writer to produce a very perfect and popular composition. "The Pleasures of Hope" was the death of Mr. Campbell, and Mr. Moore was never thoroughly convalescent from the effects of "Lallah Rookh." Walter Scott survived his superb poetry by energetically entering upon an entirely new and uncultivated field, where he got along tolerably well till he had the misfortune to produce "Ivanhoe," from which he survived only to lead a lingering and unequal career. Even Geoffrey Crayon is something of a valetudinarian in this respect. His "Sketch Book," and "Bracebridge Hall," are the greatest enemies his future productions will probably meet; and we have every reason to fear that his " Columbus" has put an end to all hopes of his succeeding hereafter in the department of history.

Yet the "Tales of the Alhambra❞ are soft and pretty, told with delightful grace of language, and addressed to the imagination of all classes. The preliminary sketches, relating the author's ramblings over Spain, his approach to the palace, from which the volumes derive their title, his drawings of character, his minute household observations, his moonlight thoughts on that interesting scene, his reveries from the various points of the prospect, are in our estimation, really delicious. Their very familiar and easy simplicity makes them so. They are impressed in every page, every line, every word, with the reality of truth and the glow of nature. They are evidently no inventions, but transcripts. His scenes stretch away before you: his people move, look, and walk with an individuality and a force only to be produced by the hand of a master. Indeed, the opening pages are full of the delightfully graphic and pleasing delineation peculiar to the author, and worthy of the best parts of the Sketch Book. The want of nationality is balanced by the richness of historical associations; some of those will make the heart of the student beat, as he sits in his narrow and obscure chamber. Nothing can exceed the pleasure with which we accompany the author in his peregrinations. We are no halfway admirer of the former writings of Crayon, Knickerbocker, and Jonathan Old Style. We have been led by the same warm and gentle heart, the same refined and cultivated mind, the

same soft and melting, yet disciplined, imagination for many a year long gone by. We have been with him in the pit of our theatre, through the crooked lanes and antiquated Dutch houses of our town, along the windings of the blue Hudson, and among the luxuriant valleys and heaving hills, which deepen away and swell up from the emerald banks. We have followed, delighted observers, in the train of his Dutch heroes, on their sublime and warlike expeditions; and we have been ushered, by his welcome and potent rod, into many a rich and mellow and melancholy scene in "merry England;" by her ancient piles, her meandering rivers, her magnificent palaces and gardens: and now, inindeed, it is pleasant to keep still onward with such a companion, over distant and more strange scenes, to the banks of the streams of Spain; by her mountains, topped with silver; to her old cities and romantic towers. We are there actually, while reading the Alhambra. We see the summit of the Sierra Nivada; we hear the rills and fountains playing through the palace; we behold the moon pouring floods of light upon every court and hall and ruined decoration; and we are surprised to perceive what strong impressions are made on us, and by how few words. We are charmed, completely, to follow him in his quiet observations through those lofty and dilapidated towers; and to be so well beguiled by the flowing fancies which gleam along his pages; and by that continued and sweet play of all the most delicate and beautiful lights and shades of pathos and humour. He is as fresh as ever in his feelings. He looks upon the wonders around him with the enthusiastic ardour of a glowing boy. There is not a string in his soul but is tuned for the true harmony of poetry. It still vibrates responsive to every passing impression, to every moral or natural beauty. Indeed, his perceptions of nature and the world, which we were prepared to find blunted by travel and years, are yet alive in all their pristine vigour and are excercised, with a grace and a discrimination peculiar to himself, upon every golden sunset-every dim mountain top-every light incident of real life. Who but he could have so wrought up the trifle of the pigeon? There is another remark to be made, en

passant, on our author. One cannot help smiling at the right hearty enthusiasm with which he rouses himself to paint every pretty woman he meets. It is positively delightful to come suddenly (as we continually do, by the way), upon one of his "plump little blackeyed Andalusian damsels," with her "bright looks and cheerful dispositions;" or some other rosy-cheeked maiden, with dark eyes, and round and pleasant form. When he lays hold of such an one, he does it with a downright sincerity, and an outbreaking of gladness and spirit, which actually do our heart good, and he never lets her loose without bestowing upon her such a list of sweet adjec

tives as refresh our ideas most wonderfully.

