customs. This, Mr. Irving has most effectually accomplished. There is a fidelity in his representations, which displays much acuteness of observation. His expressions are remarkably felicitous, and, like a happy touch of the pencil, bring out a feature to the life. His characters are far more than the mere shadowless creatures of his imagination: we identify them with beings we have frequently seen and conversed with, and we recognize them with the same feelings, that we should an old friend, or associate. They stand before us, in all the spirit of actual existence, and among the same scenes in which we first beheld them. His characters, too, are purely English; and hence we are better enabled to detect any want of fidelity in his delineations.

The scene of these volumes, as their title bespeaks, is laid at Bracebridge Hall, where, it will be recollected, the author had before spent a Christmas. We now behold him, among the inmates of that hospitable mansion, on a visit of far greater importance. He is now at the Hall, for the purpose of being present at the wedding of " the Squire's second son, Guy," and "the fair Julia Templeton." Poor Guy, and his loving Julia, are, as might be expected, the most uninteresting personages in the book. We see but little of them, and that little is almost too much. Lovers are the most insipid creatures in the world, to every body except themselves; and the author has very judiciously allowed them to steal into the library, or into the solitudes of the garden walks, or where ever they pleased, whilst he amused himself and us, in the company of the Squire, Master Simon, and Old Christy.

The Squire, is "a lingering specimen of the old English country gentleman," professing "a bigoted devotion to old English manners and customs." Master Simon is " a brisk old bachelor-looking little man; the wit, and superannuated beau, of a large family connection, and the Squire's factotum." And Old Christy, "is the most ancient servant in the place, having lived among dogs and horses, the greater part of a century, and been in the service of Mr. Bracebridge's father." These characters are admirably drawn, and form the chief interest of the work. Old Christy has grown grey in the family, and, in his own estimation, is a more important man in it, than even the Squire himself. He ram

bles about the courts and the stables, like an old mastiff; quiet enough, if you pat him, but ready to snarl at every body, who may have courage to interfere with him in any other manner. Master Simon very frequently attempts to do so, and, on these occasions, is sure to be rewarded by Old Christy (it should have been Old Crusty) with a growl. These bickerings between them are very pleasantly alluded to:

“There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, as hot as a pepper corn; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a thread-bare velvet jockey-cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone as though they had been japanned. He was very contradictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, to differ from Master Simon, now and then, out of mere captiousness.

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The arrival of the widow, Lady Lillycraft, at the Hall, introduces us to a new set of characters. We have the widow herself, a fair fresh-looking elderly lady." We have an equivocal personage, "with

a look somewhat between a lady's companion and a lady's maid ;" and we have a couple of pampered curs. The latter are thus spoken of:

"One is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr-though heaven defend me from such a Zephyr! He 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. The other is a little, old, gray 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 screwed up so tight, that it seems to lift his feet from the ground; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called

Beauty."

The Old Soldier, the Parson, and Ready Money Jack, are excellent specimens of character. The first " is a soldier of the old school, with powdered head, side locks, and pig-tail." He is, besides, "an old bachelor and an old beau." He has seen " very little active service except the taking of Seringapatam," and, to judge from his conversation, this is the most important affair that has taken place for the last century. The second is "a dark, mouldy, little man," the greater part of whose time is expended in decyphering ancient manuscripts, and poring over old worm-eaten volumes. The third is an honest, hardy English farmer, who lives upon the Squire's estate. He is a sturdy old fellow, who provides the cash for every thing before he purchases it, and who has a greater dread of paper money than even the patriotic Mr. Cobbett.

There are a few stories interspersed through the volume; the best and most original of which is, The Stout Gentleman. The description it contains of a Wet Sunday, is exquisitely done; it is really putting a rainy day into words.

"A wet Sunday in a country inn! whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the window in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiledroofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw, that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crestfallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail matted as it were into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain drip

ping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now and then between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench trampled backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and mak ing a riotous noise over their liquor.”

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The Student of Salamanca, has little more to recommend it, than is to be found in the common-place stories, with which the shelves of circulating libraries" are crowded. It possesses, it is true, a few of those delicate passages which are so peculiar to the writer of them; but these are not in sufficient number, to warrant us in giving the tale a very high character. It is so very seldom we have to find fault with Mr. Irving, for any attempt to "show off" the extent of his reading, that when we have an opportunity to do so, the circumstance becomes the more remarkable, and we cannot pass it over in silence. We think the immense number of names which he quotes, in this story, of men who have laboured in the divine science of alchymy, is of little consequence in the working out of the tale; and he must, certainly, have turned over the leaves of the whole of the books, that were ever written on that subject, before he could have obtained them. This is a needless waste of his own time, and that of his readers. There is one passage in this tale, which we think may be of infinite service to some of our young friends-we can, indeed, almost remember the time, when it would have been of some consequence to ourselves, to have had it in view. He says, "let those who would keep two faithful hearts asunder, beware of music. Oh! this leaning over chairs, and conning the same music, and entwining of voices, and melting away in harmonies!-the German waltz is nothing to it."

In the early part of the first volume, we think we can perceive a greater approximation in feeling to the Sketch Book, than is to be found in the subsequent pages. The following description of an old family servant is remarkably beautiful.

