But before this humorous creation was completed, the author endured the terrible bereavement which was to color all his life.  He had formed a deep and tender passion for Matilda Hoffman, the second daughter of Josiah Ogden Hoffman, in whose family he had long been on a footing of the most perfect intimacy, and his ardent love was fully reciprocated.  He was restlessly casting about for some assured means of livelihood which would enable him to marry, and perhaps his distrust of a literary career was connected with this desire, when after a short illness Miss Hoffman died, in the eighteenth year of her age.  Without being a dazzling beauty, she was lovely in person and mind, with most engaging manners, a refined sensibility, and a delicate and playful humor.  The loss was a crushing blow to Irving, from the effects of which he never recovered, although time softened the bitterness of his grief into a tender and sacred memory.  He could never bear to hear her name spoken even by his most intimate friends, or any allusion to her.  Thirty years after her death, it happened one evening at the house of Mr. Hoffman, her father, that a granddaughter was playing for Mr. Irving, and in taking her music from the drawer, a faded piece of embroidery was brought forth.  “Washington,” said Mr. Hoffman, picking it up, “this is a piece of poor Matilda’s workmanship.”  The effect was electric.  He had been talking in the sprightliest mood before, but he sunk at once into utter silence, and in a few moments got up and left the house.

After his death, in a private repository of which he always kept the key, was found a lovely miniature, a braid of fair hair, and a slip of paper, on which was written in his own hand, “Matilda Hoffman;” and with these treasures were several pages of a memorandum in ink long since faded.  He kept through life her Bible and Prayer Book; they were placed nightly under his pillow in the first days of anguish that followed her loss, and ever after they were the inseparable companions of all his wanderings.  In this memorandum—­which was written many years afterwards—­we read the simple story of his love: 

“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 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 with more intuitive rectitude of mind, more native delicacy, more exquisite propriety in word, thought, and 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, and as if I was a coarse, unworthy being in comparison.”