ctive with me for this service
than the sacred writers; I think I have waked a good many sleeping
fancies by the reading of a chapter in Isaiah."

In answer to inquiries of mine in regard to the incomplete state of
several of the stories of "Wolfert's Roost," he said: "Yes, we do not
get through all we lay out. Some of those sketches had lain in my mind
for a great many years; they made a sort of garret-trumpery, of which I
thought I would make a general clearance, leaving the odds and ends to
take care of themselves.

"There was a novel too, I once laid out, in which an English lad, being
a son of one of the old Regicide Judges, was to come over to New England
in search of his father: he was to meet with a throng of adventures, and
to arrive at length upon a Saturday night, in the midst of a terrible
thunder-storm, at the house of a stern old Massachusetts Puritan, who
comes out to answer to the rappings; and by a flash of lightning which
gleams upon the harsh, iron visage of the old man, the son fancies he
recognizes his father."

And as he told it, the old gentleman wrinkled his brow, and tried to put
on the fierce look he would describe.

"It's all there is of it," said he. "If you want to make a story, you
can furbish it up."

There were among other notable people at Saratoga, during the summer of
which I speak, the well-known Mrs. Dr. R----, of Philadelphia, since
deceased,--a woman of great eccentricities, but of a wonderfully
masculine mind, and of great cultivation. It was a fancy of hers to give
special, social patronage to foreign artists; and among those just then
at Saratoga, and the recipients of her favor, were a distinguished
violinist--whose name I do not now recall--and the newly married Mme.
Alboni. Mr. Irving, in common with her other acquaintances, she was
inclined to make contributory to her attentions. To this Mr. Irving was
not averse, both from his extreme love of music, and his kindliness
toward the artists themselves; yet, in his own quiet way, I think he
fretted considerably at being pounced upon at odd hours to give them
French talk.

"It's very awkward," said he to me one day; "I have had large occasion
for practice to be sure; but I rather fancy, after all, our own
language; it's heartier and easier."

He was utterly incapable of being lionized. Time and again, under the
trees in the court of the hotel, did I hear him enter upon some pleasant
story, lighted up with that rare turn