Gullibility,16 Verticality,19
Reverence,7 Shallowness,18
Assininity,24 Ideality,4
Caution,3 Exteriority,1
Noodleity,10 Quantity,13
Philoprogenitiveness,9 Horizontality,5
Combativeness,1 Benevolence,8
Color,2 Inertness,11
Sound,13 Rotundity,6

'There, that'll do; got 'em all down? Now add 'em up!' said the landlord, without moving a muscle. 'Comes out exactly even!' said the clerk; 'eighty-five in each column.' 'Why,' exclaimed Boniface, looking down contemptuously upon his astonished 'customer,' you haven't got any character at all; you don't want any chart; you'd be ashamed to show it the second time; I should be ashamed even to keep it. I never saw such a case in all my large experience; 'comes out even!'—a perfect blank! Why, you must be the 'Damphool' that Mr. Doesticks describes!' With great shamefacedness the 'customer' arranged his disordered locks, put on his hat, and departed a sadder but a wiser man.' * * * A correspondent of The New-York Observer, writing from Wales, in regard to the great religious revival which is prevailing among the workmen in the lead-mines of Conroy, says: 'Some of the miners established 'An Underground Prayer-Meeting,' and assembled at it in large numbers, continuing to praise and pray for several hours. It was followed by extraordinary effects; and the result was 'a wonderful reformation in the morals and character of the miners.' One writing from the 'Gogian Lead-Mines,' says: 'Prayer-meetings are held here far below the surface of the earth. The 'clefts of the rocks,' in which they assemble for prayer and praise, seem to remind them of the 'cleft' in another rock, even Christ, in which the sinner is permitted to behold the divine glory:

'Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.'

The men work in companies; and there is not a company without its prayer-meeting under ground. It is delightful to hear the voice of melody and praise ascending to heaven from the very bowels of the earth. 'Out of the depths cried I unto Thee,' may literally be said of this subterranean 'Great Awakening.' There was but one person working in the mine who was not a converted subject of the revival, and his conversion was made the subject of daily 'fervent prayer.'' The very reverse of this, was the foundation of a most interesting story which we remember having heard when a boy, some twenty years ago. It was connected with one of the coal-mines of England, and was, if we remember rightly, to the following purport: A young miner, who led a most exemplary life, who was a Christian by 'profession,' by 'precept,' and by 'example,' was in the daily habit of retiring from the mouth of the mine with the mid-day meal which his wife had prepared, and which his little son had brought to him in a small tin vessel, together with a worn and dingy copy of the New Testament, from which he always read a chapter before touching his dinner. One of his every-day maxims, whatever might happen, was: 'It is all for the best: it is well ordered: It is All for the Best.' One day, while reading and 'pondering' his customary 'Book of Books,' a vagrant dog passed along, seized his 'tin' dinner and ran off with it: his fellow-miners jeering and shouting, 'Is the loss of thy Dinner, too, Joe, 'for the best?'' After having their laugh out, and while their comrade was racing around after the canine delinquent, the bell rang, and the 'operatives' descended into the mine. Meantime, unable to overhaul the dog-thief, the 'victim' had returned, and was nearing the mine, when a loud explosion and fire and smoke issuing from the wide open fissure in the ground, revealed the ignited 'Fire-Damp' and its inevitable, awful accessories! Not a man of all his late jeering companions was rescued from that terrible subterranean 'consuming fire!' And how natural was the exclamation—the story, we remember, was in verse—which poured from his over-burthened, grateful heart:

'How could it appear to a short-sighted sinner,
That my life should be saved by the loss of my dinner.'

