Irving’s first literary publication was a series of letters, signed Jonathan Oldstyle, contributed in 1802 to the “Morning Chronicle,” a newspaper then recently established by his brother Peter.  The attention that these audacious satires of the theater, the actors, and their audience attracted is evidence of the literary poverty of the period.  The letters are open imitations of the “Spectator” and the “Tatler,” and, although sharp upon local follies, are of no consequence at present except as foreshadowing the sensibility and quiet humor of the future author, and his chivalrous devotion to woman.  What is worthy of note is that a boy of nineteen should turn aside from his caustic satire to protest against the cruel and unmanly habit of jesting at ancient maidens.  It was enough for him that they are women, and possess the strongest claim upon our admiration, tenderness, and protection.

III

MANHOOD—­FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE

Irving’s health, always delicate, continued so much impaired when he came of age, in 1804., that his brothers determined to send him to Europe.  On the 19th of May he took passage for Bordeaux in a sailing vessel, which reached the mouth of the Garonne on the 25th of June.  His consumptive appearance when he went on board caused the captain to say to himself, “There’s a chap who will go overboard before we get across;” but his condition was much improved by the voyage.

He stayed six weeks at Bordeaux to improve himself in the language, and then set out for the Mediterranean.  In the diligence he had some merry companions, and the party amused itself on the way.  It was their habit to stroll about the towns in which they stopped, and talk with whomever they met.  Among his companions was a young French officer and an eccentric, garrulous doctor from America.  At Tonneins, on the Garonne, they entered a house where a number of girls were quilting.  The girls gave Irving a needle and set him to work.  He could not understand their patois, and they could not comprehend his bad French, and they got on very merrily.  At last the little doctor told them that the interesting young man was an English prisoner whom the French officer had in custody.  Their merriment at once gave place to pity.  “Ah! le pauvre garcon!” said one to another; “he is merry, however, in all his trouble.”  “And what will they do with him?” asked a young woman.  “Oh, nothing of consequence,” replied the doctor; “perhaps shoot him, or cut off his head.”  The good souls were much distressed; they brought him wine, loaded his pockets with fruit, and bade him good-by with a hundred benedictions.  Over forty years after, Irving made a detour, on his way from Madrid to Paris, to visit Tonneins, drawn thither solely by the recollection of this incident, vaguely hoping perhaps to apologize to the tender-hearted villagers for the imposition.  His conscience had always pricked him for it.  “It was a shame,”