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effects are produced upon the style by too Demosthenes, in this connection, deserves great concession on the part of the orator; the highest praise with the least blame; if
, ignoring his idea and his own person for surely never an orator united with ality, he busies himself only with his such a dignified assertion of his own hearer's relations and preferences, in order personality, such a luminous developto say something which will be appropriate ment of his idea, and such a comprehensive and of good tendency; this is a low ambi view of the existing relations. And it is tion which seeks perishable praise and not from this sustained combination of these the true and imperishable glory of en three elements that his powerful and pronobling the nature of men; an orator who foundly attractive simplicity arose; which is chiefly led by such an impulse will would have disappeared the moment a often melt his hearers into weak senti
separation of the lyric and philosophic ment, but will never kindle them into a parts from the matters of fact had taken true moral passion, for the glance of ideal place in his discourse. On the other truth by which alone this sentiment is to hand, Cicero is far less deserving of the be reached, never breaks through the in rank of a model of appropriateness; not closures with which he surrounds it. Thus as though he elevated himself above the three wrong courses are indicated; that comprehension of his hearers or uttered is, either becoming engrossed with one's any thing unsuitable and violent; but self, or with the idea, or with the relations because with him, now his personality, of the hearer exclusively; whenever a now the truth, and now the circumstances discourse claiming to be rhetorical inclines become too prominent, and the element at decidedly in one of these three directions, any time preponderating invariably throws it is inappropriate and powerless. In the others into the shade. By this very order therefore to speak with entire pro failing he is found to possess a more priety, the orator should so comprehend, showy coloring than Demosthenes, and combine, and mediate among the three can be understood, in the general, with diverse claims which his own personality, far less effort and pains to penetrate the the idea, and the relation of his hearers relations of his times. make upon him, that each one of these Without in the least intending to comdemands would be satisfied without loss pare Massillon with Demosthenes, or Bosto either of the others; and this is con suet with Cicero, they have these points clusively nothing else than what is indis of similarity: Massilon, like the Greek pensable to a really virtuous transaction, orator, without giving up himself or his in which a clear, continuons sense of our idea, placed before his eyes in the fullest own personality, of the principle according manner the life of his hearers; on the to which, and the relations in which, we contrary, Bossuet, and indeed (as I susact, is absolutely requisite. The solution pect) on account of an inferior purity of of this problem requires really great energy character, almost entirely overlooked this of character in rhetorical as well as in last consideration. Hence men were carmoral acts; and how justly they may be ried away by Massilon and forgot to adconsidered as of the same nature, appears mire him, the best praise an orator can in the fact that both the discourses, which receive; on the contrary, Bossuet in his are excellent in this respect, as also truly sublimest flights can only excite a cold virtuous actions, are distinguished by no admiration, or at most a ferment of the outward glare and brilliancy; for here, imaginative powers, entirely useless for where three different elements are blended, moral ends. If, moreover, the French their colors melt into each other; on the themselves almost universally prefer Boscontrary, those faulty discourses, for the suet to Massilon, this only shows, what very reason that one of these elements ap appears from many other decisions of their pears prominent above the rest, let them critics, how little they understand and but be composed with a little talent, may appreciate what of real excellence they very readily possess a certain brilliancy, have among them. an object of admiration with the unintelligent, but which warms neither him nor any one besides.
OUR EXODUS FROM JERICHO.
A RAZORIAL RHAPSODY.
