridian, has endeavoured to show that this is the sepulchral inscription of Thorwald Eriksson, who, as is well known, was slain in Vinland by the natives. But I think he has been misled by a preconceived theory, and cannot but feel that he has thus made an ungracious return for my allowing him to inspect the stone with the aid of my own glasses (he having by accident left his at home) and in my own study. The heathen ancients might have instructed this Christian minister in the rites of hospitality; but much is to be pardoned to the spirit of self-love. He must indeed be ingenious who can make out the words _hèr hrilir_ from any characters in the inscription in question, which, whatever else it may be, is certainly not mortuary. And even should the reverend gentleman succeed in persuading some fantastical wits of the soundness of his views, I do not see what useful end he will have gained. For if the English Courts of Law hold the testimony of grave-stones from the burial-grounds of Protestant dissenters to be questionable, even where it is essential in proving a descent, I cannot conceive that the epitaphial assertions of heathens should be esteemed of more authority by any man of orthodox sentiments. At this moment, happening to cast my eyes upon the stone, on which a transverse light from my southern window brings out the characters with singular distinctness, another interpretation has occurred to me, promising even more interesting results. I hasten to close my letter in order to follow at once the clue thus providentially suggested. 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.