robust and athletic writings of Cooper, the volumes of Irving improved American society, and rendered the national name beloved and respected abroad. Both, to the honor of the country, have never lacked admirers from the start; both have been followed by diligent schools of imitators, and their books will continue to be read together, with equal honor, as the complement of each other. We may here properly introduce some notices of the elder brothers of Washington Irving, who, together with himself, established the family reputation in literature. They were four-William, Peter, Ebenezer, and John Treat. All were engaged in literary or professional life except Ebenezer, who pursued a mercantile career. He WILLIAM IRVING was born in New York, August 15, 1766. He commenced life as an Indian trader, residing at Johnstown and Caughawaga on the Mohawk, from 1787 to 1791. married a sister of the author, James K. Paulding, November 7, 1793. At the date of Salmagundi he was a merchant at New York, with the character of a man of wit and refinement, who had added to a natural genial temperament the extensive resources of observation, and a fresh experience of the world, gathered in his border life. The part which he took in Salmagundi was chiefly the contribution of the poetical pieces, which are mainly from his pen-the letters and proclamations, the humorous and sentimental verse, "from the mill of Pindar Cockloft." These poems are in a happy vein, and if separately published with the author's name, would have long since given him a distinct place in the collections of the American literati. In furtherance of the prevailing humor of the book, they celebrate the simpler manners of former days, and the eccentricities and scandals of the passing time. The satire is pungent and good-natured, and the numbers felicitous. A few stanzas will show how pleasantly Pindar Cockloft, Esq., blended mirth with sentiment. VISION OF TWO SISTERS IN A BALL-ROOM. How oft I breathe the inward sigh, Thus lately, in my careless mood, For Eden had each lovely maid They seemed, just entering hand in hand, Oh, how these strangers joyed my sight, Oh! my romance of youth is past, Full soon I found the lovely pair The fair resigned the calm retreat, Pure as the gentle stream that laves The tender beauties soon decay, And their sweet fragrance dies away. Blest spirits! who enthroned in air, Watch o'er the virtues of the fair, And with angelic ken survey, Their windings through life's chequered way, Who hover round them as they glide So when these hearts shall burst their shrine, In his poem entitled Tea, which is "earnestly recommended to the attention of all maidens of a certain age," there is this introduction of the time-out-of-mind scandal associated with that beverage. In harmless chit-chat an acquaintance they roast, And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast, Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake, Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake; A bit of broad scandal is like a dry crust, It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first With a little affected good-nature, and cry No body regrets the thing deeper than Ï.” As she mumbles a crust she will mumble a name; In the more concentrated social humors of that day, there was opportunity for much satirical pleasantry, which is now lost among the nuinerous interests of metropolitan life. The fops and belles were then notabilities and subjects to be cared for by men of wit and society. One of the clever pleasantries of William Irving of that now distant time, which has never before appeared in print, was recently called up for us by Washington Irving, who recited the lines from memory, and kindly furnished us with a copy. It is in a style formerly in vogue in the days of Pindar and Colman-a trifle in allusion to an absurdity in the whisker line of the fops in the early years of the century. Sir! said a barber to a thing going by his shop, And be shaved? for I see you are lathered already, Damme, Sir, do you intend to bore one in the street? Don't you see that à la mode de Cockney, I am shaved and drest? Lord, Sir, said the barber, I protest, I took that load of hair, and meal, and lard, This fashion of lathered whiskers and a rat's tail behind, Is the most ojusest thing that you can find. To the prose of Salmagundi William Irving furnished occasional hints and sketches, which were worked up by his brother. Among these were the letters of Mustapha in numbers five and fourteen, the last of which is the amusing sketch of the political logocracy. Mr. Irving was in Congress from 1813 to 1819. He died in New York, November 9, 1821. PETER IRVING, the second brother, was born October 30, 1771. He studied medicine, without, however, devoting himself to the profession, though it gave him the title of Doctor through life. He was proprietor and editor of the Morning Chronicle newspaper, the first number of which he published in New York, October 1, 1802. This paper was in the democratic interest, and for the time was a warm advocate of Burr. It had among its contributors, besides the editor's brothers, Washington and John T. Irving, Paulding, William A. Duer, and Rudolph Bunner. As a tender to the daily, a more convenient method of parrying the opposition, and serving a temporary purpose on the eve of an election, the Corrector, a weekly newspaper, the work of several hands, was issued anonymously in March and April, 1804. Dr. Irving would probably have returned the compliments of the articles which his brother Washington had published in his newspaper, by contributing to Salmagundi, but he was abroad travelling in Europe during the time that work was issued. He left in December, 1806, and returned in January, 1808. He then projected with his brother the work which afterwards grew in the hands of the latter into Knickerbocker's New York; but before it was written sailed for Europe at the beginning of 1809, and remained there until the spring of 1836, when he embarked for home. In this period a novel appeared from his pen in New York, from the press of Van Winkle in 1820. It was, as its title intimates, an adaptation from the French, though with extensive alterations, Giovanni Sbogarro: A Venetian Tale [taken from the French], by Percival GIt is a stirring tale of piratical adventure, in a now somewhat exploded school of fiction, and is written in a happy style. Dr. Irving did not long survive his return to America. He died at his residence in New York, June 27, 1838. EBENEZER IRVING was born January 27, 1776. He has long since retired from mercantile life, and his residence with his brother is one of the pleasing associations of the family home at Sunnyside. JOHN T. IRVING was born May 26, 1778. He studied the profession of the law, in which he acquired a reputation that secured him, on the creation of the Court of Common Pleas for the city and county of New York in 1821, the appointment of First Judge. He presided in this court for seventeen years, till his death. As a judge, he is worthily pronounced to have been "in many respects a model for imitation. To the strictest integrity and a strong love of justice, he united the most exact and methodical habits of business; attentive, careful, and painstaking, few judges in this state ever have been more accurate, or perhaps more generally correct in their decisions.”