matter-of-fact vocation; though in poetry he would seem to best
succeed."

"Well," said my friend, seriously, "he's _feeling_ for the boy!" Then
laughingly: "Hedrick _has_ written some rhymes for the county papers,
and Sweeney once introduced him, at an Old Settlers' Meeting, as 'The
Best Poet in Center Township,' and never cracked a smile! Always after
each other that way, but the best friends in the world. _Sweeney's_
strong suit is elocution. He has a native ability that way by no means
ordinary, but even that gift he abuses and distorts simply to produce
grotesque, and oftentimes ridiculous effects. For instance, nothing
more delights him than to 'lothfully' consent to answer a request, at
The Mite Society, some evening, for 'an appropriate selection,' and
then, with an elaborate introduction of the same, and an exalted
tribute to the refined genius of the author, proceed with a most
gruesome rendition of 'Alonzo The Brave and The Fair Imogene,' in a
way to coagulate the blood and curl the hair of his fair listeners
with abject terror. Pale as a corpse, you know, and with that
cadaverous face, lit with those malignant-looking eyes, his slender
figure, and his long, thin legs and arms and hands, and his whole
diabolical talent and adroitness brought into play--why, I want to say
to you, it's enough to scare 'em to death! Never a smile from him,
though, till he and Hedrick are safe out into the night again--then,
of course, they hug each other and howl over it like Modocs! But
pardon; I'm interrupting the lecture. Listen."

"A lack of continuity, however," continued the Professor, "and an
undue love of approbation, would, measurably, at least, tend to retard
the young man's progress toward the consummation of any loftier
ambition, I fear; yet as we have intimated, if the subject were