The simple 'Working-Man's Lesson' involved in this anecdote, and the 'fulness of faith' which it embodies, are not unworthy of remembrance and of heed. It impressed us forcibly. * * * 'Tom Hood' once mentioned, 'in his own way,' his experience in crossing the Great Desert. He 'came to grief in the journey by means of 'getting off the track' of antecedent camelian-caravans. They had nothing to eat and less to drink, on their hot and toilsome journey. They encountered a 'simoom,' which a Yankee sailor described as 'a Boston East Wind boiled;' there was a mirage, too, in which they saw, far off on the level rim of the desert, camels and 'men as trees walking.' Long was their journey over the burning sands: and Hood narrates that the travellers were reduced to the greatest straits. Hunger and Thirst—terrible tyrants—asserted their prerogatives. 'On the dim, faint line toward Cairo,' says Hood, 'we thought we saw a well in the desert: for much people were gathered together far beyond us upon the level, sultry plain. We approached; we joined them: but only to be again, for the third time, most grievously disappointed.' 'It is no joke,' he adds, 'to be without food or water in an Egyptian desert. When we were at the worst, we went in ballast with the soles and uppers of the newest shoes in the caravan; and we were enabled to slake our burning thirst by a second-hand 'swig' at the cistern of a freshly-deceased and still warm camel, which had 'given out' early in the journey, and had now 'given in:'' This was certainly a bad state of affairs; but when we read the hardships of recent African travel, as recorded by the German African explorer, Dr. Krapf, in his 'Researches in Eastern Africa,' we could no longer deem the story fabulous. The good Doctor had succeeded in making his escape from an attack, which had been made upon himself and his party, by a band of sable 'salvages;' he had wandered far: was 'weary and way-worn,' and had lain down behind a bush, for protection against the keen wind which blew over the plain, from which he had no protection save the dry grass which he spread under and over his body. After a fitful slumber, he awoke unrefreshed, 'and started again.' 'I felt,' he says, 'the pangs of hunger and thirst: the water in my telescope-case ran out, and that in the barrels of my gun, which I had not drunk, had been lost on my way, as the bushes had torn out the grass stoppers, and so I lost a portion of the invaluable fluid, which, in spite of the gunpowder flavor imparted to it by the barrels, thirst had rendered delicious. My hunger was so great that I tried to chew leaves, roots, and elephant's excrement to stay it: and when day broke, to break my fast on ants.' Night came on; and he travelled on until day-light. Soon after day-break, he saw four immense rhinoceroses feeding behind some bushes ahead of him: they 'stared at him, but did not move.' 'Coming presently,' he mentions, to a 'sand-pit,' with a somewhat moistish surface, 'like as a hart panteth for the water-brooks,' I anticipated the precious fluid; I dug into the sand for it, but only to meet with disappointment: so I put some of the wet sand in my mouth, which only increased my thirst.' What ensues could not be better told than in the brave explorer's own words: 'About noon I came upon the dry and sandy bed of the river, which we must have crossed to the south-west only a few days before. Scarcely had I entered its bed when I heard the chattering of monkeys, a most joyful sound, for I knew that there must be water wherever monkeys appear in a low-lying place. I followed the course of the bed, and soon came to a pit dug by the monkeys in the sand, in which I found the priceless water. I thanked God for this great gift; and having quenched my thirst, I first filled my powder-horn, tying up the powder in my handkerchief, and then my telescope-case, and the barrels of my gun. To still the pangs of hunger, I took a handful of powder and ate it with some shoots of a young tree which grew near the water; but they were very bitter.' Such 'experiences' as these will serve to show how much the world owes to our indefatigable modern explorers, self-denying, self-abrogating men, like Livingstone and Krapf, who scarcely 'set their life at a pin's fee' in pursuing unwearied their laborious and painful researches. * * * Observe now how this old friend of ours could write, if he would. In the pauses of his avocation as President of a Bank in 'Old Erie,' he drops us a hasty note, in which he says: 'At times I feel chock-full of unwritten words, and say to myself: 'I only wish I had the use of a stenographic amanuensis for about an hour or so. I would create an article worth an hour's existence.' I wish I could only stop growing older; I don't mind having time 'roll on,' for I shouldn't want to be always living at the same moment; but I don't care about rolling on with it, and finally being rolled off or 'dumped' off. I frequently smile at the consolatory remark of the divine to his hearers, that they had great cause to be thankful that Death was at the end of life instead of the beginning, for this fortunate arrangement of Providence gave them time to prepare for the event. Now such reasoning appears at the first glance quite ludicrous; and yet when you analyze it you will find there is a great deal of force in it. I have scratched this off in the midst of my financial correspondence, and you are lucky not to find any 'dollars and cents' in it.' We wish 'E. P.' would come to the 'scratch' often. * * * James Sunney, the 'Atmospherical Poet,' in our last, and the 'Blooming Bard' of a 'Blossoming Hotel,' in previous 'issoos,' is a man without envy of his inspired brothers in art. Song, to be sure, is his specialite; but music hath charms also wherewith to soothe his savage breast. We do not jest, on the contrary, we ask especial attention to the following fervent tribute, paid by Mr. Sunney to the musical powers of our friend and cosmopolitan correspondent, Colonel Pipes, of Pipesville, otherwise known as Stephen C. Massett, Esq., the popular vocalist, lecturer, and raconteur. Instantaneously the 'Colonel' dispatches to us the flattering missive, or missile; as like unto a non-resistant catapult it was 'precipitated' from the o'ercharged brain of the appreciative poet. We feel with 'Pipes:' for, as Editor of the Knickerbocker, we too have been 'indorsed' by Sunney, as a man, take us by and large, 'not likely to be met with by any body in a hurry!' But we keep our readers from the 'Letter from James Sunney, 'Blossoming Bard' of the 'Blooming Hotel,' to Colonel Pipes, the Ripened Reciter and Vocalist.' Hear him for his cause, and 'hold your yawp,' till he has said what he has got to say. Can't you do that much? 'Sa-a-y?' Try it:

