And he would as soon think of putting on band and cassock as of addressing the reason instead of the fancy of his readers. I say not this to disparage the author of Waverley; by no means. His line of writing may not admit of such a proceeding. His talents may lie in another direction, and, powerful as they are, they may not be universal. I merely wish to point out in what I conceive Washington Irving's superiority to consist. He is certainly the only author I can now recollect, who, in the present day, largely intermingles moral reflection with the poetry of composition. This is the consummation devoutly to be wished by readers, and devotedly to be sought after by writers. The author of the Sketch Book is, in my opinion, a model for that class of writers to whose works the multitude chiefly resorts for its mental recreation, apprehensible by almost every age, sex, and condition, yet not beneath any. He unites much of the solid with more of the splendid; a certain degree of reflection with a greater degree of imagination; considerable power and will to instruct, still more considerable power and will to delight. But such unions are rare; unions by which Nature sometimes endeavours to make compensation for the myriads of fools whom she brings every day into the world. How beautifully, for instance, does the story of "The Widow and her Son," in the Sketch Book, intervene between "The Country Church," and "The Boar's Head Tavern!" How much sweet and unobtrusive wisdom is inculcated by the sketch of "Westminster Abbey" and several others in these volumes! How frequently does the author lead us unwarily into a train of reflection! and in the midst of his liveliest stories how often do we meet with sentences and passages of gentle admonition or instructive remark, a maxim ́or a moral, tending to make us better or wiser, disclosing a new truth, or impressing an old one!—but of this beautiful and most praiseworthy introduction of moral reflection into works of entertainment, "Rural Funerals" is the happiest example. The subject is interesting to the most insensible reader; the language is some of the sweetest I have ever met with; and the sentiments are of that deeply impressive moral kind, pregnant with feeling, simple, yet full of thought,― composing a master-piece of its kind, which it is almost vain for me to recommend to imitation; for it can scarcely be imitated with success, perhaps by the author himself. The last page or two where he speaks of "the sorrows for the dead," are worthy of perpetual study and eternal remembrance. They are at once beautiful and sublime; instructive and delightful: To them I would chiefly point my reader's attention, as exhibiting that degree of reflection, and that measure of instruction, which I am anxious to see all our general authors impart to some portions of their writings. I am not an admirer of didactic composition; but I confess it is not without some compunction that I sacrifice my time to the perusal of works where the imagination alone is pampered, and the reason altogether starved. Idle meditation would be a more profitable employment than such reading. With these pre-dispositions in Mr. Irving's favour, and with these expectations from his forthcoming work, you may judge, my dear sir, of my disappointment, when instead of the qualities I have mentioned as raising him so far above his cotemporaries, I found little in his Tales of a Traveller, but the style, to admire. Here is scarcely a gleam of his playful and Addisonian wit; nothing of his vivid delineation of character. But this is not the worst. The Tales of a Traveller are a number of short stories comprised in two volumes of about the same size as his former works. Not one of these stories is of the reflective character. In not one of them does the author indulge that fine strain of sentiment and moral feeling which makes his Sketch Book such a familytreasure, even for the space of an ordinary paragraph. Some of the tales are to be sure of a serious na ture; serious as any one of those hundred thousand frightful little stories of ghosts and Italian banditti that appal the midnight milliner, and just as worthy of any other reader's admiration. Except in beauty and grace of language they are not a whit superior to an equal number of pages torn from the innumerable garbagenovels which Paternoster pours upon us every publishing week. It is curious enough too, that the author in his preface actually makes a boast of the "sound morality" inculcated by each of his stories; not by some of them, observe, but by each of them. Now I beg leave to put the question to Mr. Irving,-Where is the "sound moral" of the following stories, viz. The Great Unknown, The Hunting Dinner, The Adventure of my Uncle, The Adventure of my Aunt, The Bold Dragoon, The German Student, The Mysterious Picture, The Mysterious Stranger, i. e. all the stories of Part I, except the last.) Is there one of the stories in Part III which contains more "sound morality" than banditti stories generally do? The impression left on my mind by Mr. Irving's fascinating description of these heroic ruffians is rather in favour of robbing. I don't know but that if I possessed a good villainous set of features, and the tact of dress ing myself point device in the "rich and picturesque jackets and breeches" of these Italian cut-throats, I should be tempted into the romance of taking purses amongst the Abruzzi mountains, were it for nothing but to pick up some of that "sound morality" which Mr. Irving says is to be