WASHINGTON IRVING.

BY THE EDITOR.

A shadow has passed over Sunnyside, on the banks the Hudson. Seventy-seven years of age, his glory increasing to the last, the genial old man, the pride of American literature, has gone to his rest.

So sinks, more glorious ere his race be run,
Behind the western hills, the setting sun.

Genius and persevering study made him what he was. He never had the advantage of anything more than an ordinary education. With this scanty preparation he studied law; but finding the legal profession uncongenial with his tastes, he abandoned it forever. Necessity compelled him to engage in some pursuit of profit, and accordingly he, for a time, attached himself to the mercantile business of his brothers. But this was not with him a matter of taste, but one of necessity. Having his eye and his heart on the cultivation of his mind, he stipulated with his brothers on entering with them, that the details of the business should never be allowed to encroach upon his literary pursuits. The fire was in him, and he wished not to bury, but to fan it; and no love of gain could seduce him from his noble purpose.

Irving is another illustration among thousands of what can be done under every disadvantage where there is the genius stirring, and the application found, to bring it out. He has himself beautifully described this. "It is interesting to notice," he says, "how some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dullness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rocks, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of vegetation."

Though he never perhaps intended to do so, yet he has here drawn his own portrait, as the glorious result of his life proves. As the plastic life of a seed will find its way through the hardest crust of soil which would repress it, so he, through all the discouraging obstacles of a defective early education, and through the limiting influences of poverty, found means to develop his life of high possibilities into those fruitful actualities which now delight and bless the world.

The associations of his early life were never forgotten by him. He was always modest. His writings are full of deep sympathies with the humble; and he is ever in his happiest mood when he describes the simple joys and sorrows of common every-day life-only casting over all the veil of sanctification and glorification.

A New York paper has the following anecdote, which it says may be relied upon as authentic, and which illustrates, in a remarkable manner, Washington Irving's love of sociability, and his modesty with regard to his literary reputation:

"A friend of ours who occupies a lordly mansion in Twenty-ninth street, near Fifth Avenue, was whilom a contractor for building that section of the Croton Aqueduct which passed through Tarrytown. Soon after he had erected a rude building for the reception of the tools and of the workmen, and to afford himself a temporary shelter while engaged in his responsible duties, an old gentleman, plainly dressed and of exceeding unpretending manners, presented himself one day and commenced a conversation with our friend. A great many questions were asked, naturally suggested by the then new enterprise of supplying New York city with water, and after a visit of an hour or so, the old gentleman quietly departed. A few days afterwards, accompanied by two ladies, he again visited the head-quarters of our friend, and entered into a more detailed conversation, seemingly intent upon finding out all that was to be learned about the proposed aqueduct. These visits finally became a regular affair, and were continued twice a week for a period of some six months. The conversations were always confined to local subjects, and not a remark escaped from the lips of the visitor which was calculated to inspire curiosity, or suggest that he was other than some plain, good natured person, with plenty of time on his hands, who desired to while away an hour or two in common-place chit chat. In course of time our friend finished his labors at Tarrytown, but occasionally met his old friend on the little steamers that serve to connect our suburbs with the heart of the city. One day, while traveling along the Hudson, and busily engaged in conversation with the old gentleman, the steamer suddenly commenced pealing its bell, and made such a racket that our friend left his place, and hunting up the captain, asked him what all this noise was about?'

'Why,' replied that functionary, 'we are opposite Sunnyside, and having Washington Irving on board; by this alarm his servant will be able to meet him at his landing with a carriage.'

"Our friend, in great enthusiasm, exclaimed, 'Washington Irving! he on board; why, point him out to me; there is no man living whom I would more like to see.'

"At this demonstration the Captain looked surprised, and remarked, "Why, sir, you just left Washington Irving's company, and from the number of times I have seen you in familiar conversation with him on this boat, I supposed you were one of his most intimate friends.'

"The astonishment of our friend may be faintly imagined when he discovered that for more than half a year, twice a week, he had had a long conversation with Washington Irving, a person to whom, more than any man living, he desired a personal introduction."

How many of his literary cotemporaries has the genial old man outlived-Rodgers, Moore, Crabbe, Byron, Montgomery, Hunt, Campbell, and many others. He remarked to a friend, shortly before his death, that he knew all but three of the worthies included in Feed's picture of "Walter Scott and his Cotemporaries." but three; and now they are all gone!"

I knew every man of them

"You should write one more book," said his visitor. "What is that?"

"Your reminiscences of those literary friends."

"Ah," he exclaimed, "it is too late now! I shall never take the pen again; I have so entirely given up writing, that even my best friends' letters lie unanswered. I must have rest. No more books now."

On another occasion, to a friend who was leaving him, and who, as they came to the door, made an allusion to the trees stripped of their leaves, he replied with a smile, "It is autumn with me too!"

He expected his end, and grew more child-like as it approached. Like all great and good men, he was fond of children; and this fondness grew with his age.

"As I rose to go," says a late visitor, "he brought from a corner of the room a photograph of a little girl, exhibiting it with great enthusiasm. It was a gift from a little child who had come to see him every day during his sickness. The picture was accompanied with a note printed in large letters, with a lead pencil, by the little correspondent who said she was too young to write. He spoke with great vivacity of his childish visitor. " Children,' said the old man, are great pets; I am very fond of the little creatures.'

