'TWAS very sweet of a summer's eve,
To hear her talk and sing
Of stars, and dews, and rocks, and caves,
And all that sort of thing.
I loved her for her mild blue eye,
And her sweet and quiet air;
But I'm very sure that I didn't see
The novel on the chair.
I longed to have a quiet wife,
For a noise quite drives me frantic;
But to be a novel-reader's spouse
Is any thing but romantic.
The live-long day does LAURA read
In a cushioned easy-chair,
In slipshod shoes, and a dirty gown,
And tangled, uncombed hair.
The children look like beggars' brats,
And little have they of breeding;
Yet this is but one of the many ills
That flow from novel-reading.
For oh! the meals! I'm very sure
You ne'er did see such 'feeding;'
For the beef is burnt and the veal is raw,
And all from novel-reading.
The bed-room's very like a sty,
And the kitchen seems a stable;
The lap-dogs litter the parlor o'er,
And the nursery is a Babel.
Ho! youth in search of a quiet wife,
Before to the shrine you lead her,
Take care, I pray you, take good care
That she isn't a novel-reader!
WE had lately missed our friend Mr. L. P. CLOVER, from his
establishment under the Astor-House, in Vesey-street, and were
ignorant of his whereabout; until happening one day to pass Dr.
LYELL'S church in Anthony-street, near Broadway, we observed,
near the door of a building adjoining that edifice, a couple of
large paintings, representing the Falls of Niagara. Entering to
inquire the name of the artist, we opened upon Mr. CLOVER, which
'fully accounted' for the presence at his door of works of art;
for although his establishment is better known for its excellent
looking-glasses and picture-frames, for the sale of which, on
reasonable terms, it has become so popular, yet we have been often
indebted to the proprietor's taste and enterprise for the enjoyment
of some of the best paintings to be met at any similar place in
the metropolis. To test the justice of our commendations, let our
town readers drop in at Number eighty-three Anthony-street, and
examine VANDERLYN'S Views of the Great Cataract, and several of
WARD'S fine landscapes. * * * WE hear of various changes and some
deaths among our contemporaries. Our friend 'SARGENT'S Magazine' has
been swallowed up in 'GRAHAM'S;' two or three 'lady-periodicals,'
as they are termed, have been similarly wedded; the 'Southern
Literary Messenger,' since the death of its amiable and persevering
proprietor, has been advertised for sale at public auction; the
Charleston 'Magnolia' is we hear to be discontinued: Mr. SIMMS
recently transferred its editorial functions. The 'Orion,' we
are informed, will commence its third volume in September, with
increased attractions, literary and pictorial. How many Magazines
have arisen, struggled, and fallen, within the last ten years, that
were going to throw the 'Old KNICK.' into the back-ground, and
darken his out-goings! We could at this moment count up a score of
such upon our fingers; and yet MAGA 'flourishes in immortal youth!'
'Be virtuous, and you will be happy;' 'Rome was not built in a day;'
and so forth. * * * 'REMEMBER that thou keep holy the Sabbath-Day,'
is a lesson beautifully enforced in the following lines by Sir
MATTHEW HALE. We give them in place of our Baltimore correspondent's
remarks upon '_Sunday in the Country_,' in our last number:
'A SABBATH well spent
Brings a week of content,
And health for the toils of to-morrow;
But a Sabbath profaned,
Whatsoe'er may be gained,
Is a certain forerunner of sorrow.'
