place by his reckless disregard of the world and its old proprieties. Moore was at first read, because he was proclaimed to be one whom, no one should read. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, rang their own peal of popularity, and humanely explained each other to the world. It would be no difficult thing to go through the list of modern writers, and point out some glaring affectation, or studied singularity, by which they severally rose into distinction. The author of the Sketch-book owes his popularity to no unworthy arts. He has become known only by the force, simplicity, and truth of his works, And if he be not led aside by the common temptations of his present elevation, he may rest contented, that the world will not easily forget one whom it has so slowly and disinterestedly noticed and regarded. He may be proud of his honestly-earned popularity. He made no offerings of old armour and costly apparel at the shrine of Fame. His muse had no coronet mark in the corner of her kerchief. He wrote no forbidden books-professed not to be wiser or more humane than the world, or to build up a system of universal love and harmony. He laid two quiet unassuming volumes be fore the public, and left them to live or die as they should deserve. They are not yet dead. humble man, living perhaps in an obscure lodging, may sway with his pen the destinies of a country !—The author of the Sketch-book has certainly done very much towards cementing the friendship of his own nation and ours. England respects American talent and modesty-and America kindly regards English honour and hospitality. The We have (as which of us has not) our favourite papers in the Sketchbook, and we cannot resist hastily recurring to them; although we by no means insist upon their superiority over their interesting companions; for we have heard too many differing opinions on the subject, and from persons of feeling and taste too, to be obstinate in our own choice. volumes have been very generally read, and very generally admiredand we have no doubt, that there is scarcely a paper that has not its champion, ready to stand or fall in its cause. The Tales of Rip Van Winkle, and Sleepy Hollow, are rich extravagances of character and humour-but their wonders and marvels are rather unmanageable in the author's hands, and jostle unpleasantly with the dry and stiff vigour of the characters. The Pride of the Village is a most affecting and natural story; the account of the Girl's parting with her young Soldier is full of tenderness and pathos. The openThe Sketch-book, of all the books ing description of the funeral, which written in the present writing age,-is calls for the explanation, and then the freest from those little book-mak- the gradual recital of the events leading arts, which betray the author's at- ing finally to the funeral again, is tempts to spin out his pages to the ad- extremely touching. The tale seems vantage of his purse. The essays which bounded by death!-You cannot lose it contains are all, what they profess sight of the grave throughout, but to be, brief and natural sketches see it in all the little endearments of customs, manners, and charac- and hopes of the young girl-in her ters. They are, perhaps, a little fair virtues her hapless separation. too favourable towards the English The whole beauty of the tale is softand their country; but this amiable ened by Fate-and you seem to read it flattery may be attributed to the fair to the tolling of a funeral bell. The anxiety in a young, intelligent, and Broken Heart is more generally adardent American to escape from na-mired, but we own it appears to us less tional prejudices, and to do all in his natural-less simple less unaffected. power to foster amity and deaden old It is the record of an unfortunate atanimosities. The good likely to re- tachment between two young persons sult from the exertions of this indivi- in Ireland, whose names are too well dual is, in our opinion, incalculable: known to require their repetition and one of the noblest compliments to here. here. There is something of the the power of the human mind is the Irish style in the manner of relating amazing influence which it has over the story. The excessive prevails. the feuds and attachments of neigh- -We say this, with great submisbouring and even distant nations. An sion, because the title and the sub-VOL. VI. 2 I ject have long since secured all fe male readers as admirers and we know that an unfortunate expression of distaste often embitters a drawing room for life. The present Lord Chancellor, from having hazarded some fatal opinions concerning Madame Catalani and her music, has never been able to hold up his head since. The Royal Poet is a romantic picture of James. The papers upon Stratford-on-Avon-the Boar's-head Tavern in Eastcheap-and Christmas, are inimitable: they have a fine Shakspearian spirit about them, and are more like realities than essays.