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Be not scandalized, devout reader, at this allusion to the earthly-minded dominie; there is a sly and well-deserved satire in it. There are too many such dominies extant. We could wish the satire a little more trenchant.

But we must cease our quotations. The volume contains sketches of Parisian life (a series of them) in 1825, traditions, or rather legends, of the Indians, Spanish stories, and ends with "Recollections of the Alhambra," which recall one of its author's most charming previous books.

A rare and endeared old man is this Washington Irving. Old! the word appears hardly admissible—he seems to us yet "old always youthful," as was said of the the German Klopstock. A good Providence is blessing him with a slow and beautiful sunset in the evening of his life. He has lived to see his name and (an equal happiness) that of his notable hero, household words throughout this continent, and in most of Europe. He cannot walk our streets without recognizing them on the very omnibuses, the public-houses, and the signs of shops and stores, and assembly halls. His genius combines the humor of Addison, the style of Goldsmith, and the gentle morale of good old Izaak Walton.

An American who is solicitous for the literary taste of his country, must be perplexed to anticipate what it will turn out to be, when he looks at the literary frivolities and abominations which flood the nation. A little while ago it seemed that our country was fast becoming the common sewer for the very filth of transatlantic literature. The monstrous births of the French and English presses were immediately reissued here in editions far greater than those of France or England. More recently, perverse and scandalous personal books, or literary extravaganzas, have been scattered universally by a monstrous system of advertising. And is not the demoralizing effect visible in the alarming growth of vice among us? And what ultimately must the literature of a people thus vitiated in taste become? Under such circumstances, it is refreshing to remember that Irving is our national literary prototype, and that sound morality and genuine taste have obtained, in his classic writings, a vantage-ground which can never be forfeited. It has been said that it is a circumstance of inappreciable

advantage for the dignity and permanence of our nation, that its greatest historical character was the incomparable Washington; and one writer thinks that the moral influence, on the national mind, of his almost superhuman example has given to the country much of its greatness and stability, while revolutionary frenzy has been ravaging Europe. It is, in like manner, a national good fortune that Irving is the first in our popular literature-not only the first prominent in regard to time, but also in merit; for he has precisely those excellences of genius which, like good wine, are sure to become more valuable with age. A hundred years hence, when Irving is dust, his genius will be abroad among the thronging millions of his fellow-countrymen, and will probably then be more effective than it is now. His own beautiful essay on the Mutability of Literature is false in one thing—is false in respect to his own destiny.

Those changes in language, to which he ascribes the obsoleteness of old books, will not affect him. It is a true doctrine in regard to a forming language, but not to one which has reached its maturity. Old Piers Plowman is dead under it, old Chaucer suffers seriously from it, and even the Elizabethan writers somewhat; but Addison and Goldsmith never will. They have attained the pure idiomatic genius of the language, which can perish only by the lapse of our civilization. Irving has preeminently this excellence. And then, humor, especially if elegant in its style, is permanently popular. Irving has this in its most healthful and genial tone. Where in Addison do you find better specimens than in old Diedrich Knickerbocker, or the John Bull, the Rip Van Winkle, the Sleepy Hollow, or the Christmas articles of the Sketch-Book? Good descriptions of natural scenery are likely to be permanently interesting-for nature is permanent-and good delineations of human character are still more so. Irving is one of the best painters of scenery and life in English literature. Scott does not excel him, nor equal him. His only fault, in this respect, is, that he is too conscious of his power, and uses it too frequently. Every article in the Sketch-Book may be referred to for examples. No interior scene of Teniers or Ostade surpasses the fine Flemish picture of "The Inn Kitchen." Dramatic effect is a rare ex

cellence among authors; but how it abounds in the pages of Irving! Men of strong humor are usually susceptible of tenderness; what an incessant contrast of pleasantry and pathos do we meet with in this author? And where, among all our writers, will you find more affecting examples of the latter than in "The Broken Heart," or "The Widow and her Son?" And as to moral sentiment, what writer in our lighter literature is more pure? In these respects Irving's writings have indisputable grounds of permanence. It is a matter of real, we were going to say of religious thankfulness, that such works are to be the national inheritance of our children; and whosoever helps to supersede the literary abominations which are creeping into our families like obscene reptiles, by directing the popular taste toward these pure and most entertaining productions, does a good service.

Some few years ago it was stated in the papers, that, while the New-York press was teeming with foreign trash, Washington Irving had been trying in vain to enlist a publisher for a new and complete edition of his works, with a final revision. The newspapers commented on the fact with indignation; and doubtless every generous mind in the land, that heard of it, felt mortified for his country. He at last found a publisher worthy of him. Putnam, of New-York, is now issuing the edition in a style seldom if ever surpassed on this side of the Atlantic. There is no flashy ostentation about it, but a neat, simple, perfect elegance; the type, paper, and binding, are an honor to the country. The Life of Columbus," the venerable Diedrich Knickerbocker's "History of New-York, from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty," the "SketchBook," and Bracebridge Hall," the Historical and Biographical works and others, amounting, with the present one, to sixteen volumes, have appeared, and can be had for about twenty dollars. Each work, except the Columbus, is complete in one volume of very convenient size. Interesting prefatory remarks, somewhat autobiographical, accompany each, dated at "Sunnyside." Knickerbocker's "History," we learn from its new preface, was commenced as 66 a mere temporary jeu d'esprit," in connection with his brother, the late Peter Irving, Esq. It was designed to be a parody on a small hand-book,

