skill, upon which his reputation must rest.  To my apprehension this “charm” in literature is as necessary to the amelioration and enjoyment of human life as the more solid achievements of scholarship.  That Irving should find it in the prosaic and materialistic conditions of the New World as well as in the tradition-laden atmosphere of the Old, is evidence that he possessed genius of a refined and subtle quality, if not of the most robust order.

X

LAST YEARS—­THE CHARACTER OF HIS LITERATURE

The last years of Irving’s life, although full of activity and enjoyment,—­abated only by the malady which had so long tormented him, —­offer little new in the development of his character, and need not much longer detain us.  The calls of friendship and of honor were many, his correspondence was large, he made many excursions to scenes that were filled with pleasant memories, going even as far south as Virginia, and he labored assiduously at the “Life of Washington,”—­attracted, however, now and then, by some other tempting theme.  But his delight was in the domestic circle at Sunnyside.  It was not possible that his occasional melancholy vein should not be deepened by change and death and the lengthening shade of old age.  Yet I do not know the closing days of any other author of note that were more cheerful, serene, and happy than his.  Of our author, in these latter days, Mr. George William Curtis put recently into his “Easy Chair” papers an artistically touched little portrait.  “Irving was as quaint a figure,” he says, “as the Diedrich Knickerbocker in the preliminary advertisement of the ’History of New York.’  Thirty years ago he might have been seen on an autumnal afternoon tripping with an elastic step along Broadway, with ‘low-quartered’ shoes neatly tied, and a Talma cloak—­a short garment that lung from the shoulders like the cape of a coat.  There was a chirping, cheery, old-school air in his appearance which was undeniably Dutch, and most harmonious with the associations of his writing.  He seemed, indeed, to have stepped out of his own books; and the cordial grace and humor of his address, if he stopped for a passing chat, were delightfully characteristic.  He was then our most famous man of letters, but he was simply free from all self-consciousness and assumption and dogmatism.”  Congenial occupation was one secret of Irving’s cheerfulness and contentment, no doubt.  And he was called away as soon as his task was done, very soon after the last volume of the “Washington” issued from the press.  Yet he lived long enough to receive the hearty approval of it from the literary men whose familiarity with the Revolutionary period made them the best judges of its merits.