Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) (478 page)

Edgar Allan Poe to Washington Irving — October 12, 183
9

Octo. 12. 1839.
Philadelphia

Dear Sir

I duly received your kind
letter, and entirely acquiesce in what you say — that it would be improper to force an opportunity of speaking of a detached Tale. I should be grieved, however, if you have supposed that I could make such [a] demand; my request you have fully promised to grant, in saying that you will bear me in mind, and “take the first
unforced
opportunity” of expressing your opinion”. (trailing quotation marks are extraneous)

I take the liberty of sending you the Octo: No: of the Gents’ Magazine, containing the Tale “William Wilson”. This is the tale of which I spoke in my former letter, and which is based upon a brief article of your own in the first “Gift” — that for 1836. Your article is called “An Unwritten Drama of Lord Byron”. I have hoped that, having thus a right of ownership in my “William Wilson”, you will be induced to read it — and I also hope that, reading it, you will find in it something to approe [approve]. This brings me to another request, which I hardly know how to urge, and for urging which I am greatly afraid you will think me importunate. I trust, however, you will make allowance for the circumstances in which I am placed, for the difficulties I have to overcome, and for the anxiety which I feel.

Mess: Lea & Blanchard are about publishing a collection of my Tales, in 2 vols, to be issued early next month. As these Tales, in their course of original publication from time to time, have received many high praises from gentlemen whose opinions are of weight; and as these encomiums have already been published in the papers of the day, (being comprised in notices of the Southern Lit: Messenger and other Magazines) Mess. L & B. think there would be nothing objectionable in
their
reprinting them, in the ordinary form of an advertisement appended to the various books which they may issue before mine. I do not speak altogether of editorial opinions, but of the personal opinions of some of our principal literary men, which have found their way into the papers. Among others, I may mention Mr Paulding, Mr Kennedy & Mr Willis. Now, if, to the very high encomiums which have been lavished upon some of my tales by these & others, I could be permitted to add
even a word or two
from yourself, in relation to the tale of “William Wilson” (which I consider my best effort)
my fortune would be made
. I do not say this unadvisedly — for I am deliberately convinced that your
good
opinion, thus permitted to be expressed, would ensure me that public attention which would carry me on to fortune hereafter, by ensuring me fame at once.

I feel, however, that I am, in regard to yourself an utter stranger — and that I have no claim whatever upon your good offices. Yet I could not feel that I had done all which could be justly done, towards ensuring success, until I had made this request of
you
. I have a strong hope that you will be inclined to grant it, for you will reflect that what will be an act of little moment in respect to yourself — will be life itself to me.

My request now, therefore, is that, if you approve of “William Wilson”, you will express so much in your own terms in a letter to myself and permit Mess L & B. to publish it, as I mentioned.

Submitting all to your kindness I am

With highest respect
Edgar A Poe

Washington Irving Esqr

Washington Irving to Edgar Allan Poe — November 6, 18
39

Newburg, Novem
ber 6, 1839,

Dear Sir, — The magazine you were so kind
as to send me, being directed to New York, instead of Tarrytown, did not reach me for some time. This, together with an unfortunate habit of procrastination, must plead my apology for the tardiness of my reply. I have read your little tale of “William Wilson “ with much pleasure. It is managed in a highly picturesque style, and the singular and mysterious interest is well sustained throughout. I repeat what I have said in regard to a previous production, which you did me the favor to send me, that I cannot but think a series of articles of like style and merit would be extremely well received by the public.

I could add for your private ear, that I think the last tale much the best, in regard to style. It is simpler. In your first you have been too anxious to present your picture vividly to the eye, or too distrustful of your effect, and have laid on too much coloring. It is erring on the best side — the side of luxuriance. That tale might be improved by relieving the style from
some
of the epithets. There is no danger of destroying its graphic effect, which is powerful. With best wishes for your success,

I am, my dear sir, yours respectfully,
Washington Irving.

