Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) (480 page)

His letters show that however he may have shrunk from concerning himself with practical politics, he viewed the great
coups
of statecraft with the greatest interest. His sympathies are with Bonaparte; the English were perhaps too recent enemies to be treated quite charitably. “I have made a short visit to London,” he wrote to one of his brothers in July. “The spirits of this nation, as you may suppose, are wonderfully elated by their successes on the Continent, and English pride is inflated to its full distention by the idea of having Paris at the mercy of Wellington and his army. The only thing that annoys the honest mob is that old Louis will not cut throats and lop off heads, and that Wellington will not blow up bridges and monuments, and plunder palaces and galleries. As to Bonaparte, they have disposed of him in a thousand ways; every fat-sided John Bull has him dished up in a way to please his own palate, excepting that as yet they have not observed the first direction in the famous receipt to cook a turbot,—’First catchy our turbot.’” Then comes a postscript: “The bells are ringing, and this moment news is brought that poor Boney is a prisoner at Plymouth.
John has caught the turbot!
”

Peter Irving was in charge of the firm’s English office at Liverpool. He was a bachelor, and Irving had to go to Birmingham, to the house of his brother-in-law, Henry van Wart, to find an American home in England. But he did not make his permanent escape from Liverpool so easily. Not many months had passed before Peter fell ill, had to leave Liverpool, and Irving was left in charge. For over eight months the entire management of an ill-ordered establishment fell into his hands. He seems to have made a thorough attempt to examine and arrange the confusions of the office. He studied bookkeeping, so that he might get some knowledge of the accounts, and otherwise busied himself in a methodical way foreign to his habit. At last, in 1818, the best thing possible under the circumstances happened, — the business collapsed, and the brothers found a road out of their difficulties by way of the bankruptcy court. It was a great relief. “For upwards of two years,” he wrote to Brevoort, “I have been bowed down in spirit, and harassed by the most sordid cares. As yet, I trust, my mind has not lost its elasticity, and I hope to recover some cheerful standing in the world. Indeed, I feel very little solicitude about my own prospects. I trust something will turn up to procure me subsistence, and am convinced, however scanty and precarious may be my lot, I can bring myself to be content. But I feel harassed in mind at times on behalf of my brothers. It is a dismal thing to look round on the wrecks of such a family connection. This is what, in spite of every exertion, will sometimes steep my soul in bitterness.”

Irving had now fairly arrived at maturity. The experience of the last few years had done much to sober him. He was still fond of society, and still of a cheerful temper; but the absorbing sophomoric joy in cakes and ale was now past and not to return. The pinch of necessity had come at last: the world no longer offered him the life of an elegant dawdler. He had a serious business before him, — to gain a competency for himself and his brother. The unpractical younger brother was to be after this the mainstay of the family fortunes. And what especially makes this the finest moment of his life is the sudden and clear perception that to gain this end he must depend upon the steady and fruitful exercise of his gift for writing. It was not to be taken up as a last resort, but as a matter of deliberate choice. Presently he received the offer of a good position on the Navy Board at Washington, with a salary of $2400. A few years earlier he would have snatched at it. “Flattering as the prospect undoubtedly is which your letters hold out,” he wrote to his brother Ebenezer, “I have concluded to decline it for various reasons.... The principal one is, that I do not wish to undertake any situation that must involve me in such a routine of duties as to prevent my attending to literary pursuits.” His determination was sturdy enough, but he was not then nor afterward the master of his moods. “I have heard him say,” notes Pierre Irving, “that he was so disturbed by the responsibility he had taken in refusing such an offer and trusting to the uncertain chances of literary success, that for two months he could scarcely write a line.” His elder brothers were heartily disappointed by the decision. They could not suppose that he would prove greatly more busy or fruitful in the future than he had in the past, and up to this time, he had done little enough. The youthful “Salmagundi” sketches, the broad satire of the Knickerbocker History were not much for a man of leisure to boast of at thirty-five. But they did not reckon justly with the new seriousness which had come into his purposes. Washington Irving was always fitful in his manner of working, often uncertain of himself and of his work. But from this time on he had no doubt of his calling; he had ceased to be a man about town, and become a man of letters.