The reader must admire the works of Washington Irving as the perfection of refined and elegant writing. He will scarce detect a word out of place—a deficiency or a superfluity. He will find imagination chastened by taste-humour purified by delicacy, and blended with pathos. In perusing them, many will have smiles on their lips and tears in their eyes; and in their hearts will be an increased pride, that our humble literature can quote such a writer as a sufficient comment on the baseness of vagabond and venal bookmakers, who at once slander our country and disgrace their own.

THE fine high-spirited boy whom I mentioned sometime ago, as being under the malignant influence of a cross schoolmaster, burst into my room the other morning, and broke a dream that I had drawn a prize in the lottery, to wish me a merry Christmas. All his little miniature sorrows are now forgotten. His eyes are as bright and his cheeks as rosy as if he had never been beaten for not knowing the difference between a copulative and a disjunctive conjunction, or for forgetting that word which his tyrant called tisic commenced with a p. The young dog has hung up his stocking, and received such lavish gifts from the good St. Nicholas, that the overflowings of his delighted heart would no longer permit him to refrain from calling upon me, his trusty friend and ally, to participate in his joy. He has a magnificent humming-top and a Chinese puzzle, several profound volumes of history and travels, enriched with woodcuts of various places on the globe, and their inhabitants, some admirable storybooks, and other fanciful gifts, to say nothing of liberal supplies of sugar-plums and new-year cakes, and, putting his arms around my neck, he whispered the important secret with every sign of exhilaration, that he was to have "holiday for a whole week."

I remember to have heard an anecdote

of a boy, connected with this famous fashion of hanging up the stocking, which, though a mere trifle, will not be devoid of interest, at least to parents. It seems this little fellow had committed some wickedness in the catalogue of youthful crimes on the eve of the long wished for festival. He did not retire to rest, however, without having suspended his stocking, to solicit the bounty of the patron saint of infant New Yorkers, and arose the next morning to examine into the nature of his treasures. With exclamations of delight, his little brothers and sisters discovered their stockings abundantly supplied with every thing to gratify their fancy and make their happiness complete, beside encouraging notes from their affectionate and invisible divinity, but when he explored his own receipts, imagine his cruel disappointment in drawing forth-a whip. The anger of St. Nicholas, and his own ill conduct betrayed so publicly, and coming upon him with the suddenness of a thunderbolt, in a moment of such highly-wrought and joyful expectation, swelled his innocent heart nearly to breaking. Our informant described it in a graphic manner, and as a scene which would have formed an apt subject for a picture. The terrible emblem of supernatural displeasure was no sooner produced than the gay group of lovely young children were struck into

motionless astonishment. Their lively voices were hushed in an insatnt. The rich and glittering fragments of childish splendour lay around unregarded, while the hero of the tragedy, with the darklooking thong in his hand, stood like a statue, his glowing cheeks turned to an ashy paleness-his uplifted eyes streaming with tears, and giving no other sign of life than a quivering of the lip, and a throbbing of the heart, till he fell senseless to the floor. The alarmed parents hastened to recover him, and sought, by convincing him that they themselves, and no angry angel, had put in the whip as a method of punishing him for his late offences, to relieve his terrors and calm his grief; but their scheme had taken a stronger hold on a lively and uninformed imagination, and struck more deeply a tender young heart than they supposed. The consequence was a fever and delirium of an alarming kind, and a bitterness of anguish which it took months to soothe.

I trust at this season our young friends will not be troubled with whips, either on their shoulders or in their stockings, for I consider them as the rightful inheritors of most of the real merriment at present afloat. Indeed, much as we talk of the several holidays and festivities which diversify the year, no one greets them with such a hearty welcome as the boys. They measure the flight of time by these great landmarks. On the first of April if you find a letter, penknife, pocket-book, or a check for five thousand dollars in the street, don't stop to pick it up, for just as you grasp at it, and think good luck has befriended you at last, it will disappear from between your fingers, and the suppressed titters of a troop of mischievous tatterdemalions, concealed behind a cellar-door, or round the corner, will let you into the agreeable secret that you have been made a fool of. The immortal Washington, on the publication of our independence, was not more sincere in his gratification, than they on the return of the great climacteric of American holidays; and the evacuation of the British causes as much triumph every year among whole armies of the juvenile race, as it did to the sober citizens who thereby regained their homes. How I have mused to behold a group of ragamuffins, infinitely happier than so many kings, venting their patriotic principles in shouts and merriment on the eighth of January, before a

VOL. V.

