I cannot exactly say when I did _not_ know Charley. He is some three years older than myself—he being about eighteen, and I about fifteen years of age when our friendship began to be a thing to be remembered. He looked when I saw him a year ago exactly as he did when we used first to chat cosily beside his fire-side, about Bulwer and Dora Anson. He is of a medium size, handsome, earnest face, forehead broad rather than high. There is a peculiar gentleman-look about him, wherever he is or whatever he is doing. He has such an enthusiastic sympathy with every man, woman and child he meets with that he is popular of course. His peculiarity, however, always consisted in a hunger after personal excellence. From our first acquaintance we made a distinct arrangement to tell each other of our faults as plainly as words could convey meaning. If he did not faithfully do his part toward me in this arrangement I am very, very much mistaken. He thought _aloud_ about me—told me exactly what I _was_, and what I was _not_. I did the same in regard to him. We have acted thus for many years now. We have been of vast benefit to each other—and will continue to be till we die. I do verily believe that this arrangement had a good deal to do in making him the man he is. Just in this way. When we first became intimate, and had made our arrangement as above, I opened the war by talking to him as follows: “Charley, my fine fellow, you are ambitious to be a good speaker. Now—you remember our little arrangement about correcting the faults of each other?” “Yes.” “Well, the plain fact is you have got a most miserable, squeaking voice. Your chest is narrow, you stoop, you don’t have that broad, strong, manly appearance which is almost essential to a speaker.” I saw he winced under this. He _felt_ eloquence deeply—he _thought_ eloquently—and forgot that the thought must be _expressed_ eloquently, or it is eloquence only to himself. That afternoon he made a pair of dumb-bells—and I do verily believe that he has hardly missed a day from that to this in which he has not exercised his chest and his voice in every possible way. No one would ever think _now_ that he was not always the broad-chested, powerful-voiced orator he is. It strikes me that even this little event had something to do with Charley in his becoming a Senator. You never saw a narrow-chested man who had any voice, energy or eloquence in your life. If _you_ have got a stoop, my boy, you had better correct it if you ever intend being any thing.