bus received from Isabella his commission to sail
westward until India was reached. And in the end we see the Moors in
their retreat looking sadly from the hill which is called to this day,
The Last Sigh of the Moor, upon the beautiful valley and mountains
lost to them forever. So graphically is the scene described that
Irving must ever remain the historian of the Moors of Spain, whose
spirit seemed to inspire the beautiful words in which he celebrated
their conquests, their achievements, and their defeats.

A favorite among Irving's books was the _Life of Washington_, based
upon the correspondence of the great statesman. It is an appreciative
story of the life work of Washington, written by one whose own work
connected the past and present, and who, as a child, had felt the hand
of the nation's hero laid upon his head in blessing.

In the _Chronicle of Wolfert's Roost_ Irving follows in imagination
old Diedrich Knickerbocker into the famous region of Sleepy Hollow,
where much of the material for the celebrated Knickerbocker's History
was said to have been collected. This chronicle, it was claimed, was
written upon the identical old Dutch writing desk that Diedrich used;
the elbow chair was the same that he sat in; the clock was the very
one he consulted so often during his long hours of composition. In
these pages old Diedrich walks as a real person and Irving follows him
with faithful step through the region that he loved so fondly all his
life.

Everything here is dwelt upon with lingering touch; the brooks and
streams, the meadows and cornfields, the orchards and gardens, and the
groves of beech and chestnut have each their tribute from the pen of
one who found their charms ever fresh, who sought in them rest and
happiness, and who came back to them lovingly to spend the last days
of his life in their familiar companionship.

Irving died in 1859 and was buried at Sunnyside, in sight of the
Hudson whose legends he had immortalized and whose beauty never ceased
to charm him from the moment it first captivated his heart in his
boyhood days.

CHAPTER IV

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

1789-1851

The region of Otsego Lake, New York, was at the last of the eighteenth
century a wilderness. Here and there rose a little clearing, the
birthplace of a future village, but westward the primeval forest
extended for miles around the little lake, which reflected the shadows
of wooded hills on every side. Here roved deer,