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THE SHORT FICTION OF
WASHINGTON IRVING

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ABSTRACT

THE SHORT FICTION OF
WASHINGTON IRVING

BY
Jill Wilson Cohn

This study examines the forms of fiction which
comprise the four major volumes of Irving's short works:

The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, Tales of a Traveller,

 

and The Alhambra. Since there is so little pattern to

his development as a writer of short fiction, the dis-
sertation is not organized by volume, but rather by form:
the sketch, the tale, the short story, and the framing

story. It is the balance and integration of the fictional
elements—-particularly the function of the narrator--which
distinguish these forms as Irving practiced them.

An Irving sketch, such as "The Wife," "West-

minster Abbey," or "The Stout Gentleman," has for its

primary focus a descriptive picture of life as seen by

 

the narrator. It may or may not involve some action or

some characterization. It centers, however, on the nar-

rator's observation of the external world and that world

at times may be static and at other times may involve

 

 

 

Jill Wilson Cohn

action or apparent conflict. But the conflict is seldom

fully developed, the tension, if any, never matures, nor

is there a genuine resolution. The characters seldom are

developed or well-rounded, and the integration of char-

acter and plot is incomplete. The focus of the sketches

is divided between the narrator and the ostensible topic

of the selection.
An Irving tale is a hybrid form between a sketch

and a short story. Tales such as "Annette Delarbre,"

"The Student of Salamanca," and "Legend of the Arabian

Astrologer," might be viewed as unsuccessful short

stories. Unlike the sketch, many of the tales are told

by a narrator other than Crayon-~a narrator who is

usually physically present in the tale. Like the

sketch, the characters are often one-dimensional, and

the action frequently is not dramatized. Like the short

story, the tale has a plot, characters, setting, conflict,

tension, and resolution--but usually these elements are

not functionally integrated. Many of the tales are too

long for optimum effect, and lack sufficient dramatic

focus. The "The Devil and Tom Walker," however, is a

tale that nearly becomes a short story.
Only three of Irving's works can be classified

as fully realized short stories: "Spectre Bridegroom,"

"Rip Van Winkle," and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

They are characterized by a skillful integration of

fict
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Jill Wilson Cohn

fictional elements, neatly balanced to produce a unified

effect on the reader. None of these stories is narrated
by Crayon and none has a narrator physically present in

the plot. In these stories Irving was not torn between

the events and the narrator's personal reaction to those

events. Instead he is able to concentrate on shaping

the elements of the story.

The framing story is a unique form which combines

short stories, tales, or sketches, one enclosing the

other in the fashion of a Chinese box. It is the most

complex form Irving practiced. Irving began using it

in a loose fashion, often simply having one narrator

introduce another narrator who tells a story. Sometimes

there is little attempt to functionally integrate the
introductory and concluding materials with the internal

tales. But in "Dolph Heyliger" and "Strange Stories"

Irving demonstrates his ability to structurally and
thematically integrate stories or tales so that one
tale complements and illuminates the others.

It is possible to discern some pattern in Irving's
practice of these four forms. The three short stories

are included in the first volume, The Sketch Book. By

the end of Bracebridge Hall, however, Irving demonstrates
his skill in handling the framing story of "Dolph Hey—
liger." The complex form must have intrigued him, for

each of the four parts of Tales of a Traveller is based

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Jill Wilson Cohn
on the structure of a framing story. This trend toward

more complex forms ends, however, with Tales of a Travel-

ler. The book was not well—received by the critics. In

his next collection, The Alhambra, Irving devotes less

attention to the structural unity of the legends. The

selections are loosely connected and often poorly con—

structed. After the publication of The Alhambra in 1832,

Irving gave most of his energy to longer non—fiction
works. Though he wrote some short fiction after 1832,
these later pieces do not demonstrate any further

structural development.

 

THE SHORT FICTION OF

WASHINGTON IRVING

BY

Jill Wilson Cohn

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Department of English

1971

 

© Copyright by
JILL WILSON COHN

1971

 

For Carinda

I
first sug
encourage
for his c
thanks a]
many hell

1

to Kim C1

 

AC KNOWLE DGMENTS

I wish to thank Professor James Pickering who
first suggested this study and gave me helpful advice and
encouragement. I wish also to thank Professor Russel Nye
for his consideration, encouragement, and support. My
thanks also extends to Professor Linda Wagner who offered
many helpful suggestions.

.Finally, I wish to add a special note of thanks

to Kim Cohn who encouraged me to continue my education.

 

PREFACE .
INTRODUC'I
Chapter
I. TI
II. T]
III. TI
IV. T
CONCLUSI
LIST OF
APPENDIX
A- "'1

B. Hr]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE . . . . . . . . .

INTRODUCTION . . . . . . .

Chapter
I. THE SKETCH. . . . . .
II. THE TALE . . . . . .
III. THE SHORT STORY . . . .
IV. THE FRAMING STORY . . .
CONCLUSION . . . . . . . .

LIST OF REFERENCES . . . . .

APPENDIX
A. "The Balcony" (The Alhambra)
B. "The Generalife" (The Alhambra)
C. "Love Symptoms" (Bracebridge Hall)
D. "Lovers' Troubles" (Bracebridge Hall)
E. "The Lovers" (Bracebridge Hall) .
F. "May Day" (Bracebridge Hall)
G. "The Mysterious Chamber" (Ihg_51§§m§£3)
H. "The Veteran" (The Alhambra)

iv

Page

34

73

162
212

217

223
224
225
226
227
229
231

233

 

 

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P REFACE

Washington Irving was one of the most widely read
American authors of his time. His short fiction
undoubtedly had an influence on the writers and writ—
ing which followed him, particularly on the development
of the American short story. Irving scholars have
devoted considerable attention to his biography, to his
relationship to his cultural environment, to the thematic
concerns of his work, and to the sources of his fiction.
Since so little attention has been given to the inherent
technical qualities of his work, the intent of this dis-
sertation is to examine the formal structure of Irving's
short fiction. Until this is done, it is perhaps impos-
sible to fully understand how these early writings may

or may not have influenced later writers.

 

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INTRODUCTION

Washington Irving (1783-1859) was one of the first

American writers to achieve international recognition. He
began as a satirical essayist in the tradition of Addison
and Steele. His Jonathan Oldgyle, Salmagundi, and Knicker-

bocker History of New York are all in the eighteenth

century satirical tradition. His next major publication--

written under the pseudonym of Geoffrey Crayon—-was The

Sketch Book, a collection of stories, tales, sketches,

 

and essays. Both Knickerbocker (1809) and The Sketch
§ggk (1819-1820) received loud critical acclaim, a major
achievement for Irving, considering the significant dif-
ferences in the style and form of the two books. The

period between 1809 and 1819 has been called a fallow

decade in Irving's life.1 He published nothing and the

period defines a considerable change in his writing. On
the one side lies the 18th century: Salmagundi, Oldstyle,
and Knickerbocker, while on the other side lies The Sketch

Book, followed by Bracebridge Hall, Tales of a Traveller,

*

lFred Lewis Pattee, The Development of the American
§h9rt Story (New York: Harper, 1923), p. 7.

 

1“.”
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and later The Alhambra, all representative, in part, of
19th century romanticism.2 The change in his writing is
perhaps a predictable response to the changing age in

which he lived. As Russel Nye in The Cultural Life of a

Nation points out:

The period 1776-1830 in America is a period of con-
tradictions, a period in which there were two (or
more) sides to every intellectual argument, a period
of transition and change in which old and new answers
to major questions might exist side by side. It was,
intellectually speaking, more or less in balance--
the afterglow of the Enlightenment still shining, the
dawn of Romanticism just breaking. Eighteen-century
patterns of belief still persisted, yet at the same
time those patterns were being challenged, changed,
and eventually broken. Ideas once firmly nailed down

were working loose.3

Irving's move toward romanticism is evident in his increas-
ing interest in myths, legends, supernatural influences,
and the magic of the past. According to Robert Spiller,
Irving's readings introduced him to "the stream of mel-

ancholy which was the first phase of the romantic move-

ment in Germany and England."4 The past Irving sought

first, however, was not in Germany or Italy, but in

England.

 

2Ibid.

. 3Russel B. Nye, The Cultural Life of the New
Nation (New York: Harper, 1960), p. 9.

4Robert E. Spiller, The Cycle of American Liter-
EEE£2_(New York: The Free Press, 1955), p. 26.

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Irving was caught up in the current, but the romantic
past to which he fled was something the British
writers could not recognize because it was so
familiar-—the past of England itself, a past that
never was, with synthetic country houses and squires,
story-book rural customs, ancient abbeys, and country
churchyards. Suddenly the commonplace present was
shrouded in the same melancholy mist that gives
glamour to far-away places. The smells and sights
and voices of Old England were all about, made
suddenly vivid by this appreciative American.
(Spiller, p. 26)

Irving's European visits were not restricted to England,
however; he also travelled on the continent. During his
three journeys, he spent a total of 23 years abroad. The
second visit-—if it can be called that—-1asted 17 years
(1815—1832). It was during this European venture that
Irving wrote the four volumes discussed in this disser—
tation. That Irving is an American writing in Europe
introduces another interesting contrast in his short
fiction. On the one hand, he is an American writer
seeking American materials. Yet he spent much of his
life in Europe writing about Britain, Germany, and
Spain. Though he is the first American writer to receive
international recognition, none of the collections
studied in this dissertation can be considered exclu—
sively American.

Yet out of these apparent contrasts or contra-

dictions in his works emerges Irving's uniqueness as a

writer. Darrel Abel suggests that Irving, like many

 

writer
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dynami

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writers, contrasted ideas in such a way as to create his

own unique internal tension, a tension which produces the

dynamic of his art.

In Irving's work the major term of the contrast was
"the accumulated treasures of age" represented by
Europe; the minor but still indispensable term was
the "youthful promise" of his native country.
Although Irving's orientation was more toward
"shadowy grandeurs" than toward "commonplace reali-
ties," his real subject was their encounter, the
moment of disappearance of the grandeurs into the
commonplace. His literary method was to combine
something old and something new, something bor-
rowed, something blue. The blue was the tint of
the blue distance, the sentimental haze which hung
over the region where the generalized background of
reality melted into the indistinct foreground of
fantasy. For Irving too, wrote of a frontier——
between the here and now and the faraway and long
ago. Both in time and place he pictured this
borderland between the natural and supernatural,
the old and new, the fact and the idea. Nebulosity
was his element. But his interest in this middle
distance was not in trying to penetrate it and make
out its very nature-—but in keeping his distance
from it and relishing its mystery.5

This mixture of old and new is apparent not only

in the themes and topics of Irving's work, but also in
the forms he uses. Sometimes he relies on relatively
traditional forms such as the essay or sketch. Other

times his sketches and tales verge on becoming that

uniquely American form--the short story. Once in a
while, as in "Rip Van Winkle," Irving creates a well-

conceived, carefully structured short story——no minor

 

5Darrel Abel, American Literature: Colonial and
Early National Writin , Vol. 1 (Woodbury, New York:
Barron's, 1963), pp. 329-30.

 

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achievement, and an achievement which prompts us to more

closely examine his other short fiction.
Of course, tales and stories have been told since

the dawn of history, but the short story as a form is

relatively young. It is the literary form which has been

shaped and developed primarily by American writers. Very
little has been written on the development of the American
short story, but most critics agree that it "begins with

washington Irving."6 This study of Irving certainly

supports that assertion. Though it is not possible to

trace a definite chronological development in Irving's
short fiction-~it does not evolve neatly from essay to
sketch to tale to short story, then to framing story--
still, the beginnings of the American short story are
evident in his short fiction.

This dissertation examines the forms of fiction
which comprise the four major volumes of Irving's short
works: The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, Tales of a

Traveller, and The Alhambra. Since there is so little

 

pattern to his development as a writer of short fiction,
the dissertation is not organized chronologically, but
rather by form: the sketch, the tale, the short story,
and the framing story. Each of these forms will be dis-

cussed later in more detail, but it may be useful here

6Pattee, p. l.

 

 

eacl
but

prai

 

to briefly mention the distinguishing characteristics of
each. These are not intended as comprehensive definitions,
but simply definitions which apply to the form as Irving
practiced it.

Though the essay is not included in this study,
it may be helpful to begin by noting the structure of an
Irving essay. Nearly all Irving's writing is personal
and his essays are no exception. However, his essays
emphasize intellectual ideas or concepts rather than
personal experience. Though he may include a story or
experience, he uses it only as an example. The narrator's
intellectual opinion is the central concern in an essay,
and any story or tale which is employed is present only
to reinforce the opinion or illustrate the tOpic in
some way.

The forms of the sketch, tale, and short story
are not easily defined. One of the most important char-
acteristics which distinguishes these forms, however,
is the function of the narrator in each. William Hedges
in his study of Washington Irving gives some attention
to Irving's sketches.

As yet no one has seriously attempted to define the
sketch or explain its relationship to the short
story. A typical critic says of the sketch, "dif—
ferentiating it from the tale," that it depends on
"its emphasis upon atmosphere and scene, its sub—
ordination of action and adventure." But as a
genre developed by Irving and perhaps perfected by

Hawthorne, the sketch is surely more than simply a
"romantic means of catching the atmosphere of remote

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places." It is fundamentally the expression of a
Crayon—like narrator. It consists of brief obser—
vations by a narrator speaking (sometimes literally)
from an isolated chamber.7

Indeed an Irving sketch has for its primary focus a

descriptive picture of life as seen by the narrator. It

 

may or may not involve some action or some characterization.
It centers, however, on the narrator's observation of the
external world and that world at times may be static and

at other times may involve action or apparent conflict.

But the conflict is seldom fully developed, the tension,

 

if there is any, never matures, nor is there a genuine
resolution. The characters seldom are developed or well—
rounded. And the integration of character and plot is
not complete. In Irving's sketches the essential quality
rests with the narrator and his relationship to the
external world.

Hedges accurately labels Irving's narrator as the
"alienated observer." He maintains that it is Crayon's
loneliness which "tends to make his surroundings reflect
his own image" (p. 147). He goes on to say:

Picturesqueness also distinguishes the sketch, which
is based less on belief in the objective reality of

an observed scene than on the associations read into
it by a spectator. Although it is visual, exploiting

what can be seen and taking as its point of departure
a physical setting, the sketch makes no attempt to

7William L. Hedges, Washington Irving: An American
Study, 1802—1832, The Goucher College Series (Baltimore:
ohns Hopkins Press, 1965), p. 146.

ske‘

des

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rat

i r i illiililiJ

 

distinguish sharply between nature or the landscape

as a thing in itself and nature as experience

molded by the observer's imagination. (Hedges, p. 147)

An Irving tale is a kind of hybrid form between a
sketch and a short story, though the tale might best be
described as an embryonic or underdeveloped short story.
Unlike the sketch, many of the tales are told by a nar-
rator other than Crayon—-a narrator who is usually physi-
cally removed from the story. Like the sketch, the char-
acters in a tale are often flat or one—dimensional, and
the action frequently is not dramatized. Like the short
story, the tale has a plot, characters, setting, conflict,
tension, resolution——but usually these elements are not
functionally integrated. Many of the tales are too long
for optimum effect and lack sufficient dramatic focus.
Only a few of Irving's works can be classified

as short stories. "Rip Van Winkle," "The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow," and "The Spectre Bridegroom“ are perhaps
his only successful short stories. They are characterized
by a skillful integration of fictional elements, all of
which are neatly balanced to produce a unified effect on
the reader. What is perhaps most significant about these
stories is that none of them is narrated by Crayon and
in none is the narrator physically present. "Rip Van
Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" are both "found
among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker" and

"The Spectre Bridegroom“ is narrated by "a corpulent old

 

Swi
the
eve
eve

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her
3
o
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Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller."* In
these stories, then, Irving was not torn between the
events and the narrator's personal reaction to those
events. Instead he is able to concentrate on the story
itself-—and at his best he was able to create what have
become classics in American fiction.

The framing story is a unique form which combines
short stories, tales, or sketches, one enclosing the
other in Chinese box fashion. Irving began using it
in a loose fashion, often simply having one narrator
introduce another narrator who tells a story. Sometimes
there is little attempt to functionally integrate the
introductory and concluding materials with the internal
story. But at its best as in "Dolph Heyliger," or
"Strange Stories," the framing story can structurally
and thematically integrate stories or tales so that one
story complements and illuminates the others.

Before introducing the four volumes examined in
this dissertation, it will be helpful to briefly discuss
Irving's literary theory. Irving devoted little time to
discussing his theories of writing and he seldom offered
specific comments about his own works. There is ample

evidence in his writing that he was a skillful craftsman

 

 

*This and all subsequent quotations from Irving,
unless otherwise noted, are taken from The Wbrks of Wash-
ington Irving, New Edition, Revised, 21 Vols. New York:
G. P. Putnam, 1860—1861. Citations to the quotations are
given parenthetically in the text.

 

with
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10

with language, mood, color, description, and sometimes
with characterization. But there is no obvious indication
in his work——fiction or journals—~that he attempted to
evolve a literary theory of form. He never indicates
that he is specifically interested in perfecting new or
better forms of fiction. In the much quoted passage from
his letter to Henry Brevoort, Irving says that he regards
a story "merely as a frame on which to stretch my
materials." He was, he said, more interested in "the
play of thought, and sentiment and language; the weaving
in of characters, lightly yet expressively delineated;
the familiar and faithful exhibition of scenes in common
life; and the half—concealed vein of humor that is often
playing through the whole."8 He also mentions in that
letter that he is concerned with the way a story is told.
Irving has been attacked for writing simply for the
public—-books that would se11-—rather than being a
devoted craftsman concerned with the intellectual and
formal characteristics of his writing. It is true that
the conscious craftsmanship of the artist is not evident
as often as it might be. In Irving's short fiction it is
difficult to distinguish what happens or develops by the
conscious control of the author, and what happens uncon—

sciously or by accident. Sometimes one wonders if Irving

 

8Washington Irving, The Letters of Washington Irv-
ing to Henry Brevoort, Vol. 2 (New York: G. P. Putnam s

 

Sons, 1915), pp. 185-86.

 

 

 

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was aware of the structural weakness of a piece. But in
other instances it would be unfair to say that he was not
consciously concerned with form. One cannot read the
intricate organization of a framing story such as "Dolph
Heyliger" or "Strange Stories" and assume that Irving
was unaware or unskilled in crafting the structure of

his work.

The selections discussed in this dissertation are
taken from four volumes of Irving's short fiction which
were published between 1819 and 1832. The Sketch Book
is the first and most familiar of these. Published in
1819-1820 during Irving's second trip abroad, the col—
lection was an immediate and overwhelming success in
America and was accepted at once in England.9 Irving
was pleased that Coleman gave the book a favorable
review in the New York Evening Post (August 3, 1819).10
But that the English responded favorably was even more
rewarding for an American Writer. Jeffrey praised The
Sketch Book in the Edinburgh Review:

We are now tempted to notice it as a very remarkable

publication, and to predict that it will form an era
in the literature of the nation to which it belongs.11

 

9Stanley T. Williams, The Life of Washington Irving,
Vol. 1 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1935), p. 190.

 

10Letters to Brevoort, 2, pp. 117—18.

llFrancis Jeffrey, rev. of Sketch Book, Edinburgh
Review, 34 (1820), p. 160.

 

 

 

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12

Some critics discovered that passages of the collection
are virtually translations from the German, but Irving
has not been strongly condemned for this. Some modern
critics, in fact, are quite generous in dealing with
Irving's borrowings. In his discussion of The Sketch
Book Stanley Williams maintains that "the point is not
that Irving often, as in 'Rip Van Winkle,’ copies other
writings too exactly, but that, once more, he united
ingeniously his reading with his own personal exper—
ience" (p. 184). Abel agrees with this opinion and
excuses Irving's translations in "The Legend of Sleepy
Hollow":
So Close were some passages . . . to its German
original that Irving has been accused of plagiarism.
Although technically he may be guilty of this, it is
the same way in which the Elizabethans were—-he
freely and without acknowledgement helped himself
to what suited him, but assimilated it to his own
distinctive style. (p. 332)
This distinctive style, of course, is the outstanding
feature of The Sketch Book. Originality was not Irving's
goal as he makes clear in the opening selection of Brace-
bridge Hall:
I am aware that I often travel over beaten ground,
and treat of subjects that have already been dis-
cussed by abler pens. Indeed, various authors have
been mentioned as my models, to whom I should feel
flattered if I thought I bore the slightest resem-
blance; but in truth I write after no model that I

am conscious of, and I write with no idea of imi-
tation or competition. ( p. 10)

 

 

Nor:
Geof
B°_°_k

sket

l3

Nor does Irving pretend to write about significant topics.
Geoffrey Crayon, in the opening selection of The Sketch
ngk says that the collection is intended as a tourist's
sketches of his travels.

As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel
pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios
filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a
few for the entertainment of my friends. When,
however, I look over the hints and memorandums I
have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost
fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me
aside from the great objects studied by every reg—
ular traveller who Would make a book. I fear I
shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky
landscape painter, who had travelled on the con—
tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant
inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners,
and by—places. His sketch-book was accordingly
crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure
ruins; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's,
or the Coliseum; the cascade of Terni, or the

bay of Naples; and had not a single glacier or
volcano in his whole collection. (p. 16)

Thus, in characteristic Crayon fashion, the narrator
excuses the lack of significant or weighty topics in his
writing.

