s of these men exercised the strongest influence on their
destinies, while, on the other hand, disappointment and consequent
celibacy have done the same to their victims. To the bachelor list of
modern days, which can boast of Charles Lamb and Macaulay, America adds
the proud name of Washington Irving, whose early disappointment made him
an author.

My impressions of Irving's boyhood and youth are alive with the
freshness of an early memory, which conserves along with him the
Crugers, Clintons, Livingstons, Ogdens, and other old and honored names
of New-York. The biography which inspires this reminiscence gives a
sketch of the early history of the family, and as its author has thus
opened the subject, it will not, we presume, be considered an intrusion
if I pursue the thread of domestic incident a little farther than he has
done.

The Irving homestead, in William street, was, in its day, a place of
some pretension, when contrasted with the humble dwellings which
surrounded it. The street on which it stood was miserably built, but
here, in the suburb of the city, was a house whose appearance
corresponded with the solid and high-toned character of its owner. Old
Mr. Irving was, at the time to which I refer, a hale citizen of about
three-score and ten, of grave and majestic bearing, and a form and
expression which, when once fixed in the mind, could not easily be
forgotten. As I remember him, his countenance was cast in that strong
mould which characterized the land of his birth, but the features were
often mellowed by a quiet smile. He was a man of deep piety, and was
esteemed a pillar in the Brick Church, then the leading Presbyterian
church of the city.

His mode of conducting family worship was peculiarly beautiful, and even
to his last days he maintained this service. On such occasions, it was a
most touching spectacle to see the majestic old man, bowed and hoary
with extreme age, leaning upon his staff, as he stood among his family
and sung a closing hymn, generally one appropriate to his condition,
while tears of emotion ran down his checks. One of these hymns we well
remember. It runs in these lines,

'Death may dissolve my body now,
And bear my spirit home;
Why do my moments move so slow,
Nor my salvation come?

'With heavenly weapons I have fought
The battles of my Lord;
Finished my course, and kept the faith,
And wait the sure reward.'

In a few years, the words of this exquisite hymn were ful