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terrors of a future judgment. Whoever omits to do this for fear of estranging his hearers from him, overlooks the fact that the hearer involuntarily judges the orator by moral rules only, and grants to him to utter whatever he may utter with propriety; that the most energetic reproofs will not wound him, if he but sees that they are justified by the relation in which the speaker stands to him; indeed that in the moral and religious nature of man there exists a certain tendency closely allied with the taste for the sublime and the terrific, by reason of which the hearer is better content with an abasement of his feelings, such as may lead to an improved state of mind, than with that superficial emotion which is caused by the approaches of the flatterer. Thus the renowned orator who preached before Louis XIV. and his court,-an audience which would never have forgiven the slightest impropriety, employed all the terrors of religion, and often exercised the full judicial power of their office, and always with great effect.

While the fitness of a discourse pre

vents any occasion of offence which might interfere with the desired movement of the feelings, it contributes, moreover, directly to promote such a movement. For example, if the orator confines himself to such thoughts, images and allusions as calls up to the hearer's memory his own experience and his own personal observations, the discourse must operate with greatly increased power. For the truth is thus not merely rendered clear to his mind, but whilst he associates it with all which he himself has thought and felt, it takes a hold upon his entire inner nature, and creates that very ferment and agitation which we have named the affected condition. Many an expression may be appropriate to the thoughts and intelligible to the hearer; there may however be still another, by the employment of which, a region of his thoughts before covered up in obscurity, may suddenly be brought to light, and which touches upon some of the manifold threads of which the web of his feelings is composed; this expression the orator should endeavor to find, and he is enabled to do this by studying his hearer under the influence of a true zeal for his welfare. Should he prefer to this a different style, as easier and more agreeable to himself, his course would be that of an egotist, and the inoperativeness of the discourse would be his just punishment. How powerful is the impression made by the wise use of the hearers' existing feelings, may be seen in

occasional discourses. In a sermon designed for the opening of a campaign, for a victory, or an occasion of public rejoicing, the preacher can take for granted in his hearers, with far greater certainty than on ordinary occasions when the relations are not so definite, certain prevalent views and opinions, certain hopes and fears, certain sentiments of joy and thankfulness; and if he can only in the exercise of a little wisdom, draw together all their different rays, and throw these upon the truth in hand as upon a focal point, he will make it exceedingly effective in the hearers' minds. Thus we explain why it is that the effects of discourses preached on feast days are often more decided than are those of the usual Sabbath-day sermons. It is because to the first, the hearer, however perverted he may be, nevertheless brings with him certain religious sentiments upon which the orator can easily fasten the thread of his dis

course.

It is, moreover, a part of this matter of fitness that the speaker should never suffer himself to be elevated in his expressions, turns of thought and images, above the language of social intercourse among educated persons; even, if before an audience competent to follow in such a flight, and to understand more refined modes of expression. I am constrained to refer to this on account of those who expect by poetical ornament, by words which they have collected with great research from the dust of past centuries, and by constructions which are foreign to pure prose, to give their discourses a peculiar weight and dignity. This is, however, nothing more than a cold and powerless display, if indeed, as I take for granted, power means nothing but the efficacy of the discourse in affecting the mind. In the press of active life, under circumstances of deep affliction, in the calm hours of meditation, did ever the hearer express his thoughts and feelings to himself or to others in a highly figurative language, and in far-fetched modes of speech? Assuredly not. The expression which couples itself with the quiet movements of the mind as they present themselves in our consciousness, is ever noble as it is simple; if the orator therefore would penetrate into our inner life and renew there the traces of forgotten thoughts and feelings, if he would indeed address us, let him make use of the familiar and customary words in which we are wont to hold converse with ourselves. Every strange expression, every singular turn, hurries us as it were out of ourselves

instead of turning us inward, and the stream of inner harmonies, perhaps already brought to flow, is suddenly interrupted and dispersed. To this is added the feeling of dislike to a man who decks himself out with a parade of sounding phrases, which after all it is not difficult to gather up, instead of speaking to his own as well as to my real advantage in my own familiar language. Those very rare instances in which we choose a rare expression for an unusual thought, must here, of course, be excluded; but to allow one's self, without a very peculiar intention in view, to deviate in the slightest degree from the prevailing usage in language is, in my opinion, improper, contrary to a speaker's aim, and hence liable to a moral reproach.

