“What! Irving? thrice welcome warm heart and fine brain, You bring back the happiest spirit from Spain, And the gravest sweet humor, that ever were there Since Cervantes met death in his gentle despair; Nay, don’t be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, I shan’t run directly against my own preaching, And having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, Go to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, With the whole of that partnership’s stock and good-will, Mix well, and while stirring, hum o’er, as a spell, The ‘fine old English Gentleman,’ simmer it well, Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain, That only the finest and clearest remain. Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, And you’ll find a choice nature not wholly deserving A name either English or Yankee――just Irving.” * * * * * THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. FROM THE SKETCH BOOK. THE sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place: For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father’s counsel――nothing’s heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness.