An abundance of resource and manœuvres of the kind we have mentioned, gave a great "liveliness" to his lecture, which _in its quiet form so as not to divert or disturb_, is a great difficulty in lecturing. We have heard an excellent lecturer whose only fault, we think, was want of liveliness and variety. Few men could in other respects lecture comparably to him. Nothing could surpass the quiet, polished manner of this accomplished teacher. His voice, though not good, was by no means unpleasing. His articulation elaborately distinct, and free from all provincialism. His language invariably correct and appropriate; the structure of his sentences strikingly grammatical; and they fell in such an easy, though somewhat too rhythmical succession, as to be at once graceful and melodious. His arrangement, always simple and clear. Nothing was more striking than the deferential manner in which he approached a philosophical subject. "I like ——," said one who had often heard him, "because he is always so gentlemanly. There is nothing off-hand, as if he thought himself very clever, but a kind of unaffected respect for himself and his audience, which obliges one to pay attention to him, if it were only because you feel that a man of education is speaking to you." What, it may be said, can such a man want? Why he wanted liveliness and flexibility. His voice measured forth its gentlemanly way with all the regularity of a surveying rod. Various and interesting as his subjects were, and handled with consummate ability, he must certainly have _taught_; yet we think he sent away many of his audience passive recipients, as distinguished from persons _set on thinking_ what they had heard "into their own." He performed his task like a good man and a scholar; but still it was like a task after all. It was something like a scholar reading a book, always excepting the beautifully clear illustrations for which his subject gave him abundant opportunity. He wanted that animation and interest in his subject by which a lecturer inoculates you with his own enthusiasm. He was the most striking example in our experience of the importance of liveliness and variety, and of making a lecture, however well delivered, just that thing which we _cannot_ find in a book. The life-like, the dramatic effect was wanting; and it was to this alone that we can ascribe what we have not unfrequently observed in the midst of a generally attentive audience, a few who were "nodding" their assent to his propositions.