The employment of the language of Scripture is by no means included in this expression of disapproval; on the contrary, if the expressions and figures of Holy Writ are not introduced simply to fill up a vacant place, but if retaining a sense of their true worth and power, they are inwrought into the discourse, their frequent use is to be recommended to pulpit orators, as a highly suitable and efficacious method of exciting the hearer's affection. Highly suitable; for Scripture language can never grow old, presenting as it does so many expressions full of meaning for the manifold conditions of life and of the human spirit, not a few of which are current proverbs in the language of every-day intercourse; and though religious education and the reading of the Bible, may, to some degree, be neglected, yet the orator may count securely upon having his thought understood far sooner in a Scriptural than in a philosophical garb. But the great power of Scripture language to move the affections, consists mainly in this, that in it the expression for the understanding, and that for the feeling is not distinct, as in human modes of presenting truth, but is always one and the same; the images of which it makes such frequent use, combine with the accuracy of an abstract terminology, the advantage of interweaving the idea into the web of human relations, and of associating it with all the conceptions which have power to work upon the emotional nature of man. They are a ray of combined light and heat that passes from the spirit into the heart, and how should it not inflame the whole man? If now it should happen, as indeed is often the case, that an expression drawn from Scripture, upOn first acquaintance with it, or upon succeeding occasions, has awakened a

train of pious emotions, the speaker, as often as he fittingly introduces it, is enabled to call up that movement of the feelings which has already so often been connected with it, and thus, further, the operation of the truth he is discussing. On account of this great advantage, I should deem it advisable to use Scripture language even in those cases where we cannot presuppose an acquaintance with it on the part of the hearer, and where it has never, as yet, contributed to the awakening of his inner life; for thus by employing it more frequently, that more thorough acquaintance with it, and that influence upon the emotional nature which we have described, will by degrees be effected.

But now the thing which hinders the orator in thoroughly understanding his hearer's views, is learning to speak their own language, and in exciting the feelings by the appropriateness of his style: this again is naught but moral delinquency. Especially prominent is that self-pleasing vanity which desires only the gratification of expressing itself easily and agreeably, and which shuns the difficult and often violent effort which is needful in order to come forth out of one's self and enter sympathizingly into the circle of another's individuality. From this defect it is that, among other specimens of pulpit eloquence, we have those artfully constructed and flowery discourses, which, although in consequence of their adaptedness to work upon the hearer's fancy. they often receive enthusiastic commendation (thus men generally, under the blinding influence of their own vanity, fail to judge and to punish that of others so severely as it deserves), yet their idle trifling with thoughts and words can produce only an imbecile void; never a state of feeling favorable to great and noble decisions in the mind. In the next place we mention a kind of shyness unfavorable to this active method which is to be found in noble and refined natures, which embarrass them in entering upon the relations of their hearers, in grasping their hearts with a strong hand, and so in giving to their mode of discourse a fitness such as will move the emotions. In case the speaker entirely abandons himself to the truth under discussion, unfolds it with the greatest care, but touches only superficially and in general terms upon the relations under which it should be realized, so that he hits nowhere and hurts no one, then we may assuredly suspect the existence of this timidity. Similar reprobation, if no greater is deserved, and like enervating

effects are produced upon the style by too great concession on the part of the orator; if ignoring his idea and his own personality, he busies himself only with his hearer's relations and preferences, in order to say something which will be appropriate and of good tendency; this is a low ambition which seeks perishable praise and not the true and imperishable glory of ennobling the nature of men; an orator who is chiefly led by such an impulse will often melt his hearers into weak sentiment, but will never kindle them into a true moral passion, for the glance of ideal truth by which alone this sentiment is to be reached, never breaks through the inclosures with which he surrounds it. Thus, three wrong courses are indicated; that is, either becoming engrossed with one's self, or with the idea, or with the relations of the hearer exclusively; whenever a discourse claiming to be rhetorical inclines decidedly in one of these three directions, it is inappropriate and powerless.

In

order therefore to speak with entire propriety, the orator should so comprehend, combine, and mediate among the three diverse claims which his own personality, the idea, and the relation of his hearers make upon him, that each one of these demands would be satisfied without loss to either of the others; and this is conclusively nothing else than what is indispensable to a really virtuous transaction, in which a clear, continuous sense of our own personality, of the principle according to which, and the relations in which, we act, is absolutely requisite. The solution of this problem requires really great energy of character in rhetorical as well as in moral acts; and how justly they may be considered as of the same nature, appears in the fact that both the discourses, which are excellent in this respect, as also truly virtuous actions, are distinguished by no outward glare and brilliancy; for here, where three different elements are blended, their colors melt into each other; on the contrary, those faulty discourses, for the very reason that one of these elements appears prominent above the rest, let them but be composed with a little talent, may very readily possess a certain brilliancy, an object of admiration with the unintelligent, but which warms neither him nor any one besides.