found there. But to be serious it will be very evident to all who read these volumes, that in the two parts I have specified (i. e. half the book), the morality is either evil or exceptionable. I have reason to believe that Mr. Irving received a very liberal sum from his publisher for this work; and if this be really the case I am sorry for it. Should I be asked wherefore? I answer; that (not to speak of fame) it is much to be feared his own interest, as well as that of the public, will eventually suffer by it. Irving will now perhaps begin to "write against time" as others do, and destroy his own credit with his readers, as others have done. Being myself a man of no superfluous wealth, I shall certainly reflect maturely before I give fourand-twenty shillings for his next work, whatever it may be. And how does the interest of the public suffer? Why in this manner: the author, as I may say,defrauds us of the deeper riches of his mind, putting us off with the dross which lies nearest the surface, can be more easily gotten together, and more readily delivered over to the task-master, his publisher. The tales of a Traveller seem to tell one more tales than the author would wish to make public,-viz: that Geoffrey Crayon knows something of "The Art of Bookmaking" beyond the mere theory. They bear unequivocal marks of having been composed for Mr. Murray, and not for the public. Whilst reading them, I was perpetually haunted by a singular vision; I fancied that I saw the author at his writing-desk, armed with a goose-quill and other implements of literary hus bandry, whilst the aforesaid eminent bibliopolist stood at his elbow. jingling a purse of sovereigns,from which a couple descended into the author's pouch according as he finished every page of foolscap. Hasty composition is written in palpable yet invisible letters on the face of the whole work. The subjects chosen are most of them common-place; and the manner of treating them is not very original. There is in these volumes, as I have said, nothing of that sweet and solemn reflection, no traces of that fine rich vein of melancholy meditation, which threw such an air of interest over his first and best work, which infused such a portion of moral health into the public constitution.* Yes, there is one passage of this nature, and it * It is ungenerous I acknowledge, but I cannot help wishing that the author of the Sketch Book bad remained a little longer under the pressure of that misfortune (whatever it may have been which seemed to have dictated those pathetic and deeply-affecting little stories, that form the princ pal charm of his maiden work. is the best in the whole work. It is the description of a wild and reckless youth who returns, after many wanderings, to visit the grave of the only being he had loved on earth, his mother. Geoffrey Crayon wrote this passage. We may perceive, also, traces of the other end of his pencil in the humourous Dutch stories which form part IV. of his collection. The pun has some truth in it which asserts that Mr. Irving is at home whenever he gets among his native scenes and fellow countrymen. Though even in this part the touches of humour are fewer and less powerful than of old; faint flashes of that merriment which were wont to set his readers in a roar. Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow are stories beyond the inspiration of Albemarle-street. Of the remaining Tales in these volumes, the author of Bracebridge-hall may have written some, and any other "gentleman of the press" (only borrowing Mr. Irving's easiness and grace of language) might have written the rest. One or two Americanisms, and a general dearth of those peculiar beauties in thought and expression which overspread his former works, indicate the same negligence and haste which I have remarked as comparatively distinguishing these volumes. At least I had rather impute these faults to those causes than to a mind worn out, or a genius broken down. The author may possibly have written this work at the feet of Fame, not under the eye of Mammon; but if so-Farewell! his occupation's gone! Geoffrey Crayon was Mr. Irving, but Mr. Irving is not Geoffrey Crayon. As to delineation of character, I could scarcely persuade myself that he who drew the admirable portrait of Master Simon could err so lamentably as our author has, in attempting to depict several miniatures in the present volumes. A "worthy fox-hunting old baronet" tells a most romantic love-tale, with all the sensibility of a disciple of Della Crusca, and an officer of British dragoons is made to speak in the following style, so very characteristic of that order of gentlemen: "Oh! if it's ghosts you want, honey," cried an Irish captain of dragoons, "if it's ghosts you want, you shall have a whole regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have given the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith and I'll even give you a chapter out of my own family history." To be sure this officer had the ill-luck to have been born in the same country with Burke, Sheridan, and Grattan; he was, it must be confessed-an Irishman; and it is past doubt that Irishmen in general can never wholly divest themselves of a certain mellifluous elongation of tone called the brogue,nor perhaps of a greater breadth of pronunciation than our English nicety of ear can digest; but although my experience has lain pretty largely amongst gentlemen of that nation, I must in justice say that I never yet met with one whose idiom in any degree approached the