The arrangement of the selections in The Sketch
Eggk does not follow any overall pattern. The first
American edition was published in seven parts. Though
the list of selections in each number, as Williams
states, does help us "to conjecture concerning the
actual dates of composition of various essays" (p. 426),
the arrangement of the original numbers do little to dis-
tinguish a structure for the later collection. Some

selections are structurally or thematically related.

 

The!
obvi
intr
Chur
are

Ind
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14

The Christmas pieces of Number VI, of course, are
obviously connected. "The Inn Kitchen" acts as an
introduction to "The Spectre Bridegroom." "The Country
Church," "The Widow and Her Son," and "A Sunday in London"
are thematically linked as are the two selections about
Indians which were omitted in the original American
edition. But as a volume, The Sketch Book lacks an
obvious thematic or structural unity. Spiller maintains
that the collection has "no continuity of subject matter,
no central purpose, no unity other than that of tone"
(p. 26). Williams finds The Sketch Book lacking in form
and in consistency.
Test The Sketch Book, as it stands among the sets of
English classics. Test it not, as did the first
American critics, by single essays or groups of
essays, nor, like the first English readers, by
the two separate collections, but as one book, the
first serious writing of Washington Irv1ng. It
will then appear to be a miscellaneous and, espe—
cially, an uneven work. As literature, at least a
half—dozen essays are worthless; twice that number
bear the stigma of mediocrity. With Its prolix _
prefaces and appendices, the book overflows, lacking
form, into a delta, with sands of sentiment and pools
of quiet thought. In these last Irving is persuaSive,

but sand predominates. His tone is too varied, ill—
sustained. (p. 185)

Despite the lack of a coherent structure as an
entire volume, however, it is possible to categorize the
individual selections according to their forms. TEE
Sketch Book contains essays, sketches, tales, and short

Stories. Some selections spill out into more than one

Category, of course. What is both interesting and

 

frus
earl
some
Irvi
The
unt:
son
the
wor

II‘V

15

frustrating to the student of Irving is that here in this
early volume of his fiction appear some of his best and
some of his worst writings. Except for the framing story,
Irving's writing structurally progresses little beyond
The Sketch Book. The framing story is not introduced
until Bracebridge Hall, but The Sketch Book does contain
some of Irving's finest sketches, and the three stories
that can most accurately be called short stories. No
wonder the critics were eager for the next product of
Irving's pen and no wonder he was apprehensive about his
ability to fulfill the expectations of his public.

His apprehension is quite clearly articulated in
the opening selection of his next collection, Bracebridge
$311 (1822). He begins "The Author" by mentioning the
favorable reception of The Sketch Book which he says was
"far beyond my most sanguine expectations" (p. 1). He
attributes much of the success of these collections to
the fact that little was expected from an American
author.

I would willingly attribute this to their intrinsic
merits; but, in spite of the vanity of authorship,

I cannot but be sensible that their success has, in

a great measure, been owing to a less flattering
cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my Euro-
pean readers, that a man from the wilds of America
should express himself in tolerable English. (p. 1)

Perhaps in answer to some of the criticism of
The Sketch Book Irving gives Bgaggbridgg_flall more overall

unity. Set in rural England, the volume contains a series

of S]

bya

the
M
Simt

the

1C!)

16

of sketches, tales, and a framing story which are unified
by a common setting and plot. Crayon is visiting friends
at a country manor house, the same house he visits for
the holidays in the Christmas sketches of The Sketch
H22£° Frank Bracebridge, his Father the Squire, Master
Simon, a niece Julia, and her fiance the Captain compose
the central family circle at Bracebridge Hall. The unity
is maintained in several ways. The impending marriage

of Julia and the Captain provides a sketchy but consistent
plot, the rural area surrounding the Hall unifies the
setting, and there is a consistency in the thematic con—
trasts: rural life vs. city life; aristocracy vs. the
common man, traditional customs vs. modern ways; and a
variety of explorations of marriage at different social
levels.

Despite Irving's anxiety Bracebridge Hall was
well-received, though not so widely acclaimed as Egg
Sketch Book. Jeffrey's comments in the Edinburgh Review
indicate that he much enjoyed the volume. Yet he does
mention the drawing room gossip about Bracebridge Hall
which complained that,

. . . in comparison with The Sketch Book, it is

rather monotonous and languId__thEt-there is too
little variety of characters for two thick volumes;
and that the said few characters come on so often, and

Stay so long, that the gentlest reader at last detects
himself rejoicing at being done with them.

 

12Francis Jeffrey, rev. of Bracebridge Hall, Edin—
burgh Review, 37 (1822), p. 337.

l__1l!!!!!!!E'

 

Jeffrey .
Other re

'l‘fl was

H_al_l_. :
maintai
“defunc
Willian
assembi
antiqu.
What w

style,

story
readl
"The
litt
Legs
the:
she
tai

why

17

Jeffrey continues by saying he disagrees with this opinion.
Other reviewers, however, did maintain that Bracebridge
Hall was not so good as The Sketch Book.
Modern readers are more impatient with Bracebridge

Hall. Stanley Williams calls the collection insipid and
maintains that for today's readers Bracebridge Hall is
"defunct." Comparing it to the robust Sketch Book,
Williams finds Bracebridge Hall filled with a "bloodless
assembly of lovers, mistresses, huntsmen, servants, and
antiquarians idling in castles and forests" (p. 208).
What won fame for Irving, Williams continues, was his
style, which was much admired in his day:

That Irving was a master of this obsolete, sweet

rhetoric seems today hardly a positive virtue.

Such is, however, the difference in the two

epochs. To appreciate Irving's reputation in

1822 we must observe that he satisfied the cri—

teria of the circle which rejoiced in the "ele-

gance" of sentence and paragraph. Geoffrey Crayon

was a master of a fashionable type of prose. (p. 210)

Composed of essays, sketches, tales, and a framing

story Bracebridge Hall is often tedious for the modern
reader. Except for a few superior selections such as
"The Stout Gentleman" and “Dolph Heyliger," there is
little to match the quality of “Westminster Abbey," “The
Legend of Sleepy Hollow," or "Rip Van Winkle." In fact,
there are no short stories in Bracebridge Hall and the
sketches tend to be mediocre. Yet the volume does con—

tain "Dolph Heyliger," a skillfully crafted framing story

which has no counterpart in The Sketch Book. Bracebridge

 

 

gall ;
progr
ticul
from
inc re
time
sele
ical
but
Del.
wri
“Th
wri

Dr;

18

H31; as a whole is interesting as a record of Irving's
progress as a writer. His use of the narrator is par-
ticularly significant. In Bracebridge Hall the movement
from sketch to tale to framing story parallels the
increasing physical withdrawal of the narrator; indeed at
times even his editorial presence is removed from the
selection. Crayon's physical, emotional, and philosoph—
ical presence is obvious in the sketch "St. Mark's Eve,"
but Crayon is completely removed from the tales "Annette
Delarbre" and "The Student of Salamanca." "Annette" is
written by a parson and narrated by Lady Lillycraft and

"The Student" is narrated by the Captain who says it Was

 

written by one of his friends "Charles Lightly, of the
Dragoons" (p. 151). Of course, as in all the framing
stories, the presence of Crayon is several times removed
in "Dolph Heyliger." Yet despite the flexibility in
Irving's use of the narrator, the volume has a structural
consistency. Contrary to The Sketch Book, all the
selections in Bracebridge Hall, whether or not they
are directly narrated by Crayon, are at least structur—
ally integrated into the overall organization of the col—
lection.

The framing device must have intrigued Irving, for
the entire organization of his next collection is based on
the framing story. Each of the four parts of Tales of a

Traveller (1824) is structured as a framing story within

L__*

 

which
its ft
acter
acter
becor

narr

Ger
Ske

bor

19

which there are several selections. Each part has for
its foundation a story, a setting, and a group of char—
acters which enclose other stories, settings, and char—
acters. Sometimes the stories, in Chinese box fashion,
become three or four times removed from the original
narrator.

Of all Irving's collections, Tales of a Traveller

 

was the most unfavorably received, and perhaps the most
misunderstood. It was severely criticized for its paucity
of German materials, its lack of originality, and its
vulgarity. Irving wrote it while he was travelling in
Germany and the public expected the volume to be a German
Sketch Book. Yet there is little German material in the
book and most of it is restricted to Part I. The review

in Blackwood's Magazine maintains that "there is nothing
13
ll

 

German here at all. The reviewers' comments about
Irving's lack of originality and power of mind were most
cutting and must have caused Irving considerable pain,
especially since The sketch Book and Bracebridge Hall
are full of defensive statements and excuses on these
very topics. In America the Gazette maintained that
"very few living authors are in such favour with so

large a public, as Mr. Irving; but of these few, not one

has achieved this success without exhibiting more

 

l3Anonymous review, "Letters of Timothy Tickler,
Esq., No. XVIII," Blackwood's Maggzine, 16 (Sept., 1824),
p. 295.

 

power 1

was 9

AN-rrr‘siilz

The

encc

20

14

power,-—a stronger and wider grasp of mind." Blackwood's

was even more severe on Tales of a Traveller.

 

We hardly know how to speak of this sad affair--
when we think of what Irving might have done-—
without losing our temper. It is bad enough-—
base enough to steal that, which would make us
wealthy for ever: but—-1ike the plundering
Arab—-to steal rubbish-—anything—-from anybody——
everybody-—would indicate a hopeless moral temper-
ament: a standard of self-estimation beneath
everything.--No wonder that people have begun to
question his originality. 5

The final comments of this review were intended to
encourage Irving.

We rejoice in your failure, now, because we believe
that it will drive you into a style of original
composition, far more worthy of yourself——Go to
work. Lose no time. Your foundation, will be the
stronger for this uproar. You cannot write a novel;
a poem; a love tale; or a tragedy. But you can
write another Sketch-Book--worth all that yoE_Have
ever written: if you will draw only from your—
self. (p. 67)

For the contemporary reader the vulgarity was the most
upsetting aspect of Tales of a Traveller. Most critics
severely attacked the book for its lack of decorum. The
comments in the previously cited Blackwood's review were
typical:
Irving is greatly to blame--quite unpardonable, for
two or three droll indecencies, which everybody, of

course, remembers, in these Tales. . . . He knew
that any book with his name to it, would be permitted

 

. l4Anonymous review, Tales of a Traveller, Part I,
in The United States Literary Gazette, I, No. 11 (Sept. 15,
1824) , p. 161.

 

15Anonymous review, "American Writers, No. IV,"

Blackwood's Magazine, 17 (Jan., 1825), p. 66.

 

21

by fathers, husbands, brothers, to pass without
examination: that it would be read aloud, in
family circles, all over our country.--We shall
not readily pardon him, therefore, much as we
love him, for having written several passages,
which are so equivocal, that no woman could bear
to read any one of them aloud--. (p. 67)

Modern readers are not disturbed by the books "obscenity"
but they find little to praise in the Tg1gg. Abel calls
it "a batch of hack-work" (p. 333) and Stanley Williams
finds it full of weaknesses:

For, next to his miscellaneous writings, Tales of a
Traveller is perhaps the most slovenly of all Irv—
Each of the four parts has faults
unpardonable today. Both the ghost stories and the
robber tales, designed for a public in love with
German romantics and Gothic prestidigitators, are
obsolete, as dead as the fashions which begot them.
In Parts I and III we yawn over the machinery of
haunted Chateaux, sinister storms, mysterious foot-
steps, and hidden panels. Spirits sigh in the
darkness; portraits wink; furniture dances; and
brooding, sensitive heroes woo melancholy maidens-—
in vain. (p. 274)

What is indeed unfortunate is that so few critics now or
them acknowledge the structural achievements of the Tales.
The Gazette makes a passing reference to the form, but
it is obvious that the complexity of the structure was
not recognized.
We like the model of these tales very much. Like
"Bracebridge Hall," they consist of distinct stories
strung together on a slender narrative that runs
almost unperceived through the number, and is of

little other use than to introduce and connect the
episodes.16

 

l6Anonymous review, Tales of a Traveller, Parts III

and IV, in The United States Literary Gazette, I, No. 15
(Nov. 15, 1824)? p. 229.

Willi
acknc
point
a 3hr
form
writ

SUI)

for
fan

ESC

22

William Hedges is one of the few modern critics to
acknowledge the structural concerns of the Tales. He

points out that Tales of a Traveller "is the work of

 

a short-story writer who had not quite discovered his
form, even though he had already, partly by chance,
written two or three stories that are destined to
survive" (p. 194). Hedges also notes Irving's letter
to Brevoort which discusses his concern with style and
form. In response to the bad reviews Irving writes, "I
fancy much of what I value myself upon in writing,
escapes the observation of the great mass of my
readers: who are intent more upon the story than
the way in which it is told."17
Indeed, "the way in which it is told" is the
delightful, and too often overlooked achievement, in
the Tales. Each of the four parts has an independent
structure which integrates several individual selections.
Part I, "Strange Stories," is narrated by the nervous
gentleman, who previously narrated "The Stout Gentleman"
in Bracebridge Hall. Though ostensibly the section deals
with ghost stories, what Irving is in fact doing is bur-
lesquing some of the traditional devices of the ghost
story. One review attacked the tone of these stories.

They are old stories, and I am sorry to add, they
are not improved by their new dress. The tone

 

17Letters to Brevoort, 2, p. 185.

inw
Ag]

Obvious

doing i

novel 1
Hag,

tediou
advent
the he
does 1

Irvin

Geoff
close
by i-
natu
and
and

actr

rag

the

23
in which Mr. Irving does them up, is quite wrong.
A ghost story ought to be a ghost story.
Obviously, this critic misunderstands what Irving is

doing in Part I.

Part II, "Buckthorne" is the revised aborted
novel which Irving had originally written for Bracebridge
Hall! though it was finally omitted. It is a long, rather
tedious autobiographical story of a young Englishman's
adventures as an adolescent. Because it is not one of
the better examples of Irving's framing stories, and it
does not contribute anything new to our knowledge of
Irving's skill, it is not considered in this study.

Part III, "The Italian Banditti" is narrated by
Geoffrey Crayon. As in Part I the framing story is
closely integrated with the sketches and tales enclosed
by it. This time the concern is not with the super—

natural, but with the threat and terror of being attacked

 

and raped by highway robbers in Italy. The entire section,

and the young Italian's story in particular, are unchar-
acteristically direct in dealing with sexual violence.
It was this section, of course, that drew most of the
rage of the critics who were offended by the tale of
the young robber,

. . . where a scene the most revolting to humanity

is twice unnecessarily forced on the reader's
imagination. We say unnecessarily, for how much

 

18"Letters of Timothy Tickler," p. 295.

nor
the
le:
th
so
Modern
robber
easily

are e

the s

unifi
not :
not
five
Webt
Bla<
The
Pir
con
se<

re

24

more truly tragical, as well as more decent, would
that tale have been, if the scene where Rosetta is
left alone with the Captain had been omitted; and
the "lot" had fallen on the unhappy lover who was
so soon to be her executioner.19
Modern readers are not nearly so offended by the young
robber's tale. Today's readers, in fact, can much more
easily recognize that the sexual concerns of Part III
are essential-—both thematically and structurally——to
the success of the entire section.

Part IV, "The Money Diggers" is not as structurally
unified as the previous sections. The framing device is
not skillfully employed for the individual selections are
not carefully integrated with the framing story. Of the
five selections in Part IV only the last two "Wolfert
webber, or Golden Dreams" and "The Adventure of the
Black Fisherman" are directly connected to each other.
The opening two selections "Hell—Gate" and "Kidd the
Pirate" serve as introductions both to the thematic
concerns and the framing structure of the entire
section. "The Devil and Tom Walker" though thematically
related is structurally independent of the other selections.
Perhaps the most glaring weakness in the structure of
Part IV is that Irving fails to return to the framing
story at the end of the section. The major difference
in form which distinguishes Part IV from Part I or III

is that in Part I and III it is almost impossible to

 

19Gazette, I, No. 15, p. 229.

 

 

 

fully r
the se
select
possil

Devil

undou
lecti
reviv
both
Thg_
the
mat

mat

ske
cm

wh

25

fully discuss an individual selection without discussing
the section as a whole. In Part IV, however, since the
selections are not skillfully woven into the frame, it is
possible to treat some of the selections, such as "The
Devil and Tom Walker," independent of the framing story.

The critical response to Tales of a Traveller

 

undoubtedly influenced the writing of Irving's next col-
lection, The Alhambra (1832). Irving brooded over the
reviews of the Tgigg and became increasingly anxious

both to sustain his reputation and to secure an income.29
The Alhambra resolved some of these difficulties. Unlike
the Tglgg which was attacked for the lack of German
materials, The Alhambra is composed entirely of Spanish
materials inspired by Irving's visit to Spain in 1828—

29.21

The volume contains a series of loosely connected
sketches and tales about the Alhambra and the surrounding
countryside. The collection opens with "The Journey“
which relates Irving's trip through Spain to Granada.

The remainder of the volume is devoted to his sojourn

at the Alhambra during which he attempts to recapture
the romantic traditions and the past glory of the area.

Indeed the geographic location, the emphasis on romanticism

and the thematic concern with Boabdil (the legendary

 

20Hedges, p. 236.

21For an explanation of the preparation of The
Alhambra, see Williams, I, p. 373.

 

Moorish
The rom
tinctiv

complet

revi

 

26

Moorish hero) provide the major unity of the collection.
The romanticism of The Alhambra is perhaps its most dis-
tinctive characteristic. Fred Pattee feels that Irving
completely surrendered to romanticism in this collection:

The book is an Arabesque, as redolent of the Orient
as the tales of Scheherezade. No more travesty, no
more romance tempered with rollicking humor verging
at times upon coarseness, as in "The Bold Dragoon."
His surrender was complete: "For my part, I gave
myself up, during my sojourn in the Alhambra, to all
the romantic and fabulous traditions connected with
the pile. I lived in the midst of an Arabian tale,
and shut my eyes, as much as possible, to everything
that called me back to everyday life." As a result
no other American has caught so richly and so com-
pletely the full spirit of the Oriental story-world.

(p- 17)
William Hedges also emphasizes the book's romantic quality
though he does not agree with the claim that Irving did
indeed surrender himself as completely as his statement
indicates. As Hedges points out the romantic qualities

and the unity of the book are greatly improved in the

revised edition:

By adding and rearranging material, Irving managed
in the revised edition of The Alhambra to intensify
the suggestion, already apparent in parts of the
original, that his temporary withdrawal from the
"dusty world" was a kind of enchantment. His imagi—
nation seems to transform landscapes and interiors
into settings for romances and Arabian tales. Trans—
ports of joy lift him out of the present and carry
him back into a timeless fictitious past, although
he likes to think that he is only playing with
illusions, temporarily keeping the everyday world
at a safe distance. He still has one eye on a
present which lives in the shadow of the past he
now inhabits. (PP. 263—64)

mother improvement evident in the revised edition is

Irving's emphasis on Boabdil. Hedges finds the 1850

edit:

authr

pie
seI
cer
suc
ske
cal

ski

27

edition a better book "because it is unified around the
author's often poignant identification with Boabdil"
(p. 266).

Despite these unifying qualities, The Alhambra
in many ways is structurally inferior to Tales of a
Traveller. Except for those selections which act as
introductions to others, Irving makes little attempt to
formally connect selections. The volume is a series of
pieces loosely strung together. Even within individual
selections the structure is often deficient. There is
certainly no selection which could be classified as a
successful short story. Most of the pieces are either
sketches or tales-~though some are essays and one or two
can be loosely classified as framing stories. In the
tsketches, Irving describes the Alhambra and his response
to it. The tales are based on the legends associated
with the area. Usually several legends are combined
into one tale, but too often the integration is poorly
done. The structural weaknesses of The Alhambra are
indeed disappointing to the reader who has examined the

structural accomplishments in Tales of a Traveller.

 

Irving's contemporaries, however, responded
favorably to The Alhambra. The Americans liked it
because it allowed them to "dwell in Europe," and

because it increased "the elegance of American taste."22

 

22

Williams, II, p. 318.

 

 

 

 

In Engl
prodiga
returne
fame a
critic
Abel c
(p. 33
[the t
in its
liams

too:

4Nan-OI—3

is n
that
asso
soon
edit

thre

Sim}
Sig

Pre

 

28

In England "the reviewers hailed him as a kind of literary
prodigal son; he had at last followed their advice and
returned to the type of writing which had brought him
fame a decade earlier" (Williams, II, p. 318). Modern
critics are not lavish with their praise though Darrel
Abel calls The Alhambra one of Irving's best books
(p. 335). Stanley Williams agrees that "in some respects
[the book] excells all other writings of Irving, especially
in its brilliance of coloring and warmth of tone." Wil-
liams, however, goes on to point out the book's weaknesses
too:

The fault, nevertheless, of The Alhambra is pre-

cisely this evenness of tone. No section is so
insipid as “The Pride of the Village" nor so

puerile as parts of Bracebridge Hall. On the
other hand, none rises, as does "Westminster

Abbey" in The Sketch Book into distinguished
writing. (I, p. 376)

Once again in The Alhambra the role of the narrator
is important. Though the original publication indicated
that Crayon was the author, the book was never closely
associated with Crayon as the earlier collections. It
soon appeared under Irving's own name, and in the revised
edition The Alhambra is credited to Irving while the
three previous collections are credited to Crayon (Hedges,

. 265). Though at first glance this may appear to be
simply a technical difference, the implications are more
significant. For the first time the actual physical

resence of Irving himself in the book is acknowledged.