Edgar Allan Poe to Washington Irving — June 21, 184
1

Philadelphia — June 21. 1841.

Dear Sir,

Mr George R. Graham of thi
s city, and myself, design to establish a Monthly Magazine, upon certain conditions, one of which is the procuring your assistance in the enterprise. Will you pardon me for saying a few words upon the subject?

I need not call you attention to the signs of the times in respect to Magazine literature. You will admit the tendency of the age in this direction. The brief, the terse, the condensed, and the easily circulated will take place of the diffuse, the ponderous, and the inaccessible. Even our Reviews are found too massive for the taste of the day — I do not mean for the taste of the merely uneducated, but also for that of the few. In the meantime the finest minds of Europe are beginning to lend their spirit to Magazines. In this country, unhappily, we have not any journal of the class, which either can afford to offer pecuniary inducement to the highest talent, or which would be, in all respects, a fitting vehicle for its thoughts. In the supply of this deficiency there would be a point gained; and the project of which I speak has originated in the hope of supplying it.

Mr Graham is a lawyer, but for some years past has been occupied in publishing. His experience of the business of a periodical is great. He is a gentleman of high social standing, and possessed of ample pecuniary means. You will perhaps remember myself as the original editor of the South: Lit. Messenger, of Richmond, V, and I have otherwise had much to do with the editorial conduct of Magazines. Together, we would enter the field with a full understanding of the difficulties to be encountered, and, we hope, with full ability to meet them.

The work will be an octavo of 96 pages. The paper will be of excellent quality — very far superior to that of the N. A. Review. The type will be new (always new) clear and bold, with distinct face. The matter will be disposed in a single column. The printing will be done upon a hand press, in the best manner. There will be a broad margin. We shall have no engravings, except occasional woodcuts (by Adams) when demanded in obvious illustration of the text; and, when so required, they will be worked in with the type — not upon separate pages, as in “Arcturus.” The stitching will be done in the French style, permitting the book to be fully open. Upon the cover, and throughout, the endeavour will be to preserve the greatest purity of taste, consistent with decision and force. The price will be $5.

The chief feature in the literary department will be that of contributions from the most distinguished pens (of America)
exclusively;
or, if this plan cannot be wholly carried out, we propose, at least, to procure the aid of some five or six of the most distinguished, and to admit
few
articles from other sources — none which are not of a very high order of merit. We shall endeavour to engage the permanent services of yourself, Mr Cooper, Mr Paulding, Mr Kennedy, Mr Longfellow, Mr Bryant, Mr Halleck, Mr Willis, and, perhaps, one or two others. In fact, as before said, our ability to make these arrangements is a condition without which the Magazine will not go into operation; and my immediate object in addressing you now, is to ascertain how far we may look to yourself for aid.

It would be desirable that you agree to furnish one paper each month — either absolute or serial — and of such length as you might deem proper. We leave terms entirely to your own decision. The sums specified would be paid as you might suggest. It would be necessary that an agreement should be made for one year, during which period you should be pledged not to write for any other American Magazine. The journal will be commenced on the first of January 1842, and (should we be so fortunate as to obtain your consent to our proposal) it would be best that we should have in hand, by the first of December 1841, at least two of the papers intended for publication, from each contributor.

With this letter I despatch one of similar tenor to each of the gentlemen above names. If you cannot consent to an unconditional reply, will you be kind enough to say whether you will write for us upon condition that we succeed in our engagements with the others — specifying what others?

With high respect

Yr ob St
Edgar A Poe

Washington Irving Esqr

Edgar Allan Poe to Washington Irving — July 18, 184
2

July 18. 42

Dr
Sir,

It gives me pleasure to comply with the very f
lattering request embodied in your letter of June 18th. My absence from this city will, I hope, serve as sufficient apology for the tardiness of this reply.

