University of Virginia Library

SUMMER.

It was clearly shown by Hone, on his trial for parodying
St. Athanasius's creed, that parodying any
thing did not necessarily infer disrespect towards
the thing parodied, and it is upon this ground that
I take the above liberty with the beautiful lines
of one of America's sweetest bards. Well, after a
long, dull, hot and cold, equivocal spring—summer,
fervid summer, has come in earnest. The
minds of the citizens area at length relieved from the

uncertainty which for two months pervaded them,
namely, whether to fling the windows open, or
order fire to be put into the grate; and the last
slight lingering tinge of morning or evening chill
has vanished away. Phœbus, for half the day now
glares fiercely and intensely upon Broadway, and
the hot flag-stones, retaining and reflecting his
beams, burn the soles and crack the upper-leathers
of the many boots and shoes that pass over them.
The tide of emigration has set strongly in from the
south, and sultry-looking planters are obliged to
walk in the vicinity of dandy negroes, which by
no means tends to cool their tempers. As the year
rolls on, things good and bad come mingled together—fruit
and flowers and drouth and dust—
cloudless days and sleepless nights—scorching suns
and southern breezes—musquitoes and Clara Fisher.
A given quantity of prose and poetry, setting forth
the good and bad qualities of spring, summer, autumn,
and winter, is as periodical as the seasons.
Spring seems to be the favorite of the poets, who
themselves, for the most part, live upon hopes and
promises, rather than substantialities, and have
therefore a very natural sympathy with this very
promising season. There certainly is something
delightful in the general awakening of nature from
the long dead sleep of winter; and the first blossoming
of the flowers, the first warbling of the
birds, and the genial warmth and freshness of the
first spring days bear an inexpressible charm along
with them; but to a worldly and unromantic disposition,
partial to palpable realities, the taste of
fruit is more acceptable than the scent of flowers,
and a promise of a good thing not so good as the
good thing itself. In so far summer is better than
spring; but, in truth, despite of a calm temper and
a thin jacket, the weather is horribly, I may say,
awfully hot. Ladies are seen gliding down Broad-way
clad in garments of “woven winds,” and gentlemen
go perspiring and glistening along in white
jean. Now are thick tufts of hair upon the cheeks
found to be a serious inconvenience, and lo, the
whiskerless rejoice! Now is the mercury in the
sun at a fearful altitude, and the corporation are
above fever-heat in the shade. Now are the citizens
bent upon imparting useful information, and,
as they meet, each “shakes his fellow by the
hand,” and says unto him—“this is hot weather,”
to which the other responds—“it is so!” and they
pass on their way. Now do people, contrary to all
custom, wish for “cold comfort,” desiring, like King
John, to be “comforted with cold.” Now do the
engine-men on board of steam-boats think lightly
of the feats of Monsieur Chabert, the fire-king, wistfully
do they gaze upon the river; and if a hissing,
fizzing, whizzing sound is heard in the water, the
captain cries out, “a man overboard!” Now do
stout gentlemen, after a hearty dinner, look as if
they were going through the process of distillation,
“larding the lean earth as they walk along.” And
now three impertinent questions in succession from
any man is a legitimate excuse for assassination.
Now are all kinds of fiery, passionate writing in
disrepute, and Captain Parry's “Narrative of an
Expedition to the North Pole” meets with a ready
sale; and now do worthy editors unfeelingly request
their correspondents to put pen to paper and draw
forth the fevered thoughts of their fermenting
brains. Now may all people, who persist in drinking
unmixed brandy or Irish whiskey, be given up
by the “Temperance Society.” Now are those
who talk wrathful politics kicked out of society,
and tragedy is eschewed as tending to heat the
blood. Now do people prefer broiling at the springs
to broiling in the city, and travel post-haste to keep
themselves cool and comfortable, though, at the
same time, an account in the newspapers of a man
having voluntarily run a mile in ten minutes would
be regarded as apocryphal. Now do editors cease
to threaten to horsewhip each other, and a sedate
drowsiness pervades their columns. And now
young ladies who are obliged to behave decorously,
and mind their p's and q's in the presence of old
withered maiden aunts on whom heat makes no
more impression than on an Arab of the desert, are
in a very uncomfortable situation. Now are long
stories unlistened to and cayenne pepper disused.
Now do cooks blaspheme, and dealers in fish and
other perishable commodities are troubled in spirit.
And now, in short, do nearly all the ills that heat
can engender, afflict the perspiring inhabitants of
this republic. My advice to them is—be patient
and winter will come; or, what is equally to the
purpose, though better expressed by some great
moralist or other—“be virtuous, and you will be
happy!”