THE article upon '_President Tyler and his Family_' in our last
number seems, according to the newspapers, to have given offence
to a portion of the public. The sketch was from the pen of an old
correspondent of the KNICKERBOCKER, who had never failed to please
its readers; his articles having always been widely copied and
warmly commended. Assured that it had no political bearing, and that
it could in nowise trench upon our neutrality, we gave the paper
a place; not without the thought also that the recent tour of the
President and a portion of his family in this section of the Union
would give it additional interest to our readers in the Northern
States. The reception of the article, however, has satisfied us
that while politics run high, it is not expedient for a neutral
work like the KNICKERBOCKER to intermeddle either with public
_men_ or public _measures_. We shall therefore eschew all kindred
themes hereafter. * * * WE are indebted to a kind friend for the
following 'incident of travel.' We have heard before of the couplet
which he transcribes, but never of a _serious_ application of the
lines. We did not however need the assurance of our correspondent
that he 'actually saw them, as stated:' 'During a recent journey
through New-Hampshire, with a small party of choice friends, we
stopped to refresh ourselves at a little inn in a village that shall
be nameless, although it has a name _at home_. The parlor into
which we were ushered was ornamented, as is usual in New-England
villages, with two or three rude pictures; and among the rest,
the indispensable family mourning-piece. This latter is always
irresistibly attractive to me. Poorly as it is executed, it is the
work of love. It speaks of the natural and holy desire to remember
the dead, to hold their images and their memorials near; to bind
the members of the little family, in whatever worlds, together
into one. It is one of the many symbols in which the affectionate
heart imbodies its instinctive prophecy of the indissolubleness of
the holy and beautiful alliances of friendship and home. It seems
to say: 'We have not yet done loving the dead. Our sympathies
and attachments are too strong to be so soon dissolved. Virtuous
friendship must endure for ever, or love is a cheat. Our holy
associations _must_ abide, or we have no confidence in any thing
eternal.' The picture was the work of the needle, representing with
wonderful _originality_ of conception, a weeping willow bending over
a small obelisk, upon which was recorded the name of an infant, aged
seven weeks. Beneath the name were the following lines; the perusal
of which, I need not say, produced a most sensible effect upon the
feelings of all the travellers, and left an impression never to be
effaced:
'Since that I so soon was done for,
I wonder what I was begun for.'
The brevity of human life is a mystery, which has often perplexed
the wisest heads. But the difficult question is here propounded
'with a _vengeance_,' considering the quarter from which it is
represented to have come, that is perfectly overpowering.' * * *
WHAT an admirable reproof of selfishness is conveyed in these few
words of BACON: 'Divide with reason between self-love and society,
and be so true to thyself that thou be not false to others. It is a
poor centre of a man's actions, himself. It is right earth; for that
only stands fast upon its own centre, whereas all things that have
affinity with the heavens move upon the centre of another, which
they benefit.' * * * WE like _parts_ of '_The Summer-Storm_' very
well; but as a whole, it lacks clearness, and in one or two places
the language is tame; mere prose, indeed, and not over-felicitously
divided. We can well _imagine_ the appearance of such a storm,
however, in the highlands of Rockland county. THOMSON has a spirited
picture of a similar scene:
'AT first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven,
The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes,
And rolls its awful burthen on the wind,
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more
The noise astounds: till over head a sheet
Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts
And opens wider; shuts and opens still
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze!'
FOR one only reason, we decline the 'thrilling story' of 'M. D.' of
Hudson. We do not affect a _fight_ in a tale. Indeed, we crossed
out a great battle of fists recently in one of the best articles
that has appeared in the KNICKERBOCKER for several months. SIDNEY
SMITH'S advice on this point is most judicious: 'Nobody should
suffer his hero to have a black eye, or to be pulled by the nose.
The Iliad would never have come down to these times, if AGAMEMNON
had given ACHILLES a box on the ear. We should have trembled for
the Æniad if any Tyrian nobleman had kicked the pious ÆNEAS in the
fourth book. ÆNEAS may have deserved it, but he never could have
founded the Roman empire after so distressing an accident.' * * *
NOW in this fervid summer solstice, forget not, O ye sedentary!
that most important requirement of the body, frequent ablution.
_Bathe! bathe!_ A recipient ourselves of 'the early and latter
rain' of Dr. RABINEAU'S shower-bath, and eke the benefits of his
unrivalled swimming-bath, we speak by the card, and as one having
authority. Of Mr. H. RABINEAU'S _warm_ salt water baths, at the foot
of Desbrosses-street, on the North River, we hear also the warmest
praises, from the lips of invalids and others. * * * IF we were to
write a page of fine print in reply to one point of 'S.'s remarks
upon '_Street Alms-Giving_,' it could not so well express what _he_
at least will understand, as the annexed brief sentence: 'That
charity which Plenty gives to Poverty is human and earthly; but it
becomes divine and heavenly, when Poverty gives to Want.' * * * WE
submit it to the reader whether our correspondent is not excusable
for the tardy fulfilment of a promise in which they were interested:
'I'VE had the tooth-ache, DIEDRICH, and have taken
All sorts of extracts, essences, and lotions;
Have held on blisters, till my jaws were baking,
Of mustard, vinegar, and other notions;
And for about a week, at midnight waking,
Have drank raw fourth-proof brandy, in such portions,
(Mixed with quinines, valerians, and morphines,)
'Twould put a dozen stout men in their coffins.'
