"I don't see," said Mrs. Partington, yesterday, as Ike came home from school, and threw his books into one chair and his jacket into another, and his cap on the floor, saying that he didn't get the medal; "I don't see, dear, why you didn't get the meddle, for certainly a more meddlesome boy I never knew. But no matter; when the adversary comes round again, you'll get it." What hope there was in her remark for him! And he took courage and one of the old lady's doughnuts, and sat wiping his feet on a clean stocking that the dame was preparing to darn, that lay by her side.

"How do you do, dear?" said Mrs. Partington, smilingly, shaking hands with Burbank, in the Dock square omnibus, as he held out his five dexter digits towards her. "Fare, ma'am," said he, in reply to her inquiry. "Well, I'm shore I'm glad of it, and how are the folks at home?" "Fare, ma'am,” continued he, still extending his hand. The passengers were interested. "How do you like Boston?" screamed she, as the omnibus rattled over the stones. "Fare, ma'am," shouted he, without drawing back his hand; "I want you to pay me for your ride." "Oh," murmured she, "I thought it was some one that knowed me," and rummaged down in the bottom of her ridicule for a ticket, finding at last five copper cents tied up in the corner of her handkerchief—the "last war" handkerchief, with the stars and stripes involved in it, and the action of the Constitution and Guerriere stamped upon it. But the smile she had given him at first was not withdrawn-there was no allowance made for mistakes at that counter-and he went out, with a lighter heart and a heavier pocket to catch t'other coach.

Mr. Shillaber is a true poet, and were he to write less and commune with nature more, he would soon rank in the first class of American poets. The following sonnet is worthy of Wordsworth instead of "Wideswarth," (the nom de plume he recently assumed).

TO AN OLD CANNON BALL.

"Grim messenger of war, before me lying,

No more at thee will mortal cheek turn pale,
No more wilt thou with hostile aim be flying,
A stone of revolutionary hail;

As the bright sun melts up the icy rain,

That the black clouds of summer sometimes pour;

So time is melting thee to dust again,

Thou dark remainder of an iron shower!

Good omen this, when war's clouds clear away,

And Peace angelic all our bosoms fills,

That good, through strife achieved, alone doth stay,

While rust away, in sure decay, its ills!

A better fate is thine, depend upon it,

Than rusty death-thou livest in a sonnet."

Here is something containing less poetry, but just as much truth, and since this is one of the warmest days in August, I

will copy

A SEASONABLE SONNET.

When June's hot sun pours down in fervid beams—

In striking beams that knock a mortal down,

Or make the perspiration flow in streams,

In regal streams, descending from the crown

My mind recals a fat and jovial one,

A jovial one that I did call my friend,

Who melted on a time 'neath such a sun,
'Neath such a sun, just like a candle-end.
I saw him for a moment stand alone-

Stand all alone beneath a hat of straw;
A moment more and on the sidewalk stone-

That reeking stone-my wond'ring visuals saw

A heap of clothes, suspenders, hat and boots,

An empty wicker flask, and twenty smoked cheroots."

The subject of this sketch is in the prime of life, a stout, hale, hearty man, considerably above the common stature, with a plain, frank face, a full breast, an honest heart, and a head clear as crystal. He has dark hair, is of the bilious-nervous temperament, dresses in a careless manner. Since he has become an author, however, the hole in his coat elbow has disappeared.

Should the reader meet him in the street, he would take him for an unsophisticated backwoodsman, and not for one of the editors of one of the most influential journals in the United States. He is genial as the sunshine, and generous to a fault -sensitive, gallant, courteous, and urbane.

BISHOP JAMES.

On Sunday morning, I went to Dr. Waterbury's Church on Bowdoin street, to hear the justly celebrated Rev. Bishop James. The church, or rather the building where the church meets, is a modest and substantial edifice, located away from the noise and bustle of the business streets. The singing in the church is super-excellent, and the sermon delivered by the Bishop, was one of the best I have heard. He spoke of the glory of Heaven in such glowing language, and illustrated his theme with such appropriate and beautiful imagery, and sustained his theory with such unanswerable logic, I will not do him, nor his sermon, nor the reader injustice by attempting to report what was so fitly spoken. When words have eyes, glowing with emotion, and syllables have souls, full of inspiration, reports will afford more faithful records of such heart-stirring sermons, than voiceless paper language can give at the present time. The Bishop is probably forty-five years of age, of the nervous-bilious temperament, is under the common stature, and has a womanish voice. He has a dignified and ministerial look, dresses neatly in black, with a white cravat. He has a pale, intellectual face; indeed, the commonest observer would say his countenance indicated nice taste, and superior intellectual power.

REV. MR. WADSWORTH.

ATTRACTED by the fame of the Rev. Mr. Wadsworth, I went to the Arch street Church, for the purpose of hearing him. In order to secure a seat, I obeyed the first summons of the bell, and was fortunate enough to find exactly the place that suited me. While waiting for the preacher, I occupied a short leisure by looking at the building and those who came to worship there. The church is a plain, substantial building, well windowed for light during the day, and abundantly supplied with lamps for illumination by night. Indeed the tall lamps, on each side of the preacher, have the appearance of golden trees with branches of fire. The spacious edifice was filled below and above with a well-dressed, good-looking, wide-awake and appreciating audience. The pastor opened the services with a short prayer, but he spoke in such a low tone of voice, the sharpest ears in the nearest pews could not understand half the words he uttered; then followed a beautiful psalm, which was better heard that was succeeded by a hymn which was read monotonously, but distinctly.

I turned around to see the persons to whom I was indebted for such sweet music, and saw nothing but an ugly red curtain. I do not like the fastidious modesty which hides the choir from the congregation, for such voices as I heard there must come