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comes to wanting money which you have fairly earned, and can't collect, then it becomes aggravating. There are plenty of men whom you would suppose to be in flourishing business, who are going behind-hand every day, just from this cause; men who bear themselves in public with unruffled faces and gay smiles, but whose hearts bitter care and anxiety, not for themselves, but for those dependent upon them, are slowly eating away.

'And now the moral of my Jeremiad is a great deal shorter than the Jeremiad itself; it is in three words: Pay your Bills, you who have the means, and do n't hoard your money, for fear somebody else may forget to pay his; and then, don't make any more bills, but deal for cash, except in your large transactions, which are too heavy and dignified to be disposed of by any such summary process; so shall you give comfort to a great many people at a very cheap rate. For, with the money you pay to the grocer, he will pay the baker, who will pay the dry-goodsman, who will pay the coal-dealer, who will pay the butcher, who will pay the farmer, who will pay the country store-keeper, who will pay the wholesale dealer, who will pay his lawyer for managing that little suit, who will pay the doctor, who will pay somebody else, who will pay you that little bill that has been standing so long; and so it will go around, like a row of bricks stood on end, when the first one is tipped over; each one helping his neighbor on, and so benefiting all in turn, until the good deed comes back to where it started from, thus lightening a burden which is a great deal less grotesque in the feeling than it is in the telling.

'When I read the whole of this to my wife, she said it was a very good article indeed, (I have great confidence in her judgment,) and expressed her opinion exactly; only she said, I need not have told about the number of children; that was nobody's business but hers; but I knew that KNICKERBOCKER was fond of children, and would n't object to the number, so I concluded to leave it in.'

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Let us hear from you again. Ir has of course been impossible not to have remarked the Great Religious Awakening which has pervaded, during the last two months, not only our Great Metropolis, but villages and towns adjacent, and also far-distant portions of 'the States.' The unanimity, the simultaneousness, of this great movement, has been remarkable: and we have seen no more brief, and at the same time more comprehensive resumé of the 'moving why,' than the following sentences from the 'Evening Post' daily journal of our city:

'THE apparent absence of any immediate and special cause has been universally remarked. There have been no means used on the part of the clergy. On the contrary, laymen have been the leaders. Young Men's Christian Associations, recent and excellent organizations, have been most active in responding to the general interest in religion, by appointing the times and places of public meetings, and in conducting the exercises of daily worship. Controverted doctrines and dogmatic theology have been kept out of the meetings to an unprecedented degree. The turn or burn' dictum has given place to the new commandment.'

"The terrors of future punishment have not been held before the inquirer's mind, but rather the goodness of GOD, and His readiness to pardon the repentant. Instead of being driven, men have been persuaded to embrace Christianity. Even the secular press has been forced from its habitual and wise reticence in religious matters, and has aided by its publicity to spread the influence of the revival far and wide. The noon meetings for business men in all the large cities, interrupting the most pressing secular engagements, are highly indicative of the depth and sincerity, the breadth and strength of this tidal wave of religious emotion.'

'The converts

have been numbered weekly by thousands, and in all our newspaper exchanges, extending from one end of the country to the other, we find no indications of any diminution of religious interest, but rather every mark of its steady increase, from the large cities, where it first originated, to the small cities and villages, and even to the sparsely-settled country towns. From Maine to California, every religious


