CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER (1829-1900)

The career of Charles Dudley Warner was preeminently that of a journalist. Born in Massachusetts, educated at Hamilton College, New York, and at the University of Pennsylvania law school, he practiced his profession for four years in Chicago, then removed to Hartford, Connecticut, as a member of the editorial staff of the Hartford Courant, with which paper he was connected in one way or another the rest of his life. Literary fame came to him almost by accident. He was forty when he contributed a rambling series of papers to the Courant and later collected them as My Summer in a Garden, 1870. The immediate success of the publication led him to write for the Atlantic Monthly. Backlog Studies, sketches of the Donald G. Mitchell variety, and from that time his books became many.

It is realized now that his own generation overestimated Warner, yet it cannot be denied that his influence in directing at a critical time the current of American literature was considerable. He was peculiarly a transition figure: the last of the old-time Sketch Book essayists, and yet enough in sympathy with the new period to collaborate with Mark Twain on such a book as The Gilded Age. His own day regarded him as a humorist, but the readers of the present generation are apt to find him, except at rare intervals, rather dry reading.

WASHINGTON IRVING 1

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 10 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 al- 15 most 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 sympathetic. In the 20 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; 25 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 poli- 30 tics there is a little vagueness of defini

1 Copyright by Houghton Mifflin & Co.

tion 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 5 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

And

Addison than to that of Macaulay.
his placid, retrospective, optimistic strain.
pleased a public that were excited and
harrowed by the mocking and lamenting
Lord Byron, and, singularly enough, 5
pleased even the great pessimist himself.

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 genius. I mean that he regarded life not from the philanthropic, the economic, the political, the philosophic,

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; to the metaphysic, the scientific, or the theobut 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 15 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 20 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 25 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 only be determined by the slow settling of 30 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 preva- 35 lent criticism. The service 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 40 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 45 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 tra- 50 dition 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 55 romantic background it owes to him in some measure supplies to it what great age has given to European cities. This

logic, 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 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.

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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 some

Irving had the defects of his peculiar 10 times praised for its simplicity. It is 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 unpartizan, and full of lenient charity; and I suspect 15 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. 20 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 25
King.' It is a very good one for a liter-
ary 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 30
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 40
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 45 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 50 really accurate 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 55 there remains a large margin for wonder how, with his want of training, he could have elaborated a style which is distinctly

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 scle 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 bril liancy 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 elabo rated, and in which it is thought necessary to Washington's dignity to give a ficti tious importance to his family and his childhood, and to accept the southern es timate of the hut in which he was bori 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 sprig 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 character

that is very rare to any writer foreign to the soil. As to America, I do not know what can be more characteristically American than the Knickerbocker, the 5 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.'

ized many of his great associates; and
with no concealment that he had a dower
of passions and a temper which only vig-
orous 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 sagac-
ity, the level balance of judgment com-
bined with the wisest toleration, the dig- 10
nity 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 15
of our dragging, unpicturesque Revolu-
tionary 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 20
style in reference to this work superflu-

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

first published in England, for Irving was 35 literary fashion authors so unlike as By

an English writer. The idea has been
more than once echoed here. The truth
is that while Irving was intensely Amer-
ican in feeling he was first of all a man
of letters, and in that capacity he was 40
cosmopolitan; he certainly was not insu-
lar. 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 45
write about it. In Spain he was satu-
rated with the romantic story of the peo-
ple and the fascination of the clime; and
he was so true an interpreter of both as
to earn from the Spaniards the title of 50
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 55
past generation. But I found not only at
sprightly humor and vivacity which are
modern, but a truth to Italian local color

ron and Dickens were equally warm in admiration of him. To the English endorsement 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 reëchoed 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 the 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