-Why so?-Croker edited, and Murray published it; and this being the case, I could have told six months ago, just as well as I ean now, that its fate was to be lauded in the Duncoloured, and derided and vilipended in the Blue and Yellow. This is really becoming a fine concern.

In the next Number of the Quarterly, there will be, inter alia, a fine puff of Washington Irving's "Tales of a Traveller," because Mr Irving's publisher is Mr Murray, and there will also be a puff of it in the Edinburgh ;-first, because Mr Irving is an Ămerican, and, secondly, because his book is not of the kind to interfere at all with any of Mr Constable's own publications. But I am really sick of exposing all this nonsensical stuff. So turn we to Mr Washington himself, and see what is to be said of these volumes by a plain impartial man, who has nothing to do either with Murray or Constable, and who thinks neither the better nor the worse of a man for being born in New York.

I have been miserably disappointed in the "Tales of a Traveller." Three years have elapsed since the publication of Bracebridge Hall, and it had been generally given out that the author was travelling about the Continent at a great rate, collecting the materials for a work of greater and more serious importance. Above all, it was known that Mr Irving had gone, for the first time, to Italy and to Germany; and high expectations were avowed as to the treasures he would bring back from these chosen seats of the classical and the romantic, the beautiful and the picturesque.* With the exception of a very few detached pieces, such as the description of the Stage-coachman, and the story of the Stout Gentleman, Mr Irving's sketches of English life and manners had certainly made no lasting impression on the public mind. Everybody recognized the pen of a practised writer, the feelings of an honourable and kind-hearted man, and occasional flashes of a gently-pleasing humour in the tournure of a sentence, but, on the whole, they were but insipid diet. There was no reality about his Yorkshire halls, squires, parsons, gipsies, and generals; and his pathos was not only very poor, but very affected; in point of fact, mawkish and unmeaning were the only epithets any

body thought of applying to such matters as his Essay on Windsor Castle, and James I. of Scotland, his "Broken Heart," his Student of Salamanca, &c. &c. These affairs were univer sally voted Washington Irving's balaam, and the balaam unquestionably bore in Bracebridge Hall a proportion of altogether insufferable preponderance. But all this was kindly put up with. It was said that the author had been too hasty, in his anxiety to keep up the effect he had produced in his Sketch-book; and that, having dressed up all his best English materials in that work, he had, ex necessitate, served up a hash in the successor. But give him time, allow him to think of matters calmly and quietly, open new fields of observation to him, and you shall see once more the pen of Knickerbocker in its pristine glory. This was the general say, and when Germany was mentioned, everybody was certain that the third Sketch-book would not only rival, but far surpass the first.

The more benign the disposition, the worse for Mr Irving now. He has been not only all over Germany, but all over Italy too; and he has produced a book, which, for aught I see, might have been written, not in three years, but in three months, without stirring out of a garret in London, and this not by Mr Irving alone, but by any one of several dozens of ready penmen about town, with whose names, if it were worth while, I could easily enliven your pages. The ghost stories, with which the greater part of the first volume is occupied, are, with one exception, old, and familiar to everybody conversant in that sort of line. The story of the Beheaded Lady, in particular, has not only been told in print ere now, but much better told than it is in Mr Irving's edition. To say the truth, a gentleman like this, who goes about gaping for stories to make up books withal, should be excessively scrupulous indeed, ere he sets to work upon anything he hears. A new story is a thing not to be met with above once or twice in the ten years; and the better a story is, the more are the chances always against its being new to other people, whatever it may be to one's self. Mr Irving, being evidently a man of limited reading, ought to have consulted

some more erudite friend, ere he put most of these things to press. My own dear D'Israeli alone could, I venture to say, have shewn him printed and reprinted editions of three-fourths of them, in one half hour's sederunt over a sea-coal fire in the British Museum. It is becoming daily a more dangerous thing to pillage the Germans, and I strongly advise Mr Irving to be more on his guard the next time.