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entitled, "A Picture of New-York." He remarks:

"Like that, our work was to begin with a historical sketch; to be followed by notices of the customs, manners, and institutions of the city-written in a serio-comic vein, and treating local errors, follies, and abuses, with good-humored satire. To burlesque the pedantic lore displayed in certain American works, our historical sketch was to commence with the creation of the world; and we laid all kinds of works under contribution for trite citations, relevant or irrelevant, to give it the proper air of learned research. Before this crude mass of mock erudition could be digested into form, my brother departed for Europe, and I was left to prosecute the enterprise alone. I now altered the plan of the work. Discarding all idea of a parody on the Picture of NewYork, I determined that what had been originally an introductory sketch, should comprise the whole work, and form a comic history of the city. I accordingly molded the mass of citations and disquisitions into introductory chapters, forming the first book; but it soon became evident to me, that, like Robinson Crusoe with his boat, I had begun on too large a scale, and that, to launch my History successfully, I must reduce its proportions. I accordingly resolved to confine it to the period of the Dutch domination, which, in its rise, progress, and decline, presented that unity of subject required by almost a terra incognita, in history. In fact, I classic rule. It was a period, also, at that time, was surprised to find how few of my fellowcitizens were aware that New-York had once

been called New-Amsterdam, or had heard of the names of its early Dutch governors, or cared a straw about their ancient Dutch progenitors."

He apologizes, we think quite needlessly, for his caricatures of the old Dutch burghers and governors, some of whose descendants have been rather sensitive about them. The following references are made to the later popularity of the work :—

"When I find, after a lapse of nearly forty years, this haphazard production of my youth still cherished-when I find its very name become a household word,' and used to give the home stamp to everything recommended for popular acceptation, such as Knickerbocker societies, Knickerbocker insurance companies, Knickerbocker steamboats, Knickerbocker omnibuses, Knickerbocker bread, and Knickerbocker ice; and when I find New-Yorkers of Dutch descent priding themselves upon being genuine Knickerbockers,' I please myself with the persuasion that I have struck the right chord; that my dealings with the old Dutch times, and the customs and usages derived from them, are in harmony with the feelings and humors of my townsmen; that I have opened a vein of pleasant associations and quaint characteristics peculiar to my native place, and which its inhabitants will not willingly suffer to pass away; and that, though other histories of NewYork may appear, of higher claims to learned acceptation, and may take their dignified and

appropriate rank in the family library, Knickerbocker's History will still be received with good-humored indulgence, and be thumbed and chuckled over by the family fireside."

The preface to the Sketch-Book gives some interesting details of its author's literary history. These classic papers, with two exceptions, were written in England. He intended to prepare the complete series before publishing; but pecuniary reverses compelled him to send them "piecemeal to this country for publication in numbers." They found their way to England, and were particularly commended in the London Literary Gazette. It was reported to him that a London bookseller was about to issue a volume of them. This induced him to attempt to procure a publisher himself, that he might not only have the pecuniary advantage, but also the opportunity of suitable revision. He applied to Murray, the celebrated publisher, and met with one of those discomfitures which form so frequent a feature in literary biography. We must give his own account of the matter: "I took the printed numbers, which I had received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination, informing him that, should he be inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials on hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed without any communication from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had left with him might be returned. The following was his reply:

"MY DEAR SIR,-I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind intentions toward me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with work-people, and I have only an office to transact business in; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging; but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours.

"With much regard, I remain, dear sir, your faithful servant, JOHN MURRAY.'"

"This," he says, 66 was disheartening;" but he remembered Constable, Scott's famous publisher, at Edinburgh, with whom he had formed an acquaintance. He wrote to Scott to procure Constable's interest in the work, and mentioned that a pecuniary reverse made it necessary for him to rely upon the publication for aid. The Sketches were sent to Scott for ex

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amination. The hint about a reverse of fortune was just such as could not fail to interest the generous heart of Scott. offered Irving immediately an editorship at Edinburgh, and wrote:

"If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and there is no harm done. And for my love, I pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be made to suit you, let me know, as soon as possible, addressing Castle-street, Edinburgh." In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, adds:

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"I am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch-Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there are always in managing such a matter, especially at the outset; but we will obviate them as much as we possibly can."

