Amel. Of one enjoyment, while he smiled upon me That we must yield our pleasur s, nay, our duties Amel. Anna. Yes, the consciousness That we are ministering to the joys Of one we love, is recompense enough. Amel. Alas! art thou too doomed to dream of bliss, And wake as I have done?-think'st thou this knowledge For whom thou gavest all, was revelling In other pleasures, thinking not of thee? Anna. Yes I would think that though awhile forgotten, Amel. Anna. That gave him all, and left itself a bankrupt. These are the thoughts Inquire not from the tongue of man, but ask Why is it thus, my sister, From flower to flower, like the gay bee, and steal Amel. Anna. The blooming rose be found not.-Then 'tis thus- The faithful nightingale Ah! thy young fancy Can make e'en sorrow wear the brilliant garb Of poetry, but when thou hast, like me, Beheld the brightest tints of fancy fade Into the sober grey of sad reality- For unrequited love. I wonder, sister, How Henry would paint love-thou dost describe it So beautiful, it would entice the heart Exit. Tales of a Traveller, Parts I, II. III. IV. By Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. Author of "The Sketch Book," "Bracebridge Hall," "Knickerbocker's New-York," &c. Philadelphia, H. C. Carey & I. Lea. 1824. There is a natural propensity in a people who have attained, as a country, great literary or scientific eminence, to look down upon the efforts of those who are following at a distance in the same career. In this respect, as in most others, nations resemble individuals. He who after long and expensive exertions, reaches at last the object of his enterprize, finds nothing so diverting as the thoughts of the distance his followers are behind him, although he knows well that they too have a right to laugh at others in their turn. We recollect, when we were boys, what pleasure we felt in atchieving the lofty summit of one of those hills which our vigorous corporation, with the activity of an earthquake, has thrown into the river. But the pleasure of having reached the top was very far surpassed by the delight which we experienced, in watching the stri vings and the strainings, the panting and the perspiration, the struggling hand and the backsliding foot of the urchins who only started when we were more than half way up the hill. Men are but children of a larger growth;' and we may add that nations have the motives and the attributes of men. commenced our literary career long after England had reached the middle height' of hers, and we ought not to be surprised nor displeased that she smiles at the efforts we are making to overtake her. There is doubtless not a little of the mischievous malice of success, in her laughter at some of the slips and We the stumbles we are making in our haste; and perhaps a little good-natured irony, (we speak of the voice of the nation, not of the cold blooded sneers of a few individuals,) in the tone with which she commiserates our failures, or applauds our successes. Yet, we doubt not in the least, but that she really is pleased with the progress we have made; and stands ready, as soon as we are in reach, to stretch forth the hand of good fellowship, and place us by her side. She has already given us numerous proofs of her national good-will; and we think it would argue more folly than feeling, if we suffered ourselves to be put out of temper, when she laughs at the awkward and wild impetuosity of some of our exertions. If she makes her self merry at the expense of the Columbiad, she is ready to acknowledge the merit of the beautiful lyrics of Bryant. If she ventures to be pleasant with the Annals of the Housatonic,' she has certainly shown no disposition to undervalue the excellence of Brown. The delightful delineations of national scenery and character by Cooper, and the elegant fictions from the pen of the authoress of Redwood have received the sincere, though scarcely adequate applauses of many of the literary judges of Great Britain; and assuredly we have no reason to complain that they are unwilling to appreciate fairly the pleasant lucubrations, the free and spirited sketches, the beautiful imaginations and sprightly speculations of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.' They have even surpassed ourselves, in their admiration of that combination of the delicate with the lively, the humorous with the gentle, the spirit of the Flemish with the softness of the Italian school, for which the exquisite creations of Irving's imagination are peculiarly distinguished. In one respect, however, we cannot help thinking they have exhibited a spirit of illiberality not at all comporting with national good feeling. They undertake to condemn with unqualified severity, what they have professed to consider, and have not hesitated to denominate, our overweening nationality. In this they evince an unusual want of discrimination and injustice of com plaint. In the first place, we cannot for our souls see so enormous an offence in patriotic partialities howeverexcessive. The strong and indiscriminate affection which an Englishman feels for every thing English, has always been regarded as an amiable and praiseworthy trait in the national character, and really, we do not comprehend how that which is an honour to John Bull can be a disgrace