-The observations on Shallow, Falstaff, and Silence, are your only commentaries worth reading, or worthy of the subject. The Lucy Family, and the Mansion, are unveiled as by a magic hand and you look fairly into antlered halls and formal picture galleries. Westminster Abbey is a little too sentimental: such a subject should suggest its own orderly style-and yet how seldom we find a writer treat it quietly and with a staid solemnity-leaving it to assert its own awfulness. Little Britain is, indeed, an admirable paper: the Lambs and the Trotters stand pre-eminent in civic glory. What a contest of city bravery! What a struggle for splendour! The banishment of the butcher's pipe is nearly as portentous as that of Coriolanus! The mounting of the plumes in the bonnets of the Trotters is winged-triumph complete! The Country Church is also admirably written, allowing something for its aristocratic feeling. The flashing through the gravel of the coach wheels of the vain family-and the pulling up of the horses suddenly upon their haunches at the church door-are facts. We have written without having the books before us to recur to, but we rather think we have spoken of the major part of the essays contained in them. We should not forget the Spectre Bridegroom, which is quite dramatic! There are a few inferior papers, which we will not particularize, but these are to be expected. A pack of cards does not consist of fifty-two aces of spades. Having thus spoken of the Sketchbook, we shall be excused, even by the author himself, we think, if we do not profess ourselves to be such warm friends of Bracebridge-hall. The difficulties of keeping a long story alive seem to trouble the author; and although there are many sprightly and natural sketches, and several diverting characters,we think we detect, with regret, that Mr. Murray and Mr. Davison have had their influence over Mr. Crayon;— and each page of his work now seems to have a value set upon it by the author and the bookseller, quite distinct from that which it gains from the world's love. The printing is wide and magnificent ;-the humour is spun out, as though it were intended to be more than its own exceeding great reward. The quotations and mottoes pay their way. In short, the temptations to which, at the opening of these short and hasty remarks, we cautiously alluded, have had a certain triumph-and- Bracebridge-hall is in consequence not só ingenuous and unaffected a work as the Sketch-book. But though the present production, in comparison with one of its prede cessors, suffers a fall, let it not be supposed that it has not much in it to delight and pleasure the reader. The plan of it is simple; perhaps, for a story, too sketchy. The Bracebridge family, to whom the reader was introduced in the former work, are here led through two volumes, and the whole of their lives is carefully unfolded. The chapters, or essays, are entitled and mottoed assin the Sketch-book; and as they severally treat of some particular subject, we shall not regularly thread them, but notice only such as have particu-larly interested us. The attempt to continue a narrative through a series of essays, is, perhaps, the main fault of this book the characters seem to dawdle and hang about without a purpose, while the title of the chapter is being fulfilled. 1753 -Family Servants are well described. The housekeeper is fit to take her place in the hall of Sir Roger De Coverley. Her niece, Phoebe Wilkins, is too much of the novel breed. The widow, Lady Lillycraft, is written with infinite pains, and is worthy the patience and care of the workmanship. Her inveterate regard of the King "as an elegant young man," and her attachment to Sir Charles Grandison, are very charac teristic. Julia Templeton ("an ill phrase, a vile phrase that!") is unworthy the author. Christy the Huntsman, and Master Simon, are fellows of some mark and likelihood, and do well for the parts they are called upon to act. An Old Soldier introduces the character of General Harbottle, but not successfully. In the chapter entitled the Widow's Retinue, we have the two best and pleasantest characters in the whole work the pet-dogs, Zephyr and Beauty. Zephyr is "fed out of all shape and comfort; his eyes are nearly strained out of his head; he wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk without great difficulty." Zephyr is familiar to us-but who does not know Beauty?" He is a little, old, grey-muzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only look at him; his nose turns up; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show his teeth; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his feet from the ground." This