character of Jonathan is drawn with more fidelity than most of the succeeding attempts to dramatize the Yankee peculiarities. JESSAMY, JONATHAN, meeting. Jes. Votre très-humble serviteur, Monsieur. I understand Colonel Manly, the Yankee officer, has the honor of your services. Jon. Sir! Jes. I say, Sir, I understand that Colonel Manly has the honor of having you for a servant. Jon. Servant! Sir, do you take me for a neger?-I am Colonel Manly's waiter. Jes. A true Yankee distinction, egad, without a difference. Why, Sir, do you not perform all the offices of a servant? do you not even blacken his boots? Jon. Yes; I do grease them a bit sometimes; but I am a true blue son of liberty, for all that. Father said I should come as Colonel Manly's waiter, to see the world, and all that; but no man shall master me: my father has as good a farm as the Colonel. Jes. Well, Sir, we will not quarrel about terms upon the eve of an acquaintance, from which I promise myself so much satisfaction;- therefore, sans ceremonie Jon. What? Jes. I say I am extremely happy to see Colonel Manly's waiter. Jon. Well, and I vow too, I am pretty considerably glad to see you-but what the dogs need of all this outlandish lingo? Who may you be, Sir, if I may be so bold? Jes. I have the honor to be Mr. Dimple's servant, or, if you please, waiter. We lodge under the same roof, and should be glad of the honor of your acquaintance. Jon. You a waiter! by the living jingo, you look so topping, I took you for one of the agents to Congress. Jes. The brute has discernment, notwithstanding his appearance. me leave to say I wonder then at your familiarity. Jon. Why, as to the matter of that, Mr. Jes. Jessamy, at your service. - pray, what's your name? -Give Jon. Why I swear we don't make any great matter of distinction in our state, between quality and other folks. Jes. This is, indeed, a levelling principle. * * * * JESSAMY, JONAthan, Jenny. Jen. So, Mr. Jonathan, I hear you were at the play last night. Jon. At the play! why, did you think I went to the devil's drawing-room? Jen. The devil's drawing-room? Jon. Yes; why an't cards and dice the devil's device? and the play-house the shop where the devil hangs out the vanities of the world, upon the tenter-hooks of temptation? I believe you have not heard how they were acting the old boy one night, and the wicked one came among them, sure enough; and went right off in a storm, and carried one quarter of the play-house with him Oh! no, no, no! you won't catch me at a play-house, I warrant you. Jen. Well, Mr. Jonathan, though I don't scruple your veracity, I have some reasons for believing you were there; pray, where were you about six o'clock? Jon. Why, I went to see one Mr. Morrison, the hocus pocus man; they said as how he could eat a case-knife. Jen. Well, and how did you find the place? Jon. As I was going about here and there, to and again, to find it, I saw a great crowd of folks going into a long entry, that had lantherns over the door; so I asked a man, whether that was not the place where they played hocus pocus? He was a very civil kind man, though he did speak like the Hessians; he lifted up his eyes and said "they play hocus pocus tricks enough there, Got knows, mine friend." Jen. Well Jon. So I went right in, and they showed me away clean up to the garret, just like a meeting-house gallery. And so I saw a power of topping folks, all sitting round in little cabins, "just like father's corn-cribs ;"-and then there was such a squeaking with the fiddles, and such a tarnal blaze with the lights, my head was near turned. At last the people that sat near me set up such a hissing hiss-like so many mad cats; and then they went thump, thump, thump, just like our Peleg threshing wheat, and stampt away, just like the nation; and called out for one Mr. Langolee,-I suppose he helps act the tricks. Jen. Well, and what did you do all this time? Jon. Gor, I-I liked the fun, and so I thumpt away, and hissed as lustily as the best of 'em. One sailor-looking man that sat by me, seeing me stamp, and knowing I was a cute fellow, because I could make a roaring noise, clapt me on the shoulder and said, you are a d- -d hearty cock, smite my timbers! I told him so I was, but I thought he need not swear so, and make use of such wicked words. Jes. The savage !