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with which the author speaks in favor of the many-wiving and oddly-thriving race. We have just seen a paragraph in a newspaper to the effect, that a new female convert from England, with ninety odd thousand dollars of her own, in gold, and in a 'chist,' is now on her way to the 'Land of Seals.' is said that many of these female converts are under the impression that once in Salt Lake City, they will become YoUNG again. And it is very certain that those whom BRIGHAM marries, do. KNICK Opineth that the chance for this Ninety Thousand Dollar-ite damsel to become YOUNG is very good indeed.

'FRANK FELTON' deserves our thanks for several favors among them the following:

'DEAR KNICK: Kanawha boatmen are famous river characters. There used to be one who was the terror of the river. On one occasion he headed an attack of boatmen upon an Irish shanty.

''Well,' said he, 'jest as I was a-goin' up, out stepped a big Irishman, with a gun, and he held it right up to my breast. 'Look here,' says I, 'do n't pint that thing this way? I an't doin' nothin', and I was the most innocent man you ever did see. I soon got his attention kind o' turned, and I reached gently down to the ground, keepin' my eye on him all the time, and right there under my hand was a large rock. O goodness! how his head must have ached!' There was pathos for you with a vengeance, the veritable Greek παθος.

'When you run out, Mr. Editor, please let me know, and I'll try and get over 'into Macedonia', and help you. Truly yours,


Strikes us there's a break in that story, which indicates that both faith and a head were broken. FRANK, we wish you could tell us when that boatman was hung? READER, think you said you heard BROWNLOW lecture, when he was here. A strong man, is n't he? Well, he has written a brave, strong book, well worth reading; one forming, like its author, a piece of the history of this war. We pray you run your eye over the following letter:


To My Friends.

'HAVING had numerous inquiries from my friends throughout the Union, in regard to my book, I will state to all concerned, that my friend and publisher, Mr. CHILDS, of Philadelphia, allows me a very liberal copyright. I am interested in the circulation of the work, and I am benefited by every copy sold.

'Whilst I am not offering a book to the public that is not worth what is asked for it, I need all that I can realize from the work, for the rebels have possession of all my effects, save my wife and seven children. W. G. BROWNLOW.

'New-York, June 12th, 1862.'

'WORCESTER' or 'WEBSTER'? Well, they are both stirring books; and if 'tother dear charmer were away, we could be perfectly happy with either. We WEBSTER it a little in KNICK, and WORCESTER it up in our private letters; and if that is n't 'fair and aiquil,' as PADDY said when he carried the whiskey-barrel, while PHELIM carried him, why, we do n't know what 'aiquality' is. Meanwhile, our readers who agree with our private predilection, may do worse than to supply themselves with one or other of the six varieties of WORCESTER, published by Messrs. SWAN, BREWER AND TILESTON, THE cry of the

CONFEDERATE BONDS, according to a very particular friend, is: 'Help! cash us, (CASSIUS,) or we sink!' What the cry of the Bonded Confederates is, does n't appear, but it is probably something like: 'Sink us, ere we cash.' VERILY, there is a charm in letters - as we were saying before, were n't we, reader? People destroy them, although TALLEYRAND has said, 'Never write any thing, and never burn any thing'. - a phrase which always sounded to us as if stolen from KAUNITZ. They destroy them, because they are afraid of them; it takes either great nerve or great stupidity to face old letters. And they are seldom 'jolly,' even when amusing: 'Nessun maggior' dolore.' grief than to recal, when you yourself are grieved, the happy days gone by.' So it was with our correspondent, CARRIE DE HART, who, when imprisoned in the library by a merciless storm, found in 'old letters' that:


There is no greater

'THESE relics of the past brought to my mind many fond recollections of old familiar scenes, of childish faces, of old play-mates, who, since these had been written, had either moved to distant lands, or the cruel hand of Death had snatched them from me, to dwell in the paradise above, where sorrow shall not be known, and where angels of light shall walk in the gold-streeted city. I might well muse over these letters, and think how truly it has been said, life is but a span, a fleeting show, a bubble on the wave, an arrow through the air, a snow-flake on the river of eternity, a moment here, and then sunk in boundless space. The busy throng miss you for a time, and life then takes up its burdens, and strives to reach the goal eternity. . . . A great part of these letters opened the inmost recesses of the hearts, of some disclosing many little secrets which are incident to school-girl life, depicting the characters and sentiments of the writers, as faithfully as the photographist portrays the external workings of the human countenance, while engaged with the camera.'

