The last years of Irving's life, although full of activity and
enjoyment,--abated only by the malady which had so long tormented
him,--offer little new in the development of his character, and need not
much longer detain us. The calls of friendship and of honor were many,
his correspondence was large, he made many excursions to scenes that
were filled with pleasant memories, going even as far south as Virginia,
and he labored assiduously at the “Life of Washington,”--attracted,
however, now and then, by some other tempting theme. But his delight
was in the domestic circle at Sunnyside. It was not possible that his
occasional melancholy vein should not be deepened by change and death
and the lengthening shade of old age. Yet I do not know the closing days
of any other author of note that were more cheerful, serene, and happy
than his. Of our author, in these latter days, Mr. George William Curtis
put recently into his “Easy Chair” papers an artistically touched little
portrait. “Irving was as quaint a figure,” he says, “as the Diedrich
Knickerbocker in the preliminary advertisement of the 'History of New
York.' Thirty years ago he might have been seen on an autumnal afternoon
tripping with an elastic step along Broadway, with 'low-quartered'
shoes neatly tied, and a Talma cloak--a short garment that lung from
the shoulders like the cape of a coat. There was a chirping, cheery,
old-school air in his appearance which was undeniably Dutch, and most
harmonious with the associations of his writing. He seemed, indeed, to
have stepped out of his own books; and the cordial grace and humor
of his address, if he stopped for a passing chat, were delightfully
characteristic. He was then our most famous man of letters, but he was
simply free from all self-consciousness and assumption and dogmatism.”
Congenial occupation was one secret of Irving's cheerfulness and
contentment, no doubt. And he was called away as soon as his task was
done, very soon after the last volume of the “Washington” issued from
the press. Yet he lived long enough to receive the hearty approval of
it from the literary men whose familiarity with the Revolutionary period
made them the best judges of its merits.
He had time also to revise his works. It is perhaps worthy of note that
for several years, while he was at the height of his popularity, his
books had very little sale. From 1842 to 1848 they were out of print;
with the exception of some stray copies of a cheap Philadelphia edition,
and a Paris collection (a volume of this, at my hand, is one of a series
entitled a “Collection of Ancient and Modern British Authors”), they
were not to be found. The Philadelphia publishers did not think there
was sufficient demand to warrant a new edition. Mr. Irving and his
friends judged the market more wisely, and a young New York publisher
offered to assume the responsibility. This was Mr. George P. Putnam.
The event justified his sagacity and his liberal enterprise. From July,
1848, to November, 1859, the author received on his copyright over
eighty-eight thousand dollars. And it should be added that the relations
between author and publisher, both in prosperity and in times of
business disaster, reflect the highest credit upon both. If the like
relations always obtained, we should not have to say, “May the Lord pity
the authors in this world, and the publishers in the next.”
I have outlined the life of Washington Irving in vain, if we have not
already come to a tolerably clear conception of the character of the
man and of his books. If I were to follow his literary method exactly,
I should do nothing more. The idiosyncrasies of the man are the strength
and weakness of his works. I do not know any other author whose writings
so perfectly reproduce his character, or whose character may be
more certainly measured by his writings. His character is perfectly
transparent: his predominant traits were humor and sentiment; his
temperament was gay with a dash of melancholy; his inner life and his
mental operations were the reverse of complex, and his literary method
is simple. He felt his subject, and he expressed his conception not
so much by direct statement or description as by almost imperceptible
touches and shadings here and there, by a diffused tone and color, with
very little show of analysis. Perhaps it is a sufficient definition to
say that his method was the sympathetic. In the end the reader is put in
possession of the luminous and complete idea upon which the author
has been brooding, though he may not be able to say exactly how the
impression has been conveyed to him; and I doubt if the author could
have explained his sympathetic process. He certainly would have lacked
precision in any philosophical or metaphysical theme, and when, in
his letters, he touches upon politics, there is a little vagueness of
definition that indicates want of mental grip in that direction. But in
the region of feeling his genius is sufficient to his purpose; either
when that purpose is a highly creative one, as in the character and
achievements of his Dutch heroes, or merely that of portraiture, as in
the “Columbus” and the “Washington.” The analysis of a nature so simple
and a character so transparent as Irving's, who lived in the sunlight
and had no envelope of mystery, has not the fascination that attaches to
Hawthorne.
