He stands upright--except, of course, for that heavy stoop of the shoulders which is one of his characteristics--and rarely moves himself one-hundredth part of an inch.

The voice--even, clear, and strong, and yet not penetrating, and still less inspiring--rarely has a change of note; it is delivered with the strange, curious air of a man who is thinking aloud, and has forgotten the presence of any listeners.

The eyes--hidden almost amid the shaggy and black-grey hair which covers nearly the whole face--are never directed to any person around.

They seem to gaze into vacancy; altogether there is something curious, weird, almost uncanny, in this great, big whale of a man, intoning his monologue with that curious detachment of eye and manner in the midst of a crowded, brilliant, and intensely nervous and restless assembly of men and women.
[Sidenote: The pessimism of a recluse.] And it was not to be wondered at that a speech so delivered--a mere soliloquy--should fail to be impressive.

It was too far and away unreal--had too little actuality to reach the poor humble breasts that were panting for excitement and exhortation.