The matter of these ghost stories of his, however, is not the only, nor even the chief thing, I have to find fault with. They are old stories, and I am sorry to add, they are not improved by their new dress. The tone in which Mr Irving does them up, is quite wrong. A ghost story ought to be a ghost story. Something like seriousness is absolutely necessary, in order to its producing any effect at all upon the mind-and the sort of half-witty vein, the little dancing quirks, &c. &c. with which these are set forth, entirely destroy the whole matter. [I speak of his management of European superstitions, be it noticed, and not at all of the American.] There were some ghost stories in the Album, well worth half a ton of these. The Fox-hunters are crambe recocta, and bad crambe too; for MrIrving no more understands an English fox-hunter, than I do an American judge. The same thing may be said of the whole most hackneyed story of Buckthorne, which is a miserable attempt at an English Wilhelm Meister; and yet one can with difficulty imagine a man of Mr Irving's sense producing this lame thing at all, if he had read recently either that work or the Roman Comique. Buckthorne is really a bad thing-nulla virtute redemptum. A boarding-school miss might have written it.

But the German part of the adventure has turned out exactly nothing, and this will perhaps be the greatest mortification to those who open Mr Irving's new book. Anybody, at least, who had read Knickerbocker, and who knew Deutchland, either the upper or the nether, must have expected a rich repast indeed, of Meinherren and Mynheers. All this expectation is met with a mere cipher. There is nothing German here at all, except that the preface is dated Mentz, and that the author has cribbed from the German books he has been dabbling in, some fables which have not the merit either

of being originally or characteristically

German.

The Italy, too, is a sad failurevery sad, indeed. Here is an American, a man of letters, a man of observation, a man of feeling, a man of taste. He goes, with a very considerable literary reputation, as his passport at once and his stimulus, to the inost interesting region, perhaps, in the old world, and he brings from it absolutely nothing except a few very hackneyed tales of the Abruzzi Bandits, not a bit better than Mrs Maria Graham's trash, and the narrative of a grand robbery perpetrated on the carriage of Mr Alderman Popkins! The story of the Inn at Terracina is, perhaps, as pure a specimen of Leadenhall-street common-place, as has appeared for some time past. Why a man of education and talent should have ventured to put forth such poor secondhand, second-rate manufactures, at this time of day, it entirely passes my imagination to conceive.-Good Heavens! are we come to this, that men of this rank cannot even make a robbery terrific, or a love-story tolerable? But, seriously, the use Mr Irving has made of his Italian travels, must sink his character very wofully. It proves him to be devoid not only of all classical recollections, but of all genuine enthusiasm of any kind; and I believe you will go along with me when I say, that without enthusiasm of some sort, not even a humourist can be really successful. If Mr Irving had no eyes for tower, temple, and tree, he should at least have shewn one for peasants and pageants. But there is nothing whatever in his Italian Sketches that might not have been produced very easily by a person (and not a very clever person neither) who had merely read a few books of travels, or talked with a few travellers. Rome, Venice, Florence, Naples-this gentleman has been over them all, crayon in hand, and his Sketch-book is, whereever it is not a blank, a blunder.

Mr Irving, after writing, perhaps after printing one volume, and threefourths of another, seems to have been suddenly struck with a conviction of the worthlessness of the materials that had thus been passing through his hands, and in a happy day, and a happy hour, he determined to fill up the remaining fifty or sixty pages, not with milk-and-water stuff about ghosts

and banditti, but with some of his own old genuine stuff-the quaintnesses of the ancient Dutch heers and frows of the delicious land of the Manhattoes. The result is, that this small section of his book is not only worth the bulk of it five hundred times over, but really, and in every respect, worthy of himself and his fame. This will live, the rest will die in three months.

I do mos sincerely hope this elegant person will no longer refuse to believe what has been told him very often, that all real judges are quite agreed as to the enormous, the infinite, and immeasurable superiority of his American Sketches over all his European ones. If he does not, he may go on publishing pretty octavos with John Murray for several years to come; and he may maintain a very pretty rank among the Mayfair bluestockings, and their half-emasculated hangers-on; but he must infallibly sink altogether in the eyes of really intelligent and manly readers whose judgment, moreover, is always sure, at no very distant period, to silence and overpower the mere menta opinionum."

com

It is, indeed, high time that Mr Irving should begin to ask of himself a serious question,-"What is it that I am to be known by hereafter?" He is now a man towards fifty-nearly twenty years have passed since his first and as yet his best production," the History of New York," made its appearance. He has most certainly made no progress in any one literary qualification since then. There is far keener and readier wit in that book,-far, far richer humour, far more ingenious satire, than in all that have come after it put together; and, however reluctant he may be to hear it said, the style of that book is by miles and miles superior to that in which he now, almost always, writes.

