St. Charles City Republican intelligencer. [volume] (St. Charles City [Charles City], Iowa) 1857-1861, 1859-12-08
Death of Washington Irving.

We are called upon to make the
unwclcome announcement that Wash
ington Irving, one of the most gifted
of American authors, died at his resi-.
dence, "Sunnyside," near New York,
on Monday, Nov. 2sth. Mr.. Irving
had lived his "threc score years and
ten" and leaves a reputation unsul-
lied and world wide.
The following extract from letter
in the last n Y. Independent, entitled
" Half an hour at Sunnyside" written
by visitor at Mr.. Irving's residence,
will be of interest at this time
Mr.. Irving is not so old.looking as
one would expect who knew his age.
| fancied him as in his Indian summer.
He came down stairs, and walked
through the hall into the back parlor
with firm and lively step that might
well have made one doubt whether he
had really attained his seventy-scventh
year J. lie was suffering from asthma,
and was muffled against the damp air
with Scotch shawl, wrapped like a
great loose scarf around his neck :;
but as he took his seat in the old arm
chair, and, despite his hoarseness and
troubled chest, began an unexpected
ly vivacious conversation, he made
me almost forget that was the guest
of an old man long past his three
score years and ten"
But what should one talk about
who had only half an hour with Wash
ington Irving ! venturcd the ques.
ton,
Nov that you have laid aside
your pen, which of your books do you
look back upon with the most pleas
ure ?"
He Immediately replied, IL scarce
ly look with full satisfaction upon any;
for they do not seem what they might
have been l often wish that | could
have twenty years more, to take them
down from the shelf, one by one, and
write them over"
He spoke of his daily habits of
writing, before he had made the reso-
luton to write no more. His usual
hours for literary work were from
morning till noon. But, although he
had generally found his mind most
vigorous in the early part of the day,
he had always been subject to moods
and caprices, and could never tell,
when he took up the pen, how many
hours would pass before he would lay
it down.
But" said he "these capricious
periods, of the heat and glow of com
position, have been the happicst hours
of my life. | have never found, in
anything outside of the four walls of
my study, any enjoyment equal to
sitting at my writing-desk with
clean page, new theme, and mind
awake"
| referred to his last and greatest
work, the Life of ashington, and
asked if he felt, on finishing it, any
such sensation as Gibbon is said to |
have experienced over the last sheet |
Of the Decline and Fall. He replied
that the whole work had engrossed
his mind to such degree, that, before
he was aware, he had written himself
into febleness of health that he fear
ed in the midst of his labor that it
would break him down before he could
end it; that when at last the final
pages were written, lie gave the man
uscript to his nephew to be conducted
through the press, and threw himself
back upon his red cushioned lounge |
with an indcscribablc feeling Of relief
He added that the great fatigue of
mind, throughout the whole task, had
resulted from the care and pains re-
quircd in the construction and ar
rangcmcnt of materials, and not in
the construction and arrangement Of
the successive chapters.
But what magnificent volumes
What a work for an old man to have
achieved What fitting close to
the labors of long and busy life
They unite on one page, and will per-
petuatc in one memory, not only a
great name, but its great namcsake
the Father Of the American Republic,
and the Father of the American Re. I
public of Letters
You should write one more book"
l limited.
"What is that"
Your "reminiscences of those litcra-
ry friends"
Ah," he exclaimed, ait is too late
now | shall never take the pen again;
have SO entirely given up writing,
that even my best friends letters lie
must have rest. No
more books now p