"Irving was as quaint a figure as Diedrich Knickerbocker in the
preliminary advertisement of the 'History of New York.' Thirty
years ago he might have been seen on an autumnal afternoon,
tripping with an elastic step along Broadway, with low-quartered
shoes neatly tied, and a Talma cloak,--a short garment that hung
from his shoulders like the cape of a coat. There was a chirping,
cheery, old-school air in his appearance, which was undeniably
Dutch, and most harmonious with the associations of his writings.
He seemed, indeed, to have stepped out of his own books; and the
cordial grace and humor of his address were delightfully
characteristic."
Through all the honors which he received--and he was one of the most
honored men of his day--he was always modest, unassuming, and even
diffident. He was the most cheerful of men, and seemed to diffuse
sunshine wherever he went. He was essentially lovable, and could hardly
be said to have made an enemy during his life. Indeed, one of his lacks
was that of aggressiveness; it would have given a deeper force to his
character and brought out some qualities that were latent in him.
He died on the 28th of November, 1859, at the close of a lovely
Indian-summer day, and was buried on a little elevation overlooking
Sleepy Hollow. Near by winds the lovely Hudson, up and down which go the
white-winged boats bearing tourists to view the river he so loved, and
over which hangs the blue haze he has so often described, softening
everything in its gauzy folds. The feet of those he loved go in and out
at Sunnyside, and his memory is a benediction.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]