Bartholomeus Vander Helst, FECIT Ao, 1648.

Yes, indeed, it was a delightful little holiday; it lasted a whole week.  With the exception of that little pint of amari aliquid at Rotterdam, we were all very happy.  We might have gone on being happy for whoever knows how many days more? a week more, ten days more:  who knows how long that dear teetotum happiness can be made to spin without toppling over?

But one of the party had desired letters to be sent poste restante, Amsterdam.  The post-office is hard by that awful palace where the Atlas is, and which we really saw.

There was only one letter, you see.  Only one chance of finding us.  There it was.  “The post has only this moment come in,” says the smirking commissioner.  And he hands over the paper, thinking he has done something clever.

Before the letter had been opened, I could read come back, as clearly as if it had been painted on the wall.  It was all over.  The spell was broken.  The sprightly little holiday fairy that had frisked and gambolled so kindly beside us for eight days of sunshine—­or rain which was as cheerful as sunshine—­gave a parting piteous look, and whisked away and vanished.  And yonder scuds the postman, and here is the old desk.

NIL NISI BONUM.

Almost the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, “Be a good man, my dear!” and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them.

Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time.* Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic’s pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works.  This is no review, or history, or criticism:  only a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labor the honor of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men.  One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old.  He was born almost with the republic; the pater patriae had laid his hand on the child’s head.  He bore Washington’s name:  he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling goodwill.  His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europeans.  If Irving’s welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered?  If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart?  Who can calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this writer’s generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own?  His books are