* In his early days we have seen him a contributor to his brother's newspaper. He was fond of composition, had the family elegance of style, and wrote brilliant political verses in the party conflicts of his day. He died in New York, March 15, 1838. Of the younger members of the family, John Treat Irving, son of Judge Irving, is the author of several works of distinguished literary merit. In 1835 he published Indian Sketches, a narrative of an expedition to the Pawnee Tribes, a book of lively, spirited description. He is also the author of two novels, remarkable for their striking pathetic and humorous qualities: The Attorney, and Harry Harson, or the Benevolent Bachelor. Both of these were first published in the Knickerbocker Magazine, with the signature of John Quod, the well known title to many a pleasant article in that journal. The locality is New York, and the interest of each turns upon passages of the author's profession, the law. With the graver themes of rascality are mingled the humors of low life, both sketched with a firm hand. Theodore, the son of Ebenezer Irving, joined his uncle, Washington Irving, in Europe in 1828, and resided with him in Spain and England. From 1836 to 1849 he was Professor of History and Belles Lettres at Geneva College, and subsequently held a similar position in the Free Academy in New York. In 1835 he published an historical work, The Conquest of Florida, by Hernando de Soto, to the composition of which he was led by his studies in Spain. It is written with ease and elegance, and has been well received, having been recently reprinted in 1851. Irving is also the author of a devotional volume, The Fountain of Living Waters. In 1854 he received orders in the Protestant Episcopal Church. THE STOUT GENTLEMAN-FROM Bracebridge hall. Mr. It was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but was still feverish, and obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn!whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement. The windows of my bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned * Daly's History of Judicial Tribunals of New York, p. 65. fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his back; near the cart was a halfdozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a doghouse hard by, uttered something every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; every thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, except a crew of hardened ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor. I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what is technically called the travellers'-room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or riders; a kind of commercial knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors that I know of at the present day, to the knights-errant of yore. They lead the same kind of roving adventurous life, only changing the lance for a driving whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantial tradesman or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in his name; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one another. As the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the armor of way-worn warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets; so the travellers'-room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats. I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the room; but I could make nothing of them. One was just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots for not having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table with his fingers and looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass; they all appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, one after the other, without exchanging a word. I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people, picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted midleg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite; who, being confined to the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was sadly nervous and lonely; and everything about an inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller. Old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and which I had already read half a dozen times. Good for nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I read all the commonplaced names of ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons; and I deciphered several scraps of fatiguing in-window poetry which I have met with in all parts of the world. The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along; there was no variety even in the rain: it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter-patter -patter, excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins. The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, and that nondescript animal yeleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather: mine hostess's tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears; and, on referring to the Almanae, I found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page to the bottom through the whole month, "expect-much-rainabout-this-time!" I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar: "The stout gentleman in No. 13, wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs; the eggs not to be too much done." In such a situation as mine every incident is of importance. Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to work upon. Had the guest up stairs been mentioned as Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it; but "The stout gentleman!"—the very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the size; it embodied the personage to my mind's eye, und my fancy did the rest. He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman. There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance; "well to do in the world;" accustomed to be promptly waited upon; of a keen appetite, and a little cross when hungry; "perhaps," thought I, "he may be some London Al derman; or who knows but he may be a Member of Parliament?" The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short interval of silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing; and before it could be answered, another ringing still more violent. "Bless me! what a choleric old gentleman!" The waiter came down in a huff. The butter was rancid, the eggs were over-done, the ham was too salt:-the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating; one of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant with the household. The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk, coquettish woman: a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal; with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their negligence in sending up so bad a breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentleman; by which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of consequence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter were sent up. They appeared to be more graciously received; at least there was no further complaint. I had not made many turns about the travellers'room, when there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentleman wanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper. I set him down, therefore, for a whig; or rather, from his being so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man; "who knows," thought I, "but it is Hunt