g proceedings by an address of
welcome to the distinguished guest. People who sat near me whispered,
"He'll break down--he always does." Mr. Irving rose, and uttered a
sentence or two. His friends interrupted him by applause which was
intended to encourage him, but which entirely overthrew his
self-possession. He hesitated, stammered, and sat down, saying, "I
cannot go on." It was an embarrassing and painful moment, but Mr. John
Duer, an eminent lawyer, came to his friend's assistance, and with
suitable remarks proposed the health of Charles Dickens, to which Mr.
Dickens promptly responded. This he did in his happiest manner, covering
Mr. Irving's defeat by a glowing eulogy of his literary merits.

"Whose books do I take to bed with me, night after night? Washington
Irving's! as one who is present can testify." This one was evidently
Mrs. Dickens, who was seated beside me. Mr. Dickens proceeded to speak
of international copyright, saying that the prime object of his visit to
America was the promotion of this important measure. I met Washington
Irving several times at the house of John Jacob Astor. He was silent in
general company, and usually fell asleep at the dinner-table. This
occurrence was indeed so common with him that the guests present only
noticed it with a smile. After a nap of some ten minutes he would open
his eyes and take part in the conversation, apparently unconscious of
having been asleep.

In his youth, Mr. Irving had traveled quite extensively in Europe. While
in Rome, he had received marked attention from the banker Torlonia, who
repeatedly invited him to dinner parties, the opera, and so on. He was
at a loss to account for this until his last visit to the banker, when
Torlonia, taking him aside, said, "Pray tell me, is it not true that you
are a grandson of the great Washington?"

Mr. Irving had in early life given offense to the descendants of old
Dutch families in New York by the publication of "Knickerbocker's
History of New York," in which he had presented some of their forbears
in a humorous light. The solid fame which he acquired in later days
effaced the remembrance of this old-time grievance, and in the days in
which I had the pleasure of his acquaintance, he held an enviable
position in the esteem and affection of the community.

He always remained a bachelor, owing, it was said, to an attachment, the
object of which had been removed by death. I have even heard that the
lady in question