The loves of these men exercised the strongest influence on their destinies, while, on the other hand, disappointment and consequent celibacy have done the same to their victims.  To the bachelor list of modern days, which can boast of Charles Lamb and Macaulay, America adds the proud name of Washington Irving, whose early disappointment made him an author.

My impressions of Irving’s boyhood and youth are alive with the freshness of an early memory, which conserves along with him the Crugers, Clintons, Livingstons, Ogdens, and other old and honored names of New-York.  The biography which inspires this reminiscence gives a sketch of the early history of the family, and as its author has thus opened the subject, it will not, we presume, be considered an intrusion if I pursue the thread of domestic incident a little farther than he has done.

The Irving homestead, in William street, was, in its day, a place of some pretension, when contrasted with the humble dwellings which surrounded it.  The street on which it stood was miserably built, but here, in the suburb of the city, was a house whose appearance corresponded with the solid and high-toned character of its owner.  Old Mr. Irving was, at the time to which I refer, a hale citizen of about three-score and ten, of grave and majestic bearing, and a form and expression which, when once fixed in the mind, could not easily be forgotten.  As I remember him, his countenance was cast in that strong mould which characterized the land of his birth, but the features were often mellowed by a quiet smile.  He was a man of deep piety, and was esteemed a pillar in the Brick Church, then the leading Presbyterian church of the city.

His mode of conducting family worship was peculiarly beautiful, and even to his last days he maintained this service.  On such occasions, it was a most touching spectacle to see the majestic old man, bowed and hoary with extreme age, leaning upon his staff, as he stood among his family and sung a closing hymn, generally one appropriate to his condition, while tears of emotion ran down his checks.  One of these hymns we well remember.  It runs in these lines,

’Death may dissolve my body now,
  And bear my spirit home;
Why do my moments move so slow,
  Nor my salvation come?

’With heavenly weapons I have fought
  The battles of my Lord;
Finished my course, and kept the faith,
  And wait the sure reward.’

In a few years, the words of this exquisite hymn were fulfilled; the old man fell asleep, full of years and of honors, going to the grave like a shock of corn in its season.  His funeral was one of imposing simplicity, and he was buried just at the entrance of that church where he had been so long a faithful attendant.

Mrs. Irving, who survived him several years, was of a different type of character, which, by its peculiar contrast, seemed to perfect the harmony of a well-matched union.  She was of elegant shape, with large English features, which were permeated by an indescribable life and beauty.  Her manners were full of action, and her conversational powers were of a high order.  All of these graces appeared in the children, and were united with the vigor of intellect which marked the character of the father.