himself!" My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter who was this stout gentleman that was making all this stir; but I could get no information: nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom trouble their heads about the names or occupations of their transient guests. The color of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to suggest a travelling name. is either the tall gentleman, or the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snuffcolor; or, as in the present instance, the stout gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers every purpose, and saves all further inquiry. It Rain-rain-rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation nor amusement within. By and by I heard some one walking over head. It was in the stout gentleman's room. He evidently was a large man by the heaviness of his tread; and an old man from his wearing such creaking soles. "He is doubtless," thought 1, some rich old square-toes of regular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast." I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that were stuck about the mantel-piece. The Lady's Magazine had become an abomination to me; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not been there long, when there was a squall from a neighboring bedroom. A door opened and slammed violently; a chambermaid, that I had remarked for having a ruddy, good-humored face, went down stairs in a violent flurry. The stout gentleman had been rude to her! This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This unknown personage could not be an old gentleman; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to chambermaids. He could not be a young gentleman; for young gentle men are not apt to inspire such indignation. He must be a middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into the bargain, or the girl would not have taken the matter in such terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled. In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. I caught a glance of her as she came tramping up stairs; her face glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way. "She'd have no such doings in her house, she'd warrant. If gentlemen did spend money freely, it was no rule. She'd have no servant maid of hers treated in that way, when they were about their work, that's what she wouldn't." As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly closed the door, but my curiosity was too much excited not to listen. The landlady marched intrepidly to the enemy's citadel, and entered it with a storm: the door closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy clamor for a moment or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret; then there was a laugh; then I heard nothing more. After a little while my landlady came out with an odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, which was a little on one side. As she went down stairs I heard the landlord ask her what was the matter; she said, "Nothing at all, only the girl's a fool."-İ was more than ever perplexed what to make of this unaccountable personage, who could put a goodnatured chambermaid in a passion, and send away a termagant landlady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly either. I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout gentlemen that are frequently met with swaggering about the doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt-liquors. Men who have seen the world, and been sworn at Highgate; who are used to tavern life; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on a small scale; who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea; who call all the waiters by name, touzle the maids, go3sip with the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of negus, after dinner. The morning wore away in forming these and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely nervous; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this invisible personage began to have its effect:-I was getting a fit of the fidgets. Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout gentleman might dine in the travellers'-room, and that I might at length get a view of his person: but no-he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery? He could not be a radical; there was something too aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of the world, and condemning himself to his own dull company throughout a rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine like a jolly friend of good living. Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end; for he could not have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him humming a tune; and on listening, I found it to be "God save the King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faithful subject; one who grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready to stand by king and constitution, when he could stand by nothing else. But who could he be! My conjectures began to run wild. Was he not some personage of distinction travelling incog.? God knows!" said I, at my wit's end; "it may be one of the royal family for aught I know, for they are all stout gentlemen!" The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the meantime, as the day advanced, the travellers'-room began to be frequented. Some, who had just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats; others came home who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There were two especially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting-maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, had become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now to be diverted from the scent. Some The evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the papers two or three times over. drew round the fire and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures, their overturns, and breakings down. They discussed the credit of dif ferent merchants and different inns; and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty chambermaids, and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after which they one after another rang for "Boots" and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. There was now only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by himself, with a glass of port wine negus, and a spoon; sipping and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing was left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his chair, with the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless, and almost spectral, box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping topers, and the drippings of the rain, drop -drop-drop, from the eaves of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentleman began to walk over head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this, especially to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great-coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking footsteps of this mysterious being. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of a hero of romance. "Be he who or what he may,' said I to myself, "I'll have a sight of him!" I seized a chamber candle, and hurried up to No. 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated-I entered: the room was deserted. There stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an |