KNICK has resigned political discussion, having done his duty on an emergency, but has by no means abandoned the higher politics of ideas and of literature, nor ceased to urge new and bold views in Thought. That our efforts to push on in the right path of Nature and of Strength have not failed to attract attention, has been proved not only by scores of kind and encouraging letters, but by numerous articles in cotemporary journals, calling attention to the fact that our Sunshine in Thought offers a new basis for those writers whose tendencies are towards NATURE and Health, and opposed to morbid 'yearnings' and sickly pinings for the 'romantic' and unattainable. We have made no claims ourself to have effected any thing; but friends known and unknown have in different publications claimed for our efforts far more than we ever dreamed of doing. Among the former, one-whom we afterward learned to know well suggested that we were shaping what he termed the Hilariter School. But we shaped nothing; we are merely prophesying a school of which even PreRaphaelitism, steam-engines, BUCKLE, COMTE, and HENRY C. CAREY, the 'ADAM BEDE' novels, physical culture, and a thousand other indications of a healthy realism, are the unmistakable fore-tokens. And indeed it requires no great gift of prophecy to foresee that when romantic sentimentalism is rapidly exhausting itself on one hand, and a literal ultilitarianism is advancing with giant stride on the other, a grand Naturalism is not far off. Among several articles kindly approving our efforts, we find the following from the La Crosse (Wisconsin) Republican:

Sunshine in Thought.

'UNDER this heading, Mr. CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, editor of the CONTINENTAL, is penning some pleasant papers for the KNICKERBOCKER. LELAND is the champion of that new school of writers which is springing up like a fresh crop of daisies.

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They believe in the day-light, in the pure air, in the homely music of 'lowing kine.' Henceforth the pensive primroses and the melancholy night-shades of literature must see their laurels decay. The deep heart of the world is yearning for health, for joyousness, for truth. These masters strike new and stirring music from the lyre which hag so long yielded to the sorrow-charged fingers of the wailers.' The deep heart of the world echoes the inspiring strain not the intoxicating melody that cradles us to inglorious idling, but the bold, reverberating chorals that call the slumbering good in our hearts to life, that empower the soul to dash off 'like dew-drop from the lion's mane,' all the corroding chains with which earth would dim its birth-right.

'Sadness and melancholy-no, not melancholy, but downright 'blubbering,' is the great ail of the floating literature of to-day. The famous poets-poets laureate and poets ex-laureate, poets in newspaper corners, and poets in blue and gold, poets 'accepted,' and poets' declined'—are all more or less given to tears. TENNYSON makes the dear old sea that brings to land its life-giving airs, and lies at its burning feet for the especial benefit of Newport-ers-break-break-break' in a most dismal manner. POE's Raven has concentrated tears in its long-drawn 'n-e-v-e-r-m-o-r-e!' LONGFELLOW has but few rifts of sun-shine in his musical, mournful rain. In ALICE CAREY'S 'Lyra and Other Poems,' every picture, with but four or five exceptions, ends in death. People pencil these passages with such encomiums as 'beautiful' and 'pathetic,' and sometimes on rainy days, when they have eaten too much dinner, they repeat them; but the question rises, after all, is this blubbering in order? Does nature set the example? Does even the robin pitch his song in a minor key, or the bobolink turn his roundelay into a requiem, whenever it storms or food is scarce? Does it not, on the whole, seem ungrateful, that when Nature hangs around and over us her imperial cheerfulnesswhen she empties her autumnal riches at our feet, or ends the spring laden with fragrant promises of summer beauty. that we, instead of taking up the joyous song, should jar in with a wailing chant over fancied grief? The heart of the world feels this; and not many decades will fade into past, before the pure current will make its way through the great arteries, into every part of literature.