Demosthenes, in this connection, deserves the highest praise with the least blame; for surely never an orator united with such a dignified assertion of his own personality, such a luminous development of his idea, and such a comprehensive view of the existing relations. And it is from this sustained combination of these three elements that his powerful and profoundly attractive simplicity arose; which would have disappeared the moment a separation of the lyric and philosophic parts from the matters of fact had taken place in his discourse. On the other hand, Cicero is far less deserving of the rank of a model of appropriateness; not as though he elevated himself above the comprehension of his hearers or uttered any thing unsuitable and violent; but because with him, now his personality, now the truth, and now the circumstances become too prominent, and the element at any time preponderating invariably throws the others into the shade. By this very failing he is found to possess a more showy coloring than Demosthenes, and can be understood, in the general, with far less effort and pains to penetrate the relations of his times.

Without in the least intending to compare Massillon with Demosthenes, or Bossuet with Cicero, they have these points of similarity: Massilon, like the Greek orator, without giving up himself or his idea, placed before his eyes in the fullest manner the life of his hearers; on the contrary, Bossuet, and indeed (as I suspect) on account of an inferior purity of character, almost entirely overlooked this last consideration. Hence men were carried away by Massilon and forgot to admire him, the best praise an orator can receive; on the contrary, Bossuet in his sublimest flights can only excite a cold admiration, or at most a ferment of the imaginative powers, entirely useless for moral ends. If, moreover, the French themselves almost universally prefer Bossuet to Massilon, this only shows, what appears from many other decisions of their critics, how little they understand and appreciate what of real excellence they have among them.

OUR EXODUS FROM JERICHO.

A RAZORIAL RHAPSODY.

"HAIR."-Ben Jonson.

"BEARD."-Shakespeare.

"DON MUSTACHIOS."-The Spaniard.

THE HE news of the day is not one of the recognized departments of " Putnam's Monthly," but there is one local fact so striking so patent, in the face and under the eyes of the people, that we step aside to make it History.

So some fat band-leader, hidden by his trombone-oblivious as to his bootsreckless as to his path-purple as to his face, and puffed out as to his cheeks to such extent that his beard looks straggling; will sometimes intermit his professional labors, to give-perhaps a glance at his following-perhaps a moment to his handkerchief-perhaps a turn to his perched-up music-book-perhaps an unexpected attention to some too prominent vocal and personal imitator among the urchins, and then fall back to his spasmodic sound-volcano, as if his tortured lips had never before quitted the sonorous metal since they were transferred from the maternal bosom.

Be it known then, that this instant month of March, 1854,-the time of gestation of the current number of "Putnam's Monthly;" to wit, Number XVI.-is to be known for all time, and noted by all future Valentines, as the month of incipient mustachios! One half the men you meet in New-York to-day (be it kalends, nones, or ides of March), shave not their lips. The hirsute growth of one half of these is not yet long enough to begin to turn down, or is down, downy, and not begun to turn to any thing else. Of this half, one half left off shaving this week, half of whom stopped day before yesterday! (Let the wise and statistical air of this statement make up for its concealed looseness and unimportance; it will not be the first trial of such an expedient.) So one sixty-fourth of the face of nature (human nature, of course, in cities) is in a mere cloudy state; or in other words, the reform is in nubibus. One thirty-second part bears hairs that look as if they had come out wrong end first, or were in a surprised state at not finding themselves nipped in the bud. One sixteenth is in stubble of all sorts and shades, and one eighth, in all, is now unchecked in its persistent efforts to produce the crop that needs no planting. As is clear to

every deep thinker and political economist. (and to whom else need we try to speak?) this leaves one half to be counted as minors, and one quarter as adult females. among whom the beard is of no account. Not that they oppose by indifference, the great movement. No, bless them! They are right now, as always. To be sure, as a class, they say "horrid," but it is with an air that rather helps than hinders its progress; an air that says, "we set our faces against it," and so suggests charming pictures. They like beards, but each very much prefers to have some one to carry hers for her. The Morag is a tax she likes not to have imposed on herself, though hirsute she likes to see her suitor.

The rubicund is past (as Brown said when he handed the claret to Jones), and the manly is attained. The crisis has arrived the climax of the shaving edifice has been reached; let us hope no annihilator may be nigh when it is set fire to. Its fall is begun. The "Emollient," the "Military," the "Cream" and the divers other shaving-soap factories may cease to offend olfactories-may boil their last boiling-ley their last ashes-in sackcloth, if they like. There shall be no more lather. The nose of the razor-strop man is out of joint, and he had better raise a moustache, himself, to hide it. Razor factories need no longer raise their hideous heads, for we no longer raze ours. The barbers' poles shall be hereafter seen only in collections of antique curiosities. The barbarous walls of Jericho are trembling, and we have tarried there long enough. We are coming out. Every day of this blessed month has seen a delivery. It is as if thirty-one gates had been opened and from each of them Nature has received a cloud of returning children; the new roughness of their lips gratifying her, as they each kissed her fair hands in repentant submission, with a titillation that has brought tears from her eyes and great sighs from her, bosom unceasingly. Vide the weather-gauge.