recognized departments of “Putnam's (and to whom else need we try to speak ?) Monthly,” but there is one local fact so this leaves one half to be counted as striking—so patent, in the face and under minors, and one quarter as adult females, the eyes of the people, that we step aside among whom the beard is of no account. to make it History
Not that they oppose by indifference, the So some fat band-leader, hidden by his great movement. No, bless them! They trombone - oblivious as to his boots - are right now, as always. To be sure, as reckless as to his path-purple as to his a class, they say “horrid,” but it is with face, and puffed out as to his cheeks to an air that rather helps than hinders its such extent that his beard looks strag progress; an air that says, we set our gling; will sometimes intermit his profes faces against it," and so suggests charmsional labors, to give-perhaps a glance ing pictures. They like beards, but each at his following-perhaps a moment to very much prefers to have some one to his handkerchief-perhaps a turn to his carry hers for her. The MúotaĚ is a tax perched-up music-book-perhaps an un she likes not to have imposed on herself, expected attention to some too prominent though hirsute she likes to see her suitor. vocal and personal imitator among the The rubicund is past (as Brown said urchins, and then fall back to his spas when he handed the claret to Jones), and modic sound-volcano, as if his tortured the manly is attained. The crisis has arlips had never before quitted the sonorous rived—the climax of the shaving edifice metal since they were transferred from has been reached ; let us hope no annihilathe maternal bosom.
tor may be nigh when it is set fire to. Be it known then, that this instant Its fall is begun. The “Emollient,” the month of March, 1854,—the time of ges Military,” the “Cream” and the divers tation of the current number of "Putnam's other shaving-soap factories may cease to Monthly;" to wit, Number XVI.-—is to offend olfactories—may boil their last boilbe known for all time, and noted by all ing—ley their last ashes—in sackcloth, future Valentines, as the month of incipient if they like.
There shall be no more mustachios! One half the men you meet lather. The nose of the razor-strop in New-York to-day (be it kalends, nones, man is out of joint, and he had better raise or ides of March), shave not their lips. a moustache, himself, to hide it. Razor The hirsute growth of one half of these is factories need no longer raise their hideous not yet long enough to begin to turn down, heads, for we no longer raze ours. The or is down, downy, and not begun to turn barbers' poles shall be hereafter seen to any thing else. Of this half, one half left only in collections of antique curiosities. off shaving this week, half of whom stop
The barbarous walls of Jericho are tremped day before yesterday! (Let the wise bling, and we have tarried there long and statistical air of this statement make up enough. We are coming out. Every day for its concealed looseness and unimpor
of this blessed month has seen a delivery. tance; it will not be the first trial of such It is as if thirty-one gates had been opened an expedient.) So one sixty-fourth of the and from each of them Nature has reface of nature (human nature, of course,
ceived a cloud of returning children; the in cities) is in a mere cloudy state; or in new roughness of their lips gratifying her, other words, the reform is in nubibus. as they each kissed her fair hands in re. One thirty-second part bears hairs that pentant submission, with a titillation that look as if they had come out wrong end has brought tears from her eyes and great first, or were in a surprised state at not find sighs from her bosom unceasingly. Vide ing themselves nipped in the bud. One six the weather-gauge. teenth is in stubble of all sorts and shades,
The modest and conservative person and one eighth, in all, is now unchecked in now addressing the public held out with its persistent efforts to produce the crop an obstinacy of opposition that seems inthat needs no planting. As is clear to credible when looked back upon. Ever
since he first scraped an acquaintance with reached, amazed he sees his master stop, his chin, had he, each morning, thwarted and crouching low lay hands on him. with the purposed kindness of Nature, and each what intent he can but dream. With night had she come again with her gentle, upturned eyes and piteous cries he feels timid offering—it often reviled and cursed, the rope his neck about. Then if his but she never disheartened. How I thank master softens down, so is our simile carthee, kind mother, that on no morning of ried out. Yes, razor; from destruction I those weeks, and months, and years, didst spared thee, for the sake of the affection thou turn away, saying “ Go to, scoffer ! with which in my boyhood I regarded thee; I come nigh thee and thy fellows no more !" but never shalt thou be upsepulchred, but Think of the loud consternation, if thou, for low and menial services; to cut another repulsed and insulted, hadst turned away growth than that thou hast heretofore thy face from us; thyself from our faces ! reaped, and not, like that, one that is sponBut no, indeed, that is not like thee! Thine taneous and thrives without cultivation. It erring and rebellious child laid down his is, however, a week plant, that loves to be arms—his sharp blade and his leather oppressed, and that is fostered by abuse. and instantly it was to him almost as if It is the corn! With this must thou be he had never taken them up. A tear contented, for even this is only a tempotrickles down and mingles with thy gift as rary salvation from utter oblivion. When he thinks of these things—a simple tribute nature ceases to be maltreated even in her to its generous and unmerited luxuriance. care of our foundations, then thou shalt
Mystax, as has been hinted, is a Greek indeed be laid up. But good sense deword. Thence, by most obvious grada scends to us, so I am afraid that about our tions, have we my-tax (semper-matutin feet thou hast a long office to perform beally submitted to) and meat-axe; an fore it gets down there. After that, shalt allusion to the sharpened, gaunt, and thou be even as an unmatched scissor, or polished appearance of my jaws after the an old bachelor — thy fang removed amercement. Some go still farther, and (across the poker) and thy cold brighttrace it to the moustache, and the mystery ness dimmed with the rust of neglect. it is that we have enslaved ourselves so Perhaps my great-grandchildren may long; but I am not one of those who pro sometimes climb prattling upon my knees, fit in distant philological analogies. touching with reverent hands my mouth's "Let not the corners of your whiskers be marred,
bleached curtain, and say, "show us the When it's so much handsomer and healthier and razor, Grandpa, and tell us all about it.”
