he is accused, he views it with a partial eye, he shall never forget that it is his "fatherland." On the consanguinity of England and America too, and the cultivation of good feeling between them, he thus touchingly expresses himself in Bracebridge Hall: "We ask nothing from abroad that we cannot reciprocate. But with respect to England, we have a warm feeling of the heart, the glow of consanguinity that still lingers in our blood. Interest apart, past differences forgotten, we extend the hand of old relationship. We merely ask, do not estrange us from you, do not destroy the ancient tie of blood, do not let scoffers and slanderers drive a kindred nation from your side. We would fain be friends, do not compel us to be enemies." There is a manly affection in these sentiments which is truly admirable.

Mr. Irving's works, with the exception of his early efforts,³ had been the result of his love of travel: indeed, he describes himself as a traveller who has "surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of the globe." In similar vein, he next produced two volumes of "Tales of a Traveller," narrating legends of the continent, with masterly sketches of the scenery of the respective countries; the incidents of the Tales being fraught with points of grotesque humour, and abounding with pathos and poetic feeling.

To these Tales succeeded a work of greater importance in literature than either of Mr. Irving's previous undertakings. We allude to a History of the Life and Voyages of Columbus, in four vols. 8vo., which appeared in the year 1828. Mr. Irving, at the time this work was first suggested to him, in the winter of 1825-6, was at Bordeaux; and, being informed that a biography was about to appear at Madrid, containing many important and some new documents relative to Columbus, he set off for the Spanish capital, to undertake the translation of the work. Mr. Irving, however, meeting with numerous aids at Madrid, resolved on producing an original history, which he has presented to the public with extreme diffidence: "all that I can safely claim," he observes, "is, an earnest desire to state the truth, an absence from prejudices respecting the nations mentioned in my history, a strong interest in my subject, and a zeal to make up by assiduity for many deficiencies of which I am conscious." This work has been abridged by Mr. Irving to one of the volumes of the Family Library. As we have intimated to the reader, it is of higher pretensions than either of the author's previous writings: a clever critic refers to it as "a spirited and interesting work, in which every thing is as judiciously reasoned as it is beautifully and forcibly expressed," and as "much more grave in its character and laborious in its execution than any of his preceding ones."⁴

Mr. Irving's next production was "A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada," in which the author's knowledge of Spanish history is made to shine in detailing the chivalrous glories of the New World.

In the spring of the present year it appears that Mr. Irving touched "the golden shores of old romance," and published Tales of the Alhambra; the origin of which work is thus told by the author. A few years since, Mr. Wilkie, the distinguished R.A. and Mr. Irving were fellow travellers on the continent. In their rambles about some of the old cities of Spain, they were struck with scenes and incidents which reminded them of passages in the Arabian Nights. Mr. Wilkie urged his companion to write something that should illustrate those peculiarities, "something in the Haroun Alraschid style" that should have a dash of that Arabian spice which pervades everything in Spain. Mr. Irving set about his task with enthusiasm: his study was the spacious Alhambra itself, and the governor gave the author and his companion, permission to occupy his vacant apartments in the Moorish palace: Mr. Wilkie soon returned to England, leaving Mr. Irving at the Alhambra, where he remained "for several months, spell-bound in the old enchanted pile." The result was two volumes of legends and traditions, which for interesting incident, and gracefulness of narrative, have few parallels in our romance-writing.⁵ They are dedicated, in good taste, to the ingenious originator, Mr. Wilkie.

In person, Mr. Irving is of middle height; and, according to a contemporary, of "modest deportment and easy attitude, with all the grace and dignity of an English gentleman."⁶ Another describes him as "a most amiable man, and great genius, but not lively in conversation." His features have a pleasing regularity, and are lit up, at every corner, with that delightful humour which flows in a rich vein throughout his writings, and forms their most attractive charm.

Having noticed Mr. Irving's principal works, we have left but little occasion to speak of his general style. A contemporary has denominated him the "Goldsmith of the age;" and of Goldsmith we must remember that, in his epitaph, Dr. Johnson observes: "he left no species of writing untouched, and adorned all to which he applied himself"—a tribute which can scarcely be appropriately paid to any writer of our time. However, we know not any author that Mr. Irving so much resembles as Goldsmith: although no imitator, his style and language forcibly remind us of that easy flow so peculiar to the Citizen of the World. But, we have higher warrant for this parallel. "It seems probable," observes a critical writer of considerable acumen, "that Mr. Irving might prove no contemptible rival to Goldsmith, whose turn of mind he very much inherits, and of whose style he particularly reminds us. Like him, too, Mr. Irving possesses the art of setting ludicrous perplexities in the most irresistible point of view, and we think equals him in the variety of humour."⁷

To conclude, we find the literary character of Mr. Irving illustrated in a contemporary journal, with unusual spirit. "There never was a writer," observes the editor, "whose popularity was more matter of feeling, or more intimate than Washington Irving, perhaps, because he appeared at once to our simplest and kindliest emotions. His affections were those of 'hearth and home;' the pictures he delighted to draw were those of natural loveliness, linked with human sympathies; and a too unusual thing with the writers of our time—he looked upon God's works, and 'saw that they were good.' * * * With him the wine of life is not always on the lees. An exquisite vein of poetry runs through every page,—and of poetry, his epithets who does not remember—'the shark, glancing like a spectre through the blue seas.'"⁸

ALPHABETICAL INDEX.