Part 13

'The strawberries (an old writer has remarked that doubtless GOD _might_ have made a better berry, but he never _did_) are as deliriously ripe as if they had been smiled on by Venus, and dear goddess! she had imbued them with the sweetness of her own lips: '_Quinta parte sui nectaris imbuit._' They are charming! To see them piled up in little heaps, like the fruits of an early harvest, not to be stored away for a winter of discontent, but to cheer the immediate moment, to be refreshed every now and then by the anticipation of their sweet breath as it comes up, not obtrusively, gushing into your face, and causing you to throw back your head with a smile, as if all the senses were lulled into a dear security! To see them lying in so many wanton attitudes, as rubicund as if they were intoxicated with sun-beams, in all their variety of shapes; some preciously diminutive, others of an incredible, jovial plumpness; variegated, luxurious, shaped like some pyramids I know of, with their great circumference overshadowing the narrow base; conveying by their very size a provoking, insulting challenge, that they are too big to be swallowed up--by Phœbus! it is a treat to merge expectation in fruition; and if there is any _danger_ in swallowing them up, then I say again with Horace: '_Dulce est periclum_'--the danger is sweet. 'These delights if thou canst give----' Indeed _can_ I; and you shall have others beside--Και πλεον εξεις--as Venus said, when she advertised her missing boy. There is a pleasure in sitting by the window, to be lulled by a variety of murmurs, or to listen to them in the solemn groves; whether it be the sound of the sea, or the winds undulating among the tree-tops, or the swarming of bees, I can hardly tell, they are so like; and if the heart beats at regular intervals not too much in a hurry or with an inconsiderate knocking, being kept from agitation by a good conscience, as may without vanity be claimed both by you and me, we shall be captivated by a music more sweet than BELLINI. _Come out here right off!_' Thus far the favored occupant of this delectable region. Give ear now to that other scholar and gentleman, 'hereinbeforementioned:' 'IT is truly a blistering day, and the breath from the mouth of the approaching Dog is enough to stifle a Christian. I keep continually thinking of Nebuchadnezzar's furnace, and repeat, with more _fervor_ than I could wish, 'Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron shades!' etc. But 'Oh! Jimmy Thompson, Jimmy Thompson, oh!' never in Green England did you experience such an atmosphere as this! Pah! it goes down my throat like the spirit of melted lead. Oh! for some water-sprite to bear me under his dripping wings to the summit of Dawalageri; there among the notched rocks to sit sipping of iced sherry, and with pine-apples pendant to my very mouth, to whiff the cool Havana and read DANTE'S Purgatorio! There might some 'swift-winged courier of the clouds' bring me the July number of the KNICK.; and after laughing at the wit and melting with the pathos of American talent, might some prophetic angel unscale my eyes, and show me in the future the Chinese wall blown up by a match of opium, and the wheels of the Juggernaut carrying a train of burden-cars and a crowd of travellers from Calcutta to Delhi! What an unimaginable world lies behind the vale of that same wonder-pregnant Future! Oh! that one might raise that veil and see all that is to be, save the destinies of himself and his own beloved land! The sight, however, might be far from pleasing to the philanthropist. Freedom may fly again to her hereditary mountains; Knowledge may burn her lonely lamp in conventual cloisters; the 'march of mind' may make a retrograde advancement; another Caliph may fire the Royal Library of Paris; and posterity may be sufficiently unfortunate to have lost all trace and all memorial of you and me! God forbid!' * * * REPINING reader, bethink you in your moments of despondency, or even gloom, of the mind that traced, in the 'enduring dark' of his lonely apartment, these touching lines:

'OH, who on earth would love to live, Unless he lived to love!'

'WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone bewail my outcast fate, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope; Featured like him; like him with friends possessed; Desiring this man's art and that man's scope; With what I most enjoy contented least: Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee--and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my happy state with kings!'

