of East River, that I always feel as if one must there fight for life and limb. Yet it is very seldom that any accident occurs. I was glad to be able to hear Channing, of whose extraordinary ability as an extempore speaker I had heard so much. The room in which the lecture was to be delivered, and which might hold about five hundred persons, was quite full. It was built as an amphitheatre, in an oval half-circle. Channing entered, and commenced by prayer, standing the while with his face turned to the assembly. After this he addressed them, but with downcast eyes and in a careless and almost indifferent manner. The subject which he besought the audience, as well as himself, to consider, was “the assembly of the saints.” Some beautiful observations there were, but the whole was so devoid of any deep coherence, so undeveloped and without application, so wanting in life and warmth, that I was amazed in the highest degree. “Is this,” thought I, “American eloquence? is this the richly-gifted orator of whom I have heard so much praise? And those downcast looks, that immovability—how can it be!” But now I heard Rebecca whisper to her husband, “What is amiss with Channing? He must be ill! He is not like himself!”
This consoled me; because I now perceived that this was an unusual state with Channing. He was actually not like himself. That inspired expression of countenance which I had so often seen in him had vanished. Several times he stopped and seemed endeavouring to collect himself. But the discourse could not proceed. It was painful to see that it could not, and at length Channing brought it to a sudden close. And then, with a fine, almost hectic, flush mantling his cheek, he advanced a step or two and said—
“I feel it to be necessary to offer an excuse to the assembly for the unsatisfactory manner in which I have treated my subject, and which has arisen from a total