'We want no universal clownishness. We need but few writers who are always on the cold scent for a pun.' It is that warm philanthropic humor, lacking neither earnestness nor pathos, for it yields a deeper than was ever sung by a PoE or a LONGFELLOW, which will in time lead the world out into the new eve of Sun-shine in Thought.'

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But will our kind approver permit us to disclaim as we have already done from our heart-aught like an attack on any who have written in the Past, or who, even, are writing in the Present, under influences which have been or are strong and 'historical?' When LONGFELLOW sung the 'Psalm of Life,' it was needed; many even need it now. Only there is coming a future far beyond all our present conceptions, when enjoyment will be our destined end and way, and all effort be joyous, because it will be based in health and nature.

KNICK carves the following from the Stilton of a most welcome letter, from our WOLCOTT, ('let him be known as a brave fellow in all lands,') of 'the Tenth Illinois,' General POPE's forces :

'SINCE the evacuation of Corinth, caused by the administration of Dr. HALLECK'S

Patent Conical Aperient Pills, our army has been moving about in different directions. As many of us have friends in other regiments, we often inquire for those regiments as the troops are passing along. Mark how the writer was sold:

"What regiment is that?' I asked, as one was passing.

'A diminutive youth, in dirty and dilapidated trowsers, straightened himself to the extent of his limited stature, and replied: "This is our regiment!'

'And from the cloud of dust along the line, there came to me a sound, as of many voices, exclaiming, 'Bully!' And I subsided.'

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Our regiment.' Should think you might. Captain of ours, when shall KNICK Shake you by the hand, and say welcome! for verily we want to do it badly. A PHILADELPHIA correspondent of ours 'norates' the following, 'which' is a fact:


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'IN a late battle, a battery of GRIFFIN guns, made by Friend REEVES, of Philadelphia, did deadly execution among the rebels. A newspaper correspondent, seeing 'P. I. Co.,' (Phoenix Iron Company,) marked on their carriages, at once reported that they were PARROTT guns, extolling their excellence above all others.

'A friend explained to him by letter that they were not PARROTT'S. 'By GEORGE!' answered the correspondent, they talked like them any way!' adding, 'If you say they are GRIFFIN'S, they must be so; only all I know is, they were a big Drag-on Secesh!''

The Dobe Pursues the Griffin.'

'And further this deponent sayeth not.' Not less military is the other story by the same:

The Wrong Kind of Patience.

'DOCTOR Z --is regimental surgeon with the New-York -th. Complaining the other day that Secretary STANTON was doing all his possible to politically kill off MCCLELLAN, he was told by Lieutenant B- to keep cool, and it would all come right, if he would only have patience.

"Patients!' said the Doctor with an oath; 'I've got 'em! this cursed old Chickandhominy swamp is giving me a hundred a day, and be to it!"

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This reminds one of the tablet erected to a great French physician, on which his grateful cured were represented as coming to him with thanks. 'There!' said WILKINSON, 'you see Patients on a monument!' WE would inform 'NEMO' that we publish his lines under protest, for if Mother Goose ever had her poems copy-righted, it is very evident she could make him suffer. Read, and think about it, thoughtfully. He certainly has a Capital way of writing:

THERE was a man in Our Town,
And He was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a Pipe-Shop once,
A Meerschaum met his eyes!
But when He bought this cost-ly pipe,
And found that He'd been sold;
He made the Feller take it back,
And Give Him back the gold.'

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THERE! that will do for this month. ·

Which he did — properly. The rest is resting in our drawer, whence it will be drawn for our next. With many thanks to kind correspondents, and with a prayer for patience from the Unanswered, we say good-by for a month.

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