 

 

There i
concert
reveal

Irving

betwee
Alhanh
in the
Alhgng
is a 1
and SI
and p
man w
into
histc
his c
in hi
this
Char

The
\

Irvi
as a
asst

Geo:

 

 

29

There is no longer any guise of a narrator whose apparent
concern is to describe English life but who is actually
revealing much of his own character. This time it is
Irving himself giving us his response to Spain.

Even more significant is the obvious similarities
between Irving as narrator and Crayon as narrator. Th3
Alhambra dispels any possibility that Crayon is a persona
in the modern sense of the word. The narrator of Eng
Alhambra exhibits all the characteristics of Crayon. He
is a traveller who often enjoys solitude yet feels lonely
and separated from others. He closely observes people
and places, often noting social differences. He is a
man who dwells on the glory of the past, who withdraWS
into the world of imagination and dream, who explores
history, legend, and the supernatural. He is unsure of
his own abilities, apologizes for the lack of "weight"
in his writing, and often attempts to compensate for
this lack by footnoting unnecessarily. Indeed all the
characteristics of Crayon are evident in the narrator of
The Alhambra—-Irving himself.

A reading of these four collections indicates that
Irving's use of narrators is his most characteristic trait

as a writer of short fiction. He relied heavily on

 

assumed names under which he published most of his works.

George Hellman has observed that Irving was 50 years old

 

 

L...—

befc
name
his

0th

nar
Irv
hun

Thr

 

 

30

before a piece of his writing appeared under his own
name.23 Geoffrey Crayon and Diedrich Knickerbocker are
his two best known pseudonyms though he had several
others. In his framing stories, as will be demonstrated
in Chapter IV, he relied on several narrators. Yet there
is a marked similarity in the personalities of all these
narrators who are physically present in the selection.
Irving's narrators refer to themselves as observers of
human nature--of the people and places around them.

They habitually draw moral generalizations and abstractions
from what they observe--which is to say that both their
philosophy and pleasure is often derived vicariously
rather than directly. When the narrator is physically
present in the selection, the characters and incidents
around him are seldom dramatically or realistically por—
trayed. Instead what we see is usually filtered through
the narrator's perception. He interprets for us and thus,
we often learn as much, if not more, about him as about
the people and events he describes. This duality of
focus is particularly evident in Irving's sketches.
Indeed, it is the central characteristic of a sketch.

One might say that the physical presence of a narrator

in a selection will surely prevent it from becoming a

short story. For what happens all too often is that the

 

 

23George Hellman, Washington Irving, Esguire (New
York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1925), p. 66.

 

 

 

narra
the <
narr
pers
sibl

sona

stor

eviz

pre
mat
are

Ital

lm

31

narrator indicates a place, a person, or an incident as
the central concern of the selection, but, in fact, the
narrator himself——his views, reactions, experiences, and
personality——is equally emphasized. Even when he osten—
sibly is telling a "story" about someone else, the per-
sonality of the narrator usually intrudes sufficiently

to upset the focus and turn what might have been a short
story into a tale or a sketch. This is perhaps most
evident in "The Stout Gentleman," but is also discernible
in many other sketches.

Of course, when Irving removes the narrator's
presence from a selection, a short story does not auto—
matically take shape, though the characters and actions
are usually more dramatically revealed. The use of a
inarrator or the control of the point of view of a story
is only one of the fictional elements which contributes
to the making of a short story. It does appear, how-
ever, that once Irving is relieved of the chore of con—
trolling a narrator's physical presence in a selection,
he can exercise more control over the other fictional
elements. And it is the skill of shaping and controlling
all these elements--inc1uding point of view-~that deter—

mines the success or failure of Irving's short fiction.

Even this brief introductory discussion of The

Sketch Book, Bracebrigge Hall, Tales of a Traveller, and

 

 

 

The Alhambra reveals little in the way of significant

 

 

progre
WIItil

again

.n v-T‘n rn mm

evol
gggl
Thre
in j
Ont
Irv
inc
the
not
is
gr
st
is

re

32

progress or development in the themes or forms of Irving's
writing. Some critics, in fact, believe that Irving never
again matched The Sketch Book though he tried.

Bracebrid e Hall (1822) had much of the old charm,

ut it was too attenuated; already the vein which had
seemed so rich had begun to run thin. For the rest
of his life he would strive to recapture the mood of
his classic of indolence, first in Germany with Tales
of a Traveller (1824), then in Spain with The Alhambra
(1832), and finally at home in Tarrytown on the Hud—
son. (Spiller, p. 26)

 

Certainly the formal development of his shorter fiction
as it is represented in these four collections does not
evolve in any neat pattern. The selections in The Sketch
ngk exhibit the greatest range both in form and quality.
Three of the four forms of Irving's short fiction appear
in The Sketch Book——sketches, tales, and short stories.
Only the framing story is omitted. What is more, some of
Irving's best short stories and worst sketches are
included in this early volume. Though he did pursue

the framing device, after The Sketch Book, Irving wrote
nothing to match the quality of "Rip Van Winkle." So it
is not altogether erroneous to say that formally he pro-
gressed very little beyond The Sketch Book. There is some
structural progress, however. The overall arrangement

is better unified in Bracebridge Hall and though he does
rely again on sketches and tales, he also includes a
framing story, a form which is further explored in the

next volume, Tales of a Traveller. This structural

 

development ends with the Tales, however. The Alhambra

 

 

 

revei
tram.
tale
nati
more
the

just
as '
dic

Irv

sho

33

reverts to the simplest of forms. Only the loosest of

framing stories is included and many of the sketches and
tales are structurally deficient. The most likely expla—
nation for Irving's reluctance to pursue his interest in
more complex forms was the negative critical reaction to

the Tales. The Alhambra placated the critics; it was

 

just what they wanted—-a Spanish Sketch Book--not as good
as the original but more satisfactory than its less pre—
dictable predecessor. And so with this last collection
Irving abandoned his brief exploration of form in his

short fiction.

L_____.___ _1____

Irving
inclu<
narra
sketc
ig_i§
uSUal
of de
cussi
essei
Sugg<
Amer
as "
Zati
View

to“

tho
Alh
E.

 

CHAPTER I

THE SKETCH

The sketch is the most characteristic form of
Irving's short fiction.* Nearly all the writings which
include the physical presence of Crayon or Irving as
narrator are sketches. As has been already noted, the
sketch is essentially a descriptive picture of life fig
it is seen by the narrator. The narrator's personality
usually is emphasized as much as the ostensible topic
of description. This chapter attempts, through a dis-
cussion of a variety of sketches, to demonstrate the
essential aspects of an Irving sketch, and also to
suggest that the sketches contain the roots of the
American short story. The successful short story-~such
as "Rip Van Winkle"-—skillfu11y integrates characteri-
zation, setting, action or conflict, mood, and point of
View to produce a unified effect. Irving seldom was able

to master all these elements in a given selection. His

 

*Though all four volumes contain sketches only
those from The Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, and Th2
Alhambra are included here. The sketches in Tales of a
TraveIler are discussed in Chapter IV.

34

 

sketci
Thong
narra
or ev
Wife,
intes
emph-
orde
the

with

whic

Ske‘
The
und
frc
sel
an<
ha
ca

tC

rnn-J—

35

sketches usually focus on one or two of these elements.
Though all his sketches emphasize the role of the
narrator, he usually focuses also on character, setting,
or events. The opening selection of the chapter, "The
Wife," is a typical Irving sketch——one which attempts to *
integrate several elements. The sketches which follow
emphasize characterization, action, and setting—~in that
order. Several sketches which give special emphasis to
the narrator are then discussed and the chapter concludes
with a discussion of "The Stout Gentleman," the sketch
which probably comes closest to being a short story.
"The Wife," one of the early selections in Th3

Sketch Book, is in many ways a typical Irving sketch.
The topic of this selection, an examination of a marriage
undergoing financial crisis, is said "to have been taken
from the married life of Allston."l Basically the
selection presents Crayon's version of the ideal wife
and the ideal marriage relationship which survives any
hardship. Crayon begins by generalizing about women's
capacity to withstand hardship, comparing the ideal wife
to a vine:

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful

foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into

sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by

the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing
tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it

 

lStanley T. Williams, The Life of Washington Irv—
ing, Vol. I (New York: Oxford University Press, 1935),
p. 429.

bear
is 1
hap}
smi'
the
ing
hea
To supp
couple
husband
him to
financ:
his wi
his co
her an

Thus,

with i

is Cr.
more

consi
Crayc

Perhe

IOU:

Sufi

 

36

beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who
is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his
happier hours, should be his stay and solace when
smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support-
ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken
heart. (PP. 34—35)
To support his theory Crayon cites as an example a married
couple who appear to be ideally in love. Leslie, the
husband, is devoted to his wife and wants her life with
him to be "like a fairy tale" (p. 36). When faced with
financial collapse, he is afraid and embarrassed to tell
his wife of their situation. Encouraged, however, by
his conversation with Crayon, Leslie does finally tell
her and he finds her to be loving and understanding.
Thus, the sketch is indeed like a fairy tale, complete
with its setbacks and its happy ending.

Though this selection is entitled "The Wife," it
is Crayon himself who is the central character for he is
more fully characterized than either Leslie or Mary. A
considerable amount of information can be gathered about
Crayon's nature from reading this particular sketch.
Perhaps most obvious is his wistful admiration and long—
ing for the state of marriage. Through most of Th3
Sketch Book and Bracebridge Hall Crayon wavers between
desiring independence and longing for the companionship
of others. However, he has struck out on a solitary

journey in The Sketch Book and must therefore be self-

sufficient. In an earlier selection he praises and

admire
of the
mind i
suspe<
such

compa
“The

happi
relai
Crayr

is e

Cra
to

and

pi
hr

w—

37

admires Roscoe for his independence. "He is independent
of the world around him. . . . The solitude of such a
mind is its state of highest enjoyment" (p. 29). One
suspects at times that Crayon, too, attempts to achieve
such a state. Yet, we repeatedly find him seeking the
company of others and wistfully observing reunions. In
"The Wife" he seems almost vicariously to enjoy the
happiness of marriage. The vicarious enjoyment of the
relationships of others is, in fact, characteristic of
Crayon. His rapture with the blissful state of marriage
is evident in the final description of the couple:

He caught her to his bosom--he folded his arms

around her—-he kissed her again and again—-he

could not speak, but the tears gushed into his

eyes; and he has often assured me that though the

world has since gone prosperously with him, and

his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never

has he experienced a moment of more exquisite

felicity. (p. 43)
Crayon's attitude toward others often indicates his desire
to relate; yet he maintains a distance from the people
and events around him. This is partly no doubt an attempt
to maintain the appearance of objectivity. He repeatedly
asserts the authenticity of his tales and reports. But
partly the detachment stems from his inability to
directly involve himself in the intensity of personal
encounters. He observes, comments, advises, philoso—

phizes--and at times he appears to desire intimacy--but

he is hesitant, possibly incapable, of meeting the

demand

instee

sonal
conte
from
his c
perha
only
what
to C
diff
nari
wha‘
is
fai
Con

art

Calm

 

 

38

demands and openness of personal involvement. He remains
instead as an "alienated observer."2
Crayon's alienation is in part Irving's own per—
sonal alienation. Though he never married he was never
content with his solitary life. His narrative distance
from the incidents he describes is no doubt a result of
his own personal estrangement. Thus, it is difficult--
perhaps impossible——to distinguish what is characteristic
only of Crayon, a fictitious creation of Irving, from
what is characteristic of Irving and then transferred
to Crayon. The Alhambra demonstrates just how little
difference there is between Irving and his fictional
narrators. It is more difficult, however, to determine
what is intentional in the creation of Crayon and what
is simply a result of Irving's failure as an artist. The
failure to integrate the narrator functionally into the
conflict and action of a given work may stem from Irving's
artistic weaknesses or it may stem from his psychological
inclination to consciously detach himself from events.
Whatever the reason, it is clear that the detachment of
the narrator is characteristic of most of Irving's
sketches, and it is, in fact, one of their essential

qualities.

 

2William L. Hedges, Washin ton Irvin : An American
Study, 1802-1832, The Goucher College Series (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins Press, 1965), p. 128.

 

 

L_._

L’..— _——— ———~<

howeve
vation
still

demons

D‘H

Orfb‘r'fljfl

The f
felic
at a]

paint

self
this

and

advi

The
Irv

tat

 

39

Detachment is only one of Crayon's attributes,
however. He also has a tendency to "paint" his obser-
vations; that is, he often views external reality as a
still life painting. In "The Wife" this is most obviously
demonstrated in the initial description of the couple:

I have often noticed the mute rapture with which
he would gaze upon her in company, of which her
sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in
the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to
him, as if there alone she sought favor and accep-
tance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form
contrasted finely with his tall manly person. (p. 36)
The final description of the couple enjoying "exquisite
felicity" is another of these paintings, and it is not
at all surprising that his writing has been compared to
paintings.

Crayon's characteristic moments of insecurity and
self-doubt are also evident in this sketch. Sometimes
this insecurity takes the form of asserting his authority,
and assuring the reader of the authenticity of the tale
he is about to relate. In "The Wife" Crayon confidentially
advises Leslie; then has a moment of hesitation:

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I
felt some little solicitude for the result. Who
can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life
has been a round of pleasures? . . . In short, I
could not meet Leslie the next morning without
trepidation. He had made the disclosure. (p. 39)
These hesitations of Crayon often are feeble attempts on

Irving's part to create tension in a piece. The hesi-

tation combined with Leslie's anxiety about the outcome

 

%i

 

 

of hi

this

move:
a fit
dist
inci
What
that
nari
tha‘
dra

thu

the
wit
mur
an
st
di

dl'

40

of his confession are the only evidences of tension in
this sketch and as such they are weak indeed.

The general organization of "The Wife," which
moves from generalization to specific example, then to
a final reaffirmation, is also typical of Irving. What
distinguishes this selection from an essay is that the
incident is more central than is the generalization.
What prevents the sketch from being a short story is
that the incident cannot function independent of the
narrator—-or perhaps it would be more accurate to say
that the incident is subordinated to the narrator and
dramatically removed from the reader. The incident is,
thus, not independently realized.

What is disturbing is the poor integration of
the introduction and the specific example. Irving begins
with the generalization that women are able to withstand
much misfortune, that they are like vines supporting men,
and then by way of example, he introduces "a domestic
story of which I was once a witness." Next he presents
directly a distant pictorial description of the couple
and informs the reader of the husband's financial
reverses. The picture serves as a kind of exposition
and the financial situation serves as an inciting inci-
dent for what the reader expects to develop into a drama.
We expect to be thrust into the midst of things. Instead

there follows a series of three conversations between the

 

 

 

husband
dialogt
develoy
"came 1
a tone
cally‘
like.

zation

descri

dehat
Conve
Phize
secoI
Prev:
readt
be tl

mOre

 

 

41

husband, Leslie, and the narrator. Unfortunately, the
dialogue is not coordinated with the action, character
development, or setting. Crayon merely says his friend
"came to me one day; and related his whole situation in
a tone of the deepest despair." We do not know specifi-
cally where the two meet or what the surroundings look
like. There is little attempt to reinforce characteri-
zation with gesture, action, or setting. Crayon does
describe Leslie's despair:

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have

its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words.

When his paroxysm had subsided and he had relapsed

into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently,

and urged him to break his situation at once to

his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi-

tively. (p. 38)
At another point, Crayon includes some stage directions
which help the reader imagine the action, such as Crayon's
gesture of encouragement to Leslie-—"stepping up, and
grasPing him warmly by the hand" (p. 39).

But for the most part the dialogue reads like a
debate——a series of responding speeches. In the first
conversation Leslie relates his despair and Crayon philoso-
phizes about wives and marriage. The next morning in the
second conversation Leslie describes the scene of the
previous evening when he broke the news to Mary. The
reader is thus twice removed from this scene which should
be the central drama of the piece. Crayon responds with

more advice.

 

L__'

L_.———-»—————— _._

the we
Leslie
will f
cumsta
disast
atteru
theor
clich

roman

C
a
I
t
I]
i
1

Near
clum
Piec
deba
cuss
to 1
log
ess
act

he

 

 

42

The third and final conversation takes place on
the way to the couple's new lodgings of the couple.
Leslie's speech concerning his anxiety about how he
will find his wife after her first day in altered cir-
cumstances reads like an expository warning of possible
disaster. Mary's only speech in the entire sketch--an
attempt on Irving's part to dramatize the truth of his
theory-—is but a mechanical mouthing of idealistic
cliches. The speech reads almost like a parody of
romanticism:

"My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are

come! I have been watching and watching for you;
and running down the lane, and looking out for you.
I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind
the cottage; and I've been gathering some of the
most delicious strawberries, for I know you are
fond of them--and we have such excellent cream——
and every thing is so sweet and still here--Ohl"
said she, putting her arm within his, and looking
up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so
happy!" (p. 43)
Nearly all the dialogue of the sketch is in effect a
clumsy and unsuccessful attempt to add drama to the
piece. But the conversation reads like a philosophical
debate rather than like the realistic, intimate dis-
cussion of two friends. Nevertheless, it is important
to note that Irving is, by the very inclusion of dia-
logue, attempting to Write something other than an
essay. He is trying to use dialogue to further the
action and, thus, to create drama. He fails because

he is either unwilling or unable to present the drama

 

 

l__1-i;;;;;;;;llliiir

 

L——-_—..__—__ __..... .

direc
resol
ever-
fact,
the l

inte

elem

dial

none

m4

43

directly. We witness the mounting tension and the eventual
resolution between the couple from a distance. Crayon is
ever—present between us and the couple, guiding and, in
fact, detaching us from the immediacy and intensity of

the relationship. His very presence weakens the dramatic
intensity of the conflict.

It is apparent, then, that though many of the
elements of a short story are present in "The Wife"--
dialogue, characterization, setting, tension, theme——
none of them is fully utilized. Except for the description
of the cottage and an occasional reference to the time of
day or the passage of time, setting is virtually ignored.
When he wished to, Irving could powerfully render a set—
ting, but here he neglects to use setting to reinforce
characterization or action, or to intensify the conflict.
And the tension of the sketch is only superficial.
Crayon's hesitations and Leslie's anxiety are mechanical,
and therefore, unsuccessful attempts to build tension.
Without genuine tension, whatever sense of resolution
there is becomes ineffectual.

The characterization in the sketch is embryonic.
Leslie, though he is given a conflict, is one-dimensional.
He is neither revealed nor developed. He learns that his
wife can face adversity, but this does not seem to alter
him in any noticeable way except to make him love her

more. Mary is, of course, a stereotype of what Irving

 

 

views

stitut
only t
centre

him.

the l
the n
direc
subjr
is n:
over
spee
her.
obse
his
Thu:
ofl
the

cer

801

ad:

44

views as the ideal wife. Her one speech is a poor sub-
stitute for realistic dialogue. Of the three characters,
only the narrator is really characterized. He is the
central character, and we do learn a great deal about
him.

The role of the narrator is directly related to
the lack of conflict and tension in "The Wife." Neither
the narrator nor the reader is ever allowed to become
directly involved in the conflict. Mary, the ostensible
subject of the sketch, is never objectified for us. She
is never dramatically portrayed. We aren't allowed to
overhear her feelings--except for that brief mechanical
speech at the conclusion and the opening description of
her. What we experience instead is Crayon's reactions,
observations, and emotions. We see the incident through
his eyes and are subject to his limitations as an observer.
Thus, any conflict we feel is confined to our perceptions
of Crayon rather than draWn from the ostensible drama of
the sketch. Indeed, it is Crayon, himself, who is the
central character.

Though "The Wife" is typical of Irving's sketches,
some of his sketches characterize other people, in
addition to the narrator.* "The Busy Man" from Bracebridge
Hall serves to illustrate a sketch which emphasizes char-

acterization. As in most Crayon sketches, the narrator's

 

*
For a discussion of "The Veteran" see Appendix,
Pp. 233—34.

 

 

percept
of the
throng]
Hall a:
he is
who we
Busy W
in a d
emplo:
initi
bustl
to at
Crayc
Simor

1

The

45

erceptions are heavily emphasized. We View the subject
i the sketch, Master Simon, the family bachelor, entirely
irough Crayon's eyes. Crayon is a guest at Bracebridge
Ill and does occasionally participate in activities, but
a is for the most part simply an observer, an outsider
to watches and records. His central intention in "The
isy Man" is to characterize Master Simon, which he does
1 a detached, non-dramatic way; yet he does successfully
iploy indirect methods of characterization. After an
iitial direct description of Simon as a man "full of
istle, with a thousand petty things to do, and persons
> attend to," a man "eternally busy about nothing,"
rayon continues his characterization by describing
Lmon's chambers:
He has fitted it up in his own taste, so that it is
a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's notions of
convenience and arrangement. The furniture is made
up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen
on account of their suiting his notions, or fitting
some corner of his apartment. (PP. 20-21)
e objects in the rooms serve to reflect the interests
the man who occupies it.
Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he
calls his study. Here are some hanging shelves, of
his own construction, on which are several old works
on hawking, hunting, and farriery, and a collection
or two of poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth,
which he studies out of compliment to the Squire;
together with the Novelist's Magazine, the Sporting
Magazine, the Racing Calendar, a volume or two of

the Newgate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another
of heraldry. (p. 21)

 

 

 

In ad
ing e
scape
of wt
accor

does

desc
Chr:

V82

fro

qoc
di<
Chi
hi
in

fa

 

46

1 addition to the books, Crayon takes note of the sport—
ig equipment, the musical equipment, sketches of land-
:apes, and other evidences of Simon's avocations, all
3 which he sums up as evidence of "a man of many
:complishments, who knows a little of every thing, and
>es nothing well" (p. 22).