With Respect

YrObSt
Edgar A. Poe

Oscar T. Keeler Esqre
Philadelphia,

Irving, c.1850

CONTENTS

I. EARLY YEARS AND SURROUNDINGS

II. MAN ABOUT TOWN

III. MAN OF LETTERS — FIRST PERIOD

IV. MAN OF LETTERS — SECOND PERIOD

V. A PUBLIC CHARACTER

VI. THE MAN HIMSELF

I. EARLY YEARS AND SURROUNDIN
GS

Irving’s name stands as the first landmark in American letters. No other American writer has won the same sort of recognition abroad or esteem at home as became his early in life. And he has lost very little ground, so far as we can judge by the appeal to figures. The copyright on his works ran out long since, and a great many editions of Irving, cheap and costly, complete and incomplete, have been issued from many sources. Yet his original publishers are now selling, year by year, more of his books than ever before. There is little doubt that his work is still widely read, and read not because it is prescribed, but because it gives pleasure; not as the product of a “standard author,” but as the expression of a rich and engaging personality, which has written itself like an indorsement across the face of a young nation’s literature. It is that of a man so sensitive that the scornful finger of a child might have left him sleepless; so kindly that nobody ever applied to him in vain for sympathy; so modest that the smallest praise embarrassed him. His manner and tastes were simple and unassuming. He had no great passions; the brother was stronger in him than the lover. To these qualities, which might by themselves belong to ineffectiveness, he added courage, firmness, magnanimity. It was because he was such a man, and because what he was shines on every page he wrote, that the world still warms to him.

Not that so elusive a thing as personal charm can be neatly plotted by the card. We love certain people because we love them; and since that is so, everything they do is interesting to us. A great writer lives in his books, to be sure, but we want to know what he actually did in the flesh. Did he walk, eat, sleep, like other men? Was he as strong, as human, as lovable as one would think? What sort of boy was he? Did he marry a wife, and was she good enough for him? The world will never believe that such questions are impertinent.

There are, of course, more formal matters to be considered, — his debt to circumstance, his place in the practical world, his influence on the moral or intellectual or national life of his day. Some of these themes may be touched on, even within the narrow limits of the present sketch; not categorically, but rather by way of such suggestion and indirection as may be consistent with a compact narrative.

One of those apparent chances which are the commonplaces of history led William Irving from his far home in the Orkneys, married him to Sarah Sanders, and made him the father of Washington Irving. The Irvings — a branch of the well-known Scotch Irvines — had been for generations the leading family on the Island of Shapinsha. Finally they had gone threadbare, and with a fortune to seek, William Irving chose the natural ordeal for an islander, the trial by sea. Toward the close of the French War he had become petty officer on an armed English packet. In New York he met Mistress Sanders, who was also English-born, and in 1761 they were married. He must have saved money, for at the end of the war he left the sea, and entered trade in New York.

William Irving and his wife were very different in up-bringing and in temperament. He was a stern man, a strict Presbyterian, with the cold fire of Calvin in his bones. She had been bred an Episcopalian, and was genial and sympathetic by nature. The husband was the master-spirit, and the children grew up under the rigid exactions of his sect. Sunday was a long day of penance, and one of their two half-holidays was consecrated to the cheerful uses of the catechism. To New England ears it all has a familiar sound. When the children grew old enough they promptly left the fold and resigned themselves to her of Babylon and England. There were eleven of them, and Washington was the youngest, born in New York, April 3, 1783. As a very little child he had the honor of a pat on the head from his great namesake, for whom he was to do an important service many years later.

He was a perfectly normal, healthy boy. Fortunately there are no brilliant sayings to record; he did not lisp in periods. Genius was not written upon his brow, nor tied upon his sleeve. He had none of the pale fervor of precocity, or the shyness of premature conceit. He was absorbed in childish things, loved play, shirked his studies, dreamed of a life on the ocean wave, and regarded “Robinson Crusoe” and “Sinbad the Sailor” as the end of all literary things. The savagery of boyhood he lacked. He was fond of playing battle, but could not bear to see his schoolfellows publicly thrashed, according to the amiable custom of that day. Otherwise he was all that a mother might deplore or an uncle delight in.

