Chapter CXV: Part 115

"It was some little while before I could forgive the wrong done me
by the nun in being thus happy in her cell, in contradiction to all
the rules of romance; I diverted my spleen, however, by watching,
for a day or two, the pretty coquetries of a dark-eyed brunette,
who, from the covert of a balcony shrouded with flowering shrubs and
a silken awning, was carrying on a mysterious correspondence with a
handsome, dark, well-whiskered cavalier, who lurked frequently in
the street beneath her window. Sometimes I saw him at an early
hour, stealing forth wrapped to the eyes in a mantle. Sometimes he
loitered at a corner, in various disguises, apparently waiting for a
private signal to slip into the house. Then there was the tinkling
of a guitar at night, and a lantern shifted from place to place in
the balcony. I imagined another intrigue like that of Almaviva, but
was again disconcerted in all my suppositions. The supposed lover
turned out to be the husband of the lady, and a noted
contrabandista; and all his mysterious signs and movements had
doubtless some smuggling scheme in view . . . .

"I occasionally amused myself with noting from this balcony the
gradual changes of the scenes below, according to the different
stages of the day.

"Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earliest cock
crowed from the cottages of the hill-side, when the suburbs give
sign of reviving animation; for the fresh hours of dawning are
precious in the summer season in a sultry climate. All are anxious
to get the start of the sun, in the business of the day. The
muleteer drives forth his loaded train for the journey; the traveler
slings his carbine behind his saddle, and mounts his steed at the
gate of the hostel; the brown peasant from the country urges forward
his loitering beasts, laden with panniers of sunny fruit and fresh
dewy vegetables, for already the thrifty housewives are hastening to
the market.

"The sun is up and sparkles along the valley, tipping the
transparent foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound
melodiously through the pure bright air, announcing the hour of
devotion. The muleteer halts his burdened animals before the
chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt behind, and enters with
hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair, to hear a mass, and to
put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across the sierra. And
now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle Senora, in trim basquina,
with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from beneath the
gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well-frequented church to
offer up her morning orisons; but the nicely adjusted dress, the
dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses exquisitely
braided, the fresh-plucked rose, gleaming among them like a gem,
show that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts.
Keep an eye upon her, careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant
duenna, whichever you may be, that walk behind!

"As the morning advances, the din of labor augments on every side;
the streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burden,
and there is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the
sun ascends to his meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline;
at the height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into
lassitude, and for several hours there is a general repose. The
windows are closed, the curtains drawn, the inhabitants retired into
the coolest recesses of their mansions; the full-fed monk snores in
his dormitory; the brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement
beside his burden; the peasant and the laborer sleep beneath the
trees of the Alameda, lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust.
The streets are deserted, except by the water-carrier, who refreshes
the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage, 'colder
than the mountain snow (mas fria que la nieve).'

"As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when
the vesper bell rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to
rejoice that the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the
bustle of enjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the
evening air, and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and
gardens of the Darro and Xenil.

"As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light
after light gradually twinkles forth; here a taper from a balconied
window; there a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus, by
degrees, the city emerges the banners of the haughty chiefs of
Spain, and flaunted in triumph through these Moslem halls. I
picture to myself Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking
his modest stand in a remote corner, the humble and neglected
spectator of the pageant. I see in imagination the Catholic
sovereigns prostrating themselves before the altar, and pouring
forth thanks for their victory; while the vaults resound with sacred
minstrelsy and the deep-toned Te Deum.

"The transient illusion is over,--the pageant melts from the fancy,
--monarch, priest, and warrior return into oblivion with the poor
Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste
and desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vault, and the owl
hoots from the neighboring tower of Comares."

It is a Moslem tradition that the court and army of Boabdil the Unfortunate, the last Moorish king of Granada, are shut up in the mountain by a powerful enchantment, and that it is written in the book of fate that when the enchantment is broken, Boabdil will descend from the mountain at the head of his army, resume his throne in the Alhambra, and, gathering together the enchanted warriors from all parts of Spain, reconquer the peninsula. Nothing in this volume is more amusing and at the same time more poetic and romantic than the story of "Governor Manco and the Soldier," in which this legend is used to cover the exploit of a dare-devil contrabandista. But it is too long to quote. I take, therefore, another story, which has something of the same elements, that of a merry mendicant student of Salamanca, Don Vicente by name, who wandered from village to village, and picked up a living by playing the guitar for the peasants, among whom he was sure of a hearty welcome. In the course of his wandering he had found a seal-ring, having for its device the cabalistic sign invented by King Solomon the Wise, and of mighty power in all cases of enchantment.

