and an indescribable beauty of expression.  Her auburn hair played carelessly in the wind, and her features, though not of classic outline, were radiant with life.  Her eye was one of the finest I have ever seen—­rich, deep-toned, and eloquent, speaking volumes in each varying expression, and generally suggestive of pensive emotion.  Irving was about eight years her senior, and this difference was just sufficient to draw out that fond reliance of female character which he has so beautifully set forth in the sketch of ’The Wife.’  The brief period of this courtship was the sunny hour of his life, for his tender and sensitive nature forbade any thing but the most ardent attachment.  What dreams of future bliss floated before his intoxicated vision, soon to change to the stern realities of grieving sorrow!

In 1809, Mr. Hoffman removed to a suburban residence in Broadway, (corner of Leonard street,) and the frequent walks which the young lover took up that sequestered avenue may have suggested some of the descriptions of the same street in the pages of the History of New-York, and his allusions to the front-gardens so adapted to ancient courtship.  While at this mansion, amid all the blandishments of hope, Matilda’s health began to fail beyond the power of restoratives, and the anxious eye both of parent and betrothed, marked the advance of relentless disease.  The maiden faded away from their affections until both stood by her bed and saw her breathe her last.

The biographer informs us that after Mr. Irving’s death, there was found in a repository of which he always kept the key, a memorial of this affair, which had evidently been written to some friend, in explanation of his single life.  Of the memorial the following extract is given: 

’We saw each other every day, and I became excessively attached to her.  Her shyness wore off by degrees.  The more I saw of her the more I had reason to admire her.  Her mind seemed to unfold itself leaf by leaf, and every time to discover new sweetness.  Nobody knew her so well as I, for she was generally timid and silent, but I, in a manner, studied her excellence.  Never did I meet more intuitive rectitude of mind, more native delicacy, more exquisite propriety in word, thought, or action, than in this young creature.  I am not exaggerating; what I say was acknowledged by all who knew her.  Her brilliant little sister used to say that people began by admiring her, but ended by loving Matilda.  For my part, I idolized her.  I felt at times rebuked by her superior delicacy and purity, as if I was a coarse, unworthy being, in comparison.

’This passion was terribly against my studies.  I felt my own deficiency, and despaired of ever succeeding at the bar.  I could study any thing else rather than law, and had a fatal propensity to belles-lettres.  I had gone on blindly like a boy in love, but now I began to open my eyes and be miserable.  I had