easier and cheaper and better every way to go Then will it be held up to fresh marvel bearded like the pard."
that these things should have been. And These two lines of poetry, drawn (by at some of those times thou wilt be foran imminent modern poet) with much gotten to be put back, and wilt go unresearch, the first line from the Bible and heeded to that bourne, “lost,” which is the the last from Shakespeare, show the whole ultimate destination of all manufactured case in a few words and a clear light. things—an insatiable grave—a bottomless Not to speak of the two influential au pit, from which nothing ever comes out, thorities adduced, what can more clearly and where so few things ever are heard express the (growing) necessity of having of. some insuperable distinction between the sexes? And look at its allusion to the
“Some traveller there may find thy bones, influence on children! How necessary to
Whitening amid disjointed stones;
And, ignorant of man's cruelty, them to have some emblem of the strength
Maryel such relics there should be." of “par” as contra-distinguished from the gentle smoothness of "mar"!
But enough. It is history. Monthly, How art thou fallen, oh thou razor; return to thy trombone. Blow thine now raise thyself if thou canst! Little own trumpet-my pipes are broken. didst thou think when last I shut, with It has been reserved for this great nation its usual and peculiar "phlemp" thy to complete the beard reform, and restore leathern case; that the rattle thou gavest man to his primitive manliness. The was against the sides of thy coffin—that clergy are at last aroused to the importhou quittedst my æsophagus for thy sar tance of the great movement of the age, cophagus! So when some poor, crest-fall and are about to beard the lion in the en cur, a mongrel rough and valueless, pulpit. We had the pleasure of meeting comes trotting soft behind his lord, obe the Rev. Orson Truman in the street, dient, and suspecting nought till on the when that zealous gentleman put his bridge, the which they've passed a hun hands to his face to hide his bald and dred times on other days, the keystone emasculate-looking jowls. He informed
us that he had set the day for burying picturesque vagabonds had got the start the razor,
aster which he should allow his of the clergy in commencing the great rebeard to grow as God intended, feeling form, in going back to Nature, and throwashamed to acknowledge that the loose ing off the effeminate habits of a corrupt, fish of society, the artists, authors, pick and luxurious century. The beard movepockets, musicians, reporters. editors, ment may be looked upon as fairly inaugold-miners, Hungarian patriots, and other gurated.
WITHOUT AND WITHIN.
Looks through the side-light of the door;
As I could do, but only more.
Flattening his nose against the pane
He envies me my brilliant lot,
And wishes me a place more hot.
He sees me to the supper go,
A silken wonder by my side,
Of flounces, for the door too wide.
He thinks. how happy is my arm
'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load, And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.
Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
In golden quiets of the moon.
The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smiles he sees me win,
As our poor gabble-watery—thin.
I envy him the ungyved prance
By which his freezing feet he warms,
The galley slave of dreary forms.