'New-York, Nov. 12, 1860.

'Dear Sir: It affords me great pleasure to acknowledge the delicacy of delight and joy I felt while perusing the many songs composed and sung by you, at the palacious rooms in London and elsewhere. The presses of Great Britain has certainly paid a great tribute to your mental capacity and physical ability, as a vocalist superior to Russell, whose name was entitled to record on the first pages of history. You are certainly a man of high standing and respectability, whose intellectual faculties has added much to the brilliancy of youth, taste, and grandeur. I rejoice at the testimony bore to your character by some of the most eminent and distinguished writers in Ewrop. Melody of the feathered songsters could not warble with more harmony through the refractive powers of the Atmosphere, than did your voluble fluency vociferate in the grand 'Adelaide of Australia.' As an elocutionist, your name is eminently combined with the ablest men of the age; and elevated to a higher degree than my pen is able to expound. At the same time I cannot refrain from any thing that has a tendency to morality without giving it my humble but human approbation.

'Yours respectfully,
'James Sunney.'

Where is our sable friend and correspondent of the Louisville Hotel? That colored orator and model letter-writer must look to his sesquipedalian fame. But this aside. The above, Mr. Sunney, is fine prose; but you must look to your poetic 'bays:' not a span of spanking 'bays,' Mr. Sunney, on the Bloomingdale-Road, but the laurel greens by which 'bards,' although quite unlike yourself, were wont to be crowned. We repeat that you must look to this kind of 'bays,' because there is a fellow-bard, a Yankee, yet a kindred spirit, down in Maine, who can rhyme you 'out o' house and home.' He is the 'Bard of Misery,' and hence, of course, a most miserable poet. Where Sorrow dwells, there is his country. He revels especially in marine disasters: there he 'expands and bourgeons.' A friendly 'Devil,' (no 'Goblin-Damned,' we'll be sworn,) writing to us from a newspaper printing-office in Bangor, Maine, says: 'Will you kindly permit me to approach your Most Excellent Ma'—gazine, of which I am a constant reader, with a little contribution which I have picked up from the many similar 'favors' which we have had the honor of printing for the 'Son of the Muse,' whose effusions, somehow, don't seem to what-they-call 'Take:' but I expect these passages will.' Our modest, welcome correspondent is right: the 'passages' which he has marked for us must 'take.' For example: only a few 'brief stanzas' from the 'poem' depicting 'Levi P. Willey's Last Voyage to Cubey.' Levi had, 'by all accounts,' a hard time. 'A few' of his 'experiences' are recorded in the lines which we annex: Eben Babbidge being the name of the skipper, 'as he sailed, as he sailed:'

'In eighteen hundred and fifty-nine,
It was to me a solemn time:
To a port in Cuba I did go;
What happened there you shall know.

'As God would have it so to be,
I was cook on board the open sea;
I was at work, the crew did know,
And from my lungs fresh blood did flow.