After all that was great and lovely in Washington Irving, and high as he stands in his literary honors, it is pleasant to know that these are not the highest to which he attained. He was a christian-"the highest style of man"-in which all other glory must come to its permanent fruit. He was not only a member of the church, but also in his last days a bearer of office in it; and he is said to have been devout, earnest, and zealous as a christian. Peace to his ashes, rest to his spirit, and honor to his name!

WINTER.

The following verses, which might pass for emanations from the pen of the old English poets-say of the reign of Elizabeth--were written by James Smith, author of the "Rejected Addresses." Every line a picture:

The mill-wheel's frozen in the stream,
The church is decked with holly;
Mistletoe hangs from the kitchen beam,
To fright away melancholy;
Icicles clink in the milkmaid's pail,
Younkers skate in pool below;
Blackbirds perch on the golden rail,
And hark, how the cold winds blow.

There goes the squire to shoot at snipe,
Here runs Dick to fetch a log;

You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe,

In the frosty morning fog.

Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine,

Old and young cough as they go ;

The round red sun forgets to shine,

And hark, how the cold winds blow!

SPARE MOMENTS.

BY MRS. C. KNIGHT.

A poor-looking, sparely clad boy called at the door of the house of a Professor in a college. The hired girl who went to the door scarcely heard him as he asked if he could see the Professor, but at once made up her mind that he was a poor, worthless boy on a begging errand, and gave him a piece of buttered bread. When he had finished his bread, he asked again whether he could see the Professor. He wants some old clothes, no doubt, thought Biddy to herself.

"I guess he has none to spare; he gives away a sight," and without minding the boy's request, she went away about her work.

"Can I see Mr.

his bread and butter.

?" again asked the boy, after he had finished

"Well, he's in the library; if he must be disturbed, he must; but he does like to be alone sometimes," said the girl, in a peevish tone. She seemed to think it very foolish to admit such an ill-looking fellow into her master's presence; however, she wiped her hands and bade him follow. Opening the library door, she said: "Here's somebody, sir, who is dreadful anxious to see you, and so I let him,in.”

I don't know how the boy introduced himself, or how he opened business, but I know that after talking a while, the principal put aside the volume he was studying, and took up some Greek books and began to examine the new comer. The examination lasted some time. Every question which the principal asked, the boy answered as readily as could be.

"Upon my word," exclaimed the principal, "you certainly do well," looking at the boy from head to foot, over his spectacles. "Why, my boy, where did you pick up so much?"

This

"In my spare moments," answered the boy. Here he was, poor, hard working, with but few opportunities for schooling, yet almost fitted for college, by simply improving his spare moments. Truly, are not spare moments the "gold dust of time!" How precious they should be! What an account can you show for them? Look and see. boy can tell you how very much can be laid up by improving them; and there are many, many other boys, I am afraid, in jail, in the house of correction, in the forecastle of a whale ship, in the tippling shop, who, if you should ask them when they began their sinful courses, might answer, In my spare moments."

"In my spare moments I grabbled for marbles. In my spare moments I began to smoke and drink. It was in my spare moments that I began to steal chestnuts from the old woman's stand. It was in my spare moments that I gathered wicked associates."

Oh, be careful how you spend your spare moments! Temptation always hunts you out in small seasons like these, when you are not busy; he gets into your hearts, if he possibly can, in just such gaps. There he hides himself, planning all sorts of mischief. Take care of your spare moments.

A LITTLE WORK FOR THE LITTLE FOLKS.

ANGELS.

OUR young friends will please find out the answers to the questions given below. If the nut is hard to crack the kernel will only taste the sweeter. So try your skill in Scripture facts. "If at first you don't succeed, try try again:"

1. What is the first song of the angels on record?

2. Are the words of another song of the angels written?

3. Can you prove that they are appointed to minister to the saints on earth.

4. Were they ever sent to destroy men?

5. On what three memorable occasions?

6. For whom was a meal prepared by an angel?

7. Whom were angels sent to deliver from the destruction of a city? 8. Whose birth did angels announce ?

9. To whom did they minister in the wilderness?

10. Unto whom did an angel appear with a drawn sword?

11. Can you tell the names of any of the angels?

12. Did an angel, when asked his name ever, withhold it?

13. Did any angels ever fall from their high estate?

14. What is their punishment?

15. Did an angel forbid a man to worship him?

16. What shall be the office of angels at the judgment-day? 17. Did an angel ever roll a stone?

18. What is said of the swift flight of an angel?

19. Who entertained angels unawares?

20. Whom did an angel advise to flee into Egypt?

21. Who was borne away by angels after his death? 22. What vision of angels did Jacob see?

23. Did an angel ever stop the mouth of wild beasts? 24. Who was told by an angel to bind on his sandals ? 25. Who to put them off?

BROOM CORN AND WEEPING WILLOWS: In the Mohawk Valley of New York, vast quantities of broom corn are annually grown. Pennsylvania, Ohio and Connecticut are the next largest producers of it. Its origin as a cultivated plant in this country, is attributed to Dr. Franklin. It is a native of India. Franklin saw an imported whisk of corn in the possession of a lady in Philadelphia, and while examining it as a curiosity, found a seed, which he planted, and from this small beginning arose this valuable product of industry in the United States. In the same manner, England and America are indebted for the weeping willows to the poet Pope, who, finding a green stick in a basket of figs, sent to him as a present, from Turkey, stuck it into the garden at Twickenham, and thence propagated this beautiful tree.