cause, as we apprehend, his taste has seldom directed his imagination to that part of the ridiculous which depends upon incongruous associations, or those principles not reconcilable with the love of propriety, harmony and truth. If he occasionally indulges in exhibitions of a farcical character, he either succeeds, by avoiding such combinations as shock the moral sense, or else he fails altogether; thus proving that his mind is so constituted as to dwell with peculiar pleasure on the tender, the gentle, and the kindly affections, or on such modifications of the ludicrous, as do not interfere with them.

With this combination of powers, which seem, at first sight, not easily disposed to amalgamate, there was reason to apprehend that there might occasionally occur a collision or mutual disturbance of each other's effects. This has accordingly happened, but not to the extent it was natural to anticipate. general, the distinguishing character of each tale is maintained with remarkable success; and a few of them, indeed, have little else to recommend them, than the skill with which the keeping is preserved. There is a greater variety of characters and styles, and a variety vastly better sustained, to be found in the effusions of our author, than in the productions of any other writer in the department he has chosen. Even Boccaccio, who resembles him in more points than one, does not appear to have possessed an imagination so various and so versatile; at least he has not succeeded, we think, in impressing a character of diversity so strong, so discriminative, and so definite upon the beautiful inventions of his dexterous imagination. The author of the Decameron surpasses Geoffrey Crayon, it is true, in vivacity and spirit of description, in strength and eloquence of dialogue, in slyness of allusion, archness of narrative, keenness of irony and severity of sarcasm, in the shrewdness and aptness of the livelier incidents, and often in the vigour and the warmth of the serious passages. Irving could scarcely have produced such a specimen of dramatic beauty and persuasive eloquence, as is found in every part of the story of Sofronia. Nor has he yet given us any thing equal to the strong humour and rather daring satire of Frate Cipolla and L'Agnolo Gabriello.' But we do not hesitate to place him decidedly above Messer Giovanni in the amiable and gentle spirit which pervades all his writings, in the polished sweetness and elegance of his style, and above all, in the difficult art of securing and enchaining the interest of his readers, without flattering their vices or feeding their appetites with ungenerous sneerings or indelicate allusions.

Mr. Irving, endued with strong and equal powers of humourous and serious description, has exercised his ambidexterity of talent with very great propriety and taste. Even when he purposely unites in one story the grave and the gay, it is never with the view of surprising by the contrast. There is a facility, and we think a want of taste, in the wayward assemblage of sentiment and sarcasm, either of which, we are sure, was sufficient to prevent our author from resorting to the artifice. The tenderness and truth of some of his descriptions are, 'tis true, enlivened and embellished by the gentle and unobtrusive cheerfulness of some incidental anecdote or thought; but the reader is never startled into wonder, nor cheated into approbation. In the few tales which he has given us in this mixed style, there is a soft and soothing union of the parts, an easy and harmonious blending of the elements, into one delightful and homogeneous whole, which noue but the initiated, or rather none but the inspired sons of Fancy can accomplish. The greater part of those tales have, however, a decided character, solemn, serious, quaint, arch or burlesque. For the sake of brevity, we shall regard them as either serious or sprightly; and so distinct are the characteristics of these two genera, that it is impossible to analyse their merits and peculiar beauties, without constantly adverting to this circumstance.

6

Of the serious tales collected by the nervous gentleman, the first is the Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger.' and serves as an introduction to another of great force and beauty, the Story of the Young Italian.' Both are told in explanation of the extraordinary effect of a certain Mysterious Picture,' the sight of which so powerfully and painfully affects the nervous gentleman, that after vigorous attempts to go to sleep, he is finally driven from his bed to a sofa in the drawing room. The Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger' is told by a worthy fox-hunting baronet, at whose mansion the nervous gentleman was hospitably entertained, in company with an Irish captain of dragoons-a thin hatchet-faced gentleman, very interrogative-an elderly gentleman with a flexible nose-and a very old gentleman with a head half dilapidated. The baronet informs his inquisitive guests, that at Venice--but nothing is so stupid as the argument or abstract of a story. It is harder, we know from experience, to read the four lines at the head of each canto of Spencer's Fairy Queen, than to finish the whole book at a sitting; and besides, as our readers have all read the Tales,' to present them with the outlines of the stories, would be about as prudent and polite as if a landlord should lay upon

the plate of his guest the bones of an ortolan after he had feasted on its flesh. We will suppose, then, each tale to be as well before our readers as ourselves; and instead of describing an object which must be the same to us both, let us exchange our opinions of its merits; for opinions may differ with a difference not undeserving of discussion.

6

In reading a story, the majority of readers begin at the beginning. In an analysis, however, of its beauties or defects, we hold that it is best to begin at the end. Every good story has an object; and its relative excellence is measured by the fitness of its matter and its manner to accomplish the design of its contrivance. We do not here speak of the moral of the tale, but of the purely literary purpose of its plot. What is this purpose in the story before us, The Young Italian? Is it to explain the singular effect of the portrait of the murdered Filippo-the fundamental incident of the first of the three stories we have mentioned; or the strange distress of the mysterious Ottavio-the prominent object in the second; or the motives of the murder of the traitor friend-the catastrophe and termination of the third? We think that all this should successively be done, for each is professedly attempted. Mr. Irving has, with great propriety, in these three stories reversed in the narration the order of the events. We must, therefore, begin with the end of the first.

