Year: 1859

had half an hour one day last week at Sum
ny-side-the residence of Washington Irving.
Such half hour ought to have been one of the
pleasantest in ones life ; and so it was. The
pleasure began before reaching the doorstep,
or taking the old mans hand-in the thousand
associations of the place-for visit to Sunny
side is equal to pilgrimage to Abbotsford.


The quaint, grotesque old dwelling, with its
old fashioned gables, stood as solemn and sleepy
among the trees as if it had been built to por-
senate old Rip Van Winkle at his nap. The
grounds were covered with brown and yellow
leaves, with here and there red squirrel run.
ming and rustling among them, as if pretending
to be the true red-breast that laid the leaves
over the babes in the wood.


The morning had been rainy, and the after
ternoon showed only few momentary openings
of clear sky so that saw Sunnyside without
the sun. But under the heavy clouds there was
something awe-inspirng in the sombre view of
those grand hills with their many colored for
ests, and of Hendrix IIndson's ancient river
still flowing at the feet of the ancient palisades.


Mr.. Irving is not so old looking as one would
expect who knew his age. fanced him as in
the winter of life; | found him only in his In
dian summer. He came down stairs, and walk
ed through the hall into the back parlor, with
a firm and lively step that nigh well have made
one doubt whether he had truly attained his
seventy-seventh year. He was suffering from
asthma, and was muffled against the damp air
with Scotch shawl, wrapped like great loose
scarf around his neck but as he took his seat
in the old armchair, and despite his hoarse-
ness and troubled chest, began an unexpectedly
vivacious conversation, he made me almost for
get that was the guest of an old man long
past his " three-score years and ten.


But what should one talk about who had on
ly half an hour with Washington Irving? l
ventured the question


"Now that you have laid aside your pen,
which of your books do you look back upon
with most pleasure?'


He Immediately replied, II scarcely look
with full satisfaction upon any; for they do
not sem what they might have been; often
wish that l 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, be-
fore he had made tho resolution 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 sub


ect 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, g these capricious periods OF
the heat and glow of composition, have been
the happiest hours of my life. I 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.


His literary employments, he remarked had
always been more like entertainments thar
tasks.


"Some WRITER'S said he, "appear to have
been independent of moods. Sir Walter Scott
for instance had great power Of writing, ant
could work almost ut any time; SO coulc
Crabbe-but with this difference Scott always
and Crabbe seldom wrote well. remember
said he. taking breakfast one morning witt
Rogers Moore, and Crabbc the conversation
turned on Lord Byron's poetic moods; Crabb'
said that, as for himself he could write as vel
one time as at another" But" said Irving


with twinkle of humor at recalling the Incl


dent, :. Crabbo has written great deal tina
nobody can read


He mentioned that while living in Paris h


went long period without being able to write
81 sat down repeatedly" said he, will
pen and ink, but could invent nothing wort
putting on the paper. At length l told m,
o friend, Tom Moore, who dropped In ono morn
ing, that now, after long waiting, l had tn
: mood, and would hold 1t, and work it out a
long as it would last, until | had wrung m,
9 brain dry So began to write shortly afte
!, breakfast, and continued, without noticing ho,
}, the time was passing, until Moore came in a