tion with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"-"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" Here a general shout burst from the bystanders "A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came, there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. "God knows!" exclaimed he at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'm somebody elsethat's me yonder-no-that's somebody else got into my shoes-I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I am changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper also about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened "Well-who are they? name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and in- at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," quired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotted and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?" "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stoney-Point, others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know, he never came back again." "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war-congressStoney-Point; he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? cried she, "hush, you little fool, the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 66 "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun and never has been heard of since his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice: 66 Where's your mother?" "Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar." There was a drop of comfort at least in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he-"Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now!--does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle-it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it; manner. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of thunder. some were seen to wink at each other, and put | the war." It was some time before he could their tongues in their cheeks: and the self- get into the regular track of gossip, or could important man in the cocked hat, who, when be made to comprehend the strange events the alarm was over, had returned to the field, that had taken place during his torpor. How screwed down the corners of his mouth, and that there had been a revolutionary war-that shook his head-upon which there was a the country had thrown off the yoke of old general shaking of the head throughout the England-and that, instead of being a subject assemblage. of his majesty George III., he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that waspetticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her: she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before WASHINGTON IRVING.1 1 This tale first appeared in this country in the Sketch Book, 1820. It has been repeatedly dramatized, and lately it has furnished a popular American actor, Mr. Jefferson, with a play which he has been performing constantly for about two years, realizing a considerable fortune by its success. This is curious in contrast with the amusing sketch which Washington Irving gives, in the preface to the edition of 1848, of the difficulties he encountered in the search for a London publisher. He issued the book at his own risk; the house he had intrusted with the management of it became bankrupt; and it was only then, by the intercession of Sir Walter Scott, that Mr. Murray took up the work. "Thus," he says, "under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe." The principal works to which he has attached his name are: "Herd's Metrical History of Four English Reigns," published by the Roxburgh Club; the new edition of Charles Lamb's works; and "Literature and its ProThe latter, which may be regarded as the most important work he has yet published, comprises a series of pungent essays on Men of Letters, Criticism, fessors." the Province of the Anonymous, Literary Men in Par liament, Literary Hero-Worship, On Taking a Man's Measure (from which we quote below), Descriptive Literature, and Studies of the Man of Letters in Mediaval Times, and as a Statesman, Essayist, Satirist, and Patriot, illustrated respectively by the lives of Giraldus Cambrensis and Montaigne, Roger Williams, Steele and Sterne, Swift, Mazzini. A reviewer of Mr. Purnell's writings says-"In all his literary works he seems to have the highest principles of art in view."] What country linen-draper, or pot-house politician, when the merits of a statesman are discussed, but will undertake to estimate his ability to a T? What young templar, as yet inexperienced in the sensation derived from the touch of a confiding client's handsel-guinea, | but will exactly tell you the capabilities and deficiencies of the several judges, assign to each of them his relative merits at law and equity, and supplement his information, if you will, by cataloguing every silk gown according to its worth? We might find examples of this arrogance in every profession. In literature it is offensively prominent; but whether he confesses it or not, almost every human being, fancies himself able to measure, if only by rule of thumb, those with whom he is brought in contact, or to whom he thinks it worth while to apply his attention. Every one may be candid enough to own his practical inferiority to him whom he thus unhesitatingly criticizes. He is free to confess he cannot write poems like A, or novels like B, or paint like C, or lead the House of Commons like D; yet, by some peculiar process, inexplicable, I believe, even to himself, he is firmly convinced that whatever judgment he has formed of the intellectual rank of these persons, and consequently of their performances, is invariably and unassailably correct. Indeed, the very readiness with which he recognizes his own inferiority is an incentive to self-esteem, and tends to make him set a higher value on the discrimination he has exhibited in thus discovering their superiority to himself. Strange as it may appear, he possesses a sort of inner judgment which applauds the insight he has displayed in the decision. His favourite axiom is slightly varied from that of the elder Shandy's-"An ounce of one man's judgment is worth a ton of other people's." Notwithstanding this reliance commonly placed by a man on his own judgment, innumerable instances of false verdicts are well