spiritual knockers. Enter any of our drinking saloons, take a seat, or stand up, and look on for an hour or two, especially about the time "churchyards yawn!" and if you are any longer skeptical upon the

    spirit

   -ual manifestations as exhibited in the knee pans, shoulder joints, and thickness of the tongue of the

    mediums

   ,—education would be thrown away on you.

   It's poor human natur', all out, to wrangle and quarrel now and then, from the kitchen to the parlor, in church and state. Even the fathers of the holy tabernacle are not proof against this little weakness; for people will have passions, people will belong to meetin', and people will let their passions

    rise

   , even under the pulpit. But we have no distinct recollection of ever having known a misdirected, but properly interpreted

    letter

   , to settle a chuckly "plug muss," so efficiently and happily as the case we have in point.

   Old John Bulkley (grandson of the once famous President

    Chauncey

   ) was a minister of the gospel, and one of the best

    edicated

   men of his day in the wooden nutmeg State, when the immortal (or ought to be) Jonathan Trumbull was "around," and in his youth. Mr. Bulkley was the first

    settled

   minister in the town of his adoption, Colchester, Connecticut. It was with him, as afterwards with good old brother Jonathan (Governor Trumbull, the bosom friend of General Washington), good to confer on almost any matter, scientific, political, or religious—any subject, in short, wherein common sense and general good to all concerned was the issue. As a philosophical reasoner, casuist, and

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