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Tales of a Traveller. By Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. Author of the Sketch Book," "Bracebridge Hall," "Knickerbocker's New-York," &c. Philadelphia. H. C. Carey & I. Lea.

1824.

In our last number, we undertook to discuss in the present, the merits of those tales of our author into which the humorous enters as a principal ingredient. The success of Salmagundi, of the history of New-York, and of the livelier stories contained in the Sketch Book and in Bracebridge Hall, gave reason to believe, that the pencil of Geoffrey Crayon was particularly adapted to the delineation of the humorous incidents of humble life. He soon came to be considered as the very Teniers of storytellers, and no one sat down to the perusal of a tale with a quaint title from the papers of the late Mr. Knickerbocker,' without preparing his zygomatics for perpetual vibration. With these large expectations of laughter-moving narrative, no wonder if we have been disappointed with many of the stories rehearsed in the volumes before us. Not because they are not excellent of their kind, but because they are not of the kind we anticipated. They are all of them fine sketches, spirited ebauches, full of life, truth and genius. But we have, unfortunately, already seen finished pieces from Geoffrey Crayon's pencil; and we are therefore not likely to be satisfied with what are little more than croquis. And yet we are not sure but that this dissatisfaction is altogether the fault of our own unreasonableness. What right have we to expect that an author shall exhibit his productions in the order of their interest or value. Can we with propriety ask, that the publication of his writings be delayed until he means to write no more; or is he bound to withhold from the press a beautiful but unpretending composition, because it does not equal or excel the last product of his intellect? Will it be pretended that all the pieces from the chisel of Chantrey, produced since his Children' or his John Rennie,' are so many failures, because they are not equal to his masterpiece? Must Benvenuti give us nothing but such chefs d'œuvre as the Conte Ugolino, in order to sustain his reputation; and is Weber bound, under penalty of the forfeiture of his fame, to publish nothing inferior to the Freischütz? There is nothing so disgusting, we think, as the perpetual cant of tea-table critics about an author's falling off,' as they call it. Whenever these perspicacious dicasts are puzzled by a call for their opinions, they find an admirable refuge in depreciating generalities, Vol. II. No, VIII.

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Not so good as the last,' a failure on the whole,'' the author is writing himself out,' his reputation has injured him, we think,' and such like elaborate animadversions. In the opinion of these laudatores acti,' Sir Walter Scott has gradually descended from Waverly to Redgauntlet, and if he were to write as many novels as would fill the shelves and cases of the Vatican, they would find the same degeneration pervading the whole series. The intellectual sense seems sometimes liable to a delusion, similar to that to which the blindfolded novice is said to be exposed, in being initiated into some of the mysteries of masonry. He is made to believe that he is descending step by step into interminable depths, and when the bandage is removed from his eyes, discovers that he stands upon a level with the place from which he started.

Another circumstance which has its effect in biassing the judgment of the critic, (and we speak of the critic who does not publish, as well as of him who docs,) is the common propensity to apply, in the estimate of the merits of a second production, a standard of excellence derived from an examination of the first. In most of the imitative arts, few, we think, would be guilty of the palpable injustice of subjecting all the works of an artist, of whatever variety of character and object, to a test which is furnished by the study of his masterpiece, and of course, only applicable to the kind of which this may chance to be a case. And yet in imaginative writing, it seldom happens, we believe, that an author is judged, with a due regard to the object of his literary labor. In undertaking, for example, to determine the merit of the Tales now before us, some have gravely and solemnly applied a criterion of excellence, fitter to ascertain the value of an epic poem or a treatise on morals, than to furnish a correct estimate of the skill of the author, in the composition of a few lively sallies of an unpretending imagination. But how are we to know (it will be said) the design of the author, unless he avows it himself? We believe that at present, this warning is generally given by the writer in a preface, but as this is a part of his book which is seldom honored with a perusal, he loses, for the most part, the benefit of this explanation. At all events, however, the reader can ascertain the object, if object there is, from the general style, character and tone of the production; and is consequently bound to include a consideration of this intention in his estimate of the value of the work. That the value of the species of writing, of which the present Tales constitute examples, is inferior in practical utility and literary dignity, to others which have already exercised the talents of our author, we are willing to admit,

But in their way, a large proportion of them, are precisely what they ought to be-quaint, humorous and fanciful; full of kind thoughts and cheerful images; with no object in view beyond the calling up of gentle emotions and pleasurable sympathies; and abundantly successful in these humble pretensions, where the reader comes prepared to the perusal, devested of the unaccommodating gravity of fastidious cynicism. In every page there is much to attract, to divert and to amuse us, if we are only willing to be pleased. At every instant, we are presented with a new and sprightly similitude, gently disposing the features to a smile of mingled pleasure and surprise; or one of those happy illustrations, which give us a better insight into character, than the most elaborate portrait of a more unskilful delineator. How lively, for instance, is the description of the after-dinner conversation at the old Baronet's Hall.

"Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and none kept on their way but certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like short legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at the death."