Although the direction of his work as a man of letters was largely
determined by his early surroundings,--that is, by his birth in a land
void of traditions, and into a society without much literary life, so
that his intellectual food was of necessity a foreign literature that
was at the moment becoming a little antiquated in the land of its birth,
and his warm imagination was forced to revert to the past for that
nourishment which his crude environment did not offer,--yet he was
by nature a retrospective man. His face was set towards the past, not
towards the future. He never caught the restlessness of this century,
nor the prophetic light that shone in the faces of Coleridge, Shelley,
and Keats; if he apprehended the stir of the new spirit, he still, by
mental affiliation, belonged rather to the age of Addison than to that
of Macaulay. And his placid, retrospective, optimistic strain pleased
a public that were excited and harrowed by the mocking and lamenting
of Lord Byron, and, singularly enough, pleased even the great pessimist
himself.
His writings induce to reflection; to quiet musing, to tenderness
for tradition; they amuse, they entertain, they call a check to
the feverishness of modern life; but they are rarely stimulating or
suggestive. They are better adapted, it must be owned, to please the
many than the critical few, who demand more incisive treatment and a
deeper consideration of the problems of life. And it is very fortunate
that a writer who can reach the great public and entertain it can also
elevate and refine its tastes, set before it high ideas, instruct it
agreeably, and all this in a style that belongs to the best literature.
It is a safe model for young readers; and for young readers there is
very little in the overwhelming flood of to-day that is comparable to
Irving's books, and especially, it seems to me, because they were not
written for children.
Irving's position in American literature, or in that of the English
tongue, will be determined only by the slow settling of opinion, which
no critic can foretell, and the operation of which no criticism seems
able to explain. I venture to believe, however, that the verdict will
not be in accord with much of the present prevalent criticism. The
service that he rendered to American letters no critic disputes; nor is
there any question of our national indebtedness to him for investing a
crude and new land with the enduring charms of romance and tradition.
In this respect, our obligation to him is that of Scotland to Scott and
Burns; and it is an obligation due only, in all history, to here and
there a fortunate creator to whose genius opportunity is kind. The
Knickerbocker Legend and the romance with which Irving has invested the
Hudson are a priceless legacy; and this would remain an imperishable
possession in popular tradition if the literature creating it were
destroyed. This sort of creation is unique in modern times. New York
is the Knickerbocker city; its whole social life remains colored by
his fiction; and the romantic background it owes to him in some measure
supplies to it what great age has given to European cities. This
creation is sufficient to secure for him an immortality, a length of
earthly remembrance that all the rest of his writings together might not
give.
Irving was always the literary man; he had the habits, the
idiosyncrasies, of his small genus. I mean that he regarded life not
from the philanthropic, the economic, the political, the philosophic,
the metaphysic, the scientific, or the theologic, but purely from the
literary point of view. He belongs to that small class of which Johnson
and Goldsmith are perhaps as good types as any, and to which America
has added very few. The literary point of view is taken by few in any
generation; it may seem to the world of very little consequence in the
pressure of all the complex interests of life, and it may even seem
trivial amid the tremendous energies applied to immediate affairs; but
it is the point of view that endures; if its creations do not mold human
life, like the Roman law, they remain to charm and civilize, like the
poems of Horace. You must not ask more of them than that. This attitude
toward life is defensible on the highest grounds. A man with Irving's
gifts has the right to take the position of an observer and describer,
and not to be called on for a more active participation in affairs than
he chooses to take. He is doing the world the highest service of which
he is capable, and the most enduring it can receive from any man. It is
not a question whether the work of the literary man is higher than
that of the reformer or the statesman; it is a distinct work, and is
justified by the result, even when the work is that of the humorist
only. We recognize this in the case of the poet. Although Goethe has
been reproached for his lack of sympathy with the liberalizing movement
of his day (as if his novels were quieting social influences), it is
felt by this generation that the author of “Faust” needs no apology that
he did not spend his energies in the effervescing politics of the
German states. I mean, that while we may like or dislike the man for his
sympathy or want of sympathy, we concede to the author the right of his
attitude; if Goethe had not assumed freedom from moral responsibility,
I suppose that criticism of his aloofness would long ago have ceased.
