his sister Nancy, and his betrothed.  The first two had become sacred memories, and were enshrined in the sanctuary of his soul; but the latter was a thing of life, whose existence had become identified with his own, and was made sure beyond the power of disease and mortality.  Who, indeed, would have been so welcome to the solitary tourist on that weird midnight as she whose Bible and Prayer-Book accompanied his wanderings, whose miniature was his treasure, and of whom he could say:  ’She died in the beauty of her youth, and in my memory she will ever be young and beautiful.’

That a reuenion with all the beloved of earth was a controlling thought in his mind, and one bearing an especial reference to this supreme bereavement, is manifest from the following, from the same sketch: 

’We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few moments, and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other.  Or granting that we dwell together for the full season of this mortal life, the grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain in separation and widowhood until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will dwell with soul in blissful communion, and there will be neither death, nor absence, nor any thing else to interrupt our felicity.’

Such was the view which cheered the life of one thus early stripped of promised and expected happiness, and to which he dung during all changes of time and place.  Amid the infirmities of advancing years, while surrounded by an endearing circle of relatives, who ministered to him with the most watchful affection, there was one that abode in still closer communion with his heart.  While writing in his study at Sunnyside, or pacing, in quiet solitude, the streets of New-York, at all times, a fair young form hovered over him and beckoned him heavenward.  Years passed on, until a half-century had been told.  All things had changed, the scenes and characters of early life had passed away.  The lover had become a kindly old man.  The young essayist had become a great author and an heir of fame.  The story of life was complete.  The hour of his departure was at hand, when suddenly the same hand which had separated the lovers reuenited them forever.  Who shall say that the last image which flitted across his mind at the awful moment of dissolution, was not that fresh and lovely form which he had cherished in unchanging affection for fifty years?

I have stated my opinion that it was Irving’s disappointment which made him the great American author, and to this opinion I now return with increased confidence.  Had the plans of his youth been carried out; had he become a partner of Mr. Hoffman, and had the hands of the lovers been united, the whole tenor of his life would have been changed.  He would have published some fine things, in addition to the Knickerbocker