Finally, the character is further rounded by a
escription of Simon's dealings with other people. Old
iristy, "the most ancient servant in the place" was
Iery contradictory and pragmatical" and apt "to differ
rom Master Simon now and then, out of mere captious-
ess" (p. 23). Crayon, however, is "surprised at the
nod humor with which Master Simon bore his contra—
ictions." Both Simon's good humored responses to
iristy and his acknowledgement that Christy gave him
is "first knowledge in hunting" indicate Simon's will—
igness to give credit where credit is due. But the
act that Crayon is surprised by this behavior indicates
lat Simon is not always so generous. A second encounter
iich adds to our knowledge of Simon is his greeting to
ady Lillycraft, the Squire's sister, whose arrival
auses some commotion. Crayon observes that Simon is
host assiduous and devout in his attentions upon this
Ld lady." But once again Crayon undercuts the appearance
id motives of his subject. He first observes that Simon

5 "swept off in the vortex that followed in the Wake of

 

this la
ing the
was “of
and th.
counti
intere

about

empha:
have
best

sketc

a da:
obse
inex
tOWa
he '
rea<
act,
mea
the
whi

He

bu:

Pa

 

47

his lady" (p. 25), and then he ends the sketch by report-
ng that Simon later informs him that Lady Lillycraft

as "of large fortune, which the captain would inherit,

nd that her estate lay in one of the best sporting
ounties in all England" (p. 25). Knowing Simon's

terest in hunting, we are left somewhat suspicious

out the sincerity of his devotion to the lady.

Not many of Irving's sketches can be said to

mphasize action or conflict. Those pieces which do

ave a well-defined conflict and a resolution are perhaps
est labeled as tales rather than sketches. A few
ketches though, do focus on action.

In "Hawking" (Bracebridge Hall) Crayon describes
day of hunting. As usual the narrator is more of an
server than a participator. He readily admits his
experience in hunting and explains that he keeps
ward the end of the party, lagging behind, so that

"might take in the whole picture" (p. 119). He
acts to the scenery and weather as much as to the
tion of the hunt itself. He describes the "soft
adow, reeking with the moist verdure of spring“ and
e river which runs through it, "bordered by willows,
ich had put forth their tender early foliage" (p. 119).
hears a "distinct echo from the sunny wall of an old
ilding on the opposite margin of the stream“; which the

rson informs him is part of the area's folklore. Even

 

 

L-

 

in the
falcon
pauses
in 12
cally
I
ti
bf
t1
a-
a
w

both
actiw
in ft

when

 

48

the middle of the action when Christy releases the
con the narrator is removed from the excitement. He
ses on a rise "whence I had a good View of the sport"
121). The activity surrounding him is almost sceni—
1y painted for the reader.
I was pleased with the appearance of the party in
the meadow, riding along in the direction that the
bird flew; their bright beaming faces turned up to
the bright skies as they Watched the game; the
attendants on foot scampering along, looking up,
and calling out; and the dogs bounding and yelping
with clamorous sympathy. (p. 121)
Yet despite the narrator's detachment which keeps
h him and the reader dramatically removed from the
ivity, there is some tension and a sense of action
the sketch. The tension begins early that morning
n Crayon notes the flurry of preparations.
The horses were led up and down before the door;
everybody had something to say, and something to
do, and hurried hither and thither; there was a
direful yelping of dogs; some that were to accompany
us being eager to set off, and others that were to
stay at home being whipped back to their kennels.
(pp. 117—18)
hunting party too is described in some detail. Julia
attired in "a hunting dress, with a light plume of
thers in her riding—hat." Lady Lillycraft is "dressed
er broad white beaver, tied under the chin, and a
'ng habit of the last century“ (p. 118). Though the

ription itself is scenic, its position in the sketch

lowing the excitement of preparations) helps to

ease the tension of the hunt.

 

 

L-

the si

COHVGI

_ --n..4n-r<n-o~.o—hC‘P-'I€

Cray
the
she
sel

the

of

49

There are three scenes of action. The first is
a sighting of the quarry which interrupts Crayon's
iversation with the parson.

The little man was just entering very largely and
learnedly upon the subject, when we were startled
by a prodigious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A
flight of crows, alarmed by the approach of our
forces, had suddenly rose from a meadow; a cry was
put up by the rabble rout on foot. "Now, Christy!
now is your time, Christy!" The Squire and Master
Simon, who were beating up the river banks in quest
of a heron, called out eagerly to Christy to keep
quiet; the old man, vexed and bewildered by the
confusion of voices, completely lost his head; in
his flurry he slipped off the hood, cast off the
falcon, and away flew the crows, and away soared
the hawk. (pp. 120—21)

 

Lyon, however, does not allow the action to dominate
2 sketch. His own presence is felt throughout the
ttCh and here he temporarily draws attention to him-

.f by noting his position on the rise and sketching

  
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
    
  
  

scene before him.

Our attention is once again drawn to the action
the hunt in the following paragraph. The hawk's pur—
t of his quarry is described in considerable detail.

I confess, being no sportsman, I was more interested
for the poor bird that Was striving for its life,
than for the hawk that was playing the part of

a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the
upper hand, and made a rushing stoop at her quarry,
but the latter made as sudden a surge downwards,
and slanting up again, evaded the blow, screaming
and making the best of his way for a dry tree on
the brow of a neighboring hill; while the hawk,
disappointed of her blow, soared up again into the
air, and appeared to be "raking" off. (p. 121)

tension of the sketch continues in the next paragraph

n the action of the hawk's pursuit is followed by

 

 

 

action

Julia

sive
this

sket

50

-on of a different kind. The party discovers that
La has been thrown from her horse.

Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillycraft made
me turn my head. I beheld a complete confusion
among the sportsmen in the little vale below us.
They were galloping and running towards the edge
of a bank; and I was shocked to see Miss Templeton's
horse galloping at large without his rider. I
rode to the place to which the others were hurry-
ing, and when I reached the bank, which almost
overhung the stream, I saw at the foot of it, the
fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and apparently life—
less, supported in the arms of her frantic lover.
(p. 122)

soon learn that Julia is not seriously hurt and the
ision eases as "the cavalcade, which had issued forth
gayly on this enterprise, returned slowly and pen—
Jely to the Hall" (p. 122). Another bustle of activity,
is time more serious, concludes the action of the
etch, when the servants receive the wounded Julia.
They came crowding down the avenue, each eager to
render assistance. The butler stood ready with
some curiously delicate cordial; the old house-
keeper was provided with half a dozen nostrums,
prepared by her own hands, according to the
family recipe book; while her niece, the melting
Phoebe, having no other way of assisting, stood
wringing her hands, and weeping aloud. (p. 123)
a two paragraphs which conclude the sketch are devoted
Crayon's observations on the effects of the day's
LiVitY.
It is evident, of course, that action, though it
emphasized more in this sketch than in others, does

really dominate the sketch. Rather, the action is

endent upon the narrator. He is everpresent, filtering

 

externa
into a
sketch-
world i

of a h

also 6
descr:
celeb
scene
descr

dance

typi
dati
It i
pari
set

ske

Cr:
de
Va

bc

 

51

:nal events for the reader. Nor is the action shaped
a plot. "Hawking" is thus not a tale; it is a

ch--portraying Crayon's observations of the external

d which in this instance is filled with the activity
hunt.

"May—Day," another sketch in Bracebridge Hall,
> emphasizes action.* Like "Hawking," this sketch
:ribes a group gathering, this time for the village
abration of May-Day. The selection refers to several
mes of action, but only one——a tumultuous fight-—is
:ribed in detail. Two other action scenes, a village
:e and a political argument, are summarized for us.

"Westminster Abbey" (The Sketch Book), another
ical Crayon sketch, dwells on the "gradual dilapi-
ions of time," a theme familiar to all Irving readers.
too, like the previous sketches, reveals, at least in
t, the character of the narrator, but also it uses
ting in a more functional way than most of the
tches do.

The organization of the sketch is built around
zon's wanderings in the abbey. His tour is carefully
-neated by the specifically described locations of
.ous tombs and effigies. In the course of his walk

L the physical surroundings and the time of day are

*
For a more detailed discussion of "May Day,"
Appendix,pp. 229-31.

 

 

 

52

:tionally related to the narrator's emotional and
losophical state of mind, and all of these contribute
the pervading tone of the sketch.
The time and season are immediately established
the opening paragraph.
On one of those sober and rather melancholy days,
in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows
of morning and evening almost mingle together, and
throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed
several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey.
There was something congenial to the season in the
mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I
passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into
the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among
the shades of former ages. (p. 210)
e season and the building are thus appropriately matched,
d the narrator's reaction to them prepares the reader
r the selection's preoccupation with the past.
Scattered throughout the sketch are references
the time of day, particularly to the sunlight, which
phasize the temporal nature of life and fame. Light
d darkness are used to illustrate Crayon's theories.
rly in his tour he describes the sunlight in the square

the Cloisters.

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into
the square of the Cloisters; beaming upon a scanty
plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an
angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky
splendor. From between the arcades, the eye
glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing

cloud; and beheld the sun—gilt pinnacles of the
abbey towering into the azure heaven. (p. 211)

: "dusky splendor" is, of course, later thematically

.ended to include the lost glory of the past, particularly

 

53

1e "bright gems of thought, and golden veins of lan-
Jage" (p. 214). The tolling of the abbey clock reminds
im of life's brevity.

Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones,
I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, rever-
berating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among
the Cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this
warning of departed time sounding among the tombs,
and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a
billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave.

(p. 212)

5 he continues his tour, he notes that "the day was
:adually wearing away" (p. 217), and when he reaches
1e tomb of "the lovely and unfortunate Mary," the light
5 considerably diminished.
A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where
Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through
windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the
place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained
and tinted by time and weather. (p. 219)
espite the reassurance of the brief interlude of organ
lSiC which occurs while he is resting by the tomb, the
iylight continues to diminish and serves to intensify
1e narrator's sense of gloom in the surroundings.
I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie.
which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire:
the shadows of evening were gradually thickening
round me; the monuments began to cast deeper and
deeper gloom; and the distant clock again gave
token of the slowly waning day. (p. 220)
-nally, when he is preparing to leave the Abbey, there is

> longer even any dusky splendor.

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming
through the painted windows in the high vaults

54

above me; the lower parts of the abbey were already
wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels
and aisles grew darker and darker. (p. 222)

He finishes by noting that even the evening breeze "crept
through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave"
(p. 222).
It is not only his references to the passing time,
but also his detailed descriptions of and reactions to the
surroundings which help characterize the narrator and
establish the tone of the sketch. That many of the
tombs are described in considerable detail adds realism
to the sketch and provides concrete stimulus for the
narrator's philosophizing. For example, the physical
position of "a knight in complete armor" catches
Crayon's attention.
I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the
effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large
buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed
together in supplication upon the breast: the
face was almost covered by the morion; the legs
were crossed, in token of the warrior's hav1ng
been engaged in the holy war. (pp. 214-15)

Later there is a detailed description of Henry the

Seventh's chapel.
Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls
of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak,
though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are
affixed the helmets and crests of the knights,
with their scarfs and swords; and above them are
suspended their banners, emblazoned With armorial
bearings, and contrasting the Splendor of gold and

purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of
the roof. (p. 217)

55

Such realistic descriptions of the surroundings are not
:he central concern of the narrator, however. With both
:hese descriptions and, in fact, with most of the
lescriptions of surroundings, the realistic details

are mixed with the narrator's impressionistic response,
and thus, the setting often functions to characterize
:he narrator. For example, the previous description of
Ienry's chapel is preceded by Crayon's imaginative
response.

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of
architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured
detail. The very walls are wrought into universal
ornament, incrusted With tracery, and scooped into
niches, crowded with the statues of saints and
martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the
chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and
density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the
fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness
and airy security of a cobweb. (p. 217)

'he narrator frequently shares his awe with the reader.
lis impressions of the surroundings are evident when he
'irst enters the abbey.

On entering here, the magnitude of the building
breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the
vaults of the Cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder
at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with
arches springing from them to such an amazing
height; and man wandering about their bases, .
shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his
own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this
vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe.
(p. 212)

is impressionistic response to the abbey is so strong, in

act, that he attributes an almost tangible quality to the

tmosphere.

56

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses
down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into
noiseless reverence. (p. 213)

1e mixture of realistic detail and imaginative response

5 again evident in Crayon's description of Mrs. Night—

igale's tomb.

The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing
open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is
starting forth. The shroud is falling from his
fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his vic-
tim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's
arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort,

to avert the blow. The whole is executed with
terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear
the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the
distended jaws of the spectre. (p. 216)

A third technique which both renders the realism

E the setting and emphasizes the narrator's isolation is

me silence of the abbey which is only intermittently

inctuated by sounds of daily living. On first entering

1e Cloisters, Crayon notes "the quiet and seclusion"

a.
t

211) which later is interrupted by the "reverber-

;ing" abbey clock. Once in the abbey he is hushed into

ioiseless reverence" (p. 213) which is later broken only

i
i

g "the sweet-tongued bell [which] was summoning to even—

t
pg prayers" (p. 217). His isolation from the external

prld is further emphasized by the references to diminish—

l

ng noises.

r
J

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the
abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant
voice of the priest repeating the evening service,
and the faint responses of the choir; these paused
for a time, and all Was hushed. The stillness, the

57

desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevail—
ing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest
to the place. (p. 219)
The most significant, and perhaps the most melodramatic,
interruption of the silence is the long, inflated
description of the paragraph devoted to the organ
music. The description ends with a flourish.
It grows more and more dense and powerful-—it fills
the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls——the
ear is stunned—-the senses are overwhelmed. And
now it is winding up in full jubilee--it is rising
from the earth to heaven-~the very soul seems rapt
away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of
harmony! (p. 220)
Like the splendor of the sunlight described earlier, the
force of the music is associated with lasting glory, and
both express Crayon's desire to believe in immortality.
But just as the light fades so the sound diminishes, and
he is left in near darkness and silence. As he prepares
to leave, he hears only "the distant footfall of a
iverger, traversing the Poet's Corner, [which] had some-
t
Ething strange and dreary in its sound" (p. 222). And

when he "passed out at the portal" the closing door

 

'fills the whole building with echoes. His concluding
iremarks indicate his lack of belief in immortality. The
emptiness of the echoes almost reiterates his thoughts

:about the "emptiness of renown" (p. 222).

The narrator's reactions which repeatedly empha-
size this emptiness and the "certainty of oblivion"

(p. 222) permeate the sketch. Yet the organization gives

 

 

58

emphasis to the tour and the description of external sur—
roundings. As a result the selection is a sketch rather
than an essay, for in spite of the philosophizing and
abstract commentary, the abbey itself dominates the
selection. The narrator's observation of external
reality gives rise to the phiIOSOphy rather than the
abbey being merely an illustration of Crayon's opinions.
This emphasis plus the characterization of Crayon as a
narrator physically present in the selection qualify it

as a sketch.

The character of Crayon in this sketch is con—
sistent with our glimpse of him in the previous sketches.
He once again is physically present in the selection and
once again he reveals a good deal of his own personality.
rHis fertile imagination, evident in many of the previous
'quotations, transforms the objects which surround him.
When he's in the Poet's Corner, the stillness and silence
(make him feel as if he "were treading a mansion of that
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans—
muted into stone" (p. 214). Later in Henry's chapel he
'lets his imagination conjure up the time when the hall
."was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glit—
\tering with the splendor of jewelled rank and military
Zarray; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of
:an admiring multitude" (p. 218). And though he imagines

‘the glory of the past and despairs of its death, his

59

reactions are not totally serious. After adjusting to the
initial awe of the abbey, he is temporarily amused by the
crowded conditions.
And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of
human ambition, to see how they are crowded together
and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed
in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a
little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive,
kingdoms could not satisfy. (p. 213)

Next to his vivid imagination, the most dominant
feature of the narrator is once again his role as observer.
Indeed observing the external world surrounding him seems
to be his principal function. And though in this sketch
one could say that he actively participates, that is, he
is walking around in the abbey, it is significant that he
is engaging himself with effigies and tombs rather than
living people. He is not actively involving himself with
life. The physical separation from active daily living
‘which is imposed by entering the abbey helps to intensify

iCrayon's characteristic emotional alienation. Sequestered

t
among the dead, he is again alone and withdrawn from

 

vhumanity, this time gazing on the lost glory of others

and lamenting the impossibility of immortality. Yet one

 

suspects it is not merely the fate of others which con-
cerns him. Hedges suggests that perhaps Crayon "begins
ito sense the past as also a potential trap for the imag-
ination, where, like the little man in black, he may lose

himself" (p. 133). Certainly it is not unlikely that the

preoccupation with the loss, not only of life, but of fame

 

 

 

 

60

may be indicative of Irving's own fear of the loss of his
literary imagination and reputation, a fear common to all
authors. But an even deeper and more fundamental need
is perhaps evident in Crayon's venture into the inner
recesses of the abbey. Hedges suggests a kind of
cultural quest:
His loneliness continually drives him into blind
alleys and dark corners, through small doorways
into courtyards cut off from all but a few muffled
sounds of the outside world and perhaps a ray of
sunshine. A small plot of grass may give the set-
ting the appearance of a garden, but it is not one
where Crayon can stay for long. He passes through
further doorways into darker interiors; the Womb-
like openings take him into chambers of the past.
(p. 134)
Yet Hedges' explanation does not really satisfy the
implications of his own suggestions and observations.
Surely more than a cultural quest is indicated by this
journey through womblike passages into dark interiors.
One wonders if Crayon's physical and emotional withdrawal
into the dark interiors of the abbey may in fact suggest
a kind of inner psychological quest to find himself.
Some of Irving's sketches give an even greater
emphasis to the function of the narrator than those
already discussed. Bracebridge Hall has a good share
of these sketches and interestingly enough, three of

‘k
them concern love or lovers. In each of these three,

the narrator is the observer, the outsider who watches

 

*

For a fuller discussion of these sketches ("Love
Symptoms," "Lovers' Troubles," and "The Lovers") see Appen—
dix, pp. 225—28.

 

 

 

61

thers from a distance, sometimes following them. Each

f these selections also borders on being an essay. How—
ver, instead of citing an example to prove a theory,
rayon watches the behavior of others, then draws general-
zations from them. This difference in emphasis is what
istinguishes these selections as sketches rather than
ssays.

"The Bachelors" (Bracebridge Hall) is an even
ore "telling" revelation of Crayon as narrator. Crayon's
and Irving's) own bachelorhood particularly qualifies
he narrator as an authority on the subject. He cites

couple of examples of the fate of aging bachelors, but
hat is of special interest is the scene in which the
eneral and Master Simon are “conversing with a buxom
ilkmaid in a Meadow" (p. 64). After describing their
ctivity, Crayon admits that he has been looking at

hem through a hedge.

As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but
think they would have made a tolerable group for a
modern picture of Susannah and the two elders. It
is true, the girl seemed in no wise alarmed at the
force of the enemy; and I question, had either of
them been alone, whether she would not have been
more than they would have ventured to encounter.

(p. 64)

ough Crayon uses the incident to illustrate behavior of
ing bachelors, the physical act of watching--in voyeur
shion-—is more striking to the reader. Here once

ain is Crayon an active, this time almost eager,

 

 

 

 

62

observer, willing to peer through a hedge, his own
presence undetected, to watch the amorous activities
of his friends. We cannot help but feel sympathy,
mixed perhaps with some dismay, for a man who has so
little of his own personal involvements that he resorts
to such furtive observations of the personal lives of
others.
We learn the most, perhaps, about Crayon in
"St. Mark's Eve" (Bracebridge Hall). On this night, the
Eve of St. Mark's, the company at dinner is informed by
the parson that "if any one would watch in the church
porch on this eve, for three successive years, from
eleven to one o'clock at night, he would see on the
third year the shades of those of the parish who were
to die in the course of the year, pass by him into church,
clad in their usual apparel“ (p. 124). The conversation
at the supper-table then turns to supernatural tales and
prompts Crayon to state his own theory about the super—
stitious part of human nature.
There is, I believe, a degree of superstition lurking
in every mind; and I doubt if any one can thoroughly
examine all his secret notions and impulses without
detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself.
It seems, in fact, to be part of our nature, like
instinct in animals, acting independently of our
reason. It is often found existing in lofty
natures, especially those that are poetical and
aspiring. (p. 126)

Later that evening we are privy to Crayon's musings in

 

his chamber. He describes his surroundings briefly; then

explains how he has been gazing out his window.

