VALENTINE'S MANUAL

was puzzled when the old gentleman said, "Haven, you
will not see the spot .that Washington touched." I did
not venture to put the question to Irving, but had word
later with my father. "You goose," said my father, "did
you not know that Irving wears a wig?"

I was with my father again at Sunnyside on a grey day
in November, 1859, when the friends from New York
and the great group of neighbours from Tarrytown and
the surrounding country had gathered together to pay
their last honours to the memory of the first American
author. The writer has in his memory a picture of the
weather-beaten walls of the quaint little church with the
background of forest trees and the surroundings of the
moss-covered graves. Beyond, on the roadside, could be
seen the grey walls of the old mill, in front of which
Ichabod Crane had clattered past, pursued by the head¬
less horseman. The adjoining road and the neighbour¬
ing fields were crowded with vehicles, large and small,
which had gathered from all parts of the countryside. It
was evident from the words and from the faces of those
that had come together that the man whose life had just
been brought to a close had not only made for himself a
place in the literature of the world, but had been ac¬
cepted as a personal friend by the neighbours of his
home.

The final and, in some respects, the greatest of Irving's
productions, the Life of Washington, was completed on
his seventy-sixth birthday. Six months prior to the close
of his earthly labours, he had the satisfaction, before the
final illness in November, of holding in his hands the
printed volume.

Irving occupied an exceptional position among the lit¬
erary workers of his country.    It was his good fortune

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