Long ere now, Mr Irving must, I should think, have made considerable discoveries as to the nature and extent of his own powers. In the first place, he must be quite aware that he has no inventive faculties at all, taking that phrase in its proper and more elevated sense. He has never invented an incident-unless, which I much doubt, the idea of the Stout Gentleman's story was his own;-and as for inventing characters, why, he has not even made an attempt at that.

Secondly, The poverty and bareness of his European Sketches alone, wheu compared with the warmth and richness of his old American ones, furnishes the clearest evidence that he is not a man of much liveliness of imagination; nothing has, it seems, excited him profoundly since he was a stripling roaming about the wild woods of his province, and enjoying the queer fat goings-on of the Dutch-descended burghers of New York. This is not the man that should call himself, as if par excellence, a traveller-cœlum non animum mutat,-he is never at home, to any purpose at least, except among the Yankees.

Thirdly, Mr Irving must be aware that he cannot write anything serious to much effect. This argues a considerable lack of pith in the whole foundations of his mind, for the world has never seen a great humourist who was nothing but a humourist. Cervantes was a poet of poets-and Swift was Swift. A mere joker's jokes go for little. One wishes to consider the best of these things as an amusement for one's self, and as having been an exertion of the unbending powers only of their creator. Now Mr Irving being, which he certainly is, aware of these great and signal deficiencies, is surely acting in a foolish fashion, when he publishes such books as The Tales of a Traveller. If he wishes to make for himself a really enduring reputation, he must surpass considerably his previous works-I mean he must produce works of more uniform and entire merit than any of them, for he never can do anything better than some fragments he has done already. must, for this purpose, take time, for it is obvious that he is by no means a rapid collector of materials, whatever the facility of his penmanship may be. Farther, he must at once cut all ideas of writing about European matters. He can never be anything but an imitator of our Goldsmiths here,-on his own soil he may rear a name and a monument, are perennius, for himself. No, he must allow his mind to dwell upon the only images which it ever can give back with embellished and strengthened hues. He must riot in pumpkin pies, grinning negroes, smoking skippers, plump jolly little Dutch maidens, and their grizzly-periwigged papas. This is his world, and he must stick to it. Out of it, it is but too ap

He

parent now, he never can make the name of Washington Irving what that name ought to be.

Perhaps there would be no harm if Mr Irving gave rather more scope to his own real feelings in his writings. A man of his power and mind must have opinions of one kind or another, in regard to the great questions which have in every age and country had the greatest interest for the greatest minds. Does he suppose that any popularity really worthy a man's ambition, is to be gained by a determined course of smooth speaking? Does he really imagine that he can be "all things to all men," in the Albemarle Street sense of the phrase, without emasculating his genius, and destroying its chances of perpetuating fame? I confess, there is to me something not unlike impertinence, in the wondrous caution with which this gentleman avoids speaking his mind. Does he suppose that we should be either sorry or angry, if he spoke out now and then like a Republican, about matters of political interest? He may relieve himself from this humane anxiety as to our peace of mind. There is no occasion for lugging in politics direct in works of fiction, but I must say, that I cannot think it natural for any man to write in these days so many volumes as Mr Irving has written, without in some way or other expressing his opinions and feelings. He is, indeed,

"A gentle sailor, and for summer seas." But he may depend on it, that nobody has ever taken a strong hold of the English mind, whose own mind has not had for one of its first characteristics, manliness; and I have far too great a respect for the American mind, to have any doubts that the same thing will be said of it by any one, who, two or three hundred years hence, casts his eye over that American literature, which, I hope, will, ere then, be the glorious rival of our own.

But enough for this time. Few people have admired Mr Irving more than myself-few have praised him more→→→ and certainly few wish him and his career better than I do at this moment. I shall, however, make no fine speeches, but wind up with quoting two or three things from these volumes, which will illustrate what I have been saying, or trying to say about them; and I shall take care, that at least one of my extracts shall be an amusing fragment,

for such of your readers as may not have seen the book itself.