known. Some of these have been pronounced by men from whom better things were to be expected. We all remember Coleridge meeting at table one of noble brow and sober demeanour, and immediately concluding that his vis-à-vis was a man of parts. Afterwards when the gravelycomported diner expressed his delight at the appearance on the table of apple-dumplings, he forfeited the good opinion of the illustrious opium-eater, who thereupon pronounced the man to be a fool. Can anything be imagined more unjust? Coleridge in both instances judged on insufficient evidence; and in both instances he was undoubtedly wrong. In the first place for judging a man to be wise from his outward behaviour and personal appearance, and next for suddenly abandoning his first impression and considering him a fool because he exhibited a liking for apple-dumplings. In reality nothing had occurred by which the man's intellect could be measured. From what had happened only his taste could fairly be ascertained. Such verdicts, however, founded as this by Coleridge was, on insufficient evidence, are the rule and not the exception. Men are prone to form their judgments of each other by the cut of their coat or the fold of their shirt-collar, and to gauge one's capacity by the manner in which one enters a drawing-room or carries one's head in the street. But such a test is almost invariably found to be defective. The mental and moral character of a man seldom exhibits itself in such form. The external signs from which the inference is drawn frequently depend in no degree upon natural disposition, but upon habit-i.e. the external force to which a man has been subjected-or upon the position, perhaps accidental and only temporary, he happened to occupy at the time when the judgment was formed. I need not waste the page by enumerating examples. You may to-morrow see half a dozen guardsmen, all unhesitatingly bold fellows, all selfcontained, all equally steady; yet had you seen any one of them twelve months ago, you would, probably, have seen a waddling, loutish ploughboy, as indecisive in his movements as the most timid country maiden when walking along the streets on her first visit to London. Nor is this unsatisfactory way of judging followed only by ordinary men and confined in its application to the concerns of every-day life. It pervades our literature; and the recorded instances of men who have suffered from its effects are too numerous to be mentioned. Ex ungue leonem appears to be the favourite maxim of an Englishman's criticism. As we have seen, there is a general tendency to make a man a hero for the successful exhibition of some one desirable quality. If he has acquired celebrity as a poet, his opinion of a great-coat is likely to be taken in preference to that of an unknown writer; or, if he is renowned as a general, his testimony concerning a pianoforte is more highly prized than that of an obscure subaltern, although the latter may be a connoisseur in musical instruments, and the general be ignorant of the difference between a bassoon and a cornet-à-pistons. So, for the possession of some undesirable quality, or the absence of what is conceived to be an element of greatness, there is a disposition to credit him with being a fool. Such inferences are usually erroneous. On the other hand, there are occasions when the process-this drawing a general conclusion from a partial examination-may, to some extent, be legitimately employed. If, for instance, a friend assured us of his belief that twice seven makes fifteen, we want no further proof of his ignorance of figures, but are justified in saying he is no arithmetician. It would, however, be very unfair were we to infer anything more. If, again, our friend confessed he derived pleasure from the discourses of Boanerges, all we could legitimately conclude would be that he was deficient in good taste; or if he thought his tailor an authority in political economy, that his political education had been neglected. A man may like Boanerges, and be a first-rate cook; and he may admire his tailor, and yet be an excellent market-gardener. A certain portion of the public, however, and their representatives in the press, do not acknowledge this limitation. I recollect, some years ago, a member of parliament for one of the metropolitan boroughs made a sad slip in his history. Honourable gentlemen smiled at the error, as was natural. But outside of the House the blunder became a matter of serious importance to the unfortunate member. Mr. Punch, especially, was very severe upon him. That gentleman (who himself, probably, would have failed to answer five out of every nine historical questions that one might easily put to him) reminded us week after week of the gravity of the offence. From this lapsus lingua he deduced that the unlucky culprit was-I won't say a pickpocket-but almost anything as bad; and whenever, under emergencies, fun was wanted, he took down his telescope, peered into it the wrong way, and then proceeded to give us his representation of the member for Finsbury with his queer notions of English history. We must look to the same source for this undue appreciation as for undue exaltation or literary hero-worship. Men instinctively like the exercise of power, especially in intellectual subjects; and, having in their nature a fixed amount of praise and blame, they must expend it with risk of consequences. Most frequently they do this capriciously, or are guided in making their decision by some accidental fact; but they must expend it, and it is fortunate for him who wishes to earn their applause if some lucky accident should occur to dispose them in his favour. It is proverbial that human nature, after too highly praising a man, revolts against its own verdict, ignores its favourite, and in time comes to depreciate him in the proportion it previously exalted him. Examples in our literary history will occur to everybody. The popular treatment of Byron is a case in point. Instead, however, of depreciating the idol they have set up, it occasionally happens that men console themselves with vilifying some would-be idol that comes before them. But whether exercised upon one person or upon two, this duality of passion co-existing simultaneously at all times— must inevitably be expended. It happens, however, that, instead of applying the