We

huge transparency representing the famous hero of New Orleans, with a formidable broadsword in one hand, and leaning the other on the mane of a war-charger, of extraordinary fierceness, appropriately decorated with blue and yellow lamps. Men cannot sufficiently unbend their minds from business to enter into the true spirit of these occasions. They wish each other merry Christmas as if they were going to be hanged; and their "happy new year" comes out as dolefully as we have seen a comic actor on his benefit night go through a facetious part to empty boxes. cannot forget the cares of yesterday—we cannot refrain from anticipating the troubles of to-morrow. Bills are crowding inmoney is running out. B. G. and L. Higgins's note comes due next Tuesday. Such an one has failed, and such a stock has fallen. There is not one man in ten but will tell you, if he speaks the truth, that wishing him a happy new year, sounds in his ears like an insult. A friend of mine is afflicted with a "lady intellectual," who acts towards him like a Xantippe. He does not pretend to be a Socrates; wish him a happy new year, and I think it is not impossible he may knock you down. Will Whipple has been ten years courting a sweet belle about town, who gave him "his walking ticket," as one of his friends expresses it, on Christmas eve. When our carrier wished him a merry Christmas, he told him to go to the d-l. How many are there whose affairs are equally crossed with perplexities and disappointments. But your true boy is of a more untameable spirit. Set one of these adrift on the fourth of July, with a few packs of crackers, some powder, and an old pistol, and what cares he that he is to be beaten when he goes back to school, so long as he can contribute to the general racket in the cause of freedom?

As for me, amid the mirth of these times, I confess myself secretly prone to a little moralizing and melancholy. It is not that I am infected with a spirit of narrow repining, but my mind finds a kind of mournful satisfaction in dwelling upon even the darker touches with which the wisdom of Providence has overshadowed the picture of human life. It is good for us to know what we are, and to familiarize ourselves with the vicissitudes to which we are for ever exposed. When all around me, therefore, abandon themselves to lively pleasure, when the blooming bride blushes

D

to receive friendly congratulations, and the father of a virtuous family smiles as he regards the beings whom he has protected and made contented, an irresistible impulse carries my thoughts forward through the dim glimmerings of the future, and back upon the events of the past. These universal holidays form prominent points in the year, which remind me to compare what I have been with what I may be. I cannot but also admit into my speculations the destinies of the beings around me. The young stir up my fancy to conjecture the scenes through which they must pass, and the aged to discover the adventures they have already experienced. It is wonderful as we grow old how our minds broaden, and from the sight of a single object grasp innumerable additional ideas. I remember when the appearance of a Christmas dinner enlivened me only with thoughts of good cheer and merry-making. Now it is pregnant with grave reflections, and fills me with a crowd of moral images and pensive associations. I wonder at the benevolent skill with which Heaven has so constructed our race, that, notwithstanding all the gloomy events which crush human feelings from one year to another, the great game still goes joyfully on-that although the arrow of grief has quivered in many a bosom, while the earth was performing her vast annual circuit, the wounds are so nearly healed. Within twelve brief months what ravages, what fearful ravages, have been wrought by misfortune and death how many are exposed to the perils of distant places, who should now be with us-how many are stretched out in the

pain and suspense of dangerous diseasehow many have been borne to their last cold sleeping-place! Who so thoughtless as to remember the past without reading a lesson for the future? The approaching year will be but a type of that which is gone. They who sit by our side to-day may be missed when the rolling months shall bring another season of mirth. There is a sweet moral in these thoughts. I would press it upon the attention of my youthful readers. Let them reflect upon it when passion swells their young bosoms, and they will check the malignant look, and hush the angry retort. When the reckless son wounds the feelings of his mother, or the impatient husband vents his ill humour on his wife-when ungentle words rise between brother and sister, or friend and friend, let them fancy the image of a grave, newly spread over the palid face of the companion whose petty fault now agitates their bosom with rage and revenge. Surely the tumult of passion must be calmed, and they will feel the almost unloosened bonds of love drawing their hearts together more closely. They will be more inclined to see each other's virtues than their errors. They will exclaim with poor Eve, shrinking from the upbraidings of Adam after the fall,