-Well, and did you see the man with his tricks? Jon. Why I vow, as I was looking out for him, they lifted up a great green cloth, and let us look right into the next neighbor's house. Have you a good many houses in New-York made so in that 'ere way? Jen. Not many: but did you see the family? Jon. Yes, swamp it; I see'd the family. Jen. Well, and how did you like them? Jon. Why, I vow they were pretty much like other families;-there was a poor, good-natured, curse of a husband, and a sad rantipole of a wife. Jen. But did you see no other folks? Jon. Yes. There was one youngster, they called him Mr. Joseph; he talked as sober and as pious as a minister; but like some ministers that I know, he was a sly tike in his heart, for all that: He was going to ask a young woman to spark it with him, and-the Lord have mercy on my soul!-she was another man's wife. Jes. The Wabash! Jen. And did you see any more folks? Jon. Why they came on as thick as mustard. For my part, I thought the house was haunted. There was a soldier fellow, who talked about his row de dow, dow, and courted a young woman: but of all the cute folk I saw, I liked one little fellow Jen. Aye! who was he? Jon. Why, he had red hair, and a little round plump face like mine, only not altogether so handsome. His name was-Darby ;-that was his baptizing name, his other name I forgot. Oh! it was, Wig-Wag-Wag-all, Darby Wag-all;pray, do you know him?-I should like to take a sling with him, or a drop of cider with a pepper-pod in it, to make it warm and comfortable. Jen. I can't say I have that pleasure. Jon. I wish you did, he is a cute fellow. But there was one thing I did'nt like in that Mr. Darby; and that was, he was afraid of some of them 'ere shooting irons, such as your troopers wear on training days. Now, I'm a true born Yankee American son of liberty, and I never was afraid of a gun yet in all my life. Jen. Well, Mr. Jonathan, you were certainly at the play-house. Jon. I at the play-house!-Why did'nt I see the play then? Jen. Why the people you saw were players. Jon. Mercy on my soul! did 1 see the wicked players?-Mayhap that 'ere Darby that I liked so, was the old serpent himself, and had his cloven foot in his pocket. Why, I vow, now I come to think on't, the candles seemed to burn blue, and I am sure where I sat, it smelt tarnally of brimstone. Jes. Well, Mr. Jonathan, from your account, which I confess is very accurate, you must have been at the play-house. Jon. Why, I vow I began to smell a rat. When I came away, I went to the man for my money again : you want your money, says he; yes, says I; for what, says he; why, says I, no man shall jockey me out of my money; I paid my money to see sights, and the dogs a bit of a sight have I seen, unless you call listening to people's private business a sight. Why, says he, it is the School for Scandalization.-The School for Scandalization!-Oh! ho! no wonder you New-York folks are so cute at it, when you go to school to learn it: and so I jogged off. The American stage has been indebted to Mr. Tyler for two other dramatic pieces. Although Governor Hancock opposed theatrical representations in Boston with great asperity and bitterness; yet, it would seem from a paragraph in the Columbian Centinel of Aug. 11, 1793, that he could lay aside his puritanical scruples, at times,—and enter into the fashionable amusements of his friends. It is there stated, that the comedians at Portsmouth, N. H. performed The Absent Man and Lethe. "The audience was large, and these votaries of Thalia were honored by the presence of the lady of our beloved governor, and several other persons of distinction from Massachusetts. His excellency, who was at Portsmouth, through indisposition, could not attend." If, as is here intimated, "his excellency" was only prevented by sickness from going to the play, he was not of course prevented by his conscientious scruples. TO LESBIA. IMITATED FROM A LATIN ODE OF DR. JOHNSON. LEAVE your arts, give o'er your labors, To some other, plainer lass. As the Spring, in native beauty As the streamlet gently murmuring, As, among the trees, the birds, While the neighboring woods and waters, So, her native grace and beauty Well become each charming maid; Cupid justly holds suspected, Cease, fair girl! your flowing locks Beauty, gift of bounteous Heaven, Beauty needs no aid from art. ON ELOQUENCE. A Lecture, delivered before the Salem Lyceum, February, 1832. BY HENRY COLMAN. ELOQUENCE is the topic to which on this occasion I respectfully ask your attention. It may be deemed presumptuous in me to speak of it. This would be a hard judgement. We meet here as an assembly of inquirers. We may do what we can to assist each other's investigations. We are often competent to judge where we have no power