 

 

 

63

I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky
landscape, watching the lights disappearing, one
by one, from the distant village; and the moon
rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all
the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon
these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over,
and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine,
my mind has been crowded by "thick coming fancies,"
concerning those spiritual beings which
————————— walk the earth

Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.“

(p. 128)

 

e continues to muse about superstitions and supernatural
vents; the musing leads him eventually to a rare direct
nd personal self—revelation:

There are departed beings whom I have loved as I

never again shall love in this world;--who have

loved me as I never again shall be loved! If such

beings do ever retain in their blessed spheres the

attachments which they felt on earth; if they take

an interest in the poor concerns of transient mor—

tality, and are permitted to hold communion with

those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if

now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence

and solitude, I could receive their visitation

with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight. (p. 131)
{ere perhaps more obviously than anywhere else in the
rolume the voice of Irving himself seems to break through,
seeking comfort from those who were then dead. Matilda,
lis first love, dead now for more than ten years, is
>robably the object of his longing. As he sits alone in
iis room night in a foreign country with no close rela—

‘ives near, his loneliness is acute. His alienation from

he living, active world he inhabits is intensified for

 

64

us when we see that he turns not to the living, but to
the dead for solace and comfort.*

Of all the sketches which emphasize the role and
character of the narrator, none are as skillfully handled
as "The Stout Gentleman" from Bracebridge Hall. This
selection has received considerable critical attention;
most critics believe it is one of Irving's best short
works and it has been described by some critics as a
short story. Yet a close examination reveals that the
selection is not really a short story, but rather, a
skillfully written sketch, certainly one of Irving's
best sketches.

"The Stout Gentleman" introduces for the first
time in Bracebridge Hall a new narrator, the nervous
gentleman, who later also narrates Part I of Tales of
a Traveller. We are informed in "Storytelling," the
selection which introduces "The Stout Gentleman“ that
the narrative was "written out" by Crayon, but the "I"
in the sketch refers, of course, to the nervous gentle—
man. What is most striking about "The Stout Gentleman"
is that it contains many of the characteristics of a
successful short story. It has characters, setting,

tension, plot, mood, and a consistently maintained point

of view.

 

*For a discussion of other sketches which empha—
size the narrator ("The Generalife" and "The Mysterious
Chamber") see Appendix, p. 224, pp. 231-32.

65

The plot is rather simple. The narrator, who
like most of Irving's narrators is on a journey, is
forced because of "a slight indisposition" to remain
overnight at a small town inn. It was a "rainy Sunday
in the gloomy month of November" (p. 75). Setting plays
an important role in the sketch. Considerable attention
is given to the weather and to the external surroundings
Which, of course, reinforce the narrator's mood. He is
trapped by the weather and he entertains himself for a
while by gazing out the window at the stable yard, search-
ing unsuccessfully for someone to talk to; he tries read—
ing magazines, but abandons them all. His restlessness
and boredom are convincingly portrayed until at length
1e declares:

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if
they would never creep by. The very ticking of
the clock became irksome. (p. 79)
{is boredom is then interrupted by the ringing of a bell
and the voice of a waiter ordering breakfast for the
stout gentleman in No. 13. With this interruption, the
1arrator's attention shifts to the stout gentleman.
In such a situation as mine, every incident is of
importance. Here was a subject of speculation pre—
sented to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagi—
nation. I am prone to paint pictures to myself,
and on this occasion I had some materials to work
upon. Had the guest up stairs been mentioned as
Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr.“
Johnson, or merely as "the gentleman in No. 13,
it would have been a perfect blank to me. I should

have thought nothing of it; but "The stout gentle-
manl"-—the very name had something in it of the

66

picturesque. It at once gave the size; it embodied

the personage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did

the rest. (p. 79)
For the rest of the sketch the narrator occupies himself
by gathering information about the stranger. Once again
the narrator of an Irving piece entertains himself by
watching others rather than by personally involving him—
self with others. Since this time the narrator is not
Crayon but the nervous gentleman, we are led to believe
that alienation is not simply a personality quirk of
Crayon's but is in fact a characteristic which Irving
invests in those narrators who are physically present
in a given selection. In any case the narrator of this
selection does not really participate in the activities
he observes. Not until it is too late does he even
‘attempt to personally confront the stout gentleman.

(Of course, part of his hesitation to ascertain the
igentleman's identity is caused by his obvious enjoy—

:ment of the game of detecting. But in part, too, the
ihesitation and unwillingness is a consequence of his
:inability to actively participate. This characteristic
iwe have noted again and again in other sketches. Irving‘s
t

wnarrators view life from without. They look through win—

bows, as Cra on does in "St. Mark's Eve" or in the
Y

 

Fhristmas sketch in The Sketch Book, or as the nervous
('
égentleman does in this sketch. They even peer through
Ehedges as Crayon does in "The Bachelors." They are

1

l

 

t_ 1.1m .

 

67

separated physically and emotionally from personal
involvement. It is this detachment which is, in the

end, most compelling in "The Stout Gentleman." For in
this essay the narrator, in spite of his detachment, is
integrated into the web of the plot. His presence is not
secondary but of crucial importance.

Technically, the sketch can be viewed as a clever
characterization of a person who is never really seen
except, ironically, from the rear as he is entering his
coach. We never get a direct physical description nor
do we see him in dealings with others. Instead indirect
methods are employed to characterize him. The narrator,
by watching and listening (what Irving's narrators do
best) collects clues about the stranger. We learn what
he eats for breakfast, and that he is both impatient and
particular. When the gentleman asks for the Timgg or
‘the Chronicle, the narrator concludes that he is a polit—
ical radical. This is reinforced by the narrator's belief
that the man is “being so absolute and lordly where he
had a chance." Hearing the man's footsteps, the nar—
rator further surmises that "he evidently was a large
man by the heaviness of his tread; and an old man from
his wearing such creaking soles“ (p. 81). And so the

sketch continues as the narrator pieces together infor—

mation from various sources.

 

68

Much of the activity is dramatically presented.

We overhear the maid's comments and watch her behavior.
We also are allowed an intimate View of the narrator's
boredom and later his anxiety. Tension is thus created
both by the gradual gathering of information and by our
desire to learn the identity of the stranger. We antici-
pate (with the narrator) his appearance at dinner. When
the man does not appear, the narrator's curiosity intensi—
fies until finally he again hears the gentleman walking

overhead.

All at once the stout gentleman began to Walk over
head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There
was something extremely awful in all this, especially
to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great-
coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking
footsteps of this mysterious being. His steps grew
fainter and fainter, and at length died away. I
could bear it no longer. I was wound up to the
desperation of a hero of romance. "Be he who or
what he may," said I to myself, "I'll have a sight
of him!" I seized a chamber candle, and hurried

up to No. 13. (p. 85)

‘We have thus finally arrived at what should be the moment

1of climax, but instead of confronting the stout gentleman,

the narrator finds that the man has retired and in the

"sitting room there is nothing but the remnants of the

tgentleman's presence.

The door stood ajar. I hesitated-—I entered: the
room was deserted. There stood a large, broad- _
bottomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an
empty tumbler, and a "Times," newspaper, and the
room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. (pp. 85—86)

lThe plot tension is not adequately resolved. Dissatis—
v

ified, the narrator retires.

69

I went to bed, therefore, and lay awake half the

night in a terribly nervous state; and even when

I fell asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams

by the idea of the stout gentleman and his wax-

topped boots. (p. 86)
The morning brings no resolution either. The gentleman
leaves and the narrator catches only "a glimpse of the
rear of a person getting in at the coach door" (p. 86).

There is then some plot tension and a character

conflict of sorts. The narrator struggles, at first
rather playfully, then more seriously to learn the .
identity of the mysterious stranger. But there is no
resolution of either the conflict or the tension. What i
further prevents the sketch--skillful though it is in
many ways——from being a full—fledged short story is the
ambiguity of focus. Part of the difficulty lies in the
iguestion of who is the central character and whether he
1develops. Is the stout gentleman the central character
;or is the narrator? If we assume the former, then what
iwe have is a plot—dominated story without a climax and
1without a resolution which makes the entire tale, except
ifor some traces of humor, a rather pointless endeavor.
iIf the narrator is intended as the central character,
)which is more probable, then the character of the stout
tgentleman is significant only in so far as he illuminates
iour understanding and perceptions of the narrator. We
ido, of course, learn a good deal about the narrator from

i
this precise observations and conclusions. We also learn

 

70

about him from his increasing anxiety. But he has no
significant internal struggle nor does he come to any
self—perception. His character, in fact, remains rather
static (except that he becomes increasingly nervous). He
strikes us as another of Irving's almost pathetic nar—
rators whose major enjoyment in life comes from observing
others rather than participating himself. And in this
case the narrator is deprived even of the pleasure of
observing, for he achieves no satisfaction in the end.
The focus of the sketch is thus almost evenly

divided between the narrator and the gentleman, so that
neither carries the story. What is perhaps most empha—
sized in the sketch is neither the plot nor characteri—
zation, but rather the process of perceiving. In the
course of gathering information, the narrator more than
once changes his mind about the stout gentleman. First
he thinks the gentleman is old; then he changes his mind.

This unknown personage could not be an old gentle—

man; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstrep-

erous to chambermaids. He could not be a young

gentleman; for young gentlemen are not apt to

inspire such indignation. He must be a middle-

aged man, and confounded ugly into the bargain,

or the girl would not have taken the matter in
. such terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely
t puzzled. (pp. 81-82)
E
JIn the course of the day, the narrator paints several
1
\pictures of the gentleman, each of which is eventually
t
iabandoned.

71

The morning were away in forming these and similar
surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief,
some movement of the unknown would completely
overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into
confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a
feverish mind. (p. 83)
Rather than portraying the narrator's lack of perception,
these contradictions and false surmises illustrate the
complexities involved in any act of perceiving others.
The process of gathering, examining, sorting, cataloguing,
comparing, and eventually evaluating information in order
to arrive at decisions is perhaps the true subject matter
of the sketch. If the crucial quality of an Irving sketch
is indeed the relationship between narrator and his
external world, then "The Stout Gentleman" most certainly
qualifies as a sketch, and in fact might be considered
the most "ideal" sample of an Irving sketch.

Though Irving wrote many other sketches, the
ones already discussed are sufficient to demonstrate the
essential qualities of the form as Irving practiced it.
The sketch was most conveniently suited to Irving's
talents and personality as a writer and as a man. As
Irving himself says in the opening selection of 223
Sketch Book, he "was always fond of visiting new scenes
and observing strange characters and manners" (p. 13).
Later in Bracebridge Hall he says that his "only aim
is to paint characters and manners" (p. 14). The
sketch most easily allowed him to pursue these interests--

to observe others, to paint his surroundings, and at

72

times to discuss his thoughts and beliefs. In his
sketches he could avoid the involvement necessary for
intensive characterization or dramatization and thus,
he could most easily follow the inclinations of his
personality.

Irving, however, was not content to write only
sketches; had he been, his contribution to American
literature would have been much slighter than it is.
Irving, like most writers, liked to hear and to tell
stories and tales. His short fiction is full of
references to groups of people sitting together
exchanging tales. Some of these are related in
detail to the reader.

The next chapter deals with those selections
which can be classified as tales. In them, as we shall
see, Irving faced some structural challenges not

inherent in the sketch.

CHAPTER II

THE TALE

Any attempt to formally classify an author's
work inevitably leads to some oversimplification. There
are in Irving's work some short fictional pieces which
are quite definitely not sketches nor can they be classi—
fied as successful short stories. They are perhaps most
accurately labeled as tales; some of them are quite long.
An Irving tale has many of the characteristics of a
short story. It has a plot, a central character, a
conflict, tension, a resolution. It often includes a
functionally integrated setting, some dramatic scenes,
some dialogue, and some detailed description. These
elements, however, are not always functionally inte-
grated. This lack of integration, plus the length of
the selection and the lack of adequate dramatic focus
prevent these pieces from being short stories. A well—
structured story usually renders the significant inci-
dents in dramatic detail while other events and feelings

are summarized. But in these "tales" Irving tends to

73

74

talk on and on, often summarizing when he should be dra-
matizing and usually giving equal emphasis to a long
string of events. "Annette Delarbre," "The Student of
Salamanca," "Legend of the Arabian Astrologer," and "The
Devil and Tom Walker" all can be classified as tales.
"Annette Delarbre" is one of the four selections
in Bracebridge Hall not narrated by Crayon, but rather is
written by a parson and presented by Lady Lillycraft. It
is a sentimental tale of a beautiful French girl who has
a tender heart, but lacks self—control. Eugene, a young
soldier, falls in love with her and Annette delights in
exercising her power over him. One night after she pays
considerable attention to her other admirers, she quarrels
with Eugene and he goes off to sea. "This was the first
stroke of real anguish that Annette had ever received,
and it over came her" (p. 314). When his ship returns,
she learns that Eugene has been washed overboard. She
collapses and "it was months before she recovered her
health" (p. 317). For a year she is subject to periodic
fits of melancholy. Eventually "her cheerful intervals
became shorter and less frequent, and attended with more
incoherency" (p. 321). About this time Eugene returns
explaining that he had not drowned but had managed to
swim ashore and waited "for the sailing of a ship to
return home" (p. 322). With considerable planning the

news of Eugene's return is conveyed to Annette and though

75

she recognizes him at once, later she "relapsed into a
wild and unsettled state of mind" (p. 326). Eventually
she recovers and marries Eugene.

The tale is divided into two parts. The first
section takes place after Eugene is apparently lost at
sea. The narrator first sees Annette during a tour of
Lower Normandy. While watching a rural fair he notices
the beautiful girl "who passed through the crowd without
seeming to take any interest in their amusements" (p. 308).
He is told her story by a priest who explains the reason
for her sadness. When the girl leaves the chapel, the
parson shares his thoughts with the reader.

"Heaven," thought I, "has ever its store of balms for
the hurt mind and wounded spirit, and may in time
rear up this broken flower to be once more the pride
and joy of the valley. The very delusion in which
the poor girl walks may be one of those mists kindly
diffused by Providence over the regions of thought,
when they become too fruitful of misery. (pp. 320—21)

The second part of the tale takes place a year
later when the parson again Visits Honfleur and seeks out
the priest who told him the story. This time he learns
of Eugene's return and Annette's subsequent recovery.

The tale is, thus, twice removed from the reader, since
the narrator hears the plot from another narrator.
Though this device does lend a kind of historical
realism to the tale, it robs it of dramatic realism.

We never get close enough to Annette to participate in

her emotional struggle. Much of her early caprice and

 

76

later despair is either presented in a detached way or
summarized for us by the narrator. The parson's narrative
presence is strongly felt. As in the previously dis-
cussed sketch "The Wife," the voice of the narrator
stands between the reader and the action, filtering and
summarizing the drama for the reader. Though any story
or tale may include some summarizing, dramatic focus is .
also needed to emphasize crucial scenes of action or
characterization. While it is acceptable to summarize
Annette's early caprices, the tale would convey a greater
impact if her reaction to Eugene's departure were rendered
in more dramatic detail. But instead of involving us
directly in Annette's emotional conflict, the parson
merely tells us her reaction:

The vivacity of her spirits were apt to hurry her

to extremes; she for a time gave way to ungovernable

transports of affliction and remorse, and manifested,

in the violence of her grief, the real ardor of her

affection. (p. 314)
This sort of detached “telling" in summary form goes on
‘for several paragraphs, first by the parson and then by
[the priest. There is almost no attempt to create tension.
gInstead a kind of even—stepped movement from one event to

t . .
1the next occurs, the most effective focus occuring at the

i

tend of the first part when the parson observes Annette
‘ ,

entering and leaving the chapel. Here he “paints“ the

.scene in close detail, mixing in his own sentimental

77

reactions. His articulated thoughts are perhaps more dra-
matically effective than anything that has happened to
Annette.

The second part of the tale also fails to effec—
tively dramatize the central event, Annette's reunion
with Eugene. Though some of her comments are scattered
here and there, the actual moment of meeting is summarized
in one or two sentences.

The next morning the same theme was resumed. She was

dressed out to receive her lover. Every bosom flut— !
tered with anxiety. A cabriolet drove into the vil— w
lage. "Eugene is coming!" was the cry. She saw him

alight at the door, and rushed with a shriek into

his arms. (p. 325)

Her immediate reaction to the reunion is also summarized
for us.

Her friends trembled for the result of this critical
experiment; but she did not sink under it, for her
fancy had prepared her for his return. She was as
one in a dream, to whom a tide of unlooked-for
prosperity, that would have overwhelmed his waking
reason, seems but the natural current of circum-
stances. (p. 325)

"And the story marches relentlessly on in a steady, even
yprocess broken only by a few lines of isolated dialogue.

t
i In a sense what we have in “Annette Delarbre" is
(a combination story-sketch, neither of which is completely

ysuccessful. The actual history of Annette has a plot
iwith a conflict and a resolution. The central character
iundergoes an internal struggle and changes her behavior
iand attitude. None of this is dramatically or realis-

t
itically portrayed, however. Instead the narrator‘s

78

reaction to her story is more immediately convincing for
the reader. The use of setting, the point of View, and
the organization draw attention to the narrator rather
than to the plot of the tale. Even the plot does more to
reveal the narrator than it does to reveal Annette. Yet
the plot is too lengthy and independent to be viewed
simply as a means of revealing the character and per-
ceptions of the narrator. As a result the selection
fails to functionally integrate its elements and thus, it
fails to become a short story.

"The Student of Salamanca" (Bracebridge Hall) is
a long tale of love, mystery, and abduction. The first
half of the tale is devoted to Antonio de Castros who
becomes fascinated with an alchemist, Felix de Vasques,
and then falls in love with the alchemist's daughter,
Inez. Although he is somewhat interested in helping with
Felix's experiments, Antonio's main interest is in the
pursuit of Inez. In the course of their courtship, Inez
is accosted by a stranger whom we later discover is Don
Ambrosio de Loxa, one of the "most determined and dan—
gerous libertines in all Granada" (p. 187). Antonio
rescues her, however. A few days later while walking
in one of the gardens of Granada, he declares his love
for her and she listens with "humid gleam“ in her eyes
"that showed her heart was with him“ (p. 194). Imme-

diately afterward they watch a group of Andalusian

 

 

 

79

dancers, one of whom sings a song of warning which was
"pointed and startling" (p. 195). That night after he
has left Inez, Antonio is kidnapped.

The second half of the tale is devoted to Inez,
her father and Don Ambrosio. Antonio is not present
again until the final scene. After Antonio's disap-
pearance, Felix too is kidnapped and imprisoned for
practicing alchemy. Then Inez is captured by Don
Ambrosio who wants to seduce her. Considerable attention
is given to Don Felix's treatment in jail and to his
trial at which he delivers a lengthy speech in defense
of alchemy. Nevertheless he is sentenced to death.

Inez, who has resisted Don Ambrosio's advances,
finds out about her father's circumstances from the
singer, but her pleas to Ambrosio are futile. The
final incident of the tale is drawn in some detail.

At dawn on the day of the execution Inez is awakened by
the appearance of the ballad singer who identifies her—
) self as one of Ambrosio's former victims, and helps Inez
to escape. Pursued by Don Ambrosio, they hasten to the
place of execution. Inez makes her way through the
throng to her father's side. Don Ambrosio appears and
attempts to recapture her, but she is once again rescued
by Antonio who also frees her father. Once the excite—
ment is over, Inez learns (and the reader too learns for

the first time) that Antonio is really a nobleman in

 

 

80

disguise (the "only son and heir of a powerful grandee
of Valencia" p. 231). The piece ends, predictably
enough, with Don Ambrosio disgraced, Inez and Antonio
married, and Felix living happily with his children.

In some ways "The Student of Salamanca" has more
of the characteristics of a successful short story than
"Annette Delarbre," To begin with, the narrator is not
physically present in the story. There is, also, little
evidence of editorializing by the narrator. Occasionally,
he does include his personal opinion, as is illustrated

in the description of the loneliness of Inez after Antonio

has been kidnapped.
She had never before felt what it was to be really
lonely. She now was conscious of the force of that
attachment which had taken possession of her breast;
for never do we know how much we love, never do we
know how necessary the object of our love is to our
happiness, until we experience the weary void of
Separation. (p. 197)
Such comments are commonly made by Irving's narrators.
There are other instances when the narrator's opinion
intrudes in "The Student of Salamanca" such as his
comment that "love is a troublesome companion in a
study at the best of times" (p. 178), and his references
to the past glory of the Alhambra. But these are minor
and for the most part the direct influence of the nar—

rator is minimal. The tale of Antonio, unlike the tale

of Annette, is relatively free from narrator intrusion.

 

Ii

 

81

Like many of Irving's tales, "The Student of
Salamanca" includes an excessive amount of summarizing
of actions, feelings, and emotional conflicts. For
example, the scene in which Antonio declares his love
for Inez is described in a detached manner:

It was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe
his passion, and to express by words what his eyes
had long since so eloquently revealed. He made his
avowal with fervor but with frankness. He had no
gay prospects to hold out: he was a poor scholar,
dependent on his "good spirits to feed and clothe
him." (p. 194)
Since the first half of the story is primarily concerned
with the love affair, it is somewhat disappointing that
there is so little attempt either to build tension toward
this scene or to dramatize it.

