ELOQUENCE.

It is the doctrine of the popular music-masters, that whoever can speak can sing.  So, probably, every man is eloquent once in his life.  Our temperaments differ in capacity of heat, or we boil at different degrees.  One man is brought to the boiling point by the excitement of conversation in the parlor.  The waters, of course, are not very deep.  He has a two-inch enthusiasm, a pattypan ebullition.  Another requires the additional caloric of a multitude, and a public debate; a third needs an antagonist, or a hot indignation; a fourth needs a revolution; and a fifth, nothing less than the grandeur of absolute ideas, the splendors and shades of Heaven and Hell.

But because every man is an orator, how long soever he may have been a mute, an assembly of men is so much more susceptible.  The eloquence of one stimulates all the rest, some up to the speaking point, and all others to a degree that makes them good receivers and conductors, and they avenge themselves for their enforced silence by increased loquacity on their return to the fireside.

The plight of these phlegmatic brains is better than that of those who prematurely boil, and who impatiently break the silence before their time.  Our county conventions often exhibit a small-pot-soon-hot style of eloquence.  We are too much reminded of a medical experiment, where a series of patients are taking nitrous-oxide gas.  Each patient, in turn, exhibits similar symptoms,—­redness in the face, volubility, violent gesticulation, delirious attitudes, occasional stamping, an alarming loss of perception of the passage of time, a selfish enjoyment of his sensations, and loss of perception of the sufferings of the audience.

Plato says, that the punishment which the wise suffer, who refuse to take part in the government, is, to live under the government of worse men; and the like regret is suggested to all the auditors, as the penalty of abstaining to speak, that they shall hear worse orators than themselves.

But this lust to speak marks the universal feeling of the energy of the engine, and the curiosity men feel to touch the springs.  Of all the musical instruments on which men play, a popular assembly is that which has the largest compass and variety, and out of which, by genius and study, the most wonderful effects can be drawn.  An audience is not a simple addition of the individuals that compose it.  Their sympathy gives them a certain social organism, which fills each member, in his own degree, and most of all the orator, as a jar in a battery is charged with the whole electricity of the battery.  No one can survey the face of an excited assembly, without being apprised of new opportunity for painting in fire human thought, and being agitated to agitate.  How many orators sit mute there below!  They come to get justice done to that ear and intuition which no Chatham and no Demosthenes has begun to satisfy.