to execute. We can admire the picture of a beautiful landscape, its invention, arrangement, coloring, perspective, and harmony, yet be ourselves unable to paint even a leaf; and we may criticise in good taste a masterpiece of sculpture, its proportions, attitude, fidelity, expression, its all but life; and yet be incompetent to fashion even a waxen doll. In a community, formed on the liberal principles of mutual improvement, the humblest contribution will find encouragement and welcome. The river must not disdain the rill. Every drop performs its part in the mighty volume of the ocean; and the majestic stream which traverses a continent, and fertilizes vast territories by its inundations, may be traced up to some humble fountain, which a man may gather up in the palm of his hand. I shall inquire with diffidence, What is Eloquence? what are its proper attributes? what its necessary and true foundation? I shall attempt this, not even with the hope of doing this grand subject any thing like justice; but with the humble desire of contributing something to stimulate and direct the thoughts of reflecting minds, and of suggesting some few rules, by which the judgement may be guided in a matter of universal conversation and interest. What is Eloquence? This is a question to which the answer is not easy. If it were not departing too much from the gravity of the subject, I might reply with the young lady to a certain question of a more tender character, and say that I cannot describe it, but it is something, putting her hand to her heart, that is felt here. Or I might say of it, as of the beauty or attractiveness of the human countenance; not that it consists in any regularity of form, any color of the eye, any tints of the complexion, of any particular feature or any particular combination of features, but a certain expression, uniting and blending what is personal, intellectual, and moral, which is neither to be described nor resisted. Eloquence is the power of persuasion. It is the power of convincing by argument; of conveying a vivid representation of what is purely sensible by language and gesture; of inflaming the imagination of others; of moving their affections; of waking their passions; of impelling them to action; the power, not of ruffling the surface merely, but of stirring the deep waters of the soul from their lowest springs; of melting to tenderness by the warmth which it infuses, and making the heart liquid, so that it pours itself out in the gushes of sympathy; or of rousing all the sleeping energies of the soul and hurrying a man onwards to sublime action by the rushing tempest, which it gathers within his own bosom. Eloquence is made up of voice, gesture, language, sentiment and passion. This is not a perfect analysis; much else is wanting to complete the proper combination and to secure the highest triumphs of eloquence; but let us briefly remark on these topics, as far as they may be concerned in it. To a perfect orator a good voice and a full command of it are essential. It should be clear, distinct and full; neither squeaking nor harsh, neither a whistle nor a growl; but susceptible of all the various inflections and alternations from a forte to a pianissimo, which may suit the different sentiments, it may be required to express. There is great power in the human voice. It is capable of most extraordinary modulations. Even those persons, who are little susceptible of the influence of music, are often subdued by its gentle accents, and roused by its deep intonations. But above all things, it should be natural; the voice in which a man is accustomed to speak. The slightest affectation is offensive, and a departure from our natural tones becomes as unpleasant to the hearer as it is painful to the speaker. Gesture is considered as the second requisite in public speaking. The books are full of directions on this subject; but all artificial rules are useless, excepting as far as they teach us to avoid what is extravagant, awkward, and grotesque. A little awkwardness, however, is by no means offensive, where we see that it is matural; or where it does not proceed to an excess, which renders it painful; or where it springs from real diffidence or modesty, which always conciliate an audience. In respect to action, men differ very much in their natural habits and temperament. Nations differ as much as individuals. The English deal little in gesticulation. The French abound in it. It is difficult to give any precise rules, which would be universally applicable. Is a man