and many a secular paper, is burdened with the same news; and even Great Britain is sharing the general interest in the necessity of an improved spiritual condiA great moral degeneracy has been for several years past exhibited in almost every department of our national, political, mercantile, and social life. The delusion of Spiritualism then had its sweep, and following the climacteric of its strength came the great financial revulsion, from whose disastrous blows trade, commerce, and industry are still staggering.' 'Even while pitying the miserable victims of a delusion which has sent hundreds to lunatic asylums, and made fanatics of many others whose sincerity, earnestness, and temperament were not such as to force them to that last extreme, it is possible to see, and consoling to recognize, even in that delusion, an indication of the revulsion of popular feeling from the deadness of spiritual life which had preceded it, and an earnest though misdirected struggle for communion with the spiritual world. The recent financial disasters, too, have turned men's thoughts from the greed of gain; and stagnation of trade has both afforded the opportunity and given the occasion for reflection upon higher and purer themes. Without denying or asserting an immediate interposition of Divine influence in the origin of this revival, it is at least easy to trace a direct sequence in the course of the events we have described, and to discover in those events the causes of a part, if not of the great part, of the present religious excitement.' With every elevation of the whole people in knowledge and culture, (so long as refinement does not lapse into enervation, and culture is combined with moral integrity,) so will every new manifestation and awakening of the inner spiritual life be upon a higher plane, and be more enduring and beneficent in their results.

'GOD is the same, yesterday, to-day, and forever. Periodicity in the influence and power of His Spirit, is the consequence of man's acceptance or rejection of it. To a perfect church, revivals would be impossible, for its unbroken law would be that entire and humble dependence upon God, which should be the unchanging and habitual condition of every human soul.'

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These are well-expressed truths. FROM 'Crockett, Texas,' our original correspondent sends 'The San Jacinto Battle,' 'wrote by KING D. D. SHIFLETT,' as before, with these remarks: By the inclosed, you will perceive that Mr. SHIFLETT, the commemorator of the death of 'Little LEVI CALVert Dupree,' elated by the success which smiled upon that effort, has struck his harp-strings with a bolder and a freer hand. No doubt he now aspires to a national reputation; and with so genial an air as you can breathe upon him, there is no limit to his just expectations. Words of commendation, like charity, bless both the giver and the recipient.' And now to the 'pome:'

THURSDAY, the twenty-first day of April,
Is long to be remembered by Texas;
For the battle of the San Jacinto;
'Twas in eighteen hundred and thirty-six,
That old, SAM lead the Texans to victory;
And reaped the laurels, and won the trophys,
Of the self-styled NAPOLEON of the West,
On the verdant plains of San Jacinto.

'SAM HOUSTON commanded, the battle raged;
The twin sisters thundering destruction,
To invading heroes of Mexico:
Loudly roared the cannons of Texas;
Awful was the fate of SANTA ANNA!
Awful cry, Remember the Alamo!'
'Remember Goliad!' cried the Texans;
The Mexicans fled befour the Texans.

'General SAM HOUSTON bravely pushed forward;
And thus received a wound, and shed his blood;
For the rights, and liberties of Texas.
Onward cried old SAM, forgetting his wound:
The Mexicans retreating in wild dismay,
And surrendered to their brave capters,
The Dictator and commander in chief
Of Mexico was finally taken.

'General HOUSTON Commanded the Texans,
On the beautiful Prairies of Texas;
Amid the gay blossoms and flowers of Spring;
And achieved for Texas, a noble sway,
Of independence, amongst the nations,
And states of every republic farm,
And honors, liberties, and patriotism,
To every surviving Texan heroe.'

'Macte virtute,' Mr. SHIFTLESS! THE BROTHERS HARPER have issued a New Descriptive Catalogue of their publications, with an Index, and Classified Table of Contents, which will be of great service to gentlemen in town or country, who may be desirous to form libraries, or enrich their literary collections. It comprises a large proportion of the standard and most esteemed works in English Literature, and comprehends more than two thousand volumes, which are offered in most instances, at less than one-half the cost of similar

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productions in England. Six cents in postage-stamps will secure its reception in any part of the Union. OUR mortification is extreme: our regret unbounded. Why did we not think, at the moment of penning the two introductory lines to 'Some Thoughts on Fancy Fairs,' in our last number, that our hurried remarks were capable of misinterpretation? ECHO answers: 'Why did n't you do it?' To which we respond, 'Mea culpa- mea culpa: mea maxima culpa!' and 'throw ourselves upon the mercy of the court.' We have received the subjoined letter, addressed as follows:

