It is Judge SWEENEY'S pleasure to found himself upon Father DEAN, whom
he greatly resembles in the intellectual details of much forehead,
stomach, and shirt-collar. When upon the bench in the city, even,
granting an injunction in favor of some railroad company in which he
owns a little stock, he frequently intones his accompanying remarks
with an ecclesiastical solemnity eminently calculated to suppress every
possible tendency to levity in the assembled lawyers; and his discharge
from arrest of any foreign gentleman brought before him for illegal
voting, has often been found strikingly similar in sound to a pastoral
Benediction.

That Judge SWEENEY has many admirers, is proved by the immense local
majority electing him to judicial eminence; and that the admiration is
mutual is likewise proved by his subsequent appreciative dismissal of
certain frivolous complaints against a majority of that majority
for trifling misapprehensions of the Registry law. He is a portly,
double-chinned man of about fifty, with a moral cough, eye-glasses
making even his red nose seem ministerial, and little gold ballot-boxes,
locomotives, and five-dollar pieces, hanging as "charms" from the chain
of his Repeater.

Judge SWEENEY'S villa is on the turnpike, opposite the Alms-House, with
doors and shutters giving in whichever direction they are opened; and he
is sitting near a table, with a sheet of paper in his hand, and a bowl
of warm lemon tea before him, when his servant-girl announces "Mr.
BUMSTEAD."

"Happy to see you, sir, in my house, for the first time," is Judge
SWEENEY'S hospitable greeting.