The offer of an editorship at fifteen hundred dollars per annum, was rather a tempting bait for a poor and embarrassed litterateur; but Irving was true to his genius. He knew that editing a periodical was little more than mental mechanics, and that genius could find it but abject slavery. Had he accepted, we should, probably, have had from him, as in the case of Bryant, but an occasional intimation of the brilliant powers which would be thus comparatively lost. Literary men of real genius have usually made a poor figure at periodical editorship. Leigh Hunt ran down several publications; Wilson did well; Campbell, Lockhart, and a host of others, nearly spoiled their careers by it. Campbell, as we said in our last number, rejected Miss Mitford's papers when he was editor of the "New Monthly Magazine;" they found a place in the

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"Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim, according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received this reply:

"I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's own account; for the bookselfers set their face against the circulation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in such cases, between the author and the public, which they were once able to do, as effectually as Diabolus,

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The Sketch-Book was brought out in London; but, before it had got fairly under way, the publisher failed, and the writer

had another illustration of the fortunes of authorship; but Scott, whose heart was ever as generous as his genius was fertile, came again to his help. Irving says:—

"At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work, which he had previously declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off, and the second volume was put to press; and from that time, Murray became my publisher, conducting himself, in all his dealings, with that fair, open, and liberal spirit, which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers."

Irving refers gratefully to the kindness of his great literary friend :—

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Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe; and I feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man, in acknowledging my obligations to him. But who of his literary cotemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel, that did not experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance?"

We have given these scraps of literary history to our readers, because nothing relating to our national literary favorite is uninteresting. It is to be hoped that his works, now beautifully reissued, will find their way into every section of the States, and do much to displace the pernicious publications, which are corrupting the public taste and morals. Our children demand a tasteful and entertaining literature in addition to our many and excellent purely religious works, and will have it. If we would divert them from the perverse or corrupt literary pretenders of the day, the Fanny Ferns, Barnums and Wikoffs, and the deluging "yellow-cover" literature, let us put these elegant works into their hands. We can hardly conceive of a mind, accustomed to such reading, degrading itself afterward in the filthy mire of Eugene Sue, or even Edward Lytton Bulwer.

It is a perplexing question with rightminded parents what works, mostly of elegance or taste, they can safely put into

the hands of their children. It is next to impossible to withdraw from them entirely what is called light reading. The prohibition would, in many cases, be but a provocation to it. Most fortunately for our literature, there are amidst its teeming corruptions some works of the kind which are at once pure and classic-Addison, Johnson, Goldsmith, and Irving. Who would ask for more attractive authors? All of them, not excepting Irving himself, some good men might wish to modify in some passages; but he that can confine the interest of his child to such "light reading," may expect in him not only good taste, but good and generous traits of character.*

[For the National Magazine.j APRIL.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

THEY say thou wert a loiterer, lovely child,
In days of Ela! thou art no lingerer now,
For soft I feel thy flower-breath on my brow:-
They say when nature call'd her children round,
To portion them, thou wert astraying wild
Through wood and vale-by streamlet, willow
crown'd:-

Nor till the dame had given to each her blessing,

With every gift and favor worth possessing, Didst thou appear-in sooth, a fairy child, With laughing lips, blue eyes, and sunny hair, Of a capricious step, yet graceful air,— And bearing in thy hand a wreathlet wild Of glade, and meadow-land, of wood, and water flowers;

A fair and fragrant gift, cull'd in thy truant hours.

The "fable" tells how the great mother gloam'd

Upon the child that bounded to her knee: "O thoughtless one! where hast thou idling

roam'd?

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The redbreast's simple verse;
His mellow warblings, rich and full,
He need not now rehearse;
For he, through all the winter dull,
Has sung them to the lonely woods;
And oft, in shady solitudes,

His notes have come,
Like thoughts of home,
Into a weary soul.

Who does not own their mild control?
Familiar from our earliest year,
His tranquil song, resign'd and clear,
Brings thankful joy, yet wakes a tear:
For he has never ceased to pay

His visits to the churchyard lone,
To sing his funeral lay

Above each mossy stone.
And surely in his soothing strains
A dirge-like cadence yet remains.

Lo! what a goodly carpet here
Of wood anemonies,

Beneath the shade of hazel trees,
How fair their stars appear.
The hyacinth begins to shake
Her scented purple bells,

And hawthorn-blossom in the brake
The tide of fragrance swells.

Come forth and walk beside the stream,
The yellow meadows laugh and gleam
With sunshine of spring flowers.
Here I could sit and gaze for hours:

How rich the grass!
And as we pass

The daisies flap against our feet,
And here and there the cowslips sweet
Beckon us, nodding slow;

We gather'd them so long ago:
I cannot pass a cowslip by,
They have a beauty to my eye
That is not all their own.

Now on a turf of grass new-mown,
Where clover sheds

Its perfumed heads,
Sit down and take your fill.
About us come,

With dreamy hum,

The honey-seeking bees, that know
Where all the sweetest blossoms grow.

Rest for a moment, and be still!
There is a burden at my heart,
Half sweet, half sad,
Which longs to start

Into a chorus wild and glad.
Come, let the joy of nature creep
Into your spirit; let it send
Its fullness there,
Outweighing care:

It is the welcome of a friend.

For very gladness I could weep,

To think the spring has come,-the spring, That makes us rise, and soar, and sing,

In free, unfetter'd strain,

The resurrection of the year,

The herald of a brighter sphere,
Where all that has been blessed here
Shall live again!

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