Just as I had got out of the clutches of my fever, we had a visit from Mr. James, the novelist, and his family. He had arrived in New York several days previous, but I had been too unwell to go down to visit him. As soon as I could crawl out, I went to New York, and called upon him. I found he had intended seeking me out the next day. I kept him to his intention. The next morning, by one of the early trains, he came up with his wife, his daughter, a very pretty and intelligent girl about sixteen years of age, and his two sons, one of seventeen, the other of fourteen years of age. They passed the day with us. The weather was delightful, and the visit went off charmingly. James is a worthy, amiable fellow, full of conversation, and most liberal in his feelings.

We have all been shocked and distressed by the death of our good old President, General Taylor, after a very brief illness. It is a great loss to the country, especially in our present perplexed state of affairs. He has left a name behind him that will remain one of the most popular ones in American history. He was really a good and an honest man, uniting the bravery of the soldier with the simplicity and benevolence of the quiet citizen. He had not been long enough in political life to have straightforward honesty and frankness falsified, nor his quick sense of right and wrong rendered obtuse. I deeply regret not to have seen him. I had always looked forward with confidence to taking him by the hand either in New York or Washington. Report speaks well of his successor, Mr. Fillmore; but I am entirely unacquainted with him, and of course feel nothing of the personal interest that I felt for the good old General.

Two days after the date of this letter, he was seized with chills, which proved the advance of a serious indisposition. Alarmed at the progress of the fever, Dr. Delafield, an eminent physician from New York, who chanced to be on the opposite side of the river, was called in; and the same day Mr. Irving made his will, to be prepared for the worst. The skillful treatment of his physician, however, soon produced a favorable change; and in a few days he dismissed his patient as out of danger, though still feeble.

It was during this period of languid convalescence that he lifted up his protest against the diabolic blasts of the steam trumpet.

In the following extract we have a passing allusion to the home of his early literary associate, James K. Paulding, at Hyde Park on the Hudson, and also to some of the compensating advantages of the railroad. The visit to Kemble was made early in September.

During my visit to Kemble (he writes to Mrs. Storrow), I set off with him, one day, by railroad, for James Paulding's country residence, where I had never been. We went by railroad to Poughkeepsie, and then took a carriage to Paulding's. He has a lovely situation, commanding one of the most beautiful prospects of Hudson scenery, with the Kaatskill Mountains in the distance. We had a very pleasant dinner there, and got back to Cold Spring in the evening. This railroad makes every place accessible on the easiest terms.

The letter, which is dated October 31, continues:

You will see, by the papers, that the world has all been music-mad here at the arrival of Jenny Lind. With all my love of music, I have not yet heard nor seen her, but expect to do so next week. I do not like any more to cope with crowds, and have become a little distrustful of these public paroxysms. Besides, I am not over-fond of concerts, and would prefer somewhat inferior talent, when aided by the action and scenic effect of the theatre. I anticipate more pleasure, therefore, from Parodi as prima donna of the opera, than from the passionless performances of Jenny Lind as a singer at a concert.

In the following letter we have a further allusion to the renowned songstress:

[To Miss Mary M. Hamilton.]

MY DEAR MISS HAMILTON :

SUNNYSIDE, November 12, 1850.

You wish to know what I think of the "Priestess of Nature." I have seen and heard her but once, but have at once enrolled myself among her admirers. I cannot say, however, how much of my admiration goes to her singing, how much to herself. As a singer, she appears to me of the very first order; as a specimen of womankind, a little more. She is enough of herself to counterbalance all the evil that the world is threatened with by the great convention of women. So God save Jenny Lind!

Parodi's Norma is the best I have seen, except Grisi's; but Grisi's in some respects is much superior. Parodi has much dramatic talent, a good voice, a commanding person, and a countenance very expressive, in spite of her teeth, which are a little on the "Carker" order. I doubt, however, with all her tragic fire, I shall like her as much in "Lucretia Borgia" as the fair Truffi, for whom I still cherish a certain degree of tendresse. But I do not pretend to be critical, having had all conceit of that kind killed by Ford, the Gatherer in Spain, who, in one of his papers in the "Quarterly Review," denominated me "the easily pleased Washington Irving."

I presume our social rides are all over for the season, and that you and A will abandon the rocks, and woodlands, and other scrambles on horseback, for Broadway and the opera. I took a ride on Dick this morning, but he seemed to miss his companions, Ned and Dandy, and to have lost all spirit.

As we have a kind of intermittent Indian summer, which incessantly returns after very brief intervals, I still hope to have some more rides

among the hills before winter sets in, and should be rejoiced to take them with the female chivalry of Tillietudlem.

Yours very truly,

WASHINGTON IRVING.

The day after the date of this letter, Mr. Irving came to town to attend Jenny Lind's morning concert of that day, expecting seats to have been taken. Finding that none had been procured, he returned home to make the attempt another day. Meanwhile, a party was arranged for Friday evening, to include Mr. Irving and all his household, who were to come down for the occasion. On arriving in the city, however, finding that another lady had been added to the party, which would make up the number without him, and being withal a little out of mood, he suddenly decamped for home, to the great surprise and regret of his nieces, who had locked up the silver preparatory to leaving, and were fearful that he would not be able to make himself comfortable. The next morning one of the party wrote, expressing her regret and uneasiness at his sudden and unexpected departure, informing him of "a nice arrangement" she had made for lodging him for the night, and "fancying him sitting alone and desolate, and, worse than all, without teaspoon or fork." This is his characteristic reply:

MY DEAR HELEN:

SUNNYSIDE, November 17, 1850.

I am sorry to find my hegira from town caused you so much regret and uneasiness. It was a sudden move, on finding that the party for the concert would be complete without me, and that, if I stayed, I should have

to look about for quarters, and put others to inconvenience. Besides, I find myself growing more and more indisposed to cope with the bustle and confusion of the town, and more and more in love with the quiet of the country. While tossing about, therefore, on the troubled sea of the city, without a port at hand, I bethought myself of the snug, quiet little port I had left, and determined to "'bout ship," and run back to it. You seem to have pictured my move as a desperate one, and my evening as solitary and forlorn; but you are mistaken. I took a snug dinner at Frederick's, where I met A- H. He was bound to Staatsburg, to rejoin his wife. We went up in the four o'clock train together. I endeavored to persuade him to stop and pass the night at the cottage, when we would break open the storeroom and cellar, rummage out everything that the girls had locked up, and have "high jinks" together. He was strongly inclined to yield to my temptation, but the thought of his wife overawed him. He is evidently under petticoat government, like other married men, and dare not indulge in a spree, like we free and independent bachelors.

When I arrived at the cottage, all was dark. Toby barked at me as if I were a housebreaker. I rang at the front door. There was a stir and commotion within. A light gleamed through the fanlight. The door was cautiously opened by Bernard; behind him was Sophia, and behind her Hannah, while Peter and the cook stood ready as a corps de reserve in the kitchen passage. I believe, for a moment, they doubted whether it was myself or my ghost.

My arrival caused no little perplexity, everything being locked up. However, by furbishing up the kitchen plate and china, the tea-table was set out after a fashion by Sophia, and I made a very cozy though somewhat queer repast.

My evening passed very serenely, dozing over a book, and dreaming that the girls, as usual, were all silently sewing around me. I passed a comfortable night; had a cozy bachelor breakfast the next morning, took a ride on gentleman Dick, and, in fact, led a life of single blessedness, until my womankind returned, about two o'clock, to put an end to my dream of sovereignty.