Washington Irving by Charles Dudley Warner

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[Footnote 1: An amusing story in connection with this Richmond
visit illustrates the romantic phase of Irving's character.
Cooper, who was playing at the theatre, needed small-clothes
for one of his parts; Irving lent him a pair,--knee-breeches
being still worn,--and the actor carried them off to Baltimore.
From that city he wrote that he had found in the pocket an
emblem of love, a mysterious locket of hair in the shape of a
heart. The history of it is curious: when Irving sojourned at
Genoa he was much taken with the beauty of a young Italian
lady, the wife of a Frenchman. He had never spoken with her,
but one evening before his departing he picked up from the
floor her handkerchief which she had dropped, and with more
gallantry than honesty carried it off to Sicily. His pocket was
picked of the precious relic while he was attending a religious
function in Catania, and he wrote to his friend Storm, the
consul at Genoa, deploring his loss. The consul communicated
the sad misfortune to the lovely Bianca, for that was the
lady's name, who thereupon sent him a lock of her hair, with
the request that he would come to see her on his return. He
never saw her again, but the lock of hair was inclosed in a
locket and worn about his neck, in memory of a radiant vision
that had crossed his path and vanished.]

Personally, Irving must have awakened a reciprocal admiration. A drawing
by Vanderlyn, made in Paris in 1805, and a portrait by Jarvis in 1809,
present him to us in the fresh bloom of manly beauty. The face has an
air of distinction and gentle breeding; the refined lines, the poetic
chin, the sensitive mouth, the shapely nose, the large dreamy eyes, the
intellectual forehead, and the clustering brown locks are our ideal of
the author of the "Sketch-Book" and the pilgrim in Spain. His
biographer, Mr. Pierre M. Irving, has given no description of his
appearance; but a relative, who saw much of our author in his latter
years, writes to me: "He had dark gray eyes; a handsome straight nose,
which might perhaps be called large; a broad, high, full forehead, and a
small mouth. I should call him of medium height, about five feet eight
and a half to nine inches, and inclined to be a trifle stout. There was
no peculiarity about his voice; but it was pleasant and had a good
intonation. His smile was exceedingly genial, lighting up his whole face
and rendering it very attractive; while, if he were about to say
anything humorous, it would beam forth from his eyes even before the
words were spoken. As a young man his face was exceedingly handsome, and
his head was well covered with dark hair; but from my earliest
recollection of him he wore neither whiskers nor moustache, but a dark
brown wig, which, although it made him look younger, concealed a
beautifully shaped head." We can understand why he was a favorite in the
society of Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia, and Albany, as well as
of New York, and why he liked to linger here and there, sipping the
social sweets, like a man born to leisure and seemingly idle observation
of life.

It was in the midst of these social successes, and just after his
admission to the bar, that Irving gave the first decided evidence of the
choice of a career. This was his association with his eldest brother,
William, and Paulding in the production of "Salmagundi," a semi-monthly
periodical, in small duodecimo sheets, which ran with tolerable
regularity through twenty numbers, and stopped in full tide of success,
with the whimsical indifference to the public which had characterized
its every issue. Its declared purpose was "simply to instruct the young,
reform the old, correct the town, and castigate the age." In manner and
purpose it was an imitation of the "Spectator" and the "Citizen of the
World," and it must share the fate of all imitations; but its wit was
not borrowed, and its humor was to some extent original; and so
perfectly was it adapted to local conditions that it may be profitably
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
him that Irving had a hand in them.]

In these yellow pages is a melancholy reflection of the gayety and
gallantry of the Sans Souci hotel seventy years ago. In this "Picture
Gallery," under the thin disguise of initials, are the portraits of
well-known belles of New York whose charms of person and graces of mind
would make the present reader regret his tardy advent into this world,
did not the "Admonitory Epistles," addressed to the same sex, remind him
that the manners of seventy years ago left much to be desired. In
respect of the habit of swearing, "Simeon" advises "Myra" that if ladies
were to confine themselves to a single round oath, it would be quite
sufficient; and he objects, when he is at the public table, to the
conduct of his neighbor who carelessly took up "Simeon's" fork and used
it as a tooth-pick. All this, no doubt, passed for wit in the beginning
of the century. Punning, broad satire, exaggerated compliment, verse
which has love for its theme and the "sweet bird of Venus" for its
object, an affectation of gallantry and of _ennui_, with anecdotes of
distinguished visitors, out of which the screaming fun has quite
evaporated, make up the staple of these faded mementos of ancient
watering-place. Yet how much superior is our comedy of to-day? The
beauty and the charms of the women of two generations ago exist only in
tradition; perhaps we should give to the wit of that time equal
admiration if none of it had been preserved.