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'MY DEAR SIR: SHUCKS and GOBY were horticultural neighbors, and nurtured vegetables for amusement. GOBY frequently produced meritorious pumpkins, for

which great praise was

emulous also of fame, tried

maturing one which was

bor, exhibited it to an

awarded him. SHUCKS, his hand at pumpkins, and approbated by his neigh. 'Agricultural Committee,'

who instantly voted it to be a genuine GOBY, and by no means to be attributed to SHUCKS, saying that though indorsed by GoBY, they should n't be surprised if

GOBY himself 'had

some little hand
in it.' Thus the
modest efforts of
SHUCKS brought to
him little credit,

and his cherished pumpkin, though good-naturedly indorsed by GOBY, was not, in fact, up to the GOBIAN standard of excellence. Both, therefore, became malcontent-SHUCKS at the loss of his labor, and GOBY at the damage to his reputation. 'Can the KNICKERBOCKER find a moral in this, and apply it to the article on 'Fancy Fairs' in its April Number?

'Verily I am thine,



H. P

'alias 'BORAX.'

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Look at those drawings! IN a charming and picturesque valley in Pennsylvania, made memorable in the war of the Revolution, a fair young flower expands and bourgeons the Rose of young Girlhood. She 'hath the dew of her youth.' From her unpractised pen, and untaught heart, proceeds the following: a wreath laid upon our pages by the welcome hand of an affectionate and admiring sister:

'SWEARING, crowding, laughing, talking, down the streets of New-York rushed the ever-varying tide-stream of life. Gayly-dressed women, business men walking as if it was the last day of their life; feeless lawyers, half-starved doctors, ragged news-boys, little pale-faced children, young and old, rich and poor, all sweep on together. The evening sun is shining over all; its light falls like a blessing on the holy and the sinful, the happy and the broken-hearted, and it falls on that glittering carriage rolling swiftly down the street. The horses arch their necks with pride and their small feet scarcely deign to touch the ground; and the fat old coachman sat erect in stately dignity, looking neither to the right nor left; and the footman, in his gorgeous livery, with a face resembling the color of a dried herring, looks serenely down on the gaping crowd. In that carriage rides one of the potentates of the earth, one of the great bankers of New-York. Men gaze after the equipage in admiring awe, and every time the banker's broad, red face is seen at the window, hats fly off in every direction. Women smile, children stare, and beggars shrink into the corners before the glance of DIVES. At length the carriage stops before a stately mansion in one of the avenues, and the triumph is at an end. The banker entered his home. There was no wife to welcome him there, he had never had such a foolish thing. There were no children to cluster round, he considered them nuisances; but there was a well-spread supper-table, for even great men eat sometimes. Having condescended to drink five cups of coffee, and eat a corresponding amount of ham, oysters, and cakes, he went into the entrance-hall of his splendid home. The straggling sun-beams crept into the room, and fell like flakes of golden hair on the marble floor. The banker hated the sight of golden hair ever since WINNIFRED WAYNE's death. To be sure he made a speculation, a very good speculation, when his brother died and left his little daughter in his charge. RICHARD WAYNE was a business man, and he would have coined money out of WINNIFRED's golden hair if he could, but still he did very well. WINNIFRED was precious in his sight, not because she was fair and lovely, but for the heap of gold those little waxen fingers had under their control. But WINNIFRED was dead now for ten long years; her golden hair had been coffindust. For ten long years the silence and mystery concerning her death had never been broken. This thought gave RICHARD WAYNE great satisfaction, and with a smiling countenance he ordered his carriage and drove to the opera. It was really beautiful to see the enthusiasm with which he was received there. His friends loved the banker well, and for his sake, they loved all he had about him, even his yellow gold. But in spite of all this adulation, there were strange dark thoughts rising in his mind when he arrived at home. He grew paler and more troubled still when he passed up the broad stair-case and stood alone in the dark gallery. A window was open at one end, and below in the silent streets he heard only the ringing tread of the watchman, and it made him feel very lonely. He paused at the door of an empty room and looked in. It was a bright, cheerful room, with fine old pictures smiling on the walls, and white draperies flowing round the bed, and white roses blooming in the vases on the mantle. It was a clear moon-light night, and the stars, the holy, peaceful stars, shone as brightly