wrong end of the telescope at one time to one man and the right end at another, they content themselves with directing the right end towards the one man and the wrong to another. In the latter case their feelings of praise and blame are excited and exhibited contemporaneously. One might fancy there is no room in literary matters for the display of these feelings; but literature here, as in most other respects, is a faithful reflex of the society in which it is produced and to which it is addressed: and the way in which literary verdicts are returned is notoriously and disgracefully wrong. The cardinal fault seems to be that of estimating a writer and ranking him according to the idea formed of him as a man; or, if he is dead, from what his contemporaries said of him personally whilst he was alive. This judging an author from the man, or, what is as unjust, the judg ing the man from the supposed revelations of himself in his works, is obviously a defective way of judging. Few men are the same in books as they are in conversation. A friend of the late John Sterling tells me that promising public he addressed resemble those ladies who fear to be introduced to their favourite author, lest a personal knowledge of the man may spoil the high opinion they have formed of his works. They would probably consider a man insincere who argued against drunkenness, whilst he himself was a confirmed drunkard, and fancy what he said to be less true than if uttered by a teetotaller. A man's nature is composed of so many various and often conflicting elements, that it is impossible to deduce his true character from the revelation of a single phase. We shall be puzzled to discover which is the predominant that colours and modifies the rest. The popular mind, shared in to a great degree by men of letters, is disposed to infer a man's character, not from his ordinary action and every-day conduct, but from some unusual and extraordinary exhibition, altogether at variance with his usual behaviour. If he exhibits himself in some exceptional way, it is supposed that thereby he has shown his true nature. Should he once in a lifetime act in a manner contrary to his usual custom-treat his neighbour ungenerously, or behave meanly-his friends at once, and with no further evidence in support of their view, conclude that they obtain a glimpse of his true character, when in reality he was only acting under altered circumstances. The discordancy which results from his nature meeting the unfamiliar conditions, and unsuccessfully attempting to adjust itself, is only temporary; but it is taken to be indicative of the whole man-a particular circumstance is thus regarded as the index of a complete nature. author's works are infinitely inferior to his conversation, and we, therefore, who are acquainted with him only through his published writings, are surprised to find so much said of him, and so high a rank assigned to him, by those to whom he was intimately known. His physical debility and want of robust temperament stood in the way of his performance. The younger Hallam will readily occur to the reader as another, who, like Sterling, was greater in capacity than in energy. The clear insight of these men, known to friends, was conspicuously absent in their books. On the other hand, excellent literary performance does not insure adequate recognition of merit when personal greatness is absent. If, for example, one man's writings were ever superior to another's in wisdom and in form, in intellect and in art, they are those of Goldsmith to what were produced by Johnson. And yet what is the result? We know the one was through life-and the echo of that eighteenth century applause still lingers in our ears-universally regarded as Dr. Minor, whilst the other, seen through the right end of the telescope, was everywhere hailed as Dr. Major. The idea men formed of Goldsmith's work was perhaps insensibly influenced by what they had heard or knew of Goldsmith's life. Volatility or stupidity being considered to be the mark of a fool, it is thought the volatile man, or the stupid man, must manifest himself in all he undertakes, and that his peculiar failings and virtues will unconsciously betray themselves in his writings. The public look for homogeneity in a man, and consistency between his character and opinions. They conceive it possible, not only to determine Books are even a less safe criterion than a man's mental ability from his deportment, exceptional variation in conduct. In works but to infer his moral character from his literary produced by the exercise of the art-faculty, the productions. They will not see that the literary author displays only his intellectual power, and character and the personal character may be sometimes merely the aesthetic side of it. In antipodal, and should be judged apart. A man proportion as he progresses as an artist will he must practise what he preaches, or his gospel be enabled skilfully to conceal even this from will be disbelieved and his sincerity questioned his reader. If his sympathy is wide and deep, as well by the upper vulgar as by the lower. and easily aroused, he can portray what is This was so well known to Steele, that upon foreign to him with as much accuracy as if he relinquishing the publication of the Tatler, he were describing his individual nature. His gave as the true cause for the discontinuance greatness and his success will, indeed, be in of its publication, the discovery by the public the ratio of the ability he possesses to make of its author. "I considered," said he, on his representations strictly objective. Accurate taking leave of his readers, "that severity of resemblance, then, between the man and his manners is absolutely necessary to him who book is missing. Intellectual sincerity is exwould censure others; and for that reason, hibited; but we search in vain for that conformand that only, chose to talk in a mask." ity between practice and precept which we have Steele might have discontinued his publication | been usually taught to expect. In forming our from prudential motives; but in recognizing the illogical disposition of his readers, he appears to have himself acted illogically. The estimate of a man's character, were we strictly to confine ourselves to a consideration of his literary productions, we should be under the |