All were
sensible young men, much above the average of this class in
intellectual endowments. Osborne and Ralph were imaginative and
poetical, and frequently tried their talents at verse-making.
They formed a literary club, and spent their leisure time together,
reading to each other, discussing questions, and, in other ways,
seeking self-improvement. Sundays they devoted chiefly to intellectual
pastime, strolling along the banks of the Schuylkill, except Matson,
who was too much of a Christian to desecrate the Sabbath. He always
went to the house of God on Sundays; nor was he esteemed any less
highly by his skeptical associates for so doing.
"You estimate your talent for poetry too highly," said Osborne to
Ralph, at one of their literary interviews. "Poets are born, not made;
and I hardly think you was born one."
"Much obliged for your compliment," replied Ralph, not at all
disconcerted by Osborne's rather personal remark; "but I may become
poet enough for my own use. All poets are not first-best when they
begin. It is practice that makes perfect, you know."
"Practice can't make a poet out of a man who is not born one; and you
are not such," continued Osborne. "That piece that you just read is
not particularly poetical. It is good rhyme, but it lacks the real
spirit of poesy."
"I agree with you; I do not call it good poetry; but every poet must
begin; and his first piece can not be his best.
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