'M.'s curt notelet is impertinent and ungentleman-like. His article
was a mere _ébauche_, and very indifferent at that. The _nuclei_
of his associations were objects of the very smallest kind, and
the language was kept down to a sympathetic degradation and due
correspondence with the thoughts. The article was 'respectfully
declined,' and in the manner prescribed by its author; and for this
we are berated in no measured terms. 'Go to; you are a fishmonger.'
* * * THE '_Lines to Old Ocean_' possess a kind of latent
rough-and-tumble sublimity, not unlike a good borrowed thought
smothered in windy words by JOHN NEAL. But we like DICKENS'S prose
picture of 'the main' much better: 'The sea never knows what to do
with itself. It hasn't got no employment for its mind, and is always
in a state of vacancy. Like them polar bears in the wild-beast
shows, as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to side,
it never _can_ be quiet.' This is at least '_clear_ to the meanest
capacity.' * * * IT is said of RICHTER, that his foremost thought
about a wife was, that she should be able to 'cook him something
good.' Our Port-Chester epigrammatist seems to have a taste for the
fragile in his estimate of the sex:
'LOVELY woman's a flower, so when you address her,
If you wish to retain, I advise you to press her.'
The others 'will do.' They bide their time; as also the 'Night
on Lake Erie.' * * * THE recent death of WASHINGTON ALLSTON, the
painter, the poet, in all respects the man of genius, has left a
void which will not soon be filled; and _one_ there is, in a foreign
land, who will feel this sad event in his very heart of hearts.
WASHINGTON IRVING and WASHINGTON ALLSTON were for many years friends
of as confiding a faith and firm an attachment as DAMON and PYTHIAS.
They rose to fame abroad together; were constant mutual advisers
in literature and art; and at one time, when they were residing
temporarily in Rome, we came near losing our renowned author,
through the love he bore his friend, and a desire to unite with
him in the common pursuit of his delightful art. We shall hope to
obtain for these pages a tribute from the pen of Mr. IRVING to the
memory of his illustrious friend. * * * HERE is a fact related by an
eastern correspondent, that raises HANDY ANDY'S character for truth
and veracity greatly in our estimation. It matches the best blunder
recorded by that amusing narrator: 'Not many days since, a little
child, two years old, the son of a poor Irish widow, lay in the
middle of a new road, kicking up a dust, and roasting in the sun.
Presently came along an Irish teamster, who in the most deliberate
and careless manner walked his team over the little fellow, and
crushed him to death. Some dozen or twenty Irish shanties were in
full view of the catastrophe; and as might be expected, there was a
rush and an ullulloo from a hundred women at once. While some took
up the dead body, others shouted after the teamster, who, apparently
unconcerned, was making slowly off. They forced him back to the
scene of the catastrophe, where they did not hesitate to accuse him
of having caused it purposely. Pat of course denied it strenuously,
declaring that he did not see the child, and was therefore wholly
blameless. But with a hundred fierce eyes glaring upon him at once,
and fifty tongues hissing in his ear, he became confused, began
to waver, and finally gave up the point entirely, probably as a
peace-offering to his tormentors: 'Thrue, thrue, Mistress CONOLLY,'
said he to one of them, while he scratched his head sorrowfully,
'I _did_ see the boy lying there, 'pon me word; _but I thought he
was asleep!_' This, Mr. C., is a positive fact.' * * * DID you ever
peruse these '_Lines written upon a Watch?_' We derive them from a
favorite contributor, who informs us that his honored father, in
winding up his watch, used often to repeat them:
'COULD but our tempers move like this machine,
Not urged by passion, nor delayed by spleen,
But true to Nature's regulative power,
By virtuous acts distinguished every hour;
Then Health and Joy would follow, as they ought,
The laws of motion and the laws of thought:
Sweet Health, to pass the present moments o'er,
And endless Joy, when Time shall be no more!'