is Beauty! The story of the Stout Gentleman is in excellent spirit and humour, and is in itself equal to anything in the former productions of the author. It is the account of a fat important personage at a traveller's inn, never seen but in his effect upon others. Eggs, and ham, and toast, go up to the stout gentleman's room: the chamber maid comes out all of a fluster, complaining of the rudeness of the stout gentleman in No. 13. The landlady goes up to him like a fury and returns in smiles. The stout gentleman is walking over-head-two huge boots are standing near the door of No. 13. Visions of stout gentlemen haunt the author all night-and by the day, noises are heard and a voice calls for the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13. The horn blows the stout gentleman is going for ever -a rush to the window is the result -and all that is seen is the skirt of ,,,, a brown coat parted behind, and the full view of the broad disk of a pair of drab breeches!-What a creation out of nothing!-The chapter on Forest Trees is interesting. But the long story of the Student of Salamanca is unaccountably dull for a Spanish tale. We have slightly gone through the first volume; we must more slightly pass through the second. The chapter on May-Day Customs is agreeably and lightly written. Slingsby, the Schoolmaster, is a capital fellow. He reminds us a little of long Ichabod Crane in the legend of Sleepy Hollow, but Tom Slingsby is" a man of his own." His "School" is sufficiently didactic. The story of Annette Delarbre is much in the style of the Pride of the Village, but it is more laboured, and less purely pathetic. The conclusion is not death, but it is madness, arising from grief, subdued by the return of a lover. This was a dangerous incident to manage, but the author has shown great skill in the work. There are several sketchy succeeding chapters, not remarkable for any peculiar spirit or interest; and then follows a long unwieldy narrative, called Dolph Heyliger, which carries us to the Wedding, and the end of the book. The author, in his farewell (we know what literary farewells are), speaks in a warm and kindly tone of our country, and seems to have in his heart that great object which we considered him as so well calculated to advance the friendships of the Old and New England. In our account of Bracebridge-hall, we have referred to its contents in a way that must show we consider our readers to be familiar with them. If we had never read the Sketch-book, we should have thought twice as highly of the present work;-which, with all its faults of haste, and sketchiness, and repetition, is an agreeable and interesting production, and may well be put on the shelves of those who patronize pleasantly-written and wellprinted books. STORY OF AMPELUS. FROM THE DIONYSIACS OF NONNUS. (Concluded.) THE FOOT-RACE. Nor though the palm of vigorous limbs had thus been lost and won, Each in degree with leaning form plied bold his onward pace; A present succour strait he gave, and breathed a supple force, And with the speed of hurricanes he wing'd him through the course: Along the dank shore plying fast his knees he cut the wind, And the prize-aiming runners left at distance far behind Cissus fell prostrate on the mould; the nerve of Leneus' knee Wax'd slack and check'd his feet: the youth thus snatch'd the victory. Then did the hoar Sileni loud the Bacchic outcry raise, The stripling's triumph stunn'd them so with rapture of amaze: !! Upon his rivals lowering dark was Cissus seen to stand, #0 THE SWIMMING-MATCH, This contest o'er, the lovely youth, the comrade of the god, Leave now my Satyrs in the dance to sport them as they may; While there are glass'd thy comely limbs a double Ampelus I see. To see that splendor one; the stream fresh-sparkling gild the shore, Where poplar-changed the sun-born maids have dropp'd their tears of old, To rippling waves, and trod the depths up-bounding here and there; Now the coeval boy he kept companion of his side, Now springing left him thrown behind upon the distant tide; Till now his circle-forming hands seem'd toiling with the wave; The knee-swift god an easy prize to that stream-faring traveller gave. And wreathed his ringlets round and round with ivy's serpent sprays, PASTIMES OF AMPELUS. Oft he beheld, as Bacchus turn'd, the skin that swept behind, And show'd him sport with cave-fond beasts, whose green eyes glit ter'd from afar... For now he climb'd the grisly neck of some clift-haunting bear, And spurr'd him on, or curb'd him strong with his own shaggy hair; And press'd the velvet mottled flanks, triúmphing as he rode. And feast with me when to the board thou seest thy god draw nigh, The panther moves me not: I scorn the shagg'd bear's savageness; Nor fear for thee th' impetuous fangs of mountain lioness ; |