"But the good old family servant!'-the one who has always been linked, in idea, with the home of our heart; who has led us to school in the days of prattling childhood; who has been the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprizes; who has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports; who, when we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our parents; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, still totters about the house of our fathers in fond and faithful servitude; who claims us in a manner as his own, and hastens with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon us at table; and who, when we retire at night to the chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word about times that are past-who does not experience towards such a being a feeling of almost filial affection?" The remaining passage which we shall quote from these volumes is

exceedingly striking. It displays all the same sublimity of thought and depth of feeling which were so frequently manifested in the author's former production. In speaking of the crumbling piles of past ages, he says,

"I cannot describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height, a mere hollow, yet threatening phantom of departed power."

Upon the whole, Bracebridge Hall is a work which will do no discredit to the author of the Sketch Book; whilst we must say, that to any other man it would have been productive of the highest honours.

The History of New York, by Deidrich Knickerbocker.

This book has become a part of our nature. We could as little refrain from a periodical perusal of its pages, as we could abstain from eating and drinking. It is, indeed, the most important part of the means of our existence; and our good old aunt, who has little else to do than to attend to our comforts, instead of asking whether we have had our breakfast, frequently enquires whether we have taken our Knickerbocker. There is no word in any language capable of expressing the character of this extraordinary production. It is as far beyond wit, as what is called pure wit, is beyond the mouldy orations of an Alderman, after a city feast. Its broad burlesque of character, and the originality of incident, are perfectly unequalled. In a word, it is the Sketch Book of humourous productions.

There is, even in the table of its contents,' more humour, than is frequently found in a volume. The contents of the first book, we shall give entire, and these are the only extracts we think it necessary to make; as we conclude, that those, who have made any moderate advances in the difficult art of reading, have already perused the work itself.

"CONTAINING DIVERS INGENIOUS THEORIES, AND PHILOSOPHIC SPECULATIONS CONCERNING THE CREATION AND POPULATION OF THE WORLD, AS CONNECTED WITH THE HISTORY OF NEW YORK.

"Chap. I. Description of the world.

"Chap. II.

Cosmogony, or creation of the world; with a multitude of excellent theories, by which the creation of the world is shewn to be no such difficult matter as common folks imagine. "Chap. III. How far that famous navigator, Noah, was shamefully nicknamed; and how he committed an unpardonable oversight, in not having four sons: with the great trouble of philosophers caused thereby, and the discovery of America.

Chap. IV. Shewing the great difficulty philosophers have had in peopling America and how the Aborigines came to be gotten by accident, to the great relief and satisfaction of the author.

"Chap. V. In which the author puts a mighty question to the rout, by the assistance of the man in the moon, which not only delivers thousands of people from great embarrassment, but likewise concludes this introductory book."

Salmagundi, and Oldstyle's Letters.

We are prevented from saying much on these works, in consequence of a notice, annexed to the "Tales of a Traveller." In that notice, the author disclaims any productions which may have appeared without his sanction; and of course, we have no right to make him own that, which he has no inclination to acknowledge to be his. Salmagundi, he confesses, he was partially engaged in; and there is certainly nothing in the confession which can, in any way, injure his reputation. It is a pleasant, spirited production, and bears evident signs of being written at that age, when the young blood leaps in the veins, and every sentiment springs from the freshness of the feelings. But Jonathan's Letters are a sad affair indeed he might well disown them. Some of them are heavy, without being solid; the others are light, without being witty. They are exceedingly dull and common-place; and are, certainly, any body's but Washington Irving's.

The Tales of a Traveller.

We observed, at the conclusion of our remarks on the Sketch Book, that the author was bound, in regard to his own fame, to set out for another world, as we considered he would never again produce a work worthy to be compared with that beautiful production. There are, however, two or three of these tales, which would almost induce us to extend to him the favour of a prolonged existence; but these are surrounded with others of so, comparatively speaking, inferior a character, that it would be charitable to allow him, forthwith, to ensure his immortality, by taking the measures to which we have before alluded.

We cannot say that these volumes are powerfully interesting; and to say, simply, that they are interesting, would be a very negative kind of enlogium for such a writer as Washington Irving, Unlimited as are the powers of the human mind, there is still a maximum in the mind of an individual—a point, beyond which it cannot soar. That point Mr. Irving had attained in his Sketch Book. There, as far as fame is concerned, he should have stopped; for on that work his claims to immortality will ultimately rest. Whatever he may, in future, publish, will chiefly concern him as commercial speculations: he is fully entitled to the benefit of them; and, speaking from our own affection for every thing that proceeds from his pen, we trust he will "carry on a roaring trade." He is in good hands. Murray is the prince of publishers, and his transactions with authors are carried on with a truly royal munificence. Mr. Irving, who has had his quantum sufficit of the "empty praise" of authorship, may now expect his due share of the "solid pudding."

These tales are divided into four parts; the first, Strange Stories, by a Nervous Gentleman; the second, Buckthorne and his Friends; the third, The Italian Banditti; and the fourth, The Money Diggers. The Bold Dragoon, which we extracted in a former number, is a good specimen of the first; and the Young Robber, which we gave in our last number, is a fair specimen of the third. The second details some