Altogether the most interesting story of his schooldays has a dramatic setting. Addison’s “Cato” was to be spouted in public by the schoolchildren. Irving, in the part of Juba, was called a little sooner than he expected, and came on the boards with his mouth full of honey-cake. Speech was out of the question —
vox haesit
— there was a momentary deadlock in his throat. The audience began to laugh, but the prince was not to be counted out. With a skillful rotary finger he removed the viand, and brought down the house by calmly taking up his lines as if nothing had happened. He was then ten years old, and deep in love with the leading lady. A year or two later he had decided to follow the sea; but a short experiment of sleeping on the floor and eating salt pork was too much for his enthusiasm, and at fourteen he gave up the ship. By this time he had begun to fancy that he could write, but there is nothing preserved which shows the least promise.

“When I was young,” he said long afterward, “I was led to think that somehow or other everything that was pleasant was wicked.” The theatre was one of the forbidden sweets, and he naturally seized every chance to taste it. Family prayers at nine were something of an interruption, but he had managed a private exit by way of the roof which got him back to the theatre in time for the afterpiece. This early liking for the stage he never outgrew. In the meantime he was going through with the ordinary schooling of the New York boy of that period. He learned a little Latin; he hated mathematics, and had very little love for dull books of any sort. At sixteen his formal education was over. Two of his elder brothers had studied at Columbia College, and no doubt Irving might have done the same. He was too lazy, or, to put it more gracefully, too little interested in set tasks. Later he expressed regret for the lost chance, but the loss cannot have been very great for him or for us. If we could imagine that he might have gained any sort of scholarship, its effect upon his writing would still be more than doubtful. His order of genius gains little from bookishness. Addison was supposed to be a classical scholar, but the “De Coverley Papers” are not a product of scholarship, and we could better spare anything else that he wrote.

At sixteen Irving entered a law office, and for the next five years was understood to be studying law. He had no real aptitude for such study, to be sure, and must have known it; certainly he learned very little law. He had other things to be interested in. He was an eager reader in his own way, and a handsome, well-mannered boy, already fond of society. And I doubt if very much was expected of him in the way of steady application, for during this whole period his health was uncertain. More than once he had to give up study entirely, and go to this watering-place or that for weeks or months. His family and friends were afraid of consumption, and it was against all forecasts that he held his own till manhood.

In 1800 he made his first voyage up the Hudson. “A voyage to Albany then,” he wrote in 1851, “was equal to a voyage to Europe at present, and took almost as much time.” The journey was made in a sloop manned by slaves, and commanded by a native of Albany, who spoke nothing but Dutch.

Two years later his brother Peter became proprietor and editor of the New York “Morning Chronicle,” for which Irving presently wrote a series of satirical letters signed “Jonathan Oldstyle.” In these letters, his earliest work of any significance, he touches the Addisonian string upon which his critics have harped so insistently ever since. They are decidedly clever for a boy of nineteen, but not cleverer than the best college work of to-day, and perhaps more consciously imitative. The fact that they were greatly praised and gained some vogue through copying in other journals, is rather an indication of the unfruitfulness of the period than of their merit. One of their greatest admirers was Charles Brockden Browne, the only American before Irving to make a profession of writing.

In 1804 the young amateur came of age. He was still threatened with consumption, and his family determined to send him abroad. Nobody felt very sanguine about his returning. As he was helped on board, the captain eyed him dubiously and said in an undertone, “There’s a chap who will go overboard before we get across.” If it had been in him to die just then, the captain gave him plenty of time; it was six weeks later when they landed at Bordeaux. But though the voyage had been not over-comfortable, it did him much good. Before the end of it he was scrambling about the vessel, and describes himself as “quite expert at climbing to the masthead, and going out on the maintopsail yard.” Irving’s body was never to be altogether tractable, but we shall hear nothing further of the consumptive tendency.

