read to-day as a not untrue reflection of the manners and spirit of the
time and city. Its amusing audacity and complacent superiority, the
mystery hanging about its writers, its affectation of indifference to
praise or profit, its fearless criticism, lively wit, and irresponsible
humor, piqued, puzzled, and delighted the town. From the first it was an
immense success; it had a circulation in other cities, and many
imitations of it sprung up. Notwithstanding many affectations and
puerilities it is still readable to Americans. Of course, if it were
offered now to the complex and sophisticated society of New York, it
would fail to attract anything like the attention it received in the
days of simplicity and literary dearth; but the same wit, insight, and
literary art, informed with the modern spirit and turned upon the
follies and "whim-whams" of the metropolis, would doubtless have a great
measure of success. In Irving's contributions to it may be traced the
germs of nearly everything that he did afterwards; in it he tried the
various stops of his genius; he discovered his own power; his career was
determined; thereafter it was only a question of energy or necessity.

In the summer of 1808 there were printed at Ballston-Spa--then the
resort of fashion and the arena of flirtation--seven numbers of a
duodecimo bagatelle in prose and verse, entitled "The Literary Picture
Gallery and Admonitory Epistles to the Visitors of Ballston-Spa, by
Simeon Senex, Esquire." This piece of summer nonsense is not referred to
by any writer who has concerned himself about Irving's life, but there
is reason to believe that he was a contributor to it if not the
editor.[1]

[Footnote 1: For these stray reminders of the old-time gayety
of Ballston-Spa, I am indebted to J. Carson Brevoort, Esq.,
whose father was Irving's most intimate friend, and who told