head. He bore Washington's
name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most
artless, smiling goodwill. His new country (which some people here might
be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed
in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high
sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially,
the equal of the most refined Europeans. If Irving's welcome in England
was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered? If he ate our
salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart? Who can calculate the
amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this
writer's generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own?
His books are read by millions** of his countrymen, whom he has taught
to love England, and why to love her. It would have been easy to speak
otherwise than he did: to inflame national rancors, which, at the time
when he first became known as a public writer, war had just renewed: to
cry down the old civilization at the expense of the new: to point out
our faults, arrogance, short-comings, and give the republic to infer how
much she was the parent state's superior. There are writers enough
in the United States, honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of
doctrine. But the good Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no place
for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but kindness. Received in
England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey,
Byron, a hundred others have borne witness to their liking for him),
he was a messenger of good-will and peace between his country and ours.
"See, friends!" he seems to say, "these English are not so wicked,
rapacious, callous, proud, as you have been taught to believe them. I
went amongst them a humble man; won my way by my pen; and, when known,
found every hand held out to me with kindliness and welcome. Scott is a
great man, you acknowledge. Did not Scott's King of England give a gold
medal to him, and another to me, your countryman, and a stranger?"

* Washington Irving died, November 28, 1859; Lord Macaulay
died, December 28, 1859.

** See his Life in the most remarkable Dictionary of
Authors, published lately at Philadelphia, by Mr. Allibone.

Tradition in the United States still fondly retains the history of the
feasts and rejoicings which awaited Irving on his return to his native
country from Europe. He had a natio