While yet we live, scarce one short
hour perhaps,

Between us two let there be peace. and many a rude scene of domestic commotion will be spared to their future recollection.

"You behold," said my companion, "one of those secluded dwellings where the treasures of learning are served without ostentation to the lowly youth of your happy country. Beneath that unaspiring roof, and clothed in the_garments of the poor, many a young heart beats with germs of genius and virtue. But the period of their thraldom is over, and the elastic mind, bent down with the labour of study, is prepared to rise again to mirth and pleasure."

As he spoke, a burst of noisy merri

ment told that the toils of the day were done; and with faces of eager joy, natural enough on the occasion, the crowd burst forth to freedom sweetened by restraint. But among the joyful multitude who dispersed themselves over the green and pursued their various sports, I noted one upon whose features appeared the marks of sorrow; for many as are the deep regrets with which the scarred and worn heart of man yearns for the peace, the innocence, the ignorance of boyhood, yet its sky, even as

every other, is shaken by the mimic tempest, or overshadowed with infant gloom, The boy was poor. No affluent friends waited to lead him by the band to the high and glorious places of the world. Scarcely one kind heart was crossed by recollections of his image, sympathy with his loneliness, or interest in his welfare. A remote relation had placed him at the academy, partly from a cold sense of duty, and partly from the pomp of ostentatious charity, which so long as it shone forth conspicuously to admiring thousands, never listed whether the object was wounded or benefited by the manner of its application. The master of the establishment was a pedant, in whose rude and unfeeling bosom he found no refuge either from his own thoughts or the neglect of others. The same fate which had thus sent the boy adrift without friend, or money, or hope, had also cast his person in a repulsive mould, had formed his tongue awkward to express, and his understanding slow to comprehend. No beautiful face attracted to him the gaze of admiration, and of the spurious pity of which it sometimes is the foundation. His voice had no sweet tones-his mouth no expressive smile-his manner no winning grace. He was rough, ungainly, unattractive, and the tears which now came up from his very heart, did not moisten beautiful eyes or tremble upon long lashes, but rolled down his cheeks in the homely language of ordinary grief.

"Poor, little, solitary, wretched boy!" said the Genius; "although denied the outward charms of person, he has a human heart, and what heart will not bleed when wounded? The pedagogue, his

tyrant, has lost his patience and beaten him, because he has not accomplished all that has been effected by those who had naturally stronger faculties and quicker perceptions.

While he was speaking, the unhappy outcast, with a book containing a lesson as opaque to the eyes of his understanding as the rock was to his physical vision, wandered away from the rest, whose happy shouts were heard, as the ball rose in the air, or the rapid top hummed itself to sleep upon the smooth and much worn ground. He sat down on a stone and turned his face toward the sky, where the sun had just gone down, and the tears were almost dried from his eyes as he gazed, and then as a companion approached him and saluted him with an unfeeling remark or a heartless joke, the tears flowed again.

Presently a boy, gifted with all the grace of manner and beauty of person in which the other was deficient, and endowed with the superadded blessings of affectionate and wealthy parents, wit, capacity, and genius, left the play and came softly and sat down beside him, put his arm around his neck, soothed him in a low tone, and persuaded him to strive again at the repulsive task, which had been so long and so closely associated with misery and mortification that his very soul loathed it. He pointed out the easy parts and explained the dark, and by the aid of his kind and soothing manner, the irritated mind of the dull boy was calmed, and his swelling feelings was hushed, and a light broke in upon him of knowledge, and gratitude, and happiness.