Irving, notwithstanding the success of "Salmagundi," did not immediately
devote himself to literature, nor seem to regard his achievements in it
as anything more than aids to social distinction. He was then, as
always, greatly influenced by his surroundings. These were unfavorable
to literary pursuits. Politics was the attractive field for preferment
and distinction; and it is more than probable that, even after the
success of the Knickerbocker history, he would have drifted through
life, half lawyer and half placeman, if the associations and stimulus of
an old civilization, in his second European residence, had not fired his
ambition. Like most young lawyers with little law and less clients, he
began to dabble in local politics. The experiment was not much to his
taste, and the association and work demanded, at that time, of a ward
politician soon disgusted him. "We have toiled through the purgatory of
an election," he writes to the fair Republican, Miss Fairlie, who
rejoiced in the defeat he and the Federals had sustained:--

"What makes me the more outrageous is, that I got fairly drawn into
the vortex, and before the third day was expired, I was as deep in
mud and politics as ever a moderate gentleman would wish to be; and
I drank beer with the multitude; and I talked hand-bill fashion
with the demagogues; and I shook hands with the mob, whom my heart
abhorreth. 'Tis true, for the first two days I maintained my
coolness and indifference. The first day I merely hunted for whim,
character, and absurdity, according to my usual custom; the second
day being rainy, I sat in the bar-room at the Seventh Ward, and
read a volume of 'Galatea,' which I found on a shelf; but before I
had got through a hundred pages, I had three or four good Feds
sprawling round me on the floor, and another with his eyes half
shut, leaning on my shoulder in the most affectionate manner, and
spelling a page of the book as if it had been an electioneering
hand-bill. But the third day--ah! then came the tug of war. My
patriotism then blazed forth, and I determined to save my country!
Oh, my friend, I have been in such holes and corners; such filthy
nooks and filthy corners; sweep offices and oyster cellars! 'I have
sworn brother to a leash of drawers, and can drink with any tinker
in his own language during my life,'--faugh! I shall not be able to
bear the smell of small beer and tobacco for a month to come....
Truly this saving one's country is a nauseous piece of business,
and if patriotism is such a dirty virtue,--prythee, no more of it."

He unsuccessfully solicited some civil appointment at Albany, a very
modest solicitation, which was never renewed, and which did not last
long, for he was no sooner there than he was "disgusted by the servility
and duplicity and rascality witnessed among the swarm of scrub
politicians." There was a promising young artist at that time in Albany,
and Irving wishes he were a man of wealth, to give him a helping hand; a
few acts of munificence of this kind by rich nabobs, he breaks out,
"would be more pleasing in the sight of Heaven, and more to the glory
and advantage of their country, than building a dozen shingle church
steeples, or buying a thousand venal votes at an election." This was in
the "good old times!"

Although a Federalist, and, as he described himself, "an admirer of
General Hamilton, and a partisan with him in politics," he accepted a
retainer from Burr's friends in 1807, and attended his trial in
Richmond, but more in the capacity of an observer of the scene than a
lawyer. He did not share the prevalent opinion of Burr's treason, and
regarded him as a man so fallen as to be shorn of the power to injure
the country, one for whom he could feel nothing but compassion. That
compassion, however, he received only from the ladies of the city, and
the traits of female goodness manifested then sunk deep into Irving's
heart. Without pretending, he says, to decide on Burr's innocence or
guilt, "his situation is such as should appeal eloquently to the
feelings of every generous bosom. Sorry am I to say the reverse has been
the fact: fallen, proscribed, pre-judged, the cup of bitterness has been
administered to him with an unsparing hand. It has almost been
considered as culpable to evince toward him the least sympathy or
support; and many a hollow-hearted caitiff have I seen, who basked in
the sunshine of his bounty while in power, who now skulked from his
side, and even mingled among the most clamorous of his enemies.... I bid
him farewell with a heavy heart, and he expressed with peculiar warmth
and feeling his sense of the interest I had taken in his fate. I never
felt in a more melancholy mood than when I rode from his solitary
prison." This is a good illustration of Irving's tender-heartedness; but
considering Burr's whole character, it is altogether a womanish case of
misplaced sympathy with the cool slayer of Alexander Hamilton.

CHAPTER V.

THE KNICKERBOCKER PERIOD.

