clear, and as little wearisome when read continuously in quantity as any in the English tongue.  This is saying a great deal, though it is not claiming for him the compactness, nor the robust vigor, nor the depth of thought, of many others masters in it.  It is sometimes praised for its simplicity.  It is certainly lucid, but its simplicity is not that of Benjamin Franklin’s style; it is often ornate, not seldom somewhat diffuse, and always exceedingly melodious.  It is noticeable for its metaphorical felicity.  But it was not in the sympathetic nature of the author, to which I just referred, to come sharply to the point.  It is much to have merited the eulogy of Campbell that he had “added clarity to the English tongue.”  This elegance and finish of style (which seems to have been as natural to the man as his amiable manner) is sometimes made his reproach, as if it were his sole merit, and as if he had concealed under this charming form a want of substance.  In literature form is vital.  But his case does not rest upon that.  As an illustration his “Life of Washington” may be put in evidence.  Probably this work lost something in incisiveness and brilliancy by being postponed till the writer’s old age.  But whatever this loss, it is impossible for any biography to be less pretentious in style, or less ambitious in proclamation.  The only pretension of matter is in the early chapters, in which a more than doubtful genealogy is elaborated, and in which it is thought necessary to Washington’s dignity to give a fictitious importance to his family and his childhood, and to accept the southern estimate of the hut in which he was born as a “mansion.”  In much of this false estimate Irving was doubtless misled by the fables of Weems.  But while he has given us a dignified portrait of Washington, it is as far as possible removed from that of the smileless prig which has begun to weary even the popular fancy.  The man he paints is flesh and blood, presented, I believe, with substantial faithfulness to his character; with a recognition of the defects of his education and the deliberation of his mental operations; with at least a hint of that want of breadth of culture and knowledge of the past, the possession of which characterized many of his great associates; and with no concealment that he had a dower of passions and a temper which only vigorous self-watchfulness kept under.  But he portrays, with an admiration not too highly colored, the magnificent patience, the courage to bear misconstruction, the unfailing patriotism, the practical sagacity, the level balance of judgment combined with the wisest toleration, the dignity of mind, and the lofty moral nature which made him the great man of his epoch.  Irving’s grasp of this character; his lucid marshaling of the scattered, often wearisome and uninteresting details of our dragging, unpicturesque Revolutionary War; his just judgment of men; his even, almost judicial, moderation of tone; and his admirable proportion of space to events, render