What does help to relieve the lengthy summarized
statements of events is the frequent use of scattered
lines of dialogue. These direct quotations are scattered
among the detached summaries in such a way as to lend
some immediacy to the events. After Antonio sees the
cavalier (who later turns out to be Don Ambrosio) sere-
nading Inez, we are told that her behavior to Antonio
is

. . . reserved and distant. Now that the common
cares of the sick-room were at an end, he saw
little more of her than before his admission to
the house. (p. 176)
This summary of Inez's behavior is followed by a paragraph

of direct quotation in which Antonio expresses his reaction

to Inez.

 

 

82

"Tie plain," thought Antonio, "my presence is indif—
ferent, if not irksome to her. She has noticed my
admiration, and is determined to discourage it;
nothing but a feeling of gratitude prevents her
treating me with marked distaste--and then has she
not another lover, rich, gallant, splendid, musi-
cal?" (p. 176)

‘Other incidences of dialogue occur between Inez and
Ambrosio after her capture. And some of the speeches
are quoted at length. Many times, however, only a line
or two is quoted. When Antonio urges Inez and her father
to seek refuge in Valencia, he is quoted directly. Some-
times in response to Felix's extended rambling about
alchemy, Antonio's thoughts are quoted in a line or

two.

Some direct quotation is used, in fact, in
almost all of the eleven specific incidents of the tale.
After the fire Felix speaks with his daughter; when her
father is kidnapped, Inez speaks with the strangers who
appear; there is conversation at Felix's trial between
Inez and Don Ambrosio, and between Inez and the ballad
singer. In these incidents the setting is used to rein—
force the mood and add some realism to the scene. When
Antonio first follows Don Felix home, both the time of
night and the description of the house contribute an air
of mystery. The house of Don Felix has the trappings
of a gothic mansion.

It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment,
of what had once been a pile of some consequence.

The walls were of great thickness, the windows
narrow, and generally secured by iron bars. The

 

 

83

door was of planks, studded with iron spikes, and
had been of great strength, though at present much
decayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruinous
tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. (p. 158)

Such detailed attention to the surroundings adds realism
and immediacy to the incident.

Perhaps the most dramatic incident in the tale
is the final scene which begins at dawn on the execution
day when Inez is awakened by the appearance of the ballad
singer. She identifies herself as one of Don Ambrosio's
former "conquests," and helps Inez escape. The tension
of the scene mounts as the women are reminded of the
execution.

While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its
splendor; first lighting up the mountain summits,
then stealing down height by height, until its rays
gilded the domes and towers of Grenada, which they
could partially see from between the trees, below
them. Just then the heavy tones of a bell came
sounding from a distance, echoing, in sullen clang,
along the mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound.
(p. 223)

The tension continues to mount as Don Felix is paraded
through the streets on his death journey. The inter—
ference of Don Ambrosio and the resulting fight is
described in a kind of mixture of dialogue and summary.

"Let go your hold, villain!" cried a voice
from among the crowd, and Antonio was seen eagerly
tearing his way through the press of people.

"Seize him! seize him!" cried Don Ambrosio
'to the familiars; "Hfls an accomplice of the sor-
cerer's."

"Liar!" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the
mob to the right and left, and forced himself to
the spot.

The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an instant
from the scabbard; the student was armed, and equally

 

 

 

 

84

alert. There was a fierce clash of weapons; the
crowd made way for them as they fought, and closed
again, so as to hide them from the view of Inez.
All was tumult and confusion for a moment; when
there was a kind of shout from the spectators, and
the mob again opening, she beheld, as she thought,
Antonio weltering in his blood. (p. 230)
This scene, the climatic moment of the tale, combines
the immediacy of direct dialogue with the detached nar-
rative View of the ensuing fight. The crucial moments
of the conflict, however, are narrated as they are
viewed by Inez. Her mistaken assumption that Antonio
has been defeated is the only information given to the
reader and thus some tension is maintained until a few
paragraphs later when we learn that it is Don Ambrosio
who has been defeated.

In spite of the dramatic detail in some of the
incidents, however, the tale lacks a central emphasis or
focus. We move from one incident to another with a kind
of evenness that at times becomes tedious. Part of the
difficulty is the lack of character development, for like
most of Irving's weaker stories "The Student of Salamanca"
is plot-dominated. The external plot does manage to hold
our interest, but there is little evidence of internal
conflict or development in any of the characters. The
scenes which are best suited to reveal an internal char-
acter conflict or tension are not dramatized for us.

Instead, we are "told" about the character's feelings

and his behavior. In the previously quoted scene when

 

L‘

 

 

 

85

Antonio declares his love to Inez, there is no attempt to
characterize his internal hesitation or his anticipation
of her response. Nor are we allowed to participate in
the drama of the moment. we are not even allowed to
share his reaction when Inez accepts him. In fact, no
mention is made of his pleasure or satisfaction or relief.
Later, when Inez learns of her father's imprison-

ment, another opportunity to reveal internal conflict is
unrealized. We are told of her reaction and behavior
rather than being allowed to share her emotional anguish.

The brain of Inez reeled as she read this dreadful

scroll. She was less filled with alarm at her own

danger, than horror at her father's situation.

She was not to be pacified; her fears were too

much aroused to be trifled with. She declared her

knowledge of her father's being a prisoner of the

inquisition, and reiterated her frantic suppli-

cations that he would save him. (p. 217)
In the scene which follows Inez becomes fully aware of Don
Ambrosio's intentions and her predicament, but we are not
allowed to share her pain. Instead of focusing on the
difficulty of deciding whether or not to give in to Don
Ambrosio to save her father, we are told only that "she
broke forth into exclamations of the most frantic agony"
and that "the perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her
soul, and anticipated from it a triumph" (p. 218).

ThOugh each of the characters is subjected to a

trial, none of the characters really changes. The father

succumbs to defeat after the trial; Inez becomes tempo-

rarily self-assertive in response to Ambrosio; Ambrosio

 

 

 

86

confesses his crimes; and Antonio reveals his true identity,
but none of these changes are dealt with in detail. The
sufferings of the characters are not a result of their

own shortcomings, nor do they arrive at any self-
perception. Their conflicts, rather, are arbitrarily
established, external conflicts.

In addition it is difficult to determine who is
the central character. Antonio dominates the first half
of the narrative which tends to view events from the
student's point of view. In the second half, the tale
is presented from a more omniscient point of View and
Felix, Inez, and Ambrosio share the focus. Some scenes
are rendered from Felix's vieWpoint, others from the
perspective of Inez.

The multiplicity of plot line and the diffuseness
in characterization, combined with the length of the tale
help support the likelihood that "The Student of Sala-
manca" is more of an abortive novel than a short story.
Unfortunately, the piece lacks both the conciseness and
focus of a short story and the polish and continuity
which would make it an effective novel.

The lack of continuity is apparent in the poorly
integrated plot and the failure to clarify the thematic
significance of events. The love affair between Antonio
and Inez is apparently the most important aspect of the

first half of the story. Yet, though there is a plot

 

 

 

87

connection, the love story is never clearly related
thematically to Felix's imprisonment or trial. And,
though the parallel trials of Inez and Don Felix con-
tribute a formal unity to the story, it is never clearly
established why either of them should be tested. The
defense of alchemy adds a socio—historical dimension to
the tale, but it receives a disproportionate amount of
attention. On the other hand, without the discussion of
alchemy, the tale is reduced to a sentimental love/
adventure story with the tritest of themes.

Perhaps the most glaring technical weakness in
"The Student of Salamanca" is the revelation of Antonio's
true identity. As if by magic he becomes the "only son
and heir of a powerful grandee of Valencia" (p. 231) who
had abandoned his studies at the university and "had
remained incognito for a time at Grenada, until, by
further study and self—regulation, he could prepare
himself to return home with credit, and atone for his
transgressions against paternal authority" (p. 232).
In a series of brief paragraphs we are informed of his
background and motivation. Revealing Antonio's true
identity at the beginning of the story Would have
offered an opportunity to delineate his character
development, but such a development is sacrificed for

what turns out to be too convenient an unmasking of his

88

identity. Unlike Dolph Heyliger, who learns and earns
his true identity, Antonio is mechanically unveiled.

It is difficult to speculate about the personal
qualities which prevented Irving from successfully dra—
matizing "Annette Delarbre" and "The Student of Salamanca."
He seldom, even in his notes and journals, delved deeply
into his own emotional struggles, and more than one
critic has noted the absence of personal confession in
Irving's writings.l Perhaps his discomfort in dwelling
on his own inner struggles prevented him from the psy—
chological exploration of his fictional characters;
perhaps his reticence to intimately involve himself
with others prevented him from dramatizing such involve—
ments on paper. Or perhaps his concern with the moral
and philosophical aspects of his writing at times over-
shadowed the formal qualities of a selection. The latter
possibility might explain why he devoted so much time to
the defense of alchemy in "The Student of Salamanca."

That Irving was concerned with the moral of his
fiction is apparent in the opening selection of Tales of
a Traveller.

As I know this to be a story—telling and a story-
reading age, and that the world is fond of being-
taught by apologue, I have digested the instruction

I would convey into a number of tales._ They may
not possess the power of amusement, which the tales

 

1Washington Irving, Notes While Preparing Sketch
Book, ed. Stanley T. Williams (New Haven: Yale Uni-
versity Press, 1927), p. 24.

 

89

told by many of my contemporaries possess; but
then I value myself on the sound moral which each
of them contains. This may not be apparent at
first, but the reader will be sure to find it

out in the end. I am for curing the world by
gentle alternatives, not by violent doses; indeed,
the patient should never be conscious that he is
taking a dose. (p. ix)

The skill with which Irving imbeds his moral in a tale
undoubtedly contributes significantly to the success of

the selection. In each of the next two tales discussed,

 

the moral is implied by the ironic narrative voice. Though
the moral is perhaps at times too obvious in both these
tales, the narrative control does make "Legend of the

Arabian Astrologer" and "The Devil and Tom Walker" more

 

successful as tales than either "Annette Delarbre" or
"The Student of Salamanca."

The “Legend of the Arabian Astrologer" is one
of the most skillfully written tales in The Alhambra. It
is interesting that though he relates it, Irving is not
physically present in the tale as he is in most of the
selections in The Alhambra. The plot is relatively com—
plicated. Aben Habuz, a Moorish king and "retired con—
queror" is not allowed to relax in his retirement for
he is surrounded on all sides by hostile neighbors. In
the midst of his harrassment, Ibrahim, an Arabian phy-
sician and astrologer, who is said to have found the
"secret of prolonging life," arrives at Aben's court
and is taken into the King's confidence. Ibrahim offers

to make Aben a magic talisman to detect invaders and in

 

 

 

90

return Aben promises Ibrahim a generous reward. Ibrahim
builds a tower on which he puts a "bronze figure of a
Moorish horseman, fixed on a pivot, with a shield on one
arm, and his lance elevated perpendicularly“ (p. 174).

In the tower he arranges in chess—board fashion four

mimic armies-—one for each direction seen from the tower——
and the "effigy of the potentate that ruled in that
direction" (p. 173). When the next army invades Aben's
territory, the talisman turns in its direction and Aben

is led to the tower by Ibrahim and shown the army replicas.
Aben is told he can cause the army to retreat without loss
of bloodshed, or with "bloody feud and carnage" (p. 175)
and, forgetting that he is "the most pacific of monarchs,"
Aben nearly exterminates his foe by striking the effigies
with the point of a magic lance. When his scouts tell
him that the army has indeed made a bloody retreat, Aben
profusely thanks Ibrahim, and offers him whatever reward
he wishes. Claiming he is an old man with simple tastes,
Ibrahim asks to have his cave lavishly decorated to suit
his tastes——complete with dancing girls.

A major conflict between Ibrahim and Aben arises
later when the talisman turns to indicate not an invading
army but a Christian damsel who has wandered into Aben's
kingdom. Both men desire her, but Aben claims her as
his. She, however, has a magic lyre with which she

wards off his passion by charming him to sleep. Later,

 

 

 

91

after an internal insurrection, Ibrahim offers to build
Aben a retreat from the world—-a magic garden and palace——
in return for the "first beast of burden, with its load,
which shall enter the magic portal of the palace" (p. 184).
Aben agrees, and, of course, when the garden and palace
are completed, it is the damsel riding on her horse which
first enters the garden. When Ibrahim claims her as his,
Aben violently protests. The argument ends abruptly,
however, when Ibrahim, "smote the earth with his staff,
and sank with the Gothic princess through the centre of
the barbican" (p. 187). And though one day a peasant
reported to have looked down a fissure in the rock, "into
a subterranean hall, in which sat the astrologer, on a
magnificent divan, slumbering and nodding to the silver
lyre of the princess, which seemed to hold a magic sway
over his senses" (p. 188), Aben never saw the two of them
again.

The character of Aben Habuz is given some depth
in this tale, though what complexity he has is of an
ironic nature. The narrative voice of the selection care—
fully points out the ironic contrast between Aben's
claimed pacificity and his warlike, violent inclinations.
The irony first becomes apparent when, once the talisman
is made, Aben becomes impatient to test it, and longs
"as ardently for an invasion as he had ever sighed after

repose" (p. 174). His inner desires for violence are

 

 

 

 

 

92

exposed most dramatically during the next invasion.
Given the choice of defeating the invaders without
loss of life or with bloodshed, Aben chooses the latter.
A livid streak passed across the countenance of
Aben Habuz; he seized the lance with trembling
eagerness; his gray beard wagged with exultation
as he tottered toward the table: "Son of Abu
Ayub," exclained he, in chuckling tone, “I think
we will have a little blood!" (p. 175)
Later the narrative voice reinforces the irony by assert—
ing that "it was with difficulty the astrologer could
stay the hand of the most pacific of monarchs and prevent
him from absolutely exterminating his foes" (p. 175).
Aben's lack of self-perception—-or at least his unwill-
ingness to acknowledge his own behavior-—is reemphasized
shortly after the battle:
"At length," said he, "I shall lead a life of
tranquillity, and have all my enemies in my power."
(9- 176)
His tranquil life, however, consists of conducting one
bloody campaign after another. "The pacific Aben Habuz
carried on furious campaigns in effigy in his tower"
(p. 177).

Aben's lack of self—perception contributes, of
course, to his inability to assess the character of
Ibrahim, who, in fact, possesses a similar duality of
character, but who is aware of what he is doing. Like
Aben, Ibrahim makes claims about himself which prove to

be untrue. Ibrahim repeatedly asserts that his needs are

"few" and "simple" and that he is "easily" satisfied.

 

 

 

 

 

93

Yet his behavior demonstrates that just the opposite is
true—-though not until it is too late does Aben realize
this. When Ibrahim asks to have his cave fitted "as a
suitable hermitage" in reward for the talisman, Aben is
"secretly pleased at the cheapness of the recompense."
But it does not turn out to be an inexpensive endeavor,
and Aben's treasurer "groaned at the sums daily demanded
to fit up this hermitage" (p. 177). And when it is
finally finished, Ibrahim asks in addition for "a few
dancing women." Yet Aben keeps his promise and grants
Ibrahim all his wishes.

When the Gothic princess appears, and Aben and
the astrologer quarrel over her, Aben asserts his knowl—
edge in the "ways of women." Ibrahim asserts his ability
to counter her magic charms. Yet in the end neither of
them gain power over her. The sound of her silver lyre
holds a magic power over both of them.

Aben, then, is not able to accurately perceive
either himself, or the Princess or Ibrahim. He is not
even aware of the dangers of Ibrahim's magic abilities,
and enters quite blandly into the second agreement with
Ibrahim, never suspecting the possible consequences of
promising the first beast of burden and its load as a

reward. Nor does he appear to be aware of his own

duplicity when he asserts:

 

 

94

I care not for grandeur, I care not for power, I
languish only for repose; would that I had some
quiet retreat where I might take refuge from the
world, and all its cares, and pomps, and troubles,
and devote the remainder of my days to tranquil—
lity and love. (p. 182)
Given his similar claim of desiring peace early in the
selection, we are now less likely to believe him—-though
Aben himself seems unaware of the irony of his own
behavior. Aben's lack of self—perception is under-
scored by his inability to accurately assess Ibrahim's
character. Aben never questions Ibrahim's claims to be }
easily satisfied. Even after several encounters with ,
Ibrahim's lavish tastes, Aben is never suspicious;
instead he accepts Ibrahim's assertion that he is "an
old man and a philosopher, and easily satisfied" (p. 148).
Aben, thus, can be considered a victim of his
own ignorance--he neither perceives himself nor Ibrahim
clearly. He continually misjudges the astrologer and
his powers. When the princess mounted on her palfrey
enters the portal of the magic palace, and Ibrahim claims
her as his reward, Aben smiles "at what he considered a
pleasantry of the ancient man." By this time Aben should
know better. But even when he realizes that Ibrahim is
serious, the king's anger is directed ineffectually at
the astrologer. Aben simply is not aware of his inca—
pacity to deal successfully either with the princess
or the astrologer. The monarch's defeat is further

emphasized when he learns that even the charm of the

 

Illili lilil.
ii iii

 

 

95

talisman fails and "the remainder of the life of the most
pacific of monarchs was a tissue of turmoils" (p. 188).
The tale, as a whole, is quite skillfully

handled. Thematically, the use of contrasts and
parallels contributes effectively to the tension and
conflict of the plot. For example, when he offers to
build the garden for Aben, Ibrahim tells a story about
King Sheddad, which is a tale within the tale. The
story of Sheddad, who is punished for his "pride and y
arrogance" by being "swept from the earth" (p. 183), H
acts as a kind of foreshadowing of both Aben's and
Ibrahim's fate. About Sheddad we are told that "the
curse of heaven fell on him for his presumption" (p. 183).
The reader is thus prepared for what happens to Aben.
The tension increases as we anticipate his fate. For
Aben too is presumptuous; he assumes that because he is
king, he is invulnerable. In his anger at Ibrahim's
claim, Aben cries:

"Base son of the desert," . . . "thou may'st be

master of many arts, but know me for thy master,

and presume not to juggle with thy king." (p. 187)
Ibrahim, of course, scoffs at the king and disappears
with the princess. Even Ibrahim's triumph is short—
lived, however. His presumption is countered by the
damsel, who according to the peasant's report still

charms Ibrahim to sleep in the underground chamber.

 

 

96

Despite the thematic concerns, however, this
tale, like the previous two, is plot—dominated. The
conflict is heavily emphasized and though Aben and
Ibrahim are not flat characters, they undergo little,
if any, development. Aben does not learn from his
mistakes nor does he achieve any new perception. Ibrahim
is shown to have little, if any, internal conflict and
the princess, of course, is purely one dimensional. It
is in fact, somewhat amusing that she is the one in
power in the end. h

Even the dialogue is subordinated to the plot.

The dialogue and the specific details add a sense of
immediacy, and contribute, at times, to the concrete
reality of the tale-—even revealing character to some
extent. Yet for the most part, the dialogue is used
simply to advance the plot or to intensify the conflict.

The plot, though less episodic than many of the
legends in The Alhambra, is not cohesively unified. The
Gothic princess, for example, is not dramatically or
thematically integrated with the rest of the story.

She serves to illuminate the folly of the two old men
who fight to possess her. Yet the source of her power
is never made clear. She might be interpreted as the
representation of youth, beauty, or desire—-all of which
can charm and thus have power over age, power, cunning,

or experience. But the tale does not really develop

 

 

 

 

 

97

 

this idea clearly and the Gothic princess functions simply
as a beautiful, proud, self-composed, and unmoveable,
unemotional damsel. She does not win her freedom, but
neither is she vanquished.

The "Legend of the Arabian Astrologer" is
structurally better unified than either "The Student of
Salamanca" or "Annette Delarbre." Some elements detract
from the unity—-the title as well as Ibrahim's magical
powers make us wonder if he is the central character.

But we learn more about the inner character of Aben; we

see his inconsistencies and his conflicts. The focus on
his character is one of the central unifying elements of
the selection.

The technical skill evident in the "Legend of
the Arabian Astrologer" is surpassed in "The Devil and
Tom Walker." Of the four selections discussed in this
chapter "The Devil and Tom Walker" comes closest to
being a successful short story. It is included in the
selections of Part IV of Tales of a Traveller and is
supposed to be "found among the papers of the Late
Diedrich Knickerbocker." In this final part of the
volume, Knickerbocker describes a fishing party of
several men, one of whom, a Cape Cod Whaler, tells the
tale of Tom Walker. He tells his companions that the
tale was "written by a neighbor of mine" (p. 390) and

he had learned it by heart. The narrator is thus, thrice

 

 

 

98

removed from the reader and, in fact, there is little
evidence of the narrator's physical presence in the
tale.

