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Page 5
In that seething time, the lighter literature took a sentimental tone,
and either spread itself in manufactured fine writing, or lapsed into a
reminiscent and melting mood. In a pretty affectation, we were asked to
meditate upon the old garret, the deserted hearth, the old letters, the
old well-sweep, the dead baby, the little shoes; we were put into a mood
in which we were defenseless against the lukewarm flood of the Tupperean
Philosophy. Even the newspapers caught the bathetic tone. Every "local"
editor breathed his woe over the incidents of the police court, the
falling leaf, the tragedies of the boarding-house, in the most
lachrymose periods he could command, and let us never lack fine writing,
whatever might be the dearth of news. I need not say how suddenly and
completely this affectation was laughed out of sight by the coming of
the "humorous" writer, whose existence is justified by the excellent
service he performed in clearing the tearful atmosphere. His keen and
mocking method, which is quite distinct from the humor of Goldsmith and
Irving, and differs, in degree at least, from the comic almanac
exaggeration and coarseness which preceded it, puts its foot on every
bud of sentiment, holds few things sacred, and refuses to regard
anything in life seriously. But it has no mercy for any sham.
I refer to this sentimental era--remembering that its literary
manifestation was only a surface disease, and recognizing fully the
value of the great moral movement in purifying the national
life--because many regard its literary weakness as a legitimate
outgrowth of the Knickerbocker School, and hold Irving in a manner
responsible for it. But I find nothing in the manly sentiment and true
tenderness of Irving to warrant the sentimental gush of his followers,
who missed his corrective humor as completely as they failed to catch
his literary art. Whatever note of localism there was in the
Knickerbocker School, however _dilettante_ and unfruitful it was, it was
not the legitimate heir of the broad and eclectic genius of Irving. The
nature of that genius we shall see in his life.
CHAPTER II.
BOYHOOD.
Washington Irving was born in the city of New York, April 3, 1783. He
was the eighth son of William and Sarah Irving, and the youngest of
eleven children, three of whom died in infancy. His parents, though of
good origin, began life in humble circumstances. His father was born on
the island of Shapinska. His family, one of the most respectable in
Scotland, traced its descent from William De Irwyn, the secretary and
armor-bearer of Robert Bruce; but at the time of the birth of William
Irving its fortunes had gradually decayed, and the lad sought his
livelihood, according to the habit of the adventurous Orkney Islanders,
on the sea.
It was during the French War, and while he was serving as a petty
officer in an armed packet plying between Falmouth and New York, that he
met Sarah Sanders, a beautiful girl, the only daughter of John and Anna
Sanders, who had the distinction of being the granddaughter of an
English curate. The youthful pair were married in 1761, and two years
after embarked for New York, where they landed July 18, 1763. Upon
settling in New York William Irving quit the sea and took to trade, in
which he was successful until his business was broken up by the
Revolutionary War. In this contest he was a staunch Whig, and suffered
for his opinions at the hands of the British occupants of the city, and
both he and his wife did much to alleviate the misery of the American
prisoners. In this charitable ministry his wife, who possessed a rarely
generous and sympathetic nature, was especially zealous, supplying the
prisoners with food from her own table, visiting those who were ill, and
furnishing them with clothing and other necessaries.
Washington was born in a house on William Street, about half-way between
Fulton and John; the following year the family moved across the way into
one of the quaint structures of the time, its gable end with attic
window towards the street, the fashion of which, and very likely the
bricks, came from Holland. In this homestead the lad grew up, and it was
not pulled down till 1849, ten years before his death. The patriot army
occupied the city. "Washington's work is ended," said the mother, "and
the child shall be named after him." When the first President was again
in New York, the first seat of the new government, a Scotch maid-servant
of the family, catching the popular enthusiasm, one day followed the
hero into a shop and presented the lad to him. "Please, your honor,"
said Lizzie, all aglow, "here's a bairn was named after you." And the
grave Virginian placed his hand on the boy's head and gave him his
blessing. The touch could not have been more efficacious, though it
might have lingered longer, if he had known he was propitiating his
future biographer.
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