of Venus" for its
object, an affectation of gallantry and of _ennui_, with anecdotes of
distinguished visitors, out of which the screaming fun has quite
evaporated, make up the staple of these faded mementos of ancient
watering-place. Yet how much superior is our comedy of to-day? The
beauty and the charms of the women of two generations ago exist only in
tradition; perhaps we should give to the wit of that time equal
admiration if none of it had been preserved.

Irving, notwithstanding the success of "Salmagundi," did not immediately
devote himself to literature, nor seem to regard his achievements in it
as anything more than aids to social distinction. He was then, as
always, greatly influenced by his surroundings. These were unfavorable
to literary pursuits. Politics was the attractive field for preferment
and distinction; and it is more than probable that, even after the
success of the Knickerbocker history, he would have drifted through
life, half lawyer and half placeman, if the associations and stimulus of
an old civilization, in his second European residence, had not fired his
ambition. Like most young lawyers with little law and less clients, he
began to dabble in local politics. The experiment was not much to his
taste, and the association and work demanded, at that time, of a ward
politician soon disgusted him. "We have toiled through the purgatory of
an election," he writes to the fair Republican, Miss Fairlie, who
rejoiced in the defeat he and the Federals had sustained:--

"What makes me the more outrageous is, that I got fairly drawn into
the vortex, and before the third day was expired, I was as deep in
mud and politics as ever a moderate gentleman would wish to be; and
I drank beer with the multitude; and I talked hand-bill fashion
with the demagogues; and I shook hands with the mob, whom my heart
abhorreth. 'Tis true, for the first two days I maintained my
coolness and indifference. The first day I merely hunted for whim,
character, and absurdity, according to my usual custom; the second
day being rainy, I sat in the bar-room at the Seventh Ward, and
read a volume of 'Galatea,' which I found on a shelf; but before I
had got through a hundred pages, I had three or four good Feds
sprawling round me on the floor, and another with his eyes half
shut, leaning on my shoulder in the most affectionate manner, and
spelling a page of the boo