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