"At length he arrived at the great object of his musical
vagabondizing, the far-famed city of Granada, and hailed with wonder
and delight its Moorish towers, its lovely vega, and its snowy
mountains glistening through a summer atmosphere. It is needless to
say with what eager curiosity he entered its gates and wandered
through its streets, and gazed upon its Oriental monuments. Every
female face peering through a window or beaming from a balcony was
to him a Zorayda or a Zelinda, nor could he meet a stately dame on
the Alameda but he was ready to fancy her a Moorish princess, and to
spread his student's robe beneath her feet.

"His musical talent, his happy humor, his youth and his good looks,
won him a universal welcome in spite of his ragged robes, and for
several days he led a gay life in the old Moorish capital and its
environs. One of his occasional haunts was the fountain of
Avellanos, in the valley of Darro. It is one of the popular resorts
of Granada, and has been so since the days of the Moors; and here
the student had an opportunity of pursuing his studies of female
beauty; a branch of study to which he was a little prone.

"Here he would take his seat with his guitar, improvise love-ditties
to admiring groups of majos and majas, or prompt with his music the
ever-ready dance. He was thus engaged one evening when he beheld a
padre of the church advancing, at whose approach every one touched
the hat. He was evidently a man of consequence; he certainly was a
mirror of good if not of holy living; robust and rosy-faced, and
breathing at every pore with the warmth of the weather and the
exercise of the walk. As he passed along he would every now and
then draw a maravedi out of his pocket and bestow it on a beggar,
with an air of signal beneficence. 'Ah, the blessed father!' would
be the cry; long life to him, and may he soon be a bishop!'

"To aid his steps in ascending the hill he leaned gently now and
then on the arm of a handmaid, evidently the pet-lamb of this
kindest of pastors. Ah, such a damsel! Andalus from head to foot;
from the rose in her hair, to the fairy shoe and lacework stocking;
Andalus in every movement; in every undulation of the body:--ripe,
melting Andalus! But then so modest!--so shy!--ever, with downcast
eyes, listening to the words of the padre; or, if by chance she let
flash a side glance, it was suddenly checked and her eyes once more
cast to the ground.

"The good padre looked benignantly on the company about the
fountain, and took his seat with some emphasis on a stone bench,
while the handmaid hastened to bring him a glass of sparkling water.
He sipped it deliberately and with a relish, tempering it with one
of those spongy pieces of frosted eggs and sugar so dear to Spanish
epicures, and on returning the glass to the hand of the damsel
pinched her cheek with infinite loving-kindness.

"'Ah, the good pastor!' whispered the student to himself; 'what a
happiness would it be to be gathered into his fold with such a
pet-lamb for a companion!'

"But no such good fare was likely to befall him. In vain he essayed
those powers of pleasing which he had found so irresistible with
country curates and country lasses. Never had he touched his guitar
with such skill; never had he poured forth more soul-moving ditties,
but he had no longer a country curate or country lass to deal with.
The worthy priest evidently did not relish music, and the modest
damsel never raised her eyes from the ground. They remained but a
short time at the fountain; the good padre hastened their return to
Granada. The damsel gave the student one shy glance in retiring;
but it plucked the heart out of his bosom!

"He inquired about them after they had gone. Padre Tomas was one of
the saints of Granada, a model of regularity; punctual in his hour
of rising; his hour of taking a paseo for an appetite; his hours of
eating; his hour of taking his siesta; his hour of playing his game
of tresillo, of an evening, with some of the dames of the cathedral
circle; his hour of supping, and his hour of retiring to rest, to
gather fresh strength for another day's round of similar duties.
He had an easy sleek mule for his riding; a matronly housekeeper
skilled in preparing tidbits for his table; and the pet-lamb, to
smooth his pillow at night and bring him his chocolate in the
morning.

"Adieu now to the gay, thoughtless life of the student; the
side-glance of a bright eye had been the undoing of him. Day and
night he could not get the image of this most modest damsel out of
his mind. He sought the mansion of the padre. Alas! it was above
the class of houses accessible to a strolling student like himself.
The worthy padre had no sympathy with him; he had never been
Estudiante sopista, obliged to sing for his supper. He blockaded
the house by day, catching a glance of the damsel now and then as
she appeared at a casement; but these glances only fed his flame
without encouraging his hope. He serenaded her balcony at night,
and at one time was flattered by the appearance of something white
at a window. Alas, it was only the nightcap of the padre.

"Never was lover more devoted; never damsel more shy: the poor
student was reduced to despair. At length arrived the eve of St.
John, when the lower classes of Granada swarm into the country,
dance away the afternoon, and pass midsummer's night on the banks of
the Darro and the Xenil. Happy are they who on this eventful night
can wash their faces in those waters just as the cathedral bell
tells midnight; for at that precise moment they have a beautifying
power. The student, having nothing to do, suffered himself to be
carried away by the holiday-seeking throng until he found himself in
the narrow valley of the Darro, below the lofty hill and ruddy
towers of the Alhambra. The dry bed of the river; the rocks which
border it; the terraced gardens which overhang it, were alive with
variegated groups, dancing under the vines and fig-trees to the
sound of the guitar and castanets.

"The student remained for some time in doleful dumps, leaning
against one of the huge misshapen stone pomegranates which adorn the
ends of the little bridge over the Darro. He cast a wistful glance
upon the merry scene, where every cavalier had his dame; or, to
speak more appropriately, every Jack his Jill; sighed at his own
solitary state, a victim to the black eye of the most unapproachable
of damsels, and repined at his ragged garb, which seemed to shut the
gate of hope against him.

"By degrees his attention was attracted to a neighbor equally
solitary with himself. This was a tall soldier, of a stern aspect
and grizzled beard, who seemed posted as a sentry at the opposite
pomegranate. His face was bronzed by time; he was arrayed in
ancient Spanish armor, with buckler and lance, and stood immovable
as a statue. What surprised the student was, that though thus
strangely equipped, he was totally unnoticed by the passing throng,
albeit that many almost brushed against him.

"'This is a city of old time peculiarities,' thought the student, I
and doubtless this is one of them with which the inhabitants are too
familiar to be surprised.' His own curiosity, however, was
awakened, and being of a social disposition, he accosted the
soldier.

"'A rare old suit of armor that which you wear, comrade. May I ask
what corps you belong to?'

"The soldier gasped out a reply from a pair of jaws which seemed to
have rusted on their hinges.

"'The royal guard of Ferdinand and Isabella.'

"'Santa Maria! Why, it is three centuries since that corps was in
service.'

"'And for three centuries have I been mounting guard. Now I trust
my tour of duty draws to a close. Dost thou desire fortune?'

"The student held up his tattered cloak in reply.

"'I understand thee. If thou hast faith and courage, follow me, and
thy fortune is made.'

"'Softly, comrade; to follow thee would require small courage in one
who has nothing to lose but life and an old guitar, neither of much
value; but my faith is of a different matter, and not to be put in
temptation. If it be any criminal act by which I am to mend my
fortune, think not my ragged coat will make me undertake it.'

"The soldier turned on him a look of high displeasure. 'My sword,'
said he, 'has never been drawn but in the cause of the faith and the
throne. I am a 'Cristiano viejo;' trust in me and fear no evil.'

"The student followed him wondering. He observed that no one heeded
their conversation, and that the soldier made his way through the
various groups of idlers unnoticed, as if invisible.

"Crossing the bridge, the soldier led the way by a narrow and steep
path past a Moorish mill and aqueduct, and up the ravine which
separates the domains of the Generalife from those of the Alhambra.
The last ray of the sun shone upon the red battlements of the
latter, which beetled far above; and the convent-bells were
proclaiming the festival of the ensuing day. The ravine was
overshadowed by fig-trees, vines, and myrtles, and the outer towers
and walls of the fortress. It was dark and lonely, and the
twilight-loving bats began to flit about. At length the soldier
halted at a remote and ruined tower apparently intended to guard a
Moorish aqueduct. He struck the foundation with the buttend of his
spear. A rumbling sound was heard, and the solid stones yawned
apart, leaving an opening as wide as a door.

"'Enter in the name of the Holy Trinity,' said the soldier, 'and
fear nothing.' The student's heart quaked, but he made the sign of
the cross, muttered his Ave Maria, and followed his mysterious guide
into a deep vault cut out of the solid rock under the tower, and
covered with Arabic inscriptions. The soldier pointed to a stone
seat hewn along one side of the vault. 'Behold,' said he, 'my couch
for three hundred years.' The bewildered student tried to force a
joke. 'By the blessed St. Anthony,' said he, 'but you must have
slept soundly, considering the hardness of your couch.'

"'On the contrary, sleep has been a stranger to these eyes;
incessant watchfulness has been my doom. Listen to my lot. I was
one of the royal guards of Ferdinand and Isabella; but was taken
prisoner by the Moors in one of their sorties, and confined a
captive in this tower. When preparations were made to surrender the
fortress to the Christian sovereigns, I was prevailed upon by an
alfaqui, a Moorish priest, to aid him in secreting some of the
treasures of Boabdil in this vault. I was justly punished for my
fault. The alfaqui was an African necromancer, and by his infernal
arts cast a spell upon me--to guard his treasures. Something must
have happened to him, for he never returned, and here have I
remained ever since, buried alive. Years and years have rolled
away; earthquakes have shaken this hill; I have heard stone by stone
of the tower above tumbling to the ground, in the natural operation
of time; but the spell-bound walls of this vault set both time and
earthquakes at defiance.

"'Once every hundred years, on the festival of St. John, the
enchantment ceases to have thorough sway; I am permitted to go forth
and post myself upon the bridge of the Darro, where you met me,
waiting until some one shall arrive who may have power to break this
magic spell. I have hitherto mounted guard there in vain. I walk
as in a cloud, concealed from mortal sight. You are the first to
accost me for now three hundred years. I behold the reason. I see
on your finger the seal-ring of Solomon the Wise, which is proof
against all enchantment. With you it remains to deliver me from
this awful dungeon, or to leave me to keep guard here for another
hundred years.'

"The student listened to this tale in mute wonderment. He had heard
many tales of treasures shut up under strong enchantment in the
vaults of the Alhambra, but had treated them as fables. He now felt
the value of the seal-ring, which had, in a manner, been given to
him by St. Cyprian. Still, though armed by so potent a talisman, it
was an awful thing to find himself tete-a-tete in such a place with
an enchanted soldier, who, according to the laws of nature, ought to
have been quietly in his grave for nearly three centuries.

"A personage of this kind, however, was quite out of the ordinary
run, and not to be trifled with, and he assured him he might rely
upon his friendship and good will to do everything in his power for
his deliverance.

"'I trust to a motive more powerful than friendship,' said the
soldier.

"He pointed to a ponderous iron coffer, secured by locks inscribed
with Arabic characters. 'That coffer,' said he, 'contains countless
treasure in gold and jewels and precious stones. Break the magic
spell by which I am enthralled, and one half of this treasure shall
be thine.'

"'But how am I to do it?'

"'The aid of a Christian priest and a Christian maid is necessary.
The priest to exorcise the powers of darkness; the damsel to touch
this chest with the seal of Solomon. This must be done at night.
But have a care. This is solemn work, and not to be effected by the
carnal-minded. The priest must be a Cristiano viejo, a model of
sanctity; and must mortify the flesh before he comes here, by a
rigorous fast of four-and-twenty hours: and as to the maiden, she
must be above reproach, and proof against temptation. Linger not in
finding such aid. In three days my furlough is at an end; if not
delivered before midnight of the third, I shall have to mount guard
for another century.'

"'Fear not,' said the student, 'I have in my eye the very priest and
damsel you describe; but how am I to regain admission to this tower?

"'The seal of Solomon will open the way for thee.'

"The student issued forth from the tower much more gayly than he had
entered. The wall closed behind him, and remained solid as before.

