NIL NISI BONUM.
Almost the last words which Sir Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be a good man, my dear!" and with the last flicker of breath on his dying lips, he sighed a farewell to his family, and passed away blessing them.
Two men, famous, admired, beloved, have just left us, the Goldsmith and the Gibbon of our time.Ere a few weeks are over, many a critic's pen will be at work, reviewing their lives, and passing judgment on their works.This is no review, or history, or criticism: only a word in testimony of respect and regard from a man of letters, who owes to his own professional labor the honor of becoming acquainted with these two eminent literary men.One was the first ambassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the Old.
He was born almost with the republic; the pater patriae had laid his hand on the child's head.He bore Washington's name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling goodwill.His new country (which some people here might be disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in his own person, a gentleman, who, though himself born in no very high sphere, was most finished, polished, easy, witty, quiet; and, socially, the equal of the most refined Europeans.If Irving's welcome in England was a kind one, was it not also gratefully remembered? If he ate our salt, did he not pay us with a thankful heart? Who can calculate the amount of friendliness and good feeling for our country which this writer's generous and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own? His books are read by millions of his countrymen, whom he has taught to love England, and why to love her.It would have been easy to speak otherwise than he did: to inflame national rancors, which, at the time when he first became known as a public writer, war had just renewed: to cry down the old civilization at the expense of the new: to point out our faults, arrogance, short-comings, and give the republic to infer how much she was the parent state's superior.There are writers enough in the United States, honest and otherwise, who preach that kind of doctrine.But the good Irving, the peaceful, the friendly, had no place for bitterness in his heart, and no scheme but kindness.Received in England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne witness to their liking for him), he was a messenger of good-will and peace between his country and ours."See, friends!" he seems to say, "these English are not so wicked, rapacious, callous, proud, as you have been taught to believe them.I went amongst them a humble man; won my way by my pen; and, when known, found every hand held out to me with kindliness and welcome.Scott is a great man, you acknowledge.Did not Scott's King of England give a gold medal to him, and another to me, your countryman, and a stranger?"Washington Irving died, November 28, 1859; Lord Macaulay died, December 28, 1859.
See his Life in the most remarkable Dictionary of Authors, published lately at Philadelphia, by Mr.Allibone.
Tradition in the United States still fondly retains the history of the feasts and rejoicings which awaited Irving on his return to his native country from Europe.He had a national welcome; he stammered in his speeches, hid himself in confusion, and the people loved him all the better.He had worthily represented America in Europe.In that young community a man who brings home with him abundant European testimonials is still treated with respect (I have found American writers, of wide-world reputation, strangely solicitous about the opinions of quite obscure British critics, and elated or depressed by their judgments); and Irving went home medalled by the King, diplomatized by the University, crowned and honored and admired.He had not in any way intrigued for his honors, he had fairly won them; and, in Irving's instance, as in others, the old country was glad and eager to pay them.
In America the love and regard for Irving was a national sentiment.
Party wars are perpetually raging there, and are carried on by the press with a rancor and fierceness against individuals which exceed British, almost Irish, virulence.It seemed to me, during a year's travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at Irving.
All men held their hand from that harmless, friendly peacemaker.Ihad the good fortune to see him at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, and remarked how in every place he was honored and welcome.Every large city has its "Irving House." The country takes pride in the fame of its men of letters.The gate of his own charming little domain on the beautiful Hudson River was for ever swinging before visitors who came to him.He shut out no one.Ihad seen many pictures of his house, and read descriptions of it, in both of which it was treated with a not unusual American exaggeration.
It was but a pretty little cabin of a place; the gentleman of the press who took notes of the place, whilst his kind old host was sleeping, might have visited the whole house in a couple of minutes.
At Washington, Mr.Irving came to a lecture given by the writer, which Mr.Filmore and General Pierce, the President and President Elect, were also kind enough to attend together."Two Kings of Brentford smelling at one rose," says Irving, looking up with his good-humored smile.
