requested to be, the bells of his native city tolled

for their honored dead.

I have often stood beside that plain white slab and read:

:

"WASHINGTON IRVING.

BORN APRIL 3, 1783.

DIED NOVEMBER 28, 1859."

Twenty-eight other slabs bearing the Irving name are close beside his, enclosed by a green hedge; no flowers nor ornamentation; only three stately oaks, a beech-tree, and a walnut wave over the spot which Americans hold sacred.

Thousands upon thousands have stood by the gable-roofed white cottage, overgrown with ivy from Abbotsford, and looked out upon the Hudson, as he often looked, and remembered how he used to say to his friends, "Come to 'Sunnyside' and I will give you a book and a tree." What more

could one ask?

That Mr. Irving has had a deep influence upon American literature, no one will deny. And, besides, "There was a man behind the books"; genial, pure, kind, helpful; a man who overcame poverty, much ill-health, crushing sorrow, and, with a steadfast purpose, won the victory at last.

His love for children and for animals was a marked feature of his character. Every creature at Sunnyside loved him. Once, when returning

from Saratoga, an anxious mother sat in front of him in the car, with three little children; one an infant, who was constantly wakened by the attempts of the other two to clamber over her and look out of the window. Mr. Irving at once lifted them over to his lap, and, taking out his watch, said, "Now, three minutes for each to look out of my window," and began lifting them over till they were tired of it, though greatly pleased.

The poor mother said, gratefully, "Any one can see that you are a kind father of a big family.” And he did not undeceive her. To be considerate in little things is one of the greatest attributes of greatness.

Eleven years before Mr. Irving died, he joined the Episcopal Church. Matilda Hoffman's Bible and prayer-book had done their silent but effective work through all the years.

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.

EME

great need of

Our literary his

MERSON thought the one America was "high ideals." tory certainly does not furnish a higher one than William Hickling Prescott. Struggling all his life with a darkness that was akin to blindness, with disease in many forms, working for ten years on a single book, yet keeping such cheer and hope that his presence was constant sunshine, such a life may well be held up as an ideal.

Bancroft said, "All who knew him will say that he was greater and better than his writings. Standing, as it were, by his grave, we cannot recall anything in his manner, his character, his endowments, or his conduct, we could wish changed." Beautiful testimony from one great historian to another great historian!

Prescott was born in Salem, Mass., May 4, 1796, the second of seven children, four of whom died in infancy. The father was a prominent and wealthy lawyer, proud of his handsome boy, between whom and himself there grew a companionship and confidence that death itself could not break.