"The next morning he repaired boldly to the mansion of the priest,
no longer a poor strolling student, thrumming his way with a guitar;
but an ambassador from the shadowy world, with enchanted treasures
to bestow. No particulars are told of his negotiation, excepting
that the zeal of the worthy priest was easily kindled at the idea of
rescuing an old soldier of the faith and a strong-box of King Chico
from the very clutches of Satan; and then what alms might be
dispensed, what churches built, and how many poor relatives enriched
with the Moorish treasure!

"As to the immaculate handmaid, she was ready to lend her hand,
which was all that was required, to the pious work; and if a shy
glance now and then might be believed, the ambassador began to find
favor in her modest eyes.

"The greatest difficulty, however, was the fast to which the good
padre had to subject himself. Twice he attempted it, and twice the
flesh was too strong for the spirit. It was only on the third day
that he was enabled to withstand the temptations of the cupboard;
but it was still a question whether he would hold out until the
spell was broken.

"At a late hour of the night the party groped their way up the
ravine by the light of a lantern, and bearing a basket with
provisions for exorcising the demon of hunger so soon as the other
demons should be laid in the Red Sea.

"The seal of Solomon opened their way into the tower. They found
the soldier seated on the enchanted strong-box, awaiting their
arrival. The exorcism was performed in due style. The damsel
advanced and touched the locks of the coffer with the seal of
Solomon. The lid flew open; and such treasures of gold and jewels
and precious stones as flashed upon the eye!

"'Here's cut and come again!' cried the student, exultingly, as he
proceeded to cram his pockets.

"'Fairly and softly,' exclaimed the soldier. 'Let us get the coffer
out entire, and then divide:

"They accordingly went to work with might and main; but it was a
difficult task; the chest was enormously heavy, and had been
imbedded there for centuries. While they were thus employed the
good dominie drew on one side and made a vigorous onslaught on the
basket, by way of exorcising the demon of hunger which was raging in
his entrails. In a little while a fat capon was devoured, and
washed down by a deep potation of Val de penas; and, by way of grace
after meat, he gave a kind-hearted kiss to the pet-lamb who waited
on him. It was quietly done in a corner, but the tell-tale walls
babbled it forth as if in triumph. Never was chaste salute more
awful in its effects. At the sound the soldier gave a great cry of
despair; the coffer, which was half raised, fell back in its place
and was locked once more. Priest, student, and damsel found
themselves outside of the tower, the wall of which closed with a
thundering jar. Alas! the good padre had broken his fast too soon!

"When recovered from his surprise, the student would have reentered
the tower, but learnt to his dismay that the damsel, in her fright,
had let fall the seal of Solomon; it remained within the vault.

"In a word, the cathedral bell tolled midnight; the spell was
renewed; the soldier was doomed to mount guard for another hundred
years, and there he and the treasure remain to this day--and all
because the kind-hearted padre kissed his handmaid. 'Ah, father!
father!' said the student, shaking his head ruefully, as they
returned down the ravine, 'I fear there was less of the saint than
the sinner in that kiss!'

"Thus ends the legend as far as it has been authenticated. There is
a tradition, however, that the student had brought off treasure
enough in his pocket to set him up in the world; that he prospered
in his affairs, that the worthy padre gave him the pet-lamb in
marriage, by way of amends for the blunder in the vault; that the
immaculate damsel proved a pattern for wives as she had been for
handmaids, and bore her husband a numerous progeny; that the first
was a wonder; it was born seven months after her marriage, and
though a seven months' boy, was the sturdiest of the flock. The
rest were all born in the ordinary course of time.

"The story of the enchanted soldier remains one of the popular
traditions of Granada, though told in a variety of ways; the common
people affirm that he still mounts guard on midsummer eve beside the
gigantic stone pomegranate on the bridge of the Darro; but remains
invisible excepting to such lucky mortal as may possess the seal of
Solomon."

These passages from the most characteristic of Irving's books do not by any means exhaust his variety, but they afford a fair measure of his purely literary skill, upon which his reputation must rest. To my apprehension this "charm" in literature is as necessary to the amelioration and enjoyment of human life as the more solid achievements of scholarship. That Irving should find it in the prosaic and materialistic conditions of the New World as well as in the tradition-laden atmosphere of the Old, is evidence that he possessed genius of a refined and subtle quality, if not of the most robust order.

X

LAST YEARS--THE CHARACTER OF HIS LITERATURE

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.