m I had loved, repeated in
the man. The same playful humor, the same touches of sentiment, the
same poetic atmosphere; and what I admired still more, the entire
absence of all literary jealousy, of all that mean avarice of fame
which counts what is given to another as so much taken from one's
self.... Passing his house at the early hour of six one summer
morning, I saw his study window already wide open. On my mentioning it
to him afterwards he said, 'Yes, I am always at work by six.' Since
then I have often remembered that sunny morning and that open window,
so suggestive of his sunny temperament and his open heart, and equally
so of his patient and persistent toil."

Irving's career is usually looked upon as ideal. In many ways it was
singularly blessed. Friends, influence, fame, and wealth were his.
When an American publisher undertook the issuing of a new edition of
Irving's works in 1848, there was much uncertainty as to the success
of the venture, but the author received eighty-eight thousand dollars
from 1848 to 1859. He also had the satisfaction of working to the
last, although the last year was one of suffering. "I am rather
fatigued, my dear, by my night's rest," he replied to the anxious
inquiry of a niece. He had been hard at work upon his _Life of
Washington_, and he sometimes feared he might have overtaxed his
brain. "I do not fear death," he said, "but I would like to go down
with all sails set."

This modest prayer was granted. To the day of his death he was able to
receive visitors, talk intelligently, read for his own pleasure, and
take short drives. The day before he died he attended church, and on
coming home he remarked that he must "get a dispensation to allow
whist on Sunday evenings," because he dreaded the long, lonely nights.
On Monday he went to bed, and as he turned to arrange the pillows he
gave a slight exclamation and instantly expired.

By his mother's side they laid him, in a cemetery overlooking the
Hudson and the valley of Sleepy Hollow, a region made forever famous
by the genial pen of Irving. "I could not but remember his last words
to me," writes a friend who made a pilgrimage to the spot on the day
of the funeral, "when his book was finished and his health was
failing: 'I am getting ready to go. I am shutting up my doors and
windows.' And I could not but feel that they were all open now, and
bright with the light of eternal morning."

XLVIII

COOPER AND "THE SPY"