In justifying (so to speak) the peculiar effect of the portrait, the author has displayed the greatest address. The improbability that a mere picture should exercise such a strange and dismal influence upon the mind of a reasonable man, is completely removed by the artful combinations of circumstances, by which the spectator is surrounded. First, the ancient rookhaunted mansion, the violent storm and the ghost stories, must bave predisposed the nervous gentleman to feel the full effect of those impressions which bewilder an excitable imagination. Then, the wine and the wassail of his host, the indigested supper, the spacious room and old fashioned furniture, the constrained position on the arm chair, the night-mare, the great winding sheet in the taper, and the strong light thrown upon the picture as the sleeper suddenly awakes, are admirably managed. With all these appliances and means to boot,' it is perfectly natural that the picture of the blood-stained features of the man just murdered, painted by an exquisite artist, who had exerted all his skill to produce a strong resemblance, it is perfectly in nature, we repeat, that the nerves of a hypochondriac should be violently agitated at the sight. Then the 'pitch darkness and howling storm without,' the fitful gleaming Vol. II. No. L

of the light, the suspicions that this was the mysterious chamber; the gradual going out of the fire, and many other little circumstances needless to enumerate, but all of them combining to concentrate the effect, justify abundantly the remainder of the narrative. Yet foreseeing that the story, with all these enforcements and proprieties, could scarcely excite any very strong emotion in the reader; the author has contrived to introduce precisely such a quantity of cheerfuller and livelier imagery, that no part of the story awakens any sentiment not perfectly in concord with the rest. These remarks will appear no doubt to many, needlessly minute; and so indeed they would be, if they were intended to apply exclusively to the story whose structure we are canvassing. But the same observations may be made of most (though not of all) the tales contained in these four volumes; and we think that, independently of the main incident, the success of a story, nay, even of the tragic and epic fable, depends upon the due subordination of the parts to the catastrophe.

There is one passage in this story which offends us. the part which describes the vehement and angry assevera It is tions of the nervous gentleman, that he is perfectly cool, calm, and collected. It is a rule, we believe, in description, to avoid as much as possible dilating upon common places. Whenever it is necessary to allude to them, it always can be done, incidentally or indirectly.

In the second of these three stories, there is very little incident. The description of the deep and settled anguish of the stranger is very well sustained. Inexplicable melancholy is a very usual resource with the seachers after interesting fictions, but the grand sources of interest are so limited by nature, that it would be unjust to insist upon novelty of matter, when novelty of manner is exhibited. The most striking peculiarity in the conduct of Ottavio is thus described by the teller of the story.

"In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute; and he appeared hardly to have got over one shock before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter another. p. 94.

"I remarked him glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out of the door." p. ead.

In the Piazzetta, he

"noticed this same singular, and as it were, furtive glance over his shoulder, that had attracted his attention at the Cassino." p. 95.

In a gallery of paintings

"still would recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as though something terrible had met his view. p. 96.

At the theatre, at balls, at concerts, every where in short, there takes place "that strange and recurrent movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder."

All this with the rest of this young stranger's deportment, is no doubt well calculated to excite the reader's curiosity, but this is the easiest stratagem in story-telling. The rub,' is to fulfil the expectations you have thus purposely excited. The young unknown finally consigns in the hands of his friend a sealed pacquet containing the particulars of his story. He then takes his departure, and is never more heard of. This pacquet is to unfold the mystery of the backward glance, and the terrifying picture. The tale of the young Italian is beautifully told, and the incidents devised with more than usual felicity. A nervous system of excessive sensibility is alternatively indulged and provoked into absolute disease. He is sent to a convent situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains away south of Vesuvius.' His morbid fancy is here fed by monastic superstitions, and he is taught painting by a man who was skilful in portraying the human face in the agonies of death. He is permitted to visit his father; and his feelings, when escaped from the gloomy darkness of his person into the sweetnesses and brightnesses of life, are described with admirable truth. He flees from the convent, and seeks his father's palace; quarrels with him, and abandons the paternal roof. All these events must tend to keep alive and exasperate his peculiar sensibilities. In such a temperament the sentiment of love must be extravagantly violent. All the faculties of sense and soul must be swept into the current of this impetuous delirium of passion, and the object of the lover's worship will govern every thought, every sentiment, every purpose, and every association. Nothing can be more natural than the suffering which the contest between passionate affection, exquisite delicacy, generous pride, and unconquerable honour, is calculated to produce in a mind of such acute susceptibilities; and nothing surely can so deeply agitate and painfully interest a woman, as the sight of the external evidences of the struggle, when she sees the intensity and vehemence of the emotions of her lover, without being admitted to a knowledge of their causes. Bianca's fond and enthusiastic expectation that the obstacles which opposed her lover's hopes, would one day be removed by his attainment of the brightest glories which are given to the masters of the art, is conceived and described with great beauty, and effect. There is a strong and pertina