Take this as a specimen of Mr Irving's power of describing the emotions of love in a young and enthusiastic and Italian mind.

"Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one intrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in the convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the bay; a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory around her, as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but sixteen years of age and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worship

ped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau-ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection. I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and I fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on her, the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age, shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention by her mother; for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favour

for me; and I am inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and respect. Still the

kindness with which I was treated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal, She seemed too exquisite for earthly use;

too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvass, with my eyes occasionally rivetted on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate climate, and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of passion in our south

ern bosoms."

Compare the following with its parent scene in Peregrine Pickle, or the somewhat similar one in Humphry Clinker, where the boots are run for.

"I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Mr Buckthorne explained this to me by informing me that this was a business dinner, or kind of fieldday, which the house gave about twice ayear to its authors. It is true they did oc casionally give snug dinners to three or four literary men at a time; but then these were generally select authors, favourites of the public, such as had arrived at their sixth or seventh editions. There are,' said he, 'certain geographical boundaries in the land of literature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author's popularity by the wine his bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port line about the third edition, and gets into claret; and when he has reached the sixth or seventh, he may revel in champagne and burgundy.',

And pray,' said I, how far may these gentlemen have reached that I sce around me; are any of these claret-drinkers ?"

"Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great dinners the common steady run of authors, one, two edition men; or if any others are invited, they are aware that it is a kind of republican meeting. You understand me-a meeting of the republic of letters; and that they must expect nothing but plain, substantial fare.'

"These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the arrangement of the table. The two ends were occupied by two partners of the house; and the host seemed to have adopted Addison's idea as to the literary precedence of his guests. A popular poet had the post of honour: opposite to whom was a hot-pressed traveller in quarto with plates. A grave-looking antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, that were much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, and seated next to a neat dressy gentleman in black, who had written a thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political economy, that was getting into fashion. Several three volume duodecimo men, of fair currency, were placed about the centre of the table; while the lower end was taken up with small poets, translators, and authors who had not as yet risen into much notoriety.

"The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts; breaking out here and there in various parts of the table in small flashes, and ending in smoke. The poet, who had the confidence of a man on good terms with the world, and independent of his bookseller, was very gay and brilliant, and said many clever things which set the partner next him in a roar, and delighted all the company. The other partner, however, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, with the air of a thorough man of business, intent upon the occupation of the moment. His gravity was explained to me by my friend Buckthorne. He informed me that the concerns of the house were admira

tors.

"The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the upper end of the table, as the authors there seemed to possess the greatest courage of the tongue. As to the crew at the lower end, if they did not make much figure in talking, they did in eating. Never was there a more determined, inveterate, thoroughly sustained attack on the trencher than by this phalanx of masticaWhen the cloth was removed, and the wine began to circulate, they grew very merry and jocose among themselves. Their jokes, however, if by chance any of them reached the upper end of the table, seldom produced much effect. Even the laughing partner did not seem to think it necessary to honour them with a smile; which my neighbour Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that there was a certain degree. of popularity to be obtained before a bookseller could afford to laugh at an author's jokes.

66

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated below the salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He was rather shabbily dressed; though he had evidently made the most of a rusty black coat, and wore his shirt frill plaited and puffed out voluminously at the bosom. His face was dusky, but florid, perhaps a little too florid, particularly about the nose; though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre to a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look of a boon companion, with that dash of a poor devil in it which gives an inexpressibly mellow tone to a man's humour. I had seldom seen a face of richer promise; but never was promise so ill kept. He said nothing, ate and drank with the keen appetite of a garreteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh, even at the good jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired who he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively: Gad,' said he, I have seen that face before, but where, I cannot recollect. He cannot be an author of any note. I suppose some writer of sermons, or grin. der of foreign travels.""

The following reads like one of the flimsiest imitations of the Goldsmith vein in Bonnell Thornton, or some of the minor wits of the Mirror.

"I now entered London, en cavalier, and became a blood upon town. I took fashionable lodgings in the west end; employed the first tailor; frequented the re gular lounges; gambled a little; lost my money good-humouredly, and gained a number of fashionable, good-for-nothing acquaintances. I gained some reputation, also, for a man of science, having become an expert boxer in the course of my studies at Oxford. I was distinguished, there