Not long after the discontinuance of "Salmagundi," Irving in connection
with his brother Peter projected the work that was to make him famous.
At first nothing more was intended than a satire upon the "Picture of
New York," by Dr. Samuel Mitchell, just then published. It was begun as
a mere burlesque upon pedantry and erudition, and was well advanced,
when Peter was called by his business to Europe, and its completion was
fortunately left to Washington. In his mind the idea expanded into a
different conception. He condensed the mass of affected learning, which
was their joint work, into five introductory chapters,--subsequently he
said it would have been improved if it had been reduced to one, and it
seems to me it would have been better if that one had been thrown
away,--and finished "A History of New York," by Diedrich Knickerbocker,
substantially as we now have it. This was in 1809, when Irving was
twenty-six years old.

But before this humorous creation was completed, the author endured the
terrible bereavement which was to color all his life. He had formed a
deep and tender passion for Matilda Hoffman, the second daughter of
Jeremiah Ogden Hoffman, in whose family he had long been on a footing of
the most perfect intimacy, and his ardent love was fully reciprocated.
He was restlessly casting about for some assured means of livelihood
which would enable him to marry, and perhaps his distrust of a literary
career was connected with this desire, when after a short illness Miss
Hoffman died, in the eighteenth year of her age. Without being a
dazzling beauty, she was lovely in person and mind, with most engaging
manners, a refined sensibility, and a delicate and playful humor. The
loss was a crushing blow to Irving, from the effects of which he never
recovered, although time softened the bitterness of his grief into a
tender and sacred memory. He could never bear to hear her name spoken
even by his most intimate friends, or any allusion to her. Thirty years
after her death, it happened one evening at the house of Mr. Hoffman,
her father, that a granddaughter was playing for Mr. Irving, and in
taking her music from the drawer, a faded piece of embroidery was
brought forth. "Washington," said Mr. Hoffman, picking it up, "this is a
piece of poor Matilda's workmanship." The effect was electric. He had
been talking in the sprightliest mood before, but he sunk at once into
utter silence, and in a few moments got up and left the house.

After his death, in a private repository of which he always kept the
key, was found a lovely miniature, a braid of fair hair, and a slip of
paper, on which was written in his own hand, "Matilda Hoffman;" and with
these treasures were several pages of a memorandum in ink long since
faded. He kept through life her Bible and Prayer Book; they were placed
nightly under his pillow in the first days of anguish that followed her
loss, and ever after they were the inseparable companions of all his
wanderings. In this memorandum--which was written many years
afterwards--we read the simple story of his love:--

"We saw each other every day, and I became excessively attached to
her. Her shyness wore off by degrees. The more I saw of her the
more I had reason to admire her. Her mind seemed to unfold leaf by
leaf, and every time to discover new sweetness. Nobody knew her so
well as I, for she was generally timid and silent; but I in a
manner studied her excellence. Never did I meet with more intuitive
rectitude of mind, more native delicacy, more exquisite propriety
in word, thought, and action, than in this young creature. I am not
exaggerating; what I say was acknowledged by all who knew her. Her
brilliant little sister used to say that people began by admiring
her, but ended by loving Matilda. For my part, I idolized her. I
felt at times rebuked by her superior delicacy and purity, and as
if I was a coarse, unworthy being in comparison."

At this time Irving was much perplexed about his career. He had "a fatal
propensity to belles-lettres;" his repugnance to the law was such that
his mind would not take hold of the study; he anticipated nothing from
legal pursuits or political employment; he was secretly writing the
humorous history, but was altogether in a low-spirited and disheartened
state. I quote again from the memorandum:--

"In the mean time I saw Matilda every day, and that helped to
distract me. In the midst of this struggle and anxiety she was
taken ill with a cold. Nothing was thought of it at first; but she
grew rapidly worse, and fell into a consumption. I cannot tell you
what I suffered. The ills that I have undergone in this life have
been dealt out to me drop by drop, and I have tasted all their
bitterness. I saw her fade rapidly away; beautiful, and more
beautiful, and more angelical to the last. I was often by her
bedside; and in her wandering state of mind she would talk to me
with a sweet, natural, and affecting eloquence, that was
overpowering. I saw more of the beauty of her mind in that
delirious state than I had ever known before. Her malady was rapid
in its career, and hurried her off in two months. Her dying
struggles were painful and protracted. For three days and nights I
did not leave the house, and scarcely slept. I was by her when she
died; all the family were assembled round her, some praying, others
weeping, for she was adored by them all. I was the last one she
looked upon. I have told you as briefly as I could what, if I were
to tell with all the incidents and feelings that accompanied it,
would fill volumes. She was but about seventeen years old when she
died.

