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vid and substantial as those of sense.

He introduces us into the

very presence of the great of old time, and enables us almost to Imagine that we hear them utter the living words of beauty and wisdom. He makes us companions of their happiest hours, and shares not only in the pleasures which they diffused, but in those which they tasted. He discloses to us the hidden soul of beauty, not like an anatomist but like a lover. His criticism, instead of breaking the sweetest enchantments of life, prolongs them, and teaches us to love poetic excellence more intensely, as well as more wisely.

The present age is, also, honourably distinguished by the variety and the excellence of productions from the pen of women. In poetry-there is the deep passion, richly tinged with fancy, of Baillie-the delicate romance of Mitford-the gentle beauty and feminine chivalry of Beetham-and the classic elegance of Hemans. There is a greater abundance of female talent among the novelists. The exquisite sarcasm of humour of Madame D'Arblay-the soft and romantic charm of the novels of the Portersthe briliant ease and admirable good sense of Edgeworth-the intense humanity of Inchbald-the profound insight into the fearful depths of the soul with which the author of Glenarvon is giftedthe heart-rending pathos of Opie-and the gentle wisdom, the holy sympathy with holiest childhood, and the sweet imaginings, of the author of Mrs. Leicester's School-soften and brighten the literary aspect of the age. These indications of female talent are not only delightful in themselves, but inestimable as proofs of the rich intellectual treasures which are diffused throughout the sex, to whom the next generation will owe their first and their most sacred impressions.

But, after all, the best intellectual sign of the present times is the general education of the poor. This ensures duration to the principles of good, by whatever political changes the frame of society may be shaken. The sense of human rights and of human duties is not now confined to a few, and, therefore, liable to be lost, but is stamped in living characters on millions of hearts. And the foundations of human improvement thus secured, it has a tendency to advance in a true geometrical progression. Meanwhile, the effects of the spirit of improvement which have long been silently preparing in different portions of the globe, are becoming brilliantly manifest. The vast continent of South-America, whether it continue nominally dependant on European states, or retain its own newly-asserted freedom, will teem with new intellect, enterprise, and energy. Old Spain, long sunk into the most abject degradation, has suddenly awakened, as if refreshed from slumber, and her old genius must revive with her old dignities. A bloodless revolution has just given liberty to Naples, and thus has VOL. II.

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opened the way for the restoration of Italy. That beautiful region again will soon inspire her bards with richer strains than of yore, and diffuse throughout the world a purer luxury. Amidst these quickenings of humanity, individual poets, indeed, must lose that personal importance which in darker periods would be their tion. All selfism-all predominant desire for the building up of individual fame-must give way to the earnest and single wish to share in and promote the general progress of the species. He is unworthy of the name of a great poet, who is not contented that the loveliest of his imaginations should be lost in the general light, or viewed only as the soft and delicate streaks which shall usher in that glorious dawn, which is, we believe, about to rise on the world, and to set no more!

ART. VIII. 1. The Sketch Book. By GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 2 Vols. 8vo. London, 1819, 1820. [Review, Aug. 1820.]

THOUGH this is a very pleasing book in itself, and displays no ordinary reach of thought and elegance of fancy, it is not exactly on that account that we are now tempted to notice it as a very remarkable publication,—and to predict that it will form an era in the literature of the nation to which it belongs. It is the work of an American, entirely bred and trained in that country-originally published within its territory-and, as we understand, very extensively circulated, and very much admired among its natives. Now, the most remarkable thing in a work so circumstanced certainly is, that it should be written throughout with the greatest care and accuracy, and worked up to great purity and beauty of diction, on the model of the most elegant and polished of our native writers. It is the first American work, we rather think, of any description, but certainly the first purely literary production, to which we could give this praise; and we hope and trust that we may hail it as the harbinger of a purer and juster taste-the foundation of a chaster and better school, for the writers of that great and intelligent country. Its genius, as we have frequently observed, has not hitherto been much turned to letters; and, what it has produced in that department, has been defective in taste certainly rather than in talent. The appearance of a few such works as the present will go far to wipe off this reproach also; and we cordially hope that this author's merited success, both at home and abroad, will stimulate his countrymen to copy the methods by which he has attained it; and that they will submit to receive, from the example of their ingenious compatriot, that lesson which the precepts of strangers do not seem hitherto to have very effectually inculcated. a