III. MAN OF LETTERS — FIRST PERI
OD

The appearance of the “Sketch Book,” in 1819, marks the beginning of Irving’s professional life as a literary man. It was, moreover, the first original literary work of moment by an American. Two years later Bryant’s first volume of poems was published, and Cooper’s novels had begun to appear; at this time Irving had the field to himself. Firm as his determination was to depend upon writing for support, he was by no means satisfied with what he was able to do. Even after the complete “Sketch Book” had appeared, and had been met with hearty applause in England and America, he continued to be doubtful of its merits, and embarrassed by its reception. In sending the manuscript of the first number to America, he wrote to his brother Ebenezer: “I have sent the first number of a work which I hope to continue from time to time. I send it more for the purpose of showing you what I am about, as I find my declining the situation at Washington has given you chagrin. The fact is, that situation would have given me barely a genteel subsistence. It would have led to no higher situations, for I am quite unfitted for political life. My talents are merely literary, and all my habits of thinking, reading, etc., have been in a different direction from that required by the active politician. It is a mistake also to suppose I would fill an office there, and devote myself at the same time to literature. I require much leisure, and a mind entirely abstracted from other cares and occupations, if I would write much or write well.... If I ever get any solid credit with the public, it must be in the quiet and assiduous operations of my pen, under the mere guidance of fancy or feeling.... I feel myself completely committed in literary reputation by what I have already written; and I feel by no means satisfied to rest my reputation on my preceding writings. I have suffered several precious years of youth and lively imagination to pass by unimproved, and it behooves me to make the most of what is left. If I indeed have the means within me of establishing a legitimate literary reputation, this is the very period of life most auspicious for it, and I am resolved to devote a few years exclusively to the attempt.... In fact, I consider myself at present as making a literary experiment, in the course of which I only care to be kept in bread and cheese. Should it not succeed — should my writings not acquire critical applause, I am content to throw up the pen and take to any commonplace employment. But if they should succeed, it would repay me for a world of care and privation to be placed among the established authors of my country, and to win the affections of my countrymen.... Do not, I beseech you, impute my lingering in Europe to any indifference to my own country or my friends.... I am determined not to return home until I have sent some writings before me that shall, if they have merit, make me return to the smiles, rather than skulk back to the pity, of my friends.”

To Brevoort he wrote at the same time: “I have attempted no lofty theme, nor sought to look wise and learned, which appears to be very much the fashion among our American writers, at present. I have preferred addressing myself to the feeling and fancy of the reader, more than to his judgment. My writings, therefore, may appear light and trifling in our country of philosophers and politicians; but if they possess merit in the class of literature to which they belong, it is all to which I aspire in the work. I seek only to blow a flute accompaniment in the national concert, and leave others to play the fiddle and French horn.”

The favorable reception of the “Sketch Book” not only failed to remove his diffidence, but left him oppressed by a new sense of obligation to the public which had lauded his work. This feeling is expressed in a letter to Leslie, the painter, with whom he had become very intimate: “I am glad to find the second number pleases more than the first. The sale is very rapid, and, altogether, the success exceeds my most sanguine expectation. Now you suppose I am all on the alert, full of spirit and excitement. No such thing. I am just as good for nothing as ever I was; and indeed I have been flurried and put out of my way by these puffings. I feel something as I suppose you did when your picture met with success — anxious to do something better, and at a loss what to do.”

