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 dressing 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 husbandry, 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 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 had 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 principal charm of his maiden work. ̧ of is the best in the whole work. It is the description of a wild and reck less 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 judg ing 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 Sketch Book? He would thus please both parties, instead of neither. To conclude: it is an usual complaint with the authors of one popular work that their succeeding efforts are ungraciously received by the public; but the inferiority of the Tales of a Traveller to Mr. Irving's preceding works is so palpable, that I am sure he himself must acknowledge the sentence that condemns it as unworthy of his talents to be just. I am, &c. &c 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 fune ral 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 LET 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 Mayor at their head !—the wise caterers for public order and decorum!— the men of counsel and council!-the "Daniels-I say the Daniels !" Muse of Hogarth or of Rabelais! coquet with me only for one felicitous instant, while I try to paint the vacuity of horror, yet redolence of the ridiculous, which bespoke the first full suspicion of a hoax, that was no doubt-villainously good, but also of a blunder that was execrably palpable! But I dare only to leave this scene to the imagination. Let it suffice that the Mayor appealed to his despatch from the Secretary-produced it-and, to mend the matter, "lo, 'twas red!" What could be done? The town itself might be managed after a manner the crier might make another sortie to cause the shops to be shut, and the customers turned out-the bells might easily be set again in motion; but the country districts, the villages six, eight, ten, fifteen miles off! At seven o'clock in the morning the two troops of horse in garrison had been despatched to these several places with orders to suspend the homilies till Friday there was not a trooper left to pursue them with countermanding orders!-and again I inquire, what could be done? Nothing but what was done. The day, while all the rest of the British Empire mourned, the city of and her dependencies waxed merry and busy; and when the cloud had passed from the world beside, they had at last their time of exclusive sorrow. Any comment upon the moral propriety of this hoax might be out of season, certainly would be superfluous. If contemplated to the excess it ran, there can be no second opinion as to the delinquency; and in any view it was most indecorous, and no doubt you and your readers will call it shocking. But I am strongly led to question the first case; and with the second can have little to do. I only state, as in duty bound, facts, that even in their excesses present to you, I think, a trait of national character, whose demerits at least contain some, and a peculiar mental activity-in idleness. And since we have stumbled on national portraiture, suffer me to present you with another feature which may interest. I have met et with more than one profound Munchausen in Ireland; that is, a regular story-teller, who glories in his talent, who has built up to himself much fame and admiration from its repeated exercise, and whose effort is to preserve his character by a succession of ridiculous fictions. The king of this race of queer mortals is now dead; he abode in the very metropolis; was the idol of merry meetings in taverns, and at respectable private houses too: and, by all I can learn, never had com peer. His name was Sweetman— Jack Sweetman."-Oh! how the bare mention of his name will set poor Scotch's eyes twinkling, and slightly curve the right line of even Mr. O'Regan's mouth!-As master Slender would observe, however, "He is dead Jack Sweetman is dead ;" and those of his unconscious emulators whom I have seen were not your city wags Pure rustic geniuses they; teeming with their own original conceptions, and flinging them out and about in their own quaint idiom and slippery. tongue. The picture of the cleverest of them I have encountered, is before me: A comfortable country gentle man, about fifty years of age, tall, a little fat, a round red shining face, not at all strongly marked, and no index to his talent, if you should except the sparkle of two small blue eyes, rebelling against the affectation of gravity imposed on his well closed lips. At his own table, or at any other table, he was and is the father of tempestuous laughter. He knows what is expected from him--and that is every thingand without apparent effort he yields full and eternal satisfaction. I have heard him always with amazement, and, I must own, often with real excitation of spirits. We have no idea of such a man in England. He has told in my presence, upon four or five occasions that I have sat with him, half a hundred stories at least, no one resembling the other, and, I have been informed by those who knew him long, unlike any that he had ever told before. In fact, during some thirty |