an assurance of salvation immediate from the Deity. Last Sunday, he
says, he gave religious instruction to a class in the State's Prison.

Speaking of his political hostilities, he said that he never could
feel ill will against a person when he personally met him, that he
was not capable of hatred, but of strong affection,--that he always
remembered that "every man once had a mother, and she loved him."
A strong, stubborn, kindly nature this.

The City-Crier, talking in a familiar style to his auditors--
delivering various messages to them, intermixed with his own
remarks. He then runs over his memory to see whether he has omitted
anything, and recollects a lost child--"We've lost a child," says he;
as if, in his universal sympathy for all who have wants, and seek the
gratification of them through his medium, he were one with the parents
of the child. He then tells the people, whenever they find lost
children, not to keep them overnight, but to bring them to his office.
"For it is a cruel thing"--to keep them; and at the conclusion of his
lecture, he tells them that he has already worn out his lungs, talking
to them of these things. He completely personifies the public, and
considers it as an individual with whom he holds converse,--he being
as important on his side, as they on theirs.

An old man fishing on Long Wharf with a pole three or four feet
long--just long enough to clear the edge of the wharf. Patched
clothes, old, black coat--does not look as if he fished for what he
might catch, but as a pastime, yet quite poor and needy looking.
Fishing all the afternoon, and takes nothing but a plaice or two,
which get quite sun-dried. Sometimes he hauls up his line, with as
much briskness as he can, and finds a sculpin on the hook. The boys