His early letters from abroad are full of life and spirits. He jaunted about through France and Italy, picked up acquaintances everywhere, and was evidently much more interested in the people he met than in the “doing” of buildings or galleries. Evidently he was growing stronger all the time. In the company of a little Pennsylvania doctor, whom he had picked up in a diligence, he played several boyish pranks in France; he kicked out an insolent porter at Montpellier, and fell foul of a police spy at Avignon. In the main, however, he was inclined to take things as they came. “There is nothing I dread more,” he wrote from Marseilles, “than to be taken for one of the Smellfungi of this world. I therefore endeavor to be pleased with everything about me, and with the masters, mistresses, and servants of the inns, particularly when I perceive they have ‘all the dispositions in the world’ to serve me; as Sterne says, ‘It is enough for Heaven, and ought to be enough for me.’”

At that day the European traveler was not hedged in from adventure. On the way from Genoa to Messina Irving’s vessel was boarded by a piratical picaroon. The consequences were not dreadful, but the
mise en scène
was all that could have been desired. The pirates had “fierce black eyes scowling under enormous bushy eyebrows.... They seemed to regard us with the most malignant looks, and I thought I could perceive a sinister smile upon their countenances, as if triumphing over us, who had fallen so easily into their hands.” Nothing could have been more satisfactory. At Termini he had a romantic adventure with a masked Turk. At Genoa he was captivated by the beauty of a young Italian lady. Instead of trying to make her acquaintance, as he might easily have done, he contented himself with stealing a handkerchief which she had dropped. Some time later it was stolen from him. Thereupon he wrote an account of the affair to a friend whom he had left in Genoa. The lady heard of it, as ladies will, and sent him a lock of her hair, with a friendly hint that she might be better admired at closer quarters. By a natural paradox of boyish sentiment he did not return to Genoa, but had the hair put into a locket, which he wore for years. It was later unearthed by a friend from a pair of breeches borrowed from Irving, and made the subject of some badinage between them.

Both his brothers and his biographer have made the aimlessness of this first European experience an occasion for something like reproach. His plans were of the vaguest. Such as they were, he was willing to sacrifice any of them for the sake of congenial companionship. After a few weeks he left Rome hurriedly because he could not bear to be parted from a friend who was going to Paris. He was anxious, he told his brothers quaintly, to study various arts and sciences there. In Paris he kept a journal for about three weeks; it records attendance upon a single lecture in botany and seventeen theatrical performances. Naturally his brothers could only see that he was an amiable, idle young fellow, who had drifted into a dilettante attitude toward life, and showed little promise of usefulness. But idling as well as industry has to be judged by its fruits. He was in a real sense seeing life, as he personally needed to see it, not in its passion and mystery, but in its lighter moods of humor and sentiment. Paris frankly seemed to him at this time the most profitable place in the world. Two months after his arrival, he wrote airily, “You will excuse the shortness and hastiness of this letter, for which I can only plead as an excuse that I am a young man and in Paris.” He had momentary fancies as to a possible direction for his talents. A sudden intimacy at Rome with Washington Allston made him think for a time of turning painter. He was something of a dandy, and puts on record a Paris costume of “gray coat, white embroidered vest, and colored small-clothes.” Presently he left Paris for London, where Kemble and Mrs. Siddons seem to have pleased him more than anything else English. Three months later he set sail for New York, and arrived in March, 1826, after an absence of nearly two years.

Irving was now twenty-three years old. All that he had done so far was haphazard enough. He had trifled with his schooling, loitered over his law, read a great deal at random, seen many theatres, and made many friends. He had escaped from the valley of the shadow, and was now free to go on in the primrose way of much society, little literature, and less law. For the next ten or twelve years he was to be little more than a petted man about town.