plebeian model here brought before us. Mr. Irving judging probably from the "rascal few" whom crime or vagabondism,has driven to his country, that common refugium peccatorum, conceives it necessary to make an Irish gentleman express himself like an Irish American; or perhaps he has taken Foigard and Macmorris for his beau-ideal. To me, who have kept better company than Mr. Irving probably met with in Hiberno-America, his delineation of an Irish gentleman, as we must presume every dragoon-officer to be, appears offensively unnatural. Being moreover put forth as a general characteristic description (which, with Mr. Irving's seal to it, must necessarily have its influence on foreign opinion), the gentry of that nation cannot but consider it as an insult and an injustice which the ignorance that dictated it can alone excuse. In the L'Envoy to the Sketch Book Mr. Irving speaks of the "contrariety of excellent counsel" which had being given him by his critics. "One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous, another to shun the pathetic." If the turn of an author's genius is to be determined from the line of writing which he seems most to indulge, humour is certainly the reigning quality of Mr. Irving's mind. Bracebridge Hall, much and the best part of the Tales of a Traveller, are written in the humorous vein. On the other hand, if the turn of genius is to be estimated by the felicity of execution, we should perhaps say that our author's forte was the pathetic. But in truth, the fine melancholy shade which was thrown over the Sketch Book seems to have been only the effect of sorrow's passing cloud, and to have past with it. Could not Mr. Irving manage to be humorous and pathetic at the same time, and give us another IRELAND-HOAXING. fore their usual rising time, to re-con and polish the long-balanced funeral oration. These were the symptoms down to half-past seven o'clock; but lo! at or about that hour, forth rushes the town-crier, without a hat, his face pale, his looks wild, his gesticulation vehement, and his voice choked with precipitancy; and he rings me his bell at every corner, and endeavours to pronounce the following:-" By special orders of Mr. Mayor, the funeral is not to take place till Friday morning. God save the King!" The shops were opened, the bells ceased to toll, and business and bustle proceeded as usual. I went to the public reading-room to satisfy myself on this extraordinary occurrence. The Dublin mail had not arrived; but the Mayor had received the news by despatch from the Castle the night before, and all was right. It was eight ET your philosophical contributors fix the cause, I content myself with asserting the fact, that in every considerable town except Dublin, where I have yet sojourned, practical hoax seems to be the esteemed relaxation of gentlemen at large of the middle rank, and men of business and profession, whose facile method of despatch, or whose waste time, allows them the primary means for its indulgence. Passing by countless instances of this scientific waggery, which, if you had been as long as I have been in Ireland, would amuse you, allow me to submit one grand tour illustrative of the almost desperate extent to which it can reach. I am about to mention important facts and dates, and am aware of the authenticity of which I ought to base my narrative; but if my own eyes and ears may serve, they are your warrant in attaching implicit credence to the se--half-past eight o'clock, and we quel. In one word, I shall not state a circumstance which I do not know of my own knowledge. Thus, then, you will easily call to mind, that at the death of the ever-tobe-lamented Princess, now some years ago, the day of interment was previously understood throughout the United Kingdom, and every town and village proposed to mourn the melancholy event on a Wednesday, I believe, with closed shops, suspension of business, prayers and homilies. I need not remind you that I was then in Ireland, partly on your own mission, and residing in a certain city of Ireland. The appointed morn rose on that certain city as on all others, and the people duteously attended, or rather began to attend, to the orders judicially issued for its sad observance. No shopkeeper unmasked the broad and shining face of his shop window; no petty marketting or cries ushered in the day; death-bells were knelling; the loyal and pious, including the garrison, proposed to go to divine service; and all the preachers in the town had been up two hours be heard, at last, the "twanging horn" of the mail-coach as it drew up at its allotted resting-place. Many a wistful eye now peered out of the windows adown the street to reconnoitre the boy, who had been for an hour before placed with his shoulder to the little black wooden pane in the shop window of "the post-office." He came at last, pale and breathless, and with an ominous pendency in jawfor oh! he had held whispering converse with that important inland personage, the guard of the mail, and his ear still rung with fearful sounds. We tore open the papers-the Dublin papers of the preceding evening, despatched at eight o'clock, six hours sooner than a Mercury could have left town to be in at one o'clock in the morning, which was the case stated. We tore them open, I say; our eyes glanced like electricity to the readings of the different journals, then to the tail of the column, where "second edition," in good capitals, ought to have been. We did this and more. We-who? The magistrates of the city among the rest, with the |