28 November: Boreham on Washington Irving

A Master of Mockery
It was on November 28, 1859, that Washington Irving died. Essentially a pioneer, it was he who started the brave chorus in which all the later voices joined. He led the imposing procession of American writers—Longfellow, Lowell, Motley, Prescott Hawthorne, Whitman, Emerson, Bancroft, and the rest—which the whole world so gladly hailed and so heartily applauded. As in so many other cases, it was adversity that first drove Irving to his desk. He was by inclination a gipsy; indeed, he retained something of his wanderlust to the last day of his life. As soon as he came of age he crossed the Atlantic and became a nomad in the older world. Fond of music, sport, dancing, and the theatre, and passionately fond of every form of beauty, he was dazzled by the gaiety of Europe and feasted on it to the full. Fond, too, of excellent company, he became intimate with men like Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, and Thomas Moore. The liveliest and most genial of companions, his bonhomie, sprightly wit, and excellent taste secured for him an eager welcome into the best English society.

As soon as he reached the age of 35, however, fate demanded that he should take life a little more seriously. The legal business in which he was a sleeping partner became bankrupt and he was thrown entirely upon his own resources. He had already done a little writing and met with some success. He now resolved to set to work in earnest. He wrote his famous "Sketch Book," with its entrancing description of an old-fashioned English Christmas. And, in the same pages, he introduced to the world the fantastic figure of Rip Van Winkle. The work was an immediate success and, like a wise man having found his metier, Irving followed up his triumph with other productions of a similar kind.

Magnetism And Romance Of Old Madrid
Having retrieved his fallen fortunes by the prosperity of his pen, Irving again fell a victim to his gipsying propensities. In visiting and revisiting the capitals of Europe, his thoughts somehow turned with special wistfulness to old Madrid. He wrote to his friend, Alexander Everett, the United States Minister in that city. Everett urged him to come and to translate Navarette's "Voyages of Columbus" which had just been published. The suggestion was most happy and most fruitful, for it led Irving to a still finer achievement. The more he saw of Spain the more it appealed to him. Its street scenes alone captivated his fancy. He gazed with speechless ecstasy upon the lively pageant—the men with their swarthy countenances, gay tunics, and picturesque sombreros; the women with their flashing dark eyes, black and braided hair, and quaint but dainty costumes; the troops of laughing children who seemed to have nowhere to go and nothing to do; the round-faced priests in their brown cassocks; the swarms of beggars in all phases of decrepitude; the countless array of donkeys and mules with their tinkling bells, fluttering tassels, and enormous panniers; the goats and fowls that wandered aimlessly amid the traffic; and the babel of unintelligible sound that, everlastingly changing, seemed everlastingly the same.

And then the whole scene became transformed. As if by magic, his mind swung from the vision of modern Spain, as it unfolded itself around him, to the vision of ancient Spain—Spain at the apex of her glory, Spain as mistress of mart and of main, the Spain that used to be! Why should he not render articulate that gleaming hoard of priceless romance? The conception fired his imagination, and the more he pondered it the more irresistible the challenge became. It entirely captured his heart and lured him to the execution of those masterpieces with which his name will always be associated.

Secret Sadness Left His Work Defective
The tragedy in the life of Washington Irving is represented by the fact that when, at the age of 76 he died, he died a bachelor. With some men such a circumstance is scarcely matter for serious comment. It hardly affects the situation. In Irving's case it is vital. The fact that he died unmarried seems a violation of all his deepest and most fundamental instincts. From his earliest days he was passionately fond of women. A pretty woman was to him the richest adornment of any street down which he walked. One after the other he loved several women. One after the other several women—the widow of Shelley among the number—loved him. But by some impish freak of a capricious fortune, the women whom he loved were never the women who loved him, and the women who loved him were never the women whom he loved. Irving's best critics agree that, if the fates had dealt more kindly with him in this respect, he would have been a still greater writer. His own unfortunate experience rendered him shy of attempting to deal with the profounder impulses and more passionate emotions. His work lacks tremendousness. The heart is seldom stirred; the depths are never broken up.

Our regret is the more poignant when we reflect that, a born knight, Irving possessed all the qualities that women most admire. Thoughtful, courtly, unselfish, the instincts of a fine chivalry coursed in his veins. His self-abnegation in evacuating, in favour of a heavily-handicapped rival, a field of research that specially appealed to him, has won the applause of each subsequent generation. After having collected all the material for his "Conquest of Mexico," he discovered that W. H. Prescott, who was almost blind, had set his heart upon a similar line of investigation. Irving instantly withdrew, leaving the task to Prescott. "Prescott will never know what it cost me!" Irving confided to his nephew. The act was characteristic of him. High-minded, magnanimous, and always willing to subserviate his personal interests to those of others, he brightened every life that touched his own. The cluster of classics he has bequeathed to us will always be treasured as his most eloquent and most enduring monument.

F W Boreham

Image: Washington Irving