Tom is unquestionably the central character.
Though some of the action is related as he sees it, the
point of view is primarily omniscient. What is most
obvious in the narrative voice--as it is obvious in
nearly all of the tales attributed to Knickerbocker--is
the humor and irony. Even the description of the death
struggle of Tom's wife is reported in a humorous way.
He goes looking for her but finds hanging from a tree
only her apron with a heart and liver tied up in it.
She must have died game, however; for it is said
Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply
stamped about the tree, and found handfuls of
hair, that looked as if they had been plucked
from the coarse black shock of the woodman. Tom
knew his wife's prowess by experience. He
shrugged his shoulders, as he looked at the
signs of a fierce clapper—clawing. "Egad," said

he to himself, “Old Scratch must have had a tough
time of it!“ (p. 400)

   
 
 
    
  
  
  
  
  

The description of Tom's reaction to his wife's death, too,

is handled in a humorous way.
Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property,
with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of
fortitude. He even felt something like gratitude
towards the black woodman, who, he considered, had
done him a kindness. (p. 400)

Perhaps one of the most humorous sections of the tale

deals with Tom's attempts to escape the devil. He goes

to great lengths to avoid his fate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

99

Some say that Tom grew a little crack—brained in
his old days, and that fancying his end approach-
ing, he had his horse new shod, saddled and bridled,
and buried with his feet uppermost; because he
supposed that at the last day the world would be
turned upside down; in which case he should find

his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was
determined at the worst to give his old friend

a run for it. (pp. 404—05)

All of Tom's attempts to escape the devil bear the mark of

the irony of the narrative voice. His religious zeal

satirizes not only him but all those hypocrits who hide

their selfishness under the guise of religious enthusiasm.
One of the stronger aspects of the tale is the

effective use of detail. The opening description of the

miserliness of Tom and his wife is well-supported with

examples. His wife greedily secures each newly laid

egg while Tom is "continually prying about to detect

her secret hoards" (p. 392). What is especially con-

vincing, however, is the description of their house

and their horse.

They lived in a forlorn—looking house that stood
alone, and had an air of starvation. A few
straggling savin-trees, emblems of sterility,
grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its
chimney; no traveller stopped at its door.

(p. 392)

Their horse bears even more obvious marks of their miser-

liness.

A miserable horse; whose ribs were as articulate as
the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field, where
a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged
beds of puddingstone, tantalized and balked his
hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over
the fence, look piteously at the passer—by, and seem
to petition deliverance from this land of famine.
(p. 392)

 

 

 

 

100

In such a way Irving successfully uses the surroundings

to reinforce his introductory characterization of Tom

and his wife.

The three specific incidents related in the tale

are described in detail. The scene describing Tom's

first encounter with the devil begins by focusing on

Tom's "short cut homeward through the swamp" (p. 393).
The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines
and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, which
made it dark at noonday, and a retreat for all the
owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and
quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses,
where the green surface often betrayed the travel-
ler into a gulf of black, smothering mud. (p. 393)

Neither the gloominess of the surroundings nor the sudden

appearance of the "great black man" frightens Tom. The

dialog which ensues reinforces both Tom's sneering self—

possession and the devil's confidence. Tom acknowledges

the identity of the stranger and they have "a long and

earnest conversation together" (p. 397), which we are

not allowed to overhear. This omission strengthens the

tale, for what is most important in this early scene is

not the discussion of terms, but the delineation of char—

acter and the establishing of mood. Holding back some

information about the conversation helps create tension,

which strengthens the plot. Yet Irving has not simply

emphasized plot in this scene. For once he has summarized

the sections which serve to advance the plot and has

 

 

101

focused on that part of the conversation which contributes
to characterization and mood.

Any doubt about the reality of the black man's
identity is dispelled when Tom learns, upon returning
home, that Absalom Crowninshield has died, just as the
devil predicted. His first reaction to this information
("who cares!" p. 398) reinforces the cocksureness evident
in Tom's behavior with the devil. Yet we also learn that
Tom "felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was
no illusion" (p. 398).

Tom's second visit to the devil occurs after the
disappearance of his wife, an event which is not drama—
tized but which again indicates the power of the black
man. Tom's second encounter, though not described in as
much detail as the first, employs dialogue which not only
advances the plot, but also reinforces the miserliness
of Tom. Once they agree that Tom should become a usurer,
they enthusiastically settle the details.

"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next

month," said the black man.

“I‘ll do it to-morrow, if you wish," said Tom

Walker.
"You shall lend money at two percent, a month."
"Egad, I'll charge four'" replied Tom Walker.
"You shall extort bond, foreclose mortgages,
drive the merchants to bankruptcy . . .
"I‘ ll drive them to the d--—l," cried Tom
Walker.
"You are the usurer for my money!" said black—
legs with delight. "When will you want the rhino?"
"This very night.“
"Done!" said the devil.

"Done!" said Tom Walker. --So they shook hands
and struck a bargain. (p. 402)

 

 

 

 

 

And so in his excitement Tom nearly out—devils the devil.

The third and final incident in which the devil
collects his debt also includes dialogue, but certainly
not so much detail as the original encounter does. Once
again, however, the dialogue reinforces the previous nar-
rative description of Tom's character. Once Tom succeeds
financially and approaches old age, he begins to worry
about his pact with the devil and he "set his wits to
work to cheat him out of the conditions." He plays the
role of a reformed man, becoming "all of a sudden, a
violent church—goer." His enthusiasm for religion is
no less than his enthusiasm for usury. He prayed loudly
and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force
of lungs" (p. 404). Yet his real nature has not changed.
That the religious fervor is indeed all outward show
becomes obvious in the final incident. While foreclosing
a mortgage one hot summer afternoon Tom becomes irritated
with his client who is complaining that his family will
be ruined.

Tom lost his patience and his piety--"The devil

take me," said he, "if I have made a farthing!"

(p. 405)
As if on cue, the devil immediately appears at the door
and captures Tom. "The black man whisked him like a
child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and

away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of

 

 

 

 

 

 

103

the thunderstorm" (p. 406). An obvious moral ends the

tale: "Let all griping money—brokers lay this story to

heart" (p. 407).
Though the length and focus of the tale make it

more of a short story than "The Student of Salamanca,"

"The Devil and Tom Walker" has some serious weaknesses.

Once again there is little evidence of an internal char-

acter conflict. Tom does not change nor are we allowed,

even temporarily, to believe in his apparent change of

heart. We are, in fact, never really in doubt as to the

tale's outcome, and thus the plot's tension is not as

effective as it might be. What happens is that Irving

sacrifices character struggle and plot tension for humor

and irony.

Tom's sudden religious "conversion" illustrates

the irony. We are continually reminded that Tom's change

was only superficial and that his true nature was ever-

present. His Bible reading did not affect his miserliness

in the least.

He had also a great folio Bible on his counting—
house desk, and would frequently be found reading

it when people called on business; on such occasions
he would lay his green spectacles in the book, to
mark the place, while he turned round to drive some

usurious bargain. (p. 404)

The ironic humor is further intensified by his elaborate

scheme of burying his horse upside down to escape the
devil. Such attempts to escape his fate are really the

only evidence of an external character conflict. And

104

because the tone is ironic and humorous, we tend to laugh
at Tom rather than sympathize with him. The narrative
voice never allows the struggle to become serious or
strenuous. The major tension is therefore a consequence
of the humor. We wait--almost with delightful antici-
pation—-for Tom to get his due.

Of course, humor is a legitimate means of creat—

ing tension and this alone would not prevent the tale

 

from being classified as a short story. A genuine char— y
acter conflict can be either humorous or serious. The N
conflict here, however, is imposed by the ironic tone of

the narrative voice. The irony is based on the contra-

diction which develops late in the story between what

Tom is and what he thinks he is. Or it might be more

accurate to say the opposition is between what Tom thinks

he can do and what he actually can do. Tom's character,

however, does not change or develop nor does our per—

ception of him change. We see Tom at the beginning of

the pact and at the conclusion of it. What happens in

between is summarized in an ironic tone, which leads us

to believe that Tom has not changed at all. Some indi—

cation of struggle is evident in the final scene, but

the scene is not rendered in enough detail to be con—

vincing. And thus, though some tension is created by

the repetition of Tom's miserliness which leads us to

anticipate his eventual punishment, there is little plot

 

 

 

 

 

105

tension and almost no tension in characterization. The
resolution, therefore, though it is effective, certainly
is not as powerful as it might be. It might be accurate
to label "The Devil and Tom Walker" a parable, for the
moral is obvious and the entire piece, though it is
humorous, reads more like an example or a lesson than

a story. In this selection Irving has not disguised his
moral as fully as he wished.

The four tales discussed, though they are repre—
sentative of Irving's most successful tales, are only a
few of the many tales he wrote. A survey of his tales
reveals some interesting information. First of all,
most of the tales appear in his later collections, 23135
of a Traveller and The Alhambra. Secondly, only a few
of the tales are narrated by Crayon and in only a few is
the narrator physically present in the narrative. What
seems to happen consistently in the tales, as opposed
to the sketches, is that Irving concerns himself not with
painting scenes or character, but with relating a plot.

Thirdly, Tales of a Traveller marks a turning point in

 

Irving's ability to skillfully construct a plot. The
plots of many of the smaller tales are integrated into

a carefully wrought larger structure. Had the collection
been warmly received, the Irving tale may have evolved
into another form, but the negative critical response

to Tales of a Traveller crushed Irving's confidence and

 

 

 

 

 

106

willingness to experiment with form. Sadly enough, the
tales in The Alhambra are seldom skillfully composed.
Lastly, it is important to remember that the
development of Irving‘s tales did not precede his short
stories. The distinction between his tales and short
stories, in fact, is one which has relevance primarily
from a historical perspective. Neither Irving, himself,
nor his contemporaries classified his fiction by any
strict formal criterion. Yet the development of the
American short story was undoubtedly influenced by
Irving‘s writings, and perhaps the number of stories

he wrote is not so important as the qualities which

 

characterize them.

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

THE SHORT STORY

Irving wrote three selections which can be
classified as short stories, "The Spectre Bridegroom,"
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and "Rip Van Winkle." In
each of these Irving is able to skillfully shape the
fictional elements to produce a unified whole. An exam-
ination of the stories reveals that they share several
characteristics. All three have German sources.1 All
three are structurally and thematically unified. The
tone and much of the tension of these stories depends in
large part on the comic irony of the narrative voice
which lightly jests with the characters, the social
customs, and at times with the gothic style. (One
critic believes that the three stories are classic
examples of "Sportive gothicism."2) And, finally, in

none of the selections is the narrator physically present.

 

 

1Henry A. Pochmann, "Irving's German Sources in
The Sketch Book," Studies in Philology, 27 (1930), 477—507.

 

2Oral Sumner Coad, "The Gothic Element in American
Literature Before 1835," Journal of English and Germanic

Philology, 24 (1925), 83.

 

 

 

 

 

 

108

Of these qualities, the two which seem to be most
crucial to the success of the selections as short stories
are first, the physical removal of the narrator and second,
the effective control of tension and resolution. Both of
these characteristics contribute to a structural and the—
matic unity. By removing the narrator from the story,
Irving avoids the difficulty which usually arises in his
sketches, that is, a focus divided between Crayon as
narrator and the ostensible subject of the piece. In
the short stories, not only is Crayon not present, but
none of the three are even related by Crayon. "Rip Van
Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" are found among
the papers of Diedrich Knickerbocker, and "The Spectre
Bridegroom" is related by "a corpulent old Swiss, who
had the look of a veteran traveller" (p. 189). What
Irving does in these stories is to replace Crayon with
an ironic narrative voice which subtly and skillfully
guides the reader's reactions without interfering with
the focus, and without moralizing directly.

Yet as the previous chapter illustrates, a
detached narrative voice is not sufficient to produce a
short story. Perhaps the most important distinction
between Irving's tales and short stories is that the
stories effectively and efficiently build tension, then
at the appropriate moment resolve that tension. But a

good short story, as we shall see, does much more than

this.

 

 

 

 

109

Though all three of the stories have German
sources, "The Spectre Bridegroom" differs from the others
in its setting. As Walter Reichart points out, the story
is based entirely upon literary sources.

The background of the story, the romantic scenery
of the Odewald in Germany, the names of places and
characters lay completely outside of Irving's
experience. Hence it was impossible to give inti-
mate and lifelike portrayals of persons or scenes.
Irving had not yet reached the borders of Germany
and depended solely upon his imagination or his
booklore for the creation of his setting. There-
fore he avoided descriptive details and was content
to create the impression of familiarity with the
environment through a casual use of German phrases.
Several critics have noted that Irving's probable source
for the story was the famous German ballad "Lenore,"
which relates the tale of a girl who is carried off in
the night by the ghost of her dead lover. The ballad
was well known by Irving's readers and his humorous
treatment of it would be easily appreciated by that
audience.

Irving's version of the plot focuses on the Kat-

zenellenbogen family of Odewald. Baron Von Landshort,

his daughter and her aunts are preparing to receive the

daughter's intended husband, Count Von Altenburg, whom

 

none of them has yet met. The bridegroom, however, is

waylaid and murdered on his way to the wedding feast.

 

3Walter A. Reichart, Washington Irving and Ger-
many, University of Michigan Publications-~Language and
Literature, Vol. 28 (Ann Arbor, Michigan: University of
Michigan Press, 1957), p. 32.

 

 

 

 

110

His dying words beseech his friend Herman Von Starken-

faust to carry the news of his death to his bride. Though

the Starkenfaust family has been feuding for years with
the Baron's family, Herman agrees to fulfill the Count's
final wish. Meanwhile, as sunset descends, the Baron and
his guests are anxiously awaiting the groom's arrival.
When a lone man, simply dressed and mounted on a black
steed approaches the castle, the Baron receives him as
the groom and the long delayed wedding dinner begins.
At midnight, having infected the entire company with
his gloomy attitude, the stranger unexpectedly departs,
telling the Baron that he must keep his appointment with
the grave. The bride who is deeply attracted to the
stranger is distraught by his departure. A day or so
later, after seeing the spectre in her garden, the
daughter disappears but soon reappears married to the
spectre who is revealed to be Herman Von Starkenfaust.
Most critics agree that "The Spectre Bridegroom"
was intended as a humorous satire of the romantic and
supernatural trappings of the gothic style. John Clen-
denning, who has closely examined the gothic elements
in Irving's fiction, points out that Irving's gothicism
was "about half—way between modern fiction and the cult

of Mrs. Radcliff. "4

 

4John Clendenning, "Irving and the Gothic Tra—
dition," BuR, 12, No. 2 (1964), 90—91.

 

111

When he began producing his major works—-The Sketch
Book (1819-20), Bracebridge Hall (1822), and TaIes
of a Traveller (l824)--the popularity of gothic
novels was falling apart, and a period of reaction,
represented chiefly by Jane Austen's Northan er
Abbey (1818), was under way. (Clendenning, p. 91)

 

 

 

Clendenning goes on to distinguish between the "Sportive

gothic" of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and the "parody"

of "The Spectre Bridegroom."
But "Sportive" gothicism is not parody, though Irv-
lng's critics have tended to confuse them. "sleepy
Hollow" is only allegorically an attack on gothicism;
parody reveals the excesses of a genre by imitating
it. This distinction should be clear enough if we
examine genuine parody of gothic fiction, "The Spectre
Bridegroom." Unlike the other Sketch Book tales, this
story has the stereotypic setting of medieval Germany,
complete with the satiric names, Baron Von Landshort,
Herman Von Starkenfaust, and Katzenellenbogen.
(pp. 93—94)

That "The Spectre Bridegroom" is intended as
parody is immediately evident in the opening paragraphs
of the story. The narrative voice carefully guides our
responses, sometimes by footnotes, sometimes by compari-
sons or by implied contrasts. The first indication of
the comic tone is explicit in the footnote to the sub-
title, "A Traveller's Tale":

The erudite reader, well versed in good—for-nothing
lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have
been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French

anecdote a circumstance said to have taken place
at Paris. (p. 190)

The comic tone is sustained in the first paragraph when
we are introduced to the Baron and given his full name:
Baron Von Landshort. His character is then humorously

compared to the watch tower of his castle.

 

 

 

112

It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried
among beech trees and dark firs; above which, how—
ever, its old watch—tower may still be seen, strug-
gling, like the former possessor I have mentioned,
to carry a high head, and look down upon the neigh—
boring country. (p. 190)

The second paragraph pursues the comic aspect of the
Baron, who is identified as the "dry branch" of the Kat—
zenellenbogen family. The footnote to the family name
diSpels any question lingering in the reader's mind about
the seriousness of the story. The footnote reads:
parts very powerful in former times. The appel—
lation we are told, was given in compliment to a

peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her
fine arm. (p. 190)

i.e., CAT'S ELBOW. The name of a family of those .R

The comic irony of these opening paragraphs pervades the
entire plot and dominates the first half of the story.
Both the characters and the social customs are treated
humorously. The opening comments about the Baron are
continued in the description which follows. We are told
that he continues family feuds for no other reason than
to follow tradition. Later during the preparations for
the wedding feast, he is described as "naturally a fuming
bustling little man, . . . [who] could not remain passive

when all the world was in a hurry, even though he had
"in truth, nothing exactly to do" (p. 195). During the
feast we are told that the Baron "like most great men,

was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one“

(p. 201). His concern with the appearances of others

 

 

 

 

113

is also satirized. When the stranger finally arrives, the

Baron's immediate response is to notice the simplicity of

the groom's attire.

The Baron was a little mortified that he should have
come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for
a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to con—
sider it a want of proper respect for the important
occasion, and the important family with which he was
to be connected. (p. 199)

Later, at the end of the story, the Baron's concern with

appearances assumes even more comic proportions. Having

apparently lost his only daughter to a goblin and about
to embark in search of her, the Baron is astounded by the
appearance of the young couple approaching the castle.

It is the attire of the stranger that most surprises him.
The Baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter,
then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence
of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully
improved in his appearance since his visit to the
world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set
off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no
longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance
was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted
in his large dark eye. (pp. 207—08)

The comic characterization of the Baron is so consistent,

in fact, that we never are able to take him seriously.

Nor are we allowed to regard the aunts seriously,
for they are continually satirized. Their hypocrisy is
exposed early in the story. We are told that they were

"great flirts and coquettes in their younger days," and

thus, they were well-suited to be "vigilant guardians

and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for

there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably

 

 

 

 

 

 

114

decorous, as a superannuated coquette" (p. 192). Later,
when the preparations for the feast are in progress, the
aunts hover over the excited bride--"for maiden aunts are
apt to take great interest in affairs of this nature"

(p. 194). Perhaps the most ironic comment on the aunts'
smugness is their security that "though all the other
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank
Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress
of Katzenellenbogen" (pp. 192-93).

Even the bride herself receives some of the
ironic edge of the narrative voice, though much of the
satire seems aimed at the culture which bred her rather
than at the girl herself. Both her education and upbring-
ing are satirized as conditioning her for the unnatural
and the useless. Her tendency to the unnatural is
exhibited in her embroidery which contained "whole
histories of the saints . . . with such strength of
expression in their countenances, that they looked like
so many souls in purgatory" (p. l9l). It is no wonder
that she has a fascination for the grotesque aspect of
her spectre lover. Her other accomplishments are either
useless—-"She excelled in making little elegant good—for—
nothing lady—like nicknacks of all kinds"--or contribute
to the romantic aspects of her character—-She "knew all
the tender ballads of the Minnie—lieders by heart" (p. 192).

The bride is thus perfectly suited to the events in the

 

 

 

115

story. She has an inclination for the grotesque, a
receptivity to the romantic and little experience or
training with the practical. Her qualities in fact
burlesque the typical heroine of gothic fiction.

The social customs of the area are also satir-
ized. The Baron is surrounded by relatives who depend
on him.

But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might
be provided with children, his household was by no
means a small one, for Providence had enriched him
with an abundance of poor relations. They, one
and all, possessed the affectionate disposition
common to humble relatives; were wonderfully
attached to the Baron, and took every possible
occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle.
(p. 193)
Not only do his relatives and friends support him in his
festivities, but like "loyal" friends should, they stay
when he is distraught over the disappearance of the
groom.
The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could
not think of abandoning him in his distress. They
wandered about the courts, or collected in groups
in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their
shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat
longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more
stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their
Spirits. (p. 205)

The popular belief in supernatural tales is
another target of the narrative irony. The company is
convinced of the supernatural aspect of the stranger.
When one poor relation ventures to suggest that the
disappearance of the stranger might be a "Sportive

evasion of the young cavalier,‘ the company upbraids

 

 

 

 

 

 

116

him indignantly and forces him to "abjure his heresy as
speedily as possible" (p. 204). The narrative commentary
later reinforces this jest at the superstitions of the
populace when the aunt declares that the goblin has
carried away her niece.
All present were struck with the direful probability;
for events of the kind are extremely common in
Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear
witness. (p. 207)

Yet, though the ironic humor of the narratiVe
voice dominates much of the story, it is an oversimplif—
ication to classify "The Spectre Bridegroom" merely as a
parody of the gothic story of horror. The dominant tone
is humorous, but the story is not entirely comic. For
while he is jesting, Irving is also carefully laying the
scene for a change to a more serious atmosphere. The
early preparations for the groom‘s arrival are light and
gay-—full of ironic humor. But as the day wears on,
the anxiety of the expectant host heightens. When the
groom fails to appear, the setting sun contributes to
the sobering mood.

The last ray of sunshine departed—-the bats began to
flit by in the twilight-—the road grew dimmer and
dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward
from his labor. (p. 195)
After the brief interruption which conveys the death of
the count, we return to the scene of the wedding party

which is now shrouded in darkness and disappointment.

Though the eventual appearance of the "groom" livens the

 

 

117

 

party for a while, it is not long before the mood sobers
once again, this time with an added touch of mystery.
Throughout the initial Visit of the spectre, both the
setting and the behavior of the other characters reinforce
the credibility of the spectre and the seriousness of the
tone. Contrary to the early treatment of the Baron and
his family, the stranger is treated neither lightly nor
ironically. His demeanor is a somber one.

He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black

steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beam—

igg iggantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy.

