painter's calling by a similar feeling for the zealot's) the direction
of the oratorical meeting, and repaired there alone. It was the most
celebrated club (of that description) of the day, and well worth
attending, as a gratification to the curiosity, if not an improvement
to the mind.

On entering, he found himself in a long room, tolerably well lighted,
and still better filled. The sleepy countenances of the audience, the
whispered conversation carried on at scattered intervals, the listless
attitudes of some, the frequent yawns of others, the eagerness with
which attention was attracted to the opening door, when it admitted
some new object of interest, the desperate resolution with which some
of the more energetic turned themselves towards the orator, and then,
with a faint shake of the head, turned themselves again hopelessly
away,--were all signs that denoted that no very eloquent declaimer was
in possession of the "house." It was, indeed, a singularly dull,
monotonous voice which, arising from the upper end of the room,
dragged itself on towards the middle, and expired with a sighing sound
before it reached the end. The face of the speaker suited his vocal
powers; it was small, mean, and of a round stupidity, without anything
even in fault that could possibly command attention or even the
excitement of disapprobation: the very garments of the orator seemed
dull and heavy, and, like the Melancholy of Milton, had a "leaden
look." Now and then some words, more emphatic than others,--stones
breaking, as it were with a momentary splash, the stagnation of the
heavy stream,--produced from three very quiet, unhappy-looking persons
seated next to the speaker, his immediate friends, three single
isolated "hears!"

"The force of friendship could no further go."