accustomed to much action in common discourse, we may expect it from him in public. Is he unused to it, it would appear awkward were he to attempt it. All set forms of gesticulation, all moving by geometrical lines, all attempts of every kind at what is called mannerism,-let them be never so exact and graceful, and precisely according to the rules of art,though they may please in a schoolboy's exhibition, on serious occasions,-the only legitimate occasions for true eloquence,-produce disgust and defeat the force of even the best sentiments. The power of action is great. By action in this case I cannot be supposed to mean the mere attitude of the body or the movements of the limbs; but I mean especially the expression of the countenance, composed, as I before remarked, of I know not what, the knitting of the brow, the workings of the lips, the lightning of the eyes; as when the whole face becomes illuminated, and men behold it, as the Israelites saw the face of Moses, when he descended from the holy visions of the mount, beaming with the radiance of an angel's glory. There are few of the simple emotions of the mind, which may not be expressed in the countenance. All the passions present themselves at the windows of the eyes and are immediately recognized. The countenance amuses, reasons, intreats alarms, threatens, commands, persuades, while the mouth does not utter a word. Hope, fear, joy, triumph, anger, pity, revenge, all show themselves in the countenance, and are read there almost as distinctly as if the words were written on the forehead. We all know the force of such action; and we can judge something of its increased effect, when the sentiment which it indicates is besides plainly expressed in appropriate tones and language. The power of action is very great, as most of us have often witnessed. I ask to be allowed to give what I have always deemed a very strong example of its effects. Some years since, I went with a friend in Baltimore to hear a celebrated German clergyman of the Lutheran Church, who regularly officiated to his own countrymen in his native tongue. Neither myself nor my friend understood one word of German. After the introductory services were over, this gentleman began his discourse. His animated, expressive, and pathetic manner, immediately arrested and riveted our attention. was, more than once, affected even to tears. My companion was as deeply moved. I said to him, on coming out, that this man must have been discoursing on the Prodigal Son; and, on inquiry, I found the truth of the conjecture. I had imagined that I heard this young man demanding his portion and departing on his perilous adventure. While I listened to the father's blessing, I saw all the yearnings of parental affection, and all the anxieties and forebodings of parental fear. I beheld the inexperienced youth, leaving the home of kindness and security, with plans unformed and principles unfixed, to encounter the seductions and perils of a vicious world. I traced his way ward and downward progress until I perceived him, step by step, unconsciously ensnared in the toils of vice; and now a bondman and no longer master of himself, sunk down, a deserted stranger, in all the bitterness, and infamy, and squalidness, and unmixed wretchedness of vice and profligacy. Alas! how fallen from what he once was. But life is not wholly extinct. His bosom heaves with the agonies of remorse; the sighs of contrition are quivering on his lips. A beam of hope is let in upon this dark picture. I perceive the first kindling of virtuous resolution; conscience, not yet wholly gone, struggles again to recover her throne, from which passion had forced her; and the wretched slave, at last, with a convulsive effort, bursting his fetters, sets out on his return. I followed him to his home. I beheld the pourings out of that parental love, which no ingratitude could extinguish, and the lost child embraced by the amazed father; and I could not refrain from joining in the loud welcome of forgiveness and affection, which restores the dead to life. On this occasion, then, I felt the power of action. Perhaps the mind was in a peculiarly favorable condition to receive its best influences; the novelty of the occasion had its power; the solemn chaunting of the prayers and psalms in the Lutheran church affected me; the soft and deep tones of a powerful organ, touched by the hands of a master, had passed over the soul and hushed it into a profound attention; imagination was kindled and lent its aid to the occasion; yet |