With what life and effect the interrogatory gentleman is described as

"One of those incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving, unhealthy appetite in conversation; never satisfied with the whole of a story; never laughing when others laughed, and always putting the joke to the question; never enjoying the kernel of the nut, but pestering himself to get more out of the shell."

How graphic is that same whimsical twist, which the elderly gentleman with a knowing look could give to his flexible nose, when he wished to be waggish. And who does not see sitting before him, in almost palpable existence, the old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other.

"The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side was well stuff ed with ghost stories."

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In the Adventure of my Uncle,' which we undertake to like, in opposition to those who have advised us to the contrary, nothing can be finer and more spirited than the few traits that portray the meagre and fiery postillion, with tremendous jack boots and cocked hat,' and the little Marquis, with his pair of powdered ailes de pigeon that seemed ready to fly away with his sallow thin visage. Who can possibly read without chattering the description of the old chateau, with all its for

mal and freezing appurtenances? How charmingly grotesque is the picture of the Marchesino putting on one of the old helmets that were stuck up in his hall, though his head no more filled it than a dry pea its pease cod?" And then his little beetle eyes sparkling from the bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles-how striking an effect is produced by this single touch of our author's wonder-working crayon. We hardly know an instance in which serious emotion and honest sympathy is more effectually excited by an image naturally ludicrous, than in the following short passage, descriptive of the fate of this little fiery-hearted Frenchman.

"Poor little Marquis! He was one of that handful of gallant courtiers, who made such a devoted, but hopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the chateau of the Tuilleries, against the irruption of the mob, on the sad tenth of August. He displayed the valor of a preux French cavalier to the last; flourished feebly his little court sword with a sa-sa! in face of a whole legion of sans-culottes; but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul was borne up to heaven on his ailes de pigeon."

Nothing but the happiest skill combined with the truest and most delicate taste, could have succeeded in conciliating into such effective harmony the elements of sprightly with the associations of serious imagery. The above example is only one out of a thousand, in which our author has exhibited his skill in working out sobriety of sentiment from what may be called the materials of smiles. All this is done, in every instance, with a delusive appearance of facility. He takes a coal and a piece of brown paper, and strikes off with a few free, and apparently fortuitous touches, a sketch, in which the ignorant or prejudiced see nothing but what they believe they can easily surpass; but which they, who make the attempt, find, in spite of its seeming simplicity, far beyond the reach of imitation.

It would be entering too minutely into prolix analyses, to enumerate all the characteristic minutia which bespeak and attest the true hand of the master. We must hasten, besides, through our notice of the Tales, in order to confine this article within its necessary limits. With the Adventure of my Aunt,' we must frankly confess ourselves rather disappointed. The incident on which it is grounded is as trite as it is trifling, and can scarcely be turned to account in the ablest of hands. There is, besides, a want of delicacy in the story, which we would cheerfully forgive in the satyrist professed, but which offends us, from the pen of a writer who is accustomed to consult, on all occasions, the nicest proprieties of language and al

lusion. That the widow of a sickly first husband should be ready to escape from her weeds into the arms of a roystering squire, we most potently and powerfully believe, for we have lived enough in the world to know that it is perfectly in nature; but then,' we hold it not honesty to have it thus set down' by an amiable and charitable moralist. For the same reason, we strongly object to the next story, 'The Bold Dragoon, or the Adventure of my Grandfather,' and we think it a pity that the effect of such admirable humor as pervades the greater part of this tale should be spoiled by the admixture of unnecessary indecency. We are by no means fastidious in matters of this sort, and have laughed with the friendliest good will at the story of the Nervous and Stout Gentleman; but we doubt whether even the magic charm of Mr. Irving's inimitable sportiveness can disarm us of the displeasure we feel, when we hear him allude in mirthful and not very ambiguous language, to the filthy orgies of a brothel. So little is indecency the forte of Mr. Irving, that it generally happens that where he violates decorum, he violates the probabilities of nature nearly in an equal degree. Whatever favorable impression the Bold Dragoon's impudence and uproar might produce among the women of the tavern, it would do any thing rather than conciliate the af fections of the quiet, peaceful, phlegmatic Dutchmen, who were the prior occupants of all the comforts and accommodations of the inn. With these grains of allowance the story is exquisitely told, and the description of the dancing mania among the furniture is perfect in its way. We are not sufficiently versed in legendary lore, to know whether the idea of this supellecticary revel is original or not; but if it is, it is one of the happiest and merriest among all the queer notions that were ever conceived by the lover of household superstitions and Deutsche Volksmärchen.'

Among the stories in the second part, we are compelled (once more, in reluctant opposition to far better judges) to prefer to the Young Man of Great Expectations,' all the other tales in the volume. In the articles entitled Literary Life,' 'A Literary Dinner,'' The Club of Queer Fellows,' and the Poor Devil Author,' there is a fund of 'infinite jest and most excellent fancy.' What can be better than the disposition of the 'guests at the publisher's table.'

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"A popular poet had the post of honor, opposite to whom was a hotpressed traveller in quarto, with plates. A grave looking antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, which were much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, and seated next to a neat dressy gentleman in black, who had written a thin, genteel, hotpressed octavo on