Murray, who a little later was eager to publish anything from Irving’s hand, declined to undertake the first English edition of the “Sketch Book.” Irving was afraid of some incomplete pirated edition, and finally published the first number entirely at his own expense. Murray was glad enough to change his mind and bring out the later numbers. Among the many friends whom the young American had made in England was Walter Scott. A few days spent by Irving at Abbotsford had been enough to attach them strongly to each other. Scott had by no means outgrown his interest in the author of the “Knickerbocker History,” and Irving found nothing that was not delightful in the great romancer’s character and way of life. “As to Scott,” he wrote, “I cannot express my delight at his character and manners. He is a sterling, golden-hearted old worthy, full of the joyousness of youth, with an imagination continually furnishing forth pictures, and a charming simplicity of manner that puts you at ease with him in a moment. It has been a constant source of pleasure to me to remark his deportment towards his family, his neighbors, his domestics, his very dogs and cats; everything that comes within his influence seems to catch a beam of that sunshine that plays round his heart.” Now, while the prospects of the “Sketch Book” were still dubious, Scott offered him the editorship of an Anti-Jacobin magazine. Irving declined it, first on the ground of his dislike for politics, and second on account of his irregular habits of mind. “My whole course of life has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would a weathercock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack.”

In August of this year, Irving and his brother Peter left England for the Continent. They had got no farther than Havre when their fancy was taken with an apparent business opening for Peter, who had been idle since the failure of the firm. A steamboat had just been put upon the Seine, to run between Havre and Rouen. Peter should be a chief stockholder and director; he and Washington would each put in $5000, and between Havre and Rouen the river would presently run gold for them. To be sure the money was yet to be found, but there were brothers William and Ebenezer, who would no doubt be glad to help set that little golden river flowing. Unfortunately brothers William and Ebenezer did not approve of the scheme at all. They flatly refused to lend brother Peter $5000, or to honor brother Washington’s drafts for the same amount. More unfortunately still, Irving had already committed himself. All of his literary property had to be disposed of, to provide the pledged amount, which was forthwith placed in the little steamboat on the Seine, and never heard of more. Peter was associated with the management, and kept busy, at least, for several years. This was the first of a long series of business ventures which made Irving’s life uneasy. He would no sooner turn a few thousand by writing than he must sink it in this or that absolutely safe and immensely profitable enterprise. It was not for many years that he learned how certainly he might count upon disastrous results from such experiments.

After the settlement of this affair, Irving took lodgings in Paris. Here he met Tom Moore, and in his house more than anywhere else he became intimate. Moore’s diary makes frequent mention of him; one of the most interesting entries records that Irving at this time wrote in ten days one hundred and thirty pages of the “Sketch Book” size. This was undoubtedly material for “Bracebridge Hall,” the suggestion of which had come from Moore. In the meantime the “Sketch Book” had continued to gain ground in England. Byron admired it greatly, and its popularity with the general public may be judged from the fact that it was commonly attributed to Scott. Irving described himself in a letter to Murray as leading “a ‘miscellaneous’ kind of life at Paris.... Anacreon Moore is living here, and has made me a gayer fellow than I could have wished; but I found it impossible to resist the charm of his society.”

In July (1821) he returned to London, in poor physical condition. He had now been tormented at intervals for several years by an eruptive complaint which kept him from exercise, and brought on other troubles. After his return he was bedridden for four or five months, most of which he passed at his sister’s house in Birmingham. He grew very fond of his little nephews and nieces — particularly an urchin named George, of whom his letters record such items as: “George has made his appearance in a new pair of Grimaldi breeches, with pockets full as deep as the former. To balance his ball and marbles, he has the opposite pocket filled with a peg-top and a quantity of dry peas, so that he can only lie comfortably on his back or belly.” He was by no means idle at this time. In January of the following year he sent the manuscript of “Bracebridge Hall” to his brother Ebenezer with the remark, “My health is still unrestored. This work has kept me from getting well, and my indisposition on the other hand has retarded the work. I have now been about five weeks in London, and have only once been out of doors, about a month since, and that made me worse.” That single escape from the sick-room, his biographer says, was made for the sake of persuading Murray to publish Cooper’s “Spy,” which had already appeared in America. Irving’s own experience was duplicated: Murray refused to take “The Spy,” but was glad to publish Cooper’s later work. He now gave Irving a thousand guineas for the English rights in “Bracebridge Hall.” It was less than he might have given, but Irving could never be persuaded to haggle over prices. He seems to have agreed with Peter, who wrote cheerfully, “A thousand guineas has a golden sound.” It was the amount which had been sunk in poor Peter’s steamboat, which was still making its unprofitable trips up and down the Seine; and two hundred guineas of this thousand soon passed into his pocket, where no doubt he found their melody even pleasanter.

