e his writings are from the elements of conflict and opposition. He
never put any vinegar into his ink. He seems to have been absolutely
without the capacity of hating any living thing. He was a literary
artist; and the productions of his pen address themselves to the
universal and unpartisan sympathies of mankind as much as paintings
or statues. His "Rip Van Winkle" and "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" are
pictures, in which we find combined the handling of Teniers, the
refinement of Stothard, and the coloring of Gainsborough.

Fortunate in so many other things, Irving may also be pronounced
fortunate in his biographer, whom he himself designated for the trust.
His nephew has performed his labor of love in a manner which will
satisfy all but those who read a book mainly for the purpose of finding
fault with it. In his brief and tasteful preface he says: "In the
delicate office of sifting, selecting, and arranging these different
materials, extending through a period of nearly sixty years, it has
been my aim to make the author, in every stage of his career, as far as
possible, his own biographer, conscious that I shall in this way best
fulfil the duty devolved upon me, and give to the world the truest
picture of his life and character." To this purpose Mr. Pierre M.
Irving has adhered with uniform consistency. He makes his uncle his own
biographer. To borrow a happy illustration which we found in a newspaper
a few days since, his own portion of the book is like the crystal of
a watch, through which we see the hands upon the face as through
transparent air. And luckily he found ample materials in his uncle's
papers and records. Washington Irving was not bred to any profession,
and had a fixed aversion, not characteristic of his countrymen, for
regular business-occupation; his literary industry was fitful, and not
continuous: but he seems to have been fond of the occupation of writing,
and spent upon his diaries and in his correspondence a great many hours,
which he could hardly have done, if he had been a lawyer, a doctor, or
even a merchant, in active employment. His warm family-affections, too,
his strong love for his brothers and sisters, from most of whom he was
for many years separated, were a constant incitement to the writing of
letters, those invisible wires that keep up the communication between
parted hearts. For all these peculiarities of nature, for all these
accidents of fortune, we have reason to be grateful, since