Irving did not lack sympathy with humanity in the concrete; it colored
whatever he wrote. But he regarded the politics of his own country, the
revolutions in France, the long struggle in Spain, without heat; and
he held aloof from projects of agitation and reform, and maintained the
attitude of an observer, regarding the life about him from the point of
view of the literary artist, as he was justified in doing.
Irving had the defects of his peculiar genius, and these have no doubt
helped to fix upon him the complimentary disparagement of “genial.” He
was not aggressive; in his nature he was wholly unpartisan, and full
of lenient charity; and I suspect that his kindly regard of the world,
although returned with kindly liking, cost him something of that respect
for sturdiness and force which men feel for writers who flout them as
fools in the main. Like Scott, he belonged to the idealists, and not to
the realists, whom our generation affects. Both writers stimulate the
longing for something better. Their creed was short: “Love God and honor
the King.” It is a very good one for a literary man, and might do for a
Christian. The supernatural was still a reality in the age in which they
wrote. Irving's faith in God and his love of humanity were very simple;
I do not suppose he was much disturbed by the deep problems that
have set us all adrift. In every age, whatever is astir, literature,
theology, all intellectual activity, takes one and the same drift, and
approximates in color. The bent of Irving's spirit was fixed in his
youth, and he escaped the desperate realism of this generation, which
has no outcome, and is likely to produce little that is noble.
I do not know how to account, on principles of culture which we
recognize, for our author's style. His education was exceedingly
defective, nor was his want of discipline supplied by subsequent
desultory application. He seems to have been born with a rare sense of
literary proportion and form; into this, as into a mold, were run
his apparently lazy and really acute observations of life. That he
thoroughly mastered such literature as he fancied there is abundant
evidence; that his style was influenced by the purest English models is
also apparent. But there remains a large margin for wonder how, with
his want of training, he could have elaborated a style which is
distinctively his own, and is as copious, felicitous in the choice of
words, flowing, spontaneous, flexible, engaging, 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
other 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 the discussion of style
in reference to this work superfluous. Another writer might have made
a more brilliant performance: descriptions sparkling with antitheses,
characters projected into startling attitudes by the use of epithets; a
work more exciting and more piquant, that would have started a thousand
controversies, and engaged the attention by daring conjectures and
attempts to make a dramatic spectacle; a book interesting and notable,
but false in philosophy, and untrue in fact.
When the “Sketch-Book” appeared, an English critic said it should have
been first published in England, for Irving was an English writer.
The idea has been more than once echoed here. The truth is, that while
Irving was intensely American in feeling, he was, first of all, a man of
letters, and in that capacity he was cosmopolitan; he certainly was not
insular. He had a rare accommodation of tone to his theme. Of England,
whose traditions kindled his susceptible fancy, he wrote as Englishmen
would like to write about it. In Spain he was saturated with the
romantic story of the people and the fascination of the clime; and he
was so true an interpreter of both as to earn from the Spaniards the
title of “the poet Irving.” I chanced once, in an inn at Frascati, to
take up “The Tales of a Traveller,” which I had not seen for many years.
I expected to revive the somewhat faded humor and fancy of the past
generation. But I found not only a sprightly humor and vivacity which
are modern, but a truth to Italian local color that is very rare in any
writer foreign to the soil. As to America, I do not know what can be
more characteristically American than the Knickerbocker, the Hudson
River tales, the sketches of life and adventure in the far West. But
underneath all this diversity there is one constant quality,--the flavor
of the author. Open by chance and read almost anywhere in his score of
books,--it may be the “Tour on the Prairies,” the familiar dream of
the Alhambra, or the narratives of the brilliant exploits of New World
explorers; surrender yourself to the flowing current of his transparent
style, and you are conscious of a beguilement which is the crowning
excellence of all lighter literature, for which we have no word but
“charm.”
The consensus of opinion about Irving in England and America for thirty
years was very remarkable. He had a universal popularity rarely enjoyed
by any writer. England returned him to America medaled by the king,
honored by the university which is chary of its favors, followed by
the applause of the whole English people. In English households, in
drawing-rooms of the metropolis, in political circles no less than
among the literary coteries, in the best reviews, and in the popular
newspapers the opinion of him was pretty much the same. And even in the
lapse of time and the change of literary fashion authors so unlike as
Byron and Dickens were equally warm in admiration of him. To the English
indorsement America added her own enthusiasm, which was as universal.