“Bracebridge Hall” was well received; and confirmed its author’s reputation, especially in England. He had only to be passive to find himself overwhelmed with social engagements. A more liberal diet and plenty of exercise had improved his condition, and for a month or so after getting rid of “Bracebridge Hall,” he gave himself up to the engagements of a London season. But his ankles soon began to trouble him again, and in July, 1822, he set out for Aix-la-Chapelle, where he hoped to get permanent relief from his distressing complaint. He found nothing to keep him long at Aix. The baths and waters were well enough, but he was too dependent upon cheerful companionship to endure life among a company of invalids. He began a leisurely round of the Continental watering-places, staying a few weeks here and a few days there, and gradually improving in condition. Toward the close of the year he brought up at Dresden.

The only touch of mystery which belongs to the story of Irving is connected with this six months’ stay at Dresden. He made many friends there, and grew especially intimate with an English family named Foster, a mother and two daughters. It is said — and denied — that he would have liked to marry the youngest daughter, Emily. His biographer insists that there was nothing in the affair but friendship. To Mrs. Foster he wrote the only account he ever gave of his early love and loss; and his nephew quotes the closing passage as proof that he had no thought of marrying Emily Foster, however fond of her he may have been: “You wonder why I am not married. I have shown you why I was not long since. When I had sufficiently recovered from that loss, I became involved in ruin. It was not for a man broken down in the world, to drag down any woman to his paltry circumstances. I was too proud to tolerate the idea of ever mending my circumstances by matrimony. My time has now gone by; and I have growing claims upon my thoughts and upon my means, slender and precarious as they are. I feel as if I had already a family to think and provide for.”

But this might be the modest speech of a middle-aged lover. Years later the written reminiscences of the two daughters unmistakably impute the attentions of the brilliant American to something more than friendliness. It is certain that he had a very warm feeling for somebody or something in Dresden, which led to a temporary return of his youthful delight in society. For his time was by no means given up to the Fosters. He was received into the life of the little German court, and evidently derived such pleasure as is proper to a Republican from dancing with princesses, and acting in private theatricals with Highnesses and Excellencies. On the whole it seems to have been a peaceful, idle, rather trivial time of sojourn among congenial people. He danced, he strolled, he wrote verses to little Miss Emily; in short, he enjoyed himself as a youngish man may, whether the muse is waiting for him, or some less high-flown customer. “I wish I could give you a good account of my literary labors,” he wrote his sister after several months in Dresden, “but I have nothing to report. I am merely seeing, and hearing, and my mind seems in too crowded and confused a state to produce anything. I am getting very familiar with the German language; and there is a lady here who is so kind as to give me lessons every day in Italian [Mrs. Foster], which language I have nearly forgotten, but which I am fast regaining. Another lady is superintending my French [Miss Emily Foster], so that if I am not acquiring ideas, I am at least acquiring a variety of modes of expressing them when they do come.” Very likely the confusion of his mind was not lessened by the frequency of those French lessons. There really seems to be no reason for doubting the testimony of the elder sister’s journal; “He has written. He has confessed to my mother, as to a dear and true friend, his love for E —— , and his conviction of its utter hopelessness. He feels himself unable to combat it. He thinks he must try, by absence, to bring more peace to his mind.... He has almost resolved to make a tour in Silesia, which will keep him absent for a few weeks.” The tour in Silesia was certainly made; and during the brief absence Irving wrote sundry sentimental letters to Mrs. Foster. There are occasions when he seems to imagine a pretty daughter looking over the admirable mother’s shoulder, and being much affected by the famous author’s tenderness for Dresden. Presently he comes back to be their escort, for they are going home to England; and at Rotterdam the good-bys are said. They met afterward in England, but the old intimacy was gone.