a While we are upon the subject of American literature, we think ourselves

But though it is primarily for its style and composition that we are induced to notice this book, it would be quite unjust to the author not to add, that he deserves very high commendation for its more substantial qualities; and that we have seldom seen a work that gave us a more pleasing impression of the writer's character, or a more favourable one of his judgment and taste. There is a tone of fairness and indulgence-and of gentleness and philanthropy so unaffectedly diffused through the whole work, and tempering and harmonizing so gracefully, both with its pensive and its gayer humours, as to disarm all ordinarily good-natured critics of their asperity, and to secure to the author, from all worthy readers, the same candour and kindness of which he sets so laudable an example. The want is of force and originality in the reasoning, and speculative parts, and of boldness and incident in the inventive ;though the place of these more commanding qualities is not ill supplied by great liberality and sound sense, and by a very considerable vein of humour, and no ordinary grace and tenderness of fancy. The manner perhaps throughout is more attended to than the matter; and the care necessary to maintain the rythm and polish of the sentences, has sometimes interfered with the force of the reasoning, or limited and impoverished the illustrations they might otherwise have supplied.

We have forgotten all this time to inform our readers, that the publication consists of a series or collection of detached essays and tales of various descriptions-originally published apart, in the form of a periodical miscellany, for the instruction and delight of America and now collected into two volumes for the refreshment of the English public. The English writers whom the author has chiefly copied, are Addison and Goldsmith, in the humorous and discursive parts and our own excellent Mackenzie, in the more soft and pathetic. In their highest and most characteristic merits, called upon to state, that we have lately received two Numbers, being those for January and April last, of The North American Review, or Miscellaneous Journal,' published quarterly at Boston, which appears to us to be by far the best and most promising production of the press of that country that has ever come to our hands. It is written with great spirit, learning and ability, on a great variety of subjects; and abounds with profound and original discussions on the most interesting topics. Though abundantly patriotic, or rather national, there is nothing offensive or absolutely unreasonable in the tone of its politics; and no very reprehensible marks either of national partialities or antipathies. The style is generally good, though with considerable exceptions--and sins oftener from affectation than ignorance. But the work is of a powerful and masculine character, and is decidedly superior to any thing of the kind that existed in EuTope twenty years ago.

It is a proud thing for us to see Quarterly Reviews propagating bold truths and original speculations in all quarters of the world; and, when we grow old and stupid ourselves, we hope still to be honoured in the talents and merits of those heirs of our principles, and children of our example.

we do not mean to say that he has equalled any of his originals, or even to deny that he has occasionally caricatured their defects. But the resemblance is near enough to be highly creditable to any living author; and there is sometimes a compass of reasoning which his originals have but rarely attained,

To justify these remarks, we must now lay a 'specimen or two of this Hesperian essayist before our readers;—and we shall begin with one that may give some idea of his humorous vein, and his power of pleasant narration, at the same time that it relates to the scenery and superstitions of his native country. We allude to the legend of Rip Van Winkle, which begins as follows.

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember ' the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the 'river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the sur'rounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the 'magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are re'garded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 'purple, and print their hold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they 'will gather a hood of gray vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

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At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have de'scried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle 'roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built ' of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very houses, (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time worn and weather beaten,) 'there lived, many years since, while the country was yet a pro'vince of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.' p. 57-59.

We pass over a very entertaining account of honest Rip's sufferings under a termagant wife, and of the various pastimes with which he sought to cheat the miseries of his thraldom.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age,

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and a sharp tongue is the only edge-tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer's day, talk ' listlessly over village gossip, or tell endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most 6 gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place,' p. 65, 66.

When driven from this retreat, he used to take his gun and shoot squirrels all day among the mountains.

In a long ramble of this kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaats'kill mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel shooting; and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with 'the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 'late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an open'ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for 'many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly 'Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 'last losing itself in the blue highlands.

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'On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 'wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 'the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 'the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; 'evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to 'throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he 'heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.

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'As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked ' around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have de'ceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same

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