to Brother Jonathan. There may be something ludicrous, and even burlesque, in the blindness of a nation's prepossessions; but how this most venial of prejudices can possibly deserve the serious and grave reprobation of those who are at least equally guilty of the offence, is a paradox in national morality which we do not understand. In the next place, we are by no means convinced, that in estimating the value of our literature we have been guilty of very violent partialities. On the contrary, whatever we may say of the merit of our political institutions, (of which, indeed, it is scarcely possible to say too much,) we have frequently shown a strong and perverse disposition to undervalue our literary and scientific achievements. There are very few Americans who seem to be aware of the extent to which our domestic literature has gradually accumulated, and that there requires nothing but the stimulus of purchase, to enable some enterprising publisher to furnish a body of American authors on almost every variety of knowledge, which we would not feel any apprehensions in subjecting to the severest ordeal of transatlantic criticism. So far has this neglect of our literature gone, that it is by no means uncommon, to find some of our countrymen minutely acquainted with all the productions of the secondary writers of Italy, Germany and France, while they are shamefully ignorant of the very names of American authors of by no means inferior excellence. We have seen, for example, the poems of Cunningham, Yalden and Broome in the hands of many, to whom Bryant's name is utterly unknown. The sickly and sentimental heroics of Miss Jane Porter will draw floods of tears from the eyes of the young patronesses of our circulating libraries, while Brown is thrown aside without even the experiment of perusal. It is an argument of very extensive or very eccentric erudition, to be familiar with Edwards's masterly Inquiry into the Freedom of the Will,' but nothing is considered more disgraceful in a scholar, than not to have perused that feeblest and flimsiest of things, the Moral Science of Beattie.' We do not anticipate that the light and playful efforts of imagination, contained in the volumes before us, will meet with much applause from the critics of Great Britain; and indeed it is probable enough that they will be considered as failures. But we do not believe that these tales will be spoken of in England, in language so slighting and depreciating as some of our American Zoiluses have already bestowed upon these lively and elegant effusions of our countryman's muse. Such then are our unjust partialities in favour of American authors. The fact is, that generally speaking, our literature is more highly appreciated, better spoken of, and we venture to say, more frequently read (we speak of our best writers,) in England and Germany, than in America. It is time to throw aside this unnatural indifference to objects, which, for no other reason than because they are o ir own, would justify the strongest parental partialities. Let us read then, and let us venture to admire, before we have seen the last English reviews, the productions of our scientific and literary countrymen, not only because they are often inherently excellent, but (we say it believing that there exists such a national obligation,) because they are American. To show, at all events, how sincere are our professions of Americanism, we shall begin by confessing the delight which the tales of our Traveller have given us. And this we shall do, without taking the smallest trouble to anticipate whether the transatlantic sovereigns of the literary world intend to forbid, or condescend to allow us to be pleased. The peculiar charm, we take it, that pervades Mr. Irving's stories, is the evidence we every where behold, that the writer possesses, in a very high degree, a delicate appreciation of the beautiful united to a lively perception of the ridiculous. This combination of faculties is by no means common, because the relations of natural and moral objects which produce the burlesque or the humerous, coincide but in very few instances. with those which constitute the beautiful. The imagination which delights in incongruous assemblages, will seldom contemplate with pleasure that aptness of design, and fitness of relation, which may always be discovered in the beautiful; and which, when the harmony between the phenomena of the moral world and their physical similitudes is properly preserved, constitute the secret of the enjoyment furnished by the faculty of taste. As the extreme of unfitness is, for the most part, the source of the ridiculous, it follows that the union of fine taste and strong humour will seldom take place in the same individual. He who appreciates readily the relation of fitness, will no doubt discern with equal readiness the violation of propriety; but then he will not be affected with pleasurable sensatious, inasmuch as it is opposed to his particular taste. The inadequacy, inexactness and inconsistency of objects will offend and disgust him; and this is, doubtless, the reason why images laughable to some, are so extremely distasteful and offensive to others. How is it, then, that we find those almost incompatible attributes so admirably blended in the writer before us? Be |