The modest and conservative person now addressing the public held out with an obstinacy of opposition that seems incredible when looked back upon. Ever

since he first scraped an acquaintance with his chin, had he. each morning, thwarted the purposed kindness of Nature, and each night had she come again with her gentle, timid offering-it often reviled and cursed, but she never disheartened. How I thank thee, kind mother, that on no morning of those weeks, and months, and years, didst thou turn away, saying "Go to, scoffer! I come nigh thee and thy fellows no more!" Think of the loud consternation, if thou, repulsed and insulted, hadst turned away thy face from us; thyself from our faces! But no, indeed, that is not like thee! Thine erring and rebellious child laid down his arms-his sharp blade and his leatherand instantly it was to him almost as if he had never taken them up. A tear trickles down and mingles with thy gift as he thinks of these things-a simple tribute to its generous and unmerited luxuriance.

Mystax, as has been hinted, is a Greek word. Thence, by most obvious gradations, have we my-tax (semper-matutinally submitted to) and meat-axe; an allusion to the sharpened, gaunt, and polished appearance of my jaws after the amercement. Some go still farther, and trace it to the moustache, and the mystery it is that we have enslaved ourselves so long; but I am not one of those who profit in distant philological analogies. "Let not the corners of your whiskers be marred, When it's so much handsomer and healthier and easier and cheaper and better every way to go bearded like the pard."

These two lines of poetry, drawn (by an imminent modern poet) with much research, the first line from the Bible and the last from Shakespeare, show the whole case in a few words and a clear light. Not to speak of the two influential authorities adduced, what can more clearly express the (growing) necessity of having some insuperable distinction between the sexes? And look at its allusion to the influence on children! How necessary to them to have some emblem of the strength of "par" as contra-distinguished from the gentle smoothness of "mar"!

How art thou fallen, oh thou razor; now raise thyself if thou canst! Little didst thou think when last I shut, with its usual and peculiar "phlemp" thy leathern case; that the rattle thou gavest was against the sides of thy coffin-that thou quittedst my æsophagus for thy sarcophagus! So when some poor, crest-fallen cur, a mongrel rough and valueless, comes trotting soft behind his lord, obedient, and suspecting nought till on the bridge, the which they've passed a hundred times on other days, the keystone VOL. III.-27

reached, amazed he sees his master stop, and crouching low lay hands on him, with what intent he can but dream. With upturned eyes and piteous cries he feels the rope his neck about. Then if his master softens down, so is our simile carried out. Yes, razor; from destruction I spared thee, for the sake of the affection with which in my boyhood I regarded thee; but never shalt thou be unsepulchred, but for low and menial services; to cut another growth than that thou hast heretofore reaped, and not, like that, one that is spontaneous and thrives without cultivation. It is, however, a meek plant, that loves to be oppressed, and that is fostered by abuse. It is the corn! With this must thou be contented, for even this is only a temporary salvation from utter oblivion. When nature ceases to be maltreated even in her care of our foundations, then thou shalt indeed be laid up. But good sense descends to us, so I am afraid that about our feet thou hast a long office to perform before it gets down there. After that, shalt thou be even as an unmatched scissor, or an old bachelor-thy fang removed (across the poker) and thy cold brightness dimmed with the rust of neglect. Perhaps my great-grandchildren may sometimes climb prattling upon my knees, touching with reverent hands my mouth's bleached curtain, and say, "show us the razor, Grandpa, and tell us all about it." Then will it be held up to fresh marvel that these things should have been. And at some of those times thou wilt be forgotten to be put back, and wilt go unheeded to that bourne, "lost," which is the ultimate destination of all manufactured things-an insatiable grave-a bottomless pit, from which nothing ever comes out, and where so few things ever are heard of.

"Some traveller there may find thy bones,
Whitening amid disjointed stones;
And, ignorant of man's cruelty,
Marvel such relics there should be."

But enough. It is history. Monthly, return to thy trombone. Blow thine own trumpet-my pipes are broken.

It has been reserved for this great nation to complete the beard reform, and restore man to his primitive manliness. The clergy are at last aroused to the importance of the great movement of the age, and are about to beard the lion in the

pulpit. We had the pleasure of meeting the Rev. Orson Truman in the street, when that zealous gentleman put his hands to his face to hide his bald and emasculate-looking jowls. He informed

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