down on that snowy couch as when years ago a slight, pale form rested there. The little couch was empty now, but as he looked, a black coffin seemed to be growing there, and the moon-light seemed to be golden hair streaming over the pillow. Deadly pale, with great drops of sweat bursting from his brow, with strained eyes and clenched hands, he stood there, while the empty rooms yawned around him and the night-wind swept over him and the imaginary coffin rose before him. For a moment he stood thus, and then he turned and tottered feebly to his own apartment. Arrived there, he walked up and down, hour after hour, for he could not sleep. Ah! RICHARD WAYNE, with all your wealth and power, you cannot win happiness. Memories of past deeds are forever rising in your soul-strange, bitter memories, that will never rest till the stains of blood on the rusty knife in the old court-yard fade away forever. If that rusty knife could speak, it might tell a strange tale of a stormy night, a fair young child smiling on her murderer's breast, of a spirit passing, of blue eyes closing forever beneath its keen, sharp blade.'

Very good, little ROSE-BUD!

THE Philadelphia 'Daily Press,' of the twenty-fifth of March, has on the outer column of its first page, the subjoined startling announcement: 'A butcher in Lancaster, in this State, has just made two sausages, one seventy-six feet nine inches long, weighing sixtythree pounds, and the other seventy-five feet two inches long, and weighing fifty-eight pounds.' People ought to be careful what they 'insert into' newspapers. Now this paragraph we read just as we were ruminating bedward, after reading thirty-six pages of proof, for the present KNICKERBOCKER. Time, say twelve o'clock at night, for it was n't five minutes short of that hour. What was the result? That unnecessary, preposterous sausage followed us to bed, squirmed after us in our sleep, chased us, tried to bite us, and we caught him just in time to stop him from doing it! 'REAL ESTATE is going up,' in Jerusalem! Just think of such an expression, and yet it is in a foreign extract, now before us. A recent letter from Jerusalem to a Parisian journal, says:

'NUMEROUS Caravans of Russian, Greek, and Armenian pilgrims have arrived here from different parts of Russia and Turkey. The Greek Patriarch is at the present time making extensive purchases of houses and land, both inside and outside the city. Russia is also making considerable purchases for the purpose of constructing religious establishments of different kinds. For some time past, the Greeks have been making use of all means to become sole or part proprietors of the ruins of the old habitation of the Knights of St. JOHN of Jerusalem, at a short distance from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.'

But if this, in these days, is remarkable, how much more so is the following 'Picture in Little of Modern Jerusalem, or Scenes in its Neighborhood:' doubtless from the same writer-certainly from the same journal? It is in sad contrast with the sacred 'City of the Great KING,' so eloquently described in our last Number. Here is a spirited sketch of a visit paid to the 'Gardens of Solomon:'

'FIRST he visited the 'sealed fountains'-large subterranean reservoirs, wherein the waters springing from the mountains are collected, and whence the water is conducted to Jerusalem by pipes. At a short distance from the reservoirs are the celebrated gardens. They extend along a valley which runs from El Bourache to Bethlehem. It is the most charming spot in all Palestine. SOLOMON was a good judge in more senses than one. There are murmuring streams winding through verdant lawns; there are the choicest fruits and flowers, the hyacinth, the anemone, the fig-tree and the pine. Towering high above the garden, and contrasting grandly with its soft aspect, are the dark, precipitous rocks of the neighboring mountain, around whose summits vultures and eagles incessantly

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