'ONE more last word' to '_Mein Herr of Albany_,' to whom we alluded
in our last number. We admit the justice of your satire; but with
deference, it strikes us that it does not require a cimeter to cut
down a gnat. HOOD somewhere mentions an Irishman who apologized
to the keeper of a menagerie for insulting his elephant by a rude
assault upon his most prominent feature. He couldn't resist, he
said, the only chance he had ever had to pull a nose that he could
take hold of with both hands! Our correspondent has a kindred
excuse, certainly, in _one_ sense, but not in another. 'Fleas are
not lobsters,' nor are asses elephants. * * * A VERY charming story,
friend 'G.' of Illinois; simple, well-told, and _not too long_--the
bane of kindred performances. Love-stories should _end_ once in a
while, by way of novelty. How many novelists have elaborated chapter
after chapter, to depict the true-hearted constancy which is better
described in these four lines:
'I LO'E nae a laddie but ane,
He lo'es nae a lassie but me;
He's willing to make me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.'
'T.'S manuscript is _wretched_. The words are strung together like
a bunch of onions. Some of the conglomerated syllables reminded us
of a sign in London, mentioned by HOOK, whereby a plain manufacturer
of Roman cement was turned into a manufacturer of _Romancement_; as
if he were anxious to solicit business from the prolific fashionable
novelists of the time. * * * WE do _not_ accept '_The Signs of the
Times_.' The writer looks through a pair of very dark spectacles,
we should say. Going upon the assumption that every man is a rascal
until he _proves_ himself an honest man, would be a course as unjust
to a community as to an individual. Our correspondent seems to think
that 'the world is in a state of bankruptcy; that it owes the world
more than the world can pay, and ought to go into chancery and
be sold!' The best-laid plans of _honest_ men, our censor should
remember, often fail. The race is not always to the swift nor the
battle to the strong, as many a delving, toiling 'two-footed worker'
can bear witness:
'DAME FORTUNE is a fickle gipsy,
And always blind, and often tipsy;
Sometimes for years and years together
She'll bless you with the sunniest weather,
Bestowing honor, pudding, pence,
You can't imagine why, or whence;
Then in a moment. Presto, pass!
Your hopes are withered like the grass.'
WE have received a very indignant epistle from '_The Mail-Robber_,'
who read our last number at Saratoga, where he is temporarily
sojourning. We shall present it to our readers, with another
poetical epistle, in our September issue. 'Mohawk, a Cluster of
Sonnets,' by our friend H. W. ROCKWELL, Esq.; 'Green places of
the City,' by Mrs. HEWITT; and 'Thoughts at Niagara,' are in type
for our next. A word here to a few correspondents whose articles
were not named in the large list enumerated in our last, or who
have not been privately advised of the reception and disposition
of their papers: Where is our venerable friend to whom we have
been indebted for '_The Young Englishman?_' We look for him in
our next. The 'Treatise of Books' by 'R.' struck us as rather
stiltish and labored in its style, although its _thoughts_ were
unexceptionable. It was declined, however, because our port-folios
contained three or four papers on the same theme, for whose
insertion at some future day we have been looking for several
months. The 'Treatise' awaits 'R's order at the publication-office.
'H. W. R.'s indignation at the silly charge of plagiarism of '_The
Southern Pinewoods_' by BRYANT--whose lines on '_The Prairies_,'
written for the KNICKERBOCKER, furnished every thought and simile
for the imitation--would be thrown away upon a 'weak invention.'
The whole affair is a stupid joke, not worth a resurrection.
'Chronicles of the Past,' by an esteemed friend and contributor,
is filed for insertion. 'Peter Brown and Dolly Cross,' a Legendary
Ballad, and 'Night and Morning,' by 'W. H. H.,' bide their time.
They are 'booked.' 'T.'s 'Lines on the Death of a Young Girl'
are under 'hopeful' advisement. We shall be glad to receive the
'Inquiry concerning the Manifestation of Mind by the Lower Orders of
Animals.' The theme is a fruitful one. Notices in type, of several
new publications, are _unavoidably_ omitted.