0! could he have my share of din
And I his quiet - past a doubt
And just another bored without.
A CHAT ABOUT PLANTS.
LONG years ago I was in the Holy Land,
I near Jerusalem, and as the sun sank towards the blue waters of the Mediterranean, I found myself once more sitting on the banks of the Jordan. The air was perfectly calm ; the tolling of a convent bell came faintly over the plain from Bethlehem, and mingled its well-beat cadences with the gentle, playful murmuring of the sacred stream at my feet. By my side sat an Arab, tranquilly following with his eye the light clouds of his pipe, as they gracefully rose up in the clear, blue ether, but apparently buried in deep thought. Abu Abdallah was his name; so I said, “ Abu Abdallah, do you believe in God ?" “ Thou sayest it, oh brother!” was his quiet answer. “But Abu Abdallah, I fear you do not believe that your soul is immortal ;" for the old Arab, though my friend for the while, was a sad thief, and when he swiftly rode through the desert, there were voices heard, it was said, mournful voices of men, who called for the sweet life he had taken from them. He gazed at me for an instant from the depth of that unfathomable eye, the precious heirloom of a son of the Orient, but vouchsafed not a word. I was struck by his silence, and asked again. “Oh brother, oh brother, thou wrongest me!” he said, and quietly rising, he seized upon a little shapeless mass, that lay half hid in the fragrant herbs at our feet, and gently pushing it into the purling stream, he added: “Has not the God of our fathers, whose prophet is Mahomet, given us the Rose of Jericho? And does not my brother, who reads the books of the wise men of the Franks, know that the burning sands of the desert are its home, and that it delights in the fiery winds of the west, which scatter the caravan, and strew the sands of the Sahara with the bones of the traveller ? There it grows, and blossoms, and our children love it. But the season comes again, and it withers and dies. And the dread simoom rises, and seizes the dry, shrivelled roots, that my brother beholds there, and on the wings of the tempest the Rose of Jericho rides far far east, until it falls upon holy soil. Now let my brother wait and he shall see !"
And we did wait, waited until the shadows grew long, and dreamy dusk covered mountain and plain. And the little shapeless mass became a miracle indeed, and right before our eyes! The roots had expanded, the leaves had un
folded, life and breath had returned to the dead child of the Sahara, and the very blossoms began to show, and to rival the faint rosy tints of the evening sun!
I never forgot that lesson of immortality - I never forgot that Rose of Jericho. On my return to Europe I learned that botanists called it “ Anastatica,” the flower of resurrection. I wished to know more about it, and that was the way I first learned something about plants.
I found botany very little attractivevery little deserving of its ancient name of the “lovely science.” I found that botanists woul go out into the fields, their text-books in their pockets, and gather the tender children of Flora into huge masses, then dry them and classify them, describe their head-dress and uniform, their rank and dignity, and finally deposit them in magnificent herbariums.
There they were, well dried and well pasted, clad, to be sure, in all the pomp and circumstance of high-sounding names—so much Latin hay. But where was their color and graceful shape ? where the breath of air that made them gently wave to and fro ? where the sweet perfumes they gratefully sent up to their Maker ? where the bright water at their side, in which they reflected their lovely form ? where the whole glorious scene for which they were intended by Nature, and to which they lent, in return, life and beauty ?
Thus it was that botanists of old collected the material only—not without bestowing unceasing industry upon it, not without making unheard of sacrifices, often of the very lives of devoted laborers in that field of science--but they were content with a form only and a name. They were like the French officer, who in one, I forget which, of the French revolutions, came to Rome and there had the good fortune to discover a precious inscription on a monument, dating far back into antiquity. Proudly, and carefully, he detached one bronze letter after another, then slipped them into a bag, and sent them to the antiquarians of Paris to be deciphered.
But there have arisen, within the last thirty years especially, men who have studied plants with the view, not only to know who they were, but rather what they were, how they lived and how they died, what their relation was to the world, and what their purpose in the great household of Nature. Kindred sciences have lent their aid ; the miscroscope has laid