man of tape; and then another question, about Mr. Irving’s “latest work,” revealed the pleasant fact that he was addressed as the famous Edward Irving, of the Scotch Church,—­the man of divers tongues.  The very existence of the “Sketch-Book” was probably unknown to his intelligent admirer.  “All I could do,” added Mr. Crayon, with that rich twinkle in his eye,—­“all I could do was to take my tail between my legs and slink away in the smallest possible compass.”

A word more about Mr. Irving’s manner of life.  The impression given by Thackeray, in his notice (genial enough, and well-meant, doubtless) of Irving’s death, is absurdly inaccurate.  His picture of the “one old horse,” the plain little house, etc., would lead one to imagine Mr. Irving a weak, good-natured old man, amiably, but parsimoniously, saving up his pennies for his “eleven nieces,” (!) and to this end stinting himself, among other ways, to “a single glass of wine,” etc., etc.  Mr. Thackeray’s notions of style and state and liveried retinues are probably not entirely un-English, notwithstanding he wields so sharp a pen against England’s snobs; and he may naturally have looked for more display of greatness at the residence of an ex-ambassador.  But he could scarcely appreciate that simple dignity and solid comfort, that unobtrusive fitness, which belonged to Mr. Irving’s home-arrangements.  There were no flunkies in gold and scarlet; but there were four or five good horses in the stable, and as many suitable carriages.  Everything in the cottage was peculiarly and comfortably elegant, without the least pretension.  As to the “single glass of wine,” Mr. Irving, never a professed teetotaller, was always temperate on instinct both in eating and drinking; and in his last two years I believe he did not taste wine at all.  In all financial matters, Mr. Irving’s providence and preciseness were worthy of imitation by all professional literary men; but with exactness and punctuality he united a liberal disposition to make a suitable use of money, and to have all around him comfortable and appropriate.  Knowing that he could leave a handsome independence for those nearest to him, he had no occasion for any such anxious care as Mr. Thackeray intimates.

Thackeray had been invited to Yonkers, to give his lecture on “Charity and Humor.”  At this “Ancient Dorp” he was the guest of Cozzens, and I had the honor of accompanying the greater and lesser humorist in a drive to Sunnyside, nine miles. (This call of an hour, by-the-way, was Thackeray’s only glimpse of the place he described.) The interview was in every way interesting.  Mr. Irving produced a pair of antiquated spectacles, which had belonged to Washington, and Major Pendennis tried them on with evident reverence.  The hour was well filled with rapid, pleasant chat; but no profound analysis of the characteristics of wit and humor was elicited either from the Stout Gentleman or from Vanity Fair.