THE following, which we derive from a Boston friend, who assures us that it is a 'statement of a veritable occurrence,' we can very readily believe. Indeed, we have never been able to doubt any thing which a bird might say, since we heard Uncle BEZONNET'S 'Poor Mino' in Nassau-street, laugh, and sing, and exclaim 'Good morning!' 'What's your name?' 'Uncle JOHN! Uncle JOHN! somebody's in the store;' and then, changing his tone, remark, what nobody could deny, 'What an extraordinary bird!' But to his 'Boston contemporary:' 'I came across a pious parrot the other day, while strolling down toward the wharves. It was the first of the class I had ever seen. I was just passing by a sailor boarding-house, when I heard, several times repeated, the words, '_The Lord ha' massy on Poor Poll, a sinner! Lord ha' massy! Amen!_' Turning round, I perceived they were uttered by a parrot in a cage, who with one claw drawn up on her breast, head bent reverently down, and eye cocked solemnly upward, was now following her ejaculations by the most piteous moans. Talking parrots are generally sad creatures, and seldom very choice in their language. 'But here,' thought I, 'is an exception; and surely, a race which has in it even _one_ individual capable of attaining to a knowledge of its utterly depraved condition, cannot be altogether lost.' What seemed to me to be the more remarkable, was the fact that such knowledge should have been attainable in a sailor boarding-house, in one of the most vicious streets of the city. While these thoughts were passing through my mind, the parrot had been eyeing me with an eager, sidelong glance, as if she were quite ready for a chat, and waited only for me to begin it. 'Pretty, pretty Poll:' said I, stroking her head gently with the end of my cane; 'Polly have a biscuit?' '_Yes, G--d d--n you! hand over!_' was the sharp, quick reply.' * * * FEW and far between, now, are the scenes recorded below by a Southern correspondent. The last of the old hearts-of-oak will soon fall to the ground: 'Since I last 'drove pen,' I have sat by the death-bed, watched by the corpse, and shovelled earth upon the coffin, of an old revolutionary soldier. He served four years in WASHINGTON'S own division of the army; and doubtless, although he attained no high official rank, his blood was as freely offered, and his services should be as gratefully appreciated, as those of any general of them all. He was a forgotten unit in that subaltern rank, on whose individual merits the titled built their edifice of fame. His offering was like 'the widow's mite,' an offering as dear to him as any the costliest oblation made unto his country's treasury of glory. Requieseat!' * * * 'YOU will find,' says a friend writing from London, by the last steamer, 'that your portrait has been extensively circulated about Great-Britain and her dominions, in the last number of 'Chuzzlewit.' The artist who draws the illustrations, has given, in the person of young MARTIN, who is reading one of your flash newspapers, in presence of the editor and his war correspondent, a very faithful transcript of the lineaments of the Editor of the KNICKERBOCKER, as we remember them.' We cannot say how far our correspondent is correct in his impressions; although they were corroborated by a score or more of American friends, before we had seen the engraving in question; but _this_ we know, that if any of our readers desire to see a portrait, as life-like as if he had sat for it, of the late lamented WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, they may find it in the person of young MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, in the English edition of Mr. DICKENS'S last issue of the work of that name. The outline, the air, the manner, are _perfect_. * * * IT may be thought remarkable, that while to the mass the illusions of the theatre possess unwonted interest, those who know the most of its secrets affect it the least. THEODORE HOOK, we are told by his reviewer, had a fixed and rooted aversion to the stage, and a consummate contempt for the player's profession, as a school of character and manners; an absolute physical loathing, as it were, for every thing connected with the green-room, from the mouthing art of managers, to the melancholy pirouettes of the 'poor plastered things with fringes to their stays, which they call petticoats.' FANNY KEMBLE herself, overcoming so many proud and glorious associations, did not sicken of it more heartily. Doesn't this militate against the argument of 'C.'? _Rather_, we think. * * * IF the reader does not discover something sparkling, quaint, and decidedly _original_ in '_No'th-East by East_,' in preceding pages, we shall inevitably have thrown away and sacrificed 'our guess.' There is a touch of DANA, a dash of COLERIDGE, and the 'slightest possible taste in the world' of HALLECK, yet withal no _imitation_, in that amphibious poem. Some lines _seem_ somewhat amendable; 'As lightning had sprung _sudden_ then,' is one, for example. Lightning _is_ rather 'sudden,' we believe, in most cases. We scarcely remember ever to have seen a _very_ slow flash; yet the line could hardly be bettered, and there is good precedent for the apparently adscititious word. A few 'common substantives' in the poem may require elucidation for the uninitiated. The 'Graves' are rocks in Boston harbor, near the outer light, or 'big bright Eye.' Near this light, and past George's island, by 'Nix's Mate,' is the main channel, through which ships _must_ make a 'procession' in coming up toward Boston. The 'pinkie' is a schooner-rigged craft, sharp at both ends, a short peak running up aft, and designed for a chasing sea. The annexed lines were written to follow the passage wherein the courier-star says 'The sun is coming up this way,' etc., but they came too late for insertion:

'THE sun is now uncovering The mid-Atlantic--scattering The mists, with many a toss and fling Of dangling skirts and weary wing; Half frantic, as they knew not where To hide them from his fiery glare; The iceberg from his ocean-bed Lifts loftily his glittering head, But shakes not off one burnished spear, To ring in the frosted atmosphere.'

PERHAPS we _are_ amenable to the criticism of our New-Haven friend. Certain it is, however, that 'the lightness which predominates in our cogitations and gatherings' is often to us a veritable relief; and if we may trust the candor of many friends, it has been grateful to them also,

... 'when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of the heart.'

We are not all constituted alike, dear Sir; yet what is one man's meat we would not have another's poison. 'The amiable qualities of cheerfulness and good-humor,' says an old writer, 'cast a kind of sunshine over a composition, and resemble the gentle smile that often lights up the human countenance, the never-failing indication of a humane temper.' As for wit, we consider it a species of poetry. It amuses and delights the imagination by those sudden assemblages and pleasing pictures of things which it creates; and from every common occasion can raise such striking appearances as throw the most phlegmatic tempers into a convulsion of good-humored mirth. We fear our censor will consider us 'past mending.' We must still hold with the excellent FLETCHER, that 'a little mirth now and then is a great purifier:'

''Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood, More than wine, or sleep, or food; Let each man keep his heart at ease, No man dies of that disease. He that would his body keep From diseases, must not weep; But whoever laughs and sings, Never he his body brings Into fevers, gouts, or rheums, Or ling'ringly his lungs consumes; But contented lives for aye-- The more he laughs, the more he may.'

Does our critic remember an ancient motto on a sun-dial? '_Non numero Horas, nisi serenas?_' It is capable of application. * * * WE are glad to say, since our opinion in this place is requested, that the essay on '_Education of Youthful Morals_' is an _excellent_ one. It is only _too long_ for our Magazine, if we would preserve our accustomed variety. It would make at least fifteen printed pages of the KNICKERBOCKER. We hope however to see the article published. No parent who feels as he ought for the children which GOD has given him, growing up around him, but would honor its aim and emulate its salutary lessons. Years pass quickly away. Yet a little while, and our dear ones will be actors in this busy world, of which at present their knowledge is so small. The article in question has been returned, as requested, through the Upper Post-Office. * * * SOMETHING akin to the following, were certain lines written by '_S. C. M._', now well known in America and England under a popular _pseudonyme_, many years since. There is rather more of the '_cautionary_,' however, in this 'limning from life:'

THE NOVEL-READER

'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.'