His readers were the million, and all his readers were admirers. Even
American statesmen, who feed their minds on food we know not of, read
Irving. It is true that the uncritical opinion of New York was never
exactly reechoed in the cool recesses of Boston culture; but the
magnates of the “North American Review” gave him their meed of cordial
praise. The country at large put him on a pinnacle. If you attempt to
account for the position he occupied by his character, which won the
love of all men, it must be remembered that the quality which won this,
whatever its value, pervades his books also.
And yet it must be said that the total impression left upon the mind by
the man and his works is not that of the greatest intellectual force.
I have no doubt that this was the impression he made upon his ablest
contemporaries. And this fact, when I consider the effect the man
produced, makes the study of him all the more interesting. As an
intellectual personality he makes no such impression, for instance, as
Carlyle, or a dozen other writers now living who could be named. The
incisive critical faculty was almost entirely wanting in him. He had
neither the power nor the disposition to cut his way transversely across
popular opinion and prejudice that Ruskin has, nor to draw around him
disciples equally well pleased to see him fiercely demolish to-day what
they had delighted to see him set up yesterday as eternal. He evoked
neither violent partisanship nor violent opposition. He was an extremely
sensitive man, and if he had been capable of creating a conflict, he
would only have been miserable in it. The play of his mind depended
upon the sunshine of approval. And all this shows a certain want of
intellectual virility.
A recent anonymous writer has said that most of the writing of our day
is characterized by an intellectual strain. I have no doubt that this
will appear to be the case to the next generation. It is a strain to say
something new even at the risk of paradox, or to say something in a new
way at the risk of obscurity. From this Irving was entirely free. There
is no visible straining to attract attention. His mood is calm and
unexaggerated. Even in some of his pathos, which is open to the
suspicion of being “literary,” there is no literary exaggeration. He
seems always writing from an internal calm, which is the necessary
condition of his production. If he wins at all by his style, by his
humor, by his portraiture of scenes or of character, it is by a gentle
force, like that of the sun in spring. There are many men now living, or
recently dead, intellectual prodigies, who have stimulated thought, or
upset opinions, created mental eras, to whom Irving stands hardly in
as fair a relation as Goldsmith to Johnson. What verdict the next
generation will put upon their achievements I do not know; but it is
safe to say that their position and that of Irving as well will depend
largely upon the affirmation or the reversal of their views of life and
their judgments of character. I think the calm work of Irving will stand
when much of the more startling and perhaps more brilliant intellectual
achievement of this age has passed away.
And this leads me to speak of Irving's moral quality, which I cannot
bring myself to exclude from a literary estimate, even in the face of
the current gospel of art for art's sake. There is something that made
Scott and Irving personally loved by the millions of their readers, who
had only the dimmest ideas of their personality. This was some quality
perceived in what they wrote. Each one can define it for himself;
there it is, and I do not see why it is not as integral a part of the
authors--an element in the estimate of their future position--as what
we term their intellect, their knowledge, their skill, or their art.
However you rate it, you cannot account for Irving's influence in the
world without it. In his tender tribute to Irving, the great-hearted
Thackeray, who saw as clearly as anybody the place of mere literary
art in the sum total of life, quoted the dying words of Scott to
Lockhart,--“Be a good man, my dear.” We know well enough that the
great author of “The Newcomes” and the great author of “The Heart of
Midlothian” recognized the abiding value in literature of integrity,
sincerity, purity, charity, faith. These are beneficences; and
Irving's literature, walk round it and measure it by whatever critical
instruments you will, is a beneficent literature. The author loved
good women and little children and a pure life; he had faith in his
fellow-men, a kindly sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience
to the highest; he retained a belief in the possibility of chivalrous
actions, and did not care to envelop them in a cynical suspicion; he was
an author still capable of an enthusiasm. His books are wholesome, full
of sweetness and charm, of humor without any sting, of amusement without
any stain; and their more solid qualities are marred by neither pedantry
nor pretension.
Washington Irving died on the 28th of November, 1859, at the close of
a lovely day of that Indian summer which is nowhere more full of a
melancholy charm than on the banks of the lower Hudson, and which was
in perfect accord with the ripe and peaceful close of his life. He was
buried on a little elevation overlooking Sleepy Hollow and the river he
loved, amidst the scenes which his magic pen has made classic and his
sepulcher hallows.