ence, and who ate four hours
a day, smoked eight, and slept twelve, and so administered the affairs
of the colony that it was a marvel of prosperity. Next we hear of
Governor Keift, of lofty descent, since his father was an inspector of
windmills, how his nose turned up and his mouth turned down, how his
legs were the size of spindles, and how he grew tougher and tougher with
age, so that before his death he looked a veritable mummy. And then we
see the redoubtable Peter Stuyvesant stumping around on his wooden leg,
which was adorned with silver reliefs, furious with rage, menacing the
British fleet which has come to take possession of the town, threatening
vengeance dire upon the English King, and still cherishing his wrath
with fiery bravery when the enemy finally occupy the old Dutch town and
proceed to transform it into an English city.

The book was read with amazement, admiration, or interest, as the case
might be. Some said it appeared too light and amusing for real history;
others claimed that it held stories of wisdom that only the wise could
understand; others still complained that the author was no doubt making
fun of their respectable ancestors, and had written the book merely to
hold them up to ridicule. Only a few saw that it was the brightest,
cleverest piece of humor that had yet appeared in America, and that its
writer had probably a career of fame before him. The author was
Washington Irving, then a young man in his twenty-seventh year, and
already known as the writer of some clever newspaper letters, and of a
series of humorous essays published in a semimonthly periodical called
_Salmagundi_.

Irving was born in New York on the 3d of April, 1783, and was named
after George Washington. New York was then a small town, beyond the
limits of which were orchards, farms, country-houses, and the high-road
leading to Albany, along which the stage-coach passed at regular times.
There were no railroads, and Irving was fourteen years old before the
first steamboat puffed its way up the Hudson River frightening the
country people into the belief that it was an evil monster come to
devour them. All travelling was done by means of sailing vessels,
stage-coaches, or private conveyances; all letters were carried by the
stage-coach, and every one cost the sender or receiver twenty-five cents
for postage. The telegraph was undreamed of, and if any one had hinted
the possibility of talking to some one else a thousand mi