"I cannot tell you what a horrid state of mind I was in for a long
time. I seemed to care for nothing; the world was a blank to me. I
abandoned all thoughts of the law. I went into the country, but
could not bear solitude, yet could not endure society. There was a
dismal horror continually in my mind, that made me fear to be
alone. I had often to get up in the night, and seek the bedroom of
my brother, as if the having a human being by me would relieve me
from the frightful gloom of my own thoughts.

"Months elapsed before my mind would resume any tone; but the
despondency I had suffered for a long time in the course of this
attachment, and the anguish that attended its catastrophe, seemed
to give a turn to my whole character, and throw some clouds into my
disposition, which have ever since hung about it. When I became
more calm and collected, I applied myself, by way of occupation, to
the finishing of my work. I brought it to a close, as well as I
could, and published it; but the time and circumstances in which it
was produced rendered me always unable to look upon it with
satisfaction. Still it took with the public, and gave me celebrity,
as an original work was something remarkable and uncommon in
America. I was noticed, caressed, and, for a time, elevated by the
popularity I had gained. I found myself uncomfortable in my
feelings in New York, and traveled about a little. Wherever I went
I was overwhelmed with attentions; I was full of youth and
animation, far different from the being I now am, and I was quite
flushed with this early taste of public favor. Still, however, the
career of gayety and notoriety soon palled on me. I seemed to drift
about without aim or object, at the mercy of every breeze; my heart
wanted anchorage. I was naturally susceptible, and tried to form
other attachments, but my heart would not hold on; it would
continually recur to what it had lost; and whenever there was a
pause in the hurry of novelty and excitement, I would sink into
dismal dejection. For years I could not talk on the subject of this
hopeless regret; I could not even mention her name; but her image
was continually before me, and I dreamt of her incessantly."

This memorandum, it subsequently appeared, was a letter, or a transcript
of it, addressed to a married lady, Mrs. Foster, in which the story of
his early love was related, in reply to her question why he had never
married. It was in the year 1823, the year after the publication of
"Bracebridge Hall," while he sojourned in Dresden, that he became
intimate with an English family residing there, named Foster, and
conceived for the daughter, Miss Emily Foster, a warm friendship and
perhaps a deep attachment. The letter itself, which for the first time
broke the guarded seclusion of Irving's heart, is evidence of the tender
confidence that existed between him and this family. That this intimacy
would have resulted in marriage, or an offer of marriage, if the lady's
affections had not been preoccupied, the Fosters seem to have believed.
In an unauthorized addition to the "Life and Letters," inserted in the
English edition without the knowledge of the American editor, with some
such headings as, "History of his First Love brought to us, and
returned," and "Irving's Second Attachment," the Fosters tell the
interesting story of Irving's life in Dresden, and give many of his
letters, and an account of his intimacy with the family. From this
account I quote:--

"Soon after this, Mr. Irving, who had again for long felt 'the
tenderest interest warm his bosom, and finally enthrall his whole
soul,' made one vigorous and valiant effort to free himself from a
hopeless and consuming attachment. My mother counseled him, I
believe, for the best, and he left Dresden on an expedition of
several weeks into a country he had long wished to see, though, in
the main, it disappointed him; and he started with young Colbourne
(son of General Colbourne) as his companion. Some of his letters on
this journey are before the public; and in the agitation and
eagerness he there described, on receiving and opening letters from
us, and the tenderness in his replies,--the longing to be once more
in the little Pavilion, to which we had moved in the beginning of
the summer,--the letters (though carefully guarded by the delicacy
of her who intrusted them to the editor, and alone retained among
many more calculated to lay bare his true feelings), even
fragmentary as they are, point out the truth.

"Here is the key to the journey to Silesia, the return to Dresden,
and, finally, to the journey from Dresden to Rotterdam in our
company, first planned so as to part at Cassel, where Mr. Irving
had intended to leave us and go down the Rhine, but subsequently
could not find in his heart to part. Hence, after a night of pale
and speechless melancholy, the gay, animated, happy countenance
with which he sprang to our coachbox to take his old seat on it,
and accompany us to Rotterdam. There even could he not part, but
joined us in the steamboat; and, after bearing us company as far as
a boat could follow us, at last tore himself away, to bury himself
in Paris, and try to work....

"It was fortunate, perhaps, that this affection was returned by the
_warmest friendship_ only, since it was destined that the
accomplishment of his wishes was impossible, for many obstacles
which lay in his way; and it is with pleasure I can truly say that
in time he schooled himself to view, also with friendship only, one
who for some time past has been the wife of another."

Upon the delicacy of this revelation the biographer does not comment,
but he says that the idea that Irving thought of marriage at that time
is utterly disproved by the following passage from the very manuscript
which he submitted to Mrs. Foster:--

"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 already had a family to think and provide for."

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