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.'