The serious description of the stranger is also extended

to the affection which develops between the couple. Though

 

their responses are perhaps sentimental, they are not

mocked.
He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it
seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the
gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. . . . She
made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was
timidly raised; gave a shy glance of inquiry on
the stranger; and was cast again to the ground.
(pp. 199—200)

And even though the bride's affection for the spectre

contains elements of the grotesque, it is not treated

simply as a joke; nor is his attraction to her.

There is some humor in the description of the
spectre at the feast where “a huge pair of antlers
branched immediately over the head of the youthful
bridegroom" (p. 290). But the humor is short lived

and the gloom of his countenance is described without

 

 

 

 

 

 

118

irony. His behavior infects the entire party, permeating
the mood of the feast.
The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent;
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which
were at length succeeded by wild tales and super—
natural legends. (p. 202)
Just as the stranger sobers the feast, so the description
of him counters the light humorous tone of the story.
The characters regard him seriously and the narrative

voice describes him seriously——and we, thus, begin to

at least suspect that indeed the man may possibly be

 

the ghost of the dead count. Our suspicions are

heightened by the description of the stranger's abrupt

 

and unexpected departure at midnight.

The baron followed the stranger to the great court
of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing
the earth, and snorting with impatience.—-When they
had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly
lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and
addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice,

which the vaulted roof rendered still more
sepulchral. (p. 203)

The stranger's departing speech is a bit chilling even to
the knowing reader.
"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity,
"my engagement is with no bride-~the worms! the worms
expect me! I am a dead man——I have been slain by
robbers——my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I
am to be buried——the grave is waiting for me-—I must
keep my appointment!" (pp. 203—04)
With these parting words he "sprang on his black charger,
dashed over the drawbridge, and the clattering of his

horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night

blast" (p. 204). That Irving can make us, at least for

 

 

 

 

 

119

a moment or two, believe that the stranger may indeed be
the count's ghost is more than a minor achievement, con-
sidering the comedy that pervades the story. How is it,

in the face of all the story's jesting, that a serious

turn can develop so effectively? Perhaps there are two

causes. First, the plot tension has built very effec—

tively to this scene. We are not really sure what to

expect. On the one hand if the stranger is Starkenfaust

we expect him to reveal himself and we wonder how he will
resolve the matter of his true identity. As the tone

of the scene intensifies, our anticipation builds. What
will he do? Certainly the announcement that he has a
rendezvous with the worms takes us a bit by surprise.
Is he possibly the count himself and not a masquerader?
The seriousness then of this scene as contrasted to the
humor of the previous one also effectively contributes
to its credibility. The overall effect of this serious

possibility is to create a tension for the story that is

more than simply a plot tension.

The reader is thus, temporarily caught between
what appears to be happening (Starkenfaust masquerading
as the count) and the frightening possibility of what

may really be happening (the actual appearance of the

dead count). We recall then the Count's last words which

are the first lines of dialogue in the story. Beseeching

 

 

 

 

 

 

120

 

 

Starkenfaust to carry Word of his death to his bride,

the count delivers a warning.

"Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not sleep

quietly in my grave!" (p. 197)
Is it possible that Starkenfaust has failed to appear thus

provoking the count himself to appear?

The implications which arise from this possi—

bility are similar to those in the "Adventure of the

German Student" from Tales of a Traveller. When the

student discovers that he has pledged himself to a dead

woman, the thematic significance of the story becomes

both grotesque and horrifying. In "The Spectre Bride—

groom" the bride's fascination and attraction to the
spectre has overtones of that same kind of horror.

As to the young lady, there was something, even in
the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing.
There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and
though the shadow of a man is but little calculated
to satisfy the affections of a love—sick girl, yet,
where the substance is not to be had, even that is
consoling. (pp. 205-06)

The possibility that the young bride may indeed have
fallen in love with death is momentarily a chilling one.

These grotesque implications are soon undercut,

however, by the revival of the narrative irony. When the

spectre appears in the garden, the aunt's reaction is
treated humorously.

The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost
stories in all Germany, had just been recounting
one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the

very midst of it. (p. 205)

 

 

 

 

 

121

She is not lulled to sleep by the appearance of an
apparently real ghost, however. For when she sees the
spectre, the aunt shrieks and collapses with fright.
The humorous tone is sustained in the succeeding para-
graph when we are informed that being sworn to secrecy,
the aunt manages to remain silent for a few days. When
the niece is discovered missing, however, the aunt imme—
diately tells her story.

Once the Baron learns of his daughter's disap—
pearance, the story moves rapidly and happily to its
conclusion. The couple reappear, the spectre's true

identity is revealed, the marriage is announced, and

 

the pair are forgiven. The ending is so rapid, in
fact, that it is indeed likely that Irving was satir—
izing the "solemn and ponderous style of the German
stories of the time" (Reichart, p. 33).

Before concluding our examination of "The
Spectre Bridegroom" it is important to discuss why, in
spite of the obvious similarities of the two selections,
"The Devil and Tom Walker" should be classified as a
tale, while "The Spectre Bridegroom“ should be con—
sidered a short story. Both selections are written
in the humorous, ironic Knickerbocker style; both
depend heavily on humor for their effects, and both
poke fun at the habits of their characters. Finally,

in neither selection are the characters fully developed.

 

 

 

 

122

The primary difference in the two works is one
of emphasis and focus. In "The Devil and Tom Walker"
the reader is torn between regarding Tom as a real person-—
a semi—rounded character who struggles with his own fate—-
and regarding Tom as a one-dimensional character who is
the target of the ironic narrative voice. The impact of
the tale's tension and conflict is thus dispersed, for
both the potential plot tension and the character conflict
are robbed of their power by the force of the undercutting
narrative irony.

"The Spectre Bridegroom," however, succeeds
where "Tom Walker" fails, for the former story integrates
plot tension, ironic tension, and thematic tension—~all of
which are resolved by the appearance of the bride and the
gallant cavalier. The characterization never detracts
from the mounting tension and its eventual resolution.
We are never encouraged to regard any of the characters
in "Spectre" as undergoing a serious internal struggle,
nor is such a struggle essential for the success of the
story. Neither is an immediate dramatic realism essential,
for the focus intentionally and explicitly is directed to
the narrative irony-~the humorous interpretation of
events—-rather than the events themselves, and to the
ironic implications of character's behavior rather than
to the behavior itself. Such narrative control contributes

significantly to the success of "The Spectre Bridegroom."

 

 

 

123

Irving‘s reliance on narrative irony to provide
tension is evident again in "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."
In this story, however, which is set in familiar territory,
Irving marshalls vivid descriptive details to reinforce
the tension and characterization and to elaborate his
theme.
The thematic concerns of "Sleepy Hollow" have
received considerable critical attention. Many critics
regard the story as a significant American legend which I
dramatizes the inner conflicts of the American psyche. H
Daniel Hoffman sees the story as beginning the
tradition of the "'poetic' non realistic American
romance."5 These romances follow a predictable pattern:
Repeatedly the native hero is a metamorphic, self—
reliant naif, akin to the Yankee or Frontiersman
of popular tradition. Repeatedly he must define
himself in conflict with a more stable ritual—
figure or society reflecting the American inher—
itance of European culture and its burdens of
historical responsibility. (p. xii)
Thus, Hoffman continues later Brom Bones "concocts the
perfect backwoodsman's revenge on the Yankee“ (p. 92).
1 Robert Bone sees the basic thematic conflict in
"Legend" as the opposition between material prosperity
and the poetic imagination. Despite Madison Avenue's

pleas to "consume," Americans are hesitant. "Deep in

the American psyche, it would seem, lies a curious

 

5Daniel Hoffman, Form and Fable in American
Fiction (New York: Oxford University Press, 1961), p. xii.

 

 

 

124

ambivalence toward the things of this world; a suspicion
that material prosperity may be an impediment to the
inner life."6 According to Bone, the threat that com-
modities make to the artistic process is the thematic
focus of "Legend."
It is Washington Irving's distinction first to have
explored this theme. His interest in folklore,
myth and legend provides him, in his best work,
with a means of confronting the prosaic temper of
his time. The folk tale, with its elements of
fable and of fantasy, is an ideal medium, and it
is here that Irving's creative powers reach ful- ,
fillment. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" is at h
once his finest achievement and his most enduring H
contribution to our literary history. For in the H
mythic encounter of Ichabod Crane and the Headless
Horseman, the crisis of the modern imagination is
first revealed. (Bone, p. 169)
Terence Martin interprets the story as reflecting
the "tension between imaginative endeavor and cultural
tendency."7 According to Martin the new American nation
saw itself as "fresh and innocent" yet at the same time
it "desired to elicit confidence from within and without
by assuming an immediate adulthood in the family of
nations" (p. 137). This impulse toward adulthood had
an adverse effect on the creative imagination for it

treated poetry and art as childish. Martin quotes

Reverend James Gray, a trustee of the Philadelphia

 

6Robert Bone, “Irving's Headless Hessian: Pros-
perity and the Inner Life," Ag, 15 (1963), 167.

7Terence Martin, "Rip, Ichabod and The American
Imagination," AL, 31 (1959), 140.

 

 

 

 

125

Academy of Young Ladies in 1810, who maintained that
childhood is "the time for imaginative indulgence;
adulthood brings with it a demand for fact and doctrine"
(pp. 138-39). Irving, in an attempt to avoid the adult
reality of America retreats in "Legend" to a "never—
never land":

The wide—awake reader, dwelling in the "broad and

simple daylight of the actual world, is invited

to enter Irving's sleepy region, . . . to dream

there under the bewitching influence of fictional

apparitions. (pp. 142—43)
Ichabod's childishness, Martin continues later, is
emphasized by his oral preoccupation. "Throughout the
tale Irving plays on the idea of Ichabod's tremendous
appetite and his 'capacious swallow.'" The price Ichabod
pays for his childishness is the double prize of Katrina
and the wealth of the Van Tassel farm" (p. 143). Brom
Bones' victory thus is "a victory for common sense and
hard—headed practicality over imaginative indulgence"
(p. 144).

These interpretations are not mutually exclusive
and each contributes to our fuller understanding of the
story—-especially its thematic concerns. What is over—
looked—-or at least only touched upon by most critics——
is the structural and technical aspects of "The Legend
of Sleepy Hollow" as a short story. Regardless of whether

we view the story as a conflict between the materialism

and imagination, between practicality and imagination;

 

 

 

 

126

or as a contest between a self—reliant innocent and a
stable ritual figure, the thematic meaning could not
succeed without the technical achievement evident in the

structure and the vivid use of detail. As a short story

"Sleepy Hollow" offers another interesting study, for it
like "The Spectre Bridegroom" succeeds as a short story

even though it contains some of the weaknesses previously

attributed to the tale. The narrative voice intrudes

frequently and we are often removed from the drama.

There is little evidence of internal conflict or char-

acter development, little direct dramatization, and

almost no dialogue. What enables the story to succeed

is the ironic humor of the narrative voice and the vivid

use of details.

The emphasis on detail is first apparent in the

opening descriptions of the setting. For the intro-

ductory description of Sleepy Hollow, like that of the

landscape in "Rip Van Winkle," establishes the atmosphere
of unreality which makes Ichabod's fears credible.

From the listless repose of the place, and the
peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are
descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this
sequestered glen has long been known by the name of
Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the
Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring
country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang
over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere.
Some say that the place was bewitched by a high

German doctor, during the early days of the
settlement. (p. 417)

 

 

 

127

After several paragraphs which describe the superstitions

surrounding the headless horseman, the narrator continues

to characterize the inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow:

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I
have mentioned is not confined to the native inhab-
itants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed
by every one who resides there for a time. However
wide awake they may have been before, they entered
that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little
time, to inhale the witching influence of the air,
and begin to grow imaginative—-to dream dreams,

and see apparitions. (p. 419)

Once the setting has been established, the next several

pages are devoted to the characterization of Ichabod

 

Though Ichabod does not really develop as a

character,

 

he too is rendered in vivid, often ironic,

detail. The irony prevents us from taking him too

seriously for he is always on the verge of being regarded

as an object of ridicule. He is in fact a caricature.

Hoffman maintains that Ichabod is indeed "the bumpkin's
caricature of what life in the sea of a corrupt civili—

zation can make of a man" (p. 94). When we are first

introduced to Ichabod, we are told that "the cognomen

of Crane was not inapplicable to his person" (pp. 419—20).
He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled
a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have
served for shovels, and his whole frame most
loosely hung together. His head was small, and
flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy
eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked
like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle
neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see
him striding along the profile of a hill on a
windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering

 

 

 

 

128

about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius
of famine descending upon the earth, or some scare—
crow eloped from a cornfield. (p. 420)

Not only Crane, but the name Ichabod, too, shapes our

response to the schoolmaster, for Ichabod is Hebrew; it
means "inglorious," or literally “without honor"

p. 173).

(Bone,

Later in the story Ichabod's physical appearance

is again treated comically when he is described astride

his horse.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed.
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp
elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his
whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre,
and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his

arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of
wings. (pp. 436—37)

1
He 1

The list of comparisons, however, does not end with

weather—cock, scarecrow, or grasshopper. In regard to

his eating habits we are told he "had the dilating powers

of an anaconda" (p. 421). When he dances at the quilting

party, he is compared to "Saint Vitus himself, that

blessed patron of the dance" (p. 441). Such comparisons,

though they may win our sympathy, tend to make it impos-

sible for us to regard Ichabod seriously. The absurdity

suggested by these comparisons is further reinforced by

the knight simile which runs throughout the story. The

first mention of it is when we are told of the diffi-
culties facing Ichabod as he attempts to win Katrina's

affections.

 

 

 

 

129

In this enterprise, however, he had more real dif-
ficulties than generally fell to the lot of a
knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any thing but
giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like
easily—conquered adversaries, to contend with;

and had to make his way merely through gates of

iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle
keep. (p. 430)

The comparison is intensified in Sportive style when

Ichabod is described astride his horse.

That he might make his appearance before his mistress
in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse
from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated,
choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van
Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth,
like a knight—errant in quest of adventures. (p. 436)

Not all of Ichabod's humor arises from his physical

a

appearance, however. The fact that his attitudes and

 

behavior are often motivated by self-interest and desire
for material gain is also a source of humor. When there

is little at stake, Ichabod demonstrates a sensitivity

to his weaker students. “He administered justice with
discrimination rather than severity; taking the burthen
off the backs of the weak and laying it on those of the
strong" (p. 421).. Yet he makes a point of keeping on
good terms with the students after school——especially
those "who happened to have pretty sisters, or good
housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the

cupboard" (p. 421). Perhaps we cannot too severely

criticize Ichabod for this, however, since he was not

able to live on the income from his school.

 

 

 

 

 

130

Even more humorous and perhaps less admirable
is his reaction to the Van Tassel farm and his desire to
gain possession of the farm which he cloaks under the ruse
of courting Katrina. No where does he say he loves her.
Hoffman, in fact, maintains that Ichabod knows only two
emotions: fear and ambition.

The narrative voice, however, does not allow us
to dwell long on Ichabod's deficiencies. Instead we
focus on his capacity to appreciate material abundance.
Here Irving draws heavily on the setting to aid the char-
acterization of the schoolmaster, for the humor of Icha-
bod's ambition is intensified by the contrast between the
narrative description of the farm and Ichabod's exag-
gerated reaction to it. Ichabod is indeed overwhelmed
by the Van Tassel farm.

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare.

In his devouring mind's eye, he pictures to himself
every roasting pig running about with a pudding in
his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons
were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and
tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were
swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing
cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with

a decent competency of onion sauce. (p. 428)

A similar response is evoked the night of the
quilting party. On the way to Van Tassel's, Ichabod
dreams of food. Everything he sees is transformed

into food.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On

 

 

 

 

131

all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hang-
ing in oppressive opulence on the trees; some
gathered into baskets and barrels for the market;
others heaped up in rich piles for the cider—press.
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn,
with its golden ears peeping from their leafy

coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and
hasty pudding. (p. 438)

When Ichabod enters the farmhouse he once again sees his

surroundings in culinary terms. The narrative voice

removes us from him and allows us to chuckle at him

without making us feel we are in any way betraying him.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as
he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion.
Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their
luxurious display of red and white; but the ample

charms of a genuine Dutch country tea—table,

in the
sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped—up platters
of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds,

known only to experienced Dutch housewives!

There
was the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek,
and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes
and

short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and
the whole family of cakes. (p. 440)

Indeed Martin's contention that Ichabod is characterized

by his "powers of digesting“ (p. 143), both food and

mysterious tales, is fully supported by a close reading

of the story. If, however, we view Ichabod simply as a

childish character——even a caricature—-preoccupied with
imagination, who meets his defeat because of his imprac—
ticality or innocence, we miss the richness of the impli-

cations involved in his characterization. For Ichabod is

characterized as a curious mixture of the artist—intellect

(who is innocent and imaginative) and the ambitious

materialist. He occupies the social and professional

 

 

 

 

 

132

position of the intellectual; he is the village school—

master. And in this village such a position is treated

with disdain and minimum reward. Ichabod is thus forced

to compromise himself in order to survive.

But circumstances are not the only motivating

force for his behavior. Ichabod is in part "defeated

from within" as Bone contends (p. 183). His ambition

and material desires are so overwhelming as to suggest

that they indeed are innate and not produced merely by

the conditions of his existence. When his imagination

suggests that he might, by marrying Katrina,

farm,

sell the

run off to Kentucky, and treat other school masters

as he has been treated, we question his integrity. He

is indeed a turn coat--"without honor"--as his name

indicates. Or as Hoffman maintains, he is a "sorry

symbol of learning" (p. 94).

Ichabod's struggle, then, is not to maintain his

intellectual integrity. When the possibility of escaping
his role as schoolmaster arises, he grabs at it eagerly.

His struggle is rather to win material comforts. What

prevents him from achieving his goal is his imagination.
It is not so much then that Ichabod's ambition prevents
him from preserving his intellectual honor, but rather
that his imagination prevents him from achieving his

materialistic desires. That the materialistic aspect

of his character is dominant is demonstrated by his

 

 

 

 

 

133

later success in the city. Ichabod is indeed a misplaced

man. He is not an intellectual at all and thus he is

unable to function adequately in the role.

As a short story, then, there are several sources

of tension and conflict evident in "The Legend of Sleepy

Hollow." There is the ironic contrast between who Ichabod

is supposed to be and who he really is. There is a

tension created by the plot conflict between Brom and

Ichabod. And there is a tension between the mysterious

tales, the supernatural atmosphere, and the fears of

Ichabod's imagination. All these tensions are skillfully

resolved in the climactic scene of the chase which culmi—

nates in the catapulting pumpkin.

The tension begins to build when the tales are

told at the party and people begin to leave. The atmos-

phere sobers. The stories "sank deep in the mind of

Ichabod" (p. 445). As the crowd disperses the "light—

hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs,

echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and

fainter until they gradually died away--and the late

scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted"

(p. 445). Ichabod's unsuccessful interview with Katrina

contributes to the change in atmosphere and the surround—

ings complement Ichabod's mood.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod,
heavy-hearted and crest—fallen, pursued his travel
homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which
rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed

A-n.

 

 

 

 

 

 

134

so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal
as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread

its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly
at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid-
night, he could even hear the barking of the Watch
dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it
was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of
his distance from this faithful companion of man.

p. 446)

Much of the tension in this last section of the story
depends on the setting. The combination of the setting,
the legend of the headless horseman, and Ichabod's vividly
fearful imagination contributes an immediacy and tension
to the journey home. The comic knight errant metaphor
used earlier is extended as Ichabod approaches the

bridge. "To pass this bridge was the severest trial"

(p. 448), and Ichabod's reaction is both intense and

humorous.

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump;
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted
to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of
starting forward, the perverse old animal made a
lateral movement, and ran broadside against the

fence. (p. 448)

Yet in spite of the humor of Ichabod's fear We
also share some of his terror.

Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the
bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the
dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook,
he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and tower—
ing. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the
gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring
upon the traveller. (pp. 448—49)

Once Ichabod spots the headless horseman, the chase is on

and the tension increases.

 

 

 

 

135

Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones

flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's
flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched

his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the

eagerness of his flight. (p. 450)

The chase reaches its climax when the horseman hurls his

head at the retreating schoolmaster. ("It encountered

 

his cranium with a tremendous crash" p. 451.) It is

not a head which is found the next day, however, but a
shattered pumpkin. The climax, thus, most appropriately
reveals Ichabod's inadequacy. As Robert Bones points out,

"The organ of intellect and imagination has become an

A

edible. The forces of thought have yielded to the forces

of digestion" (p. 174). It is suitable that the organ

 

of intellect should have become an edible, for Ichabod
would gladly have sacrificed whatever intellect he had
for his comsumptive desires. So eagerly, in fact, would
he surrender that the question arises as to whether there
was ever any contest at all.

The success of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" then
depends primarily upon the elements of characterization,
plot tension, setting, and narrative irony. These ele—
ments are skillfully and efficiently controlled. The
setting, for instance, is not used simply to establish
the mood of the story, as is often the case in the
sketches. In "Legend" the setting also contributes
significantly to the plot tension and the characterization

of Ichabod. The narrative irony, which is consistently

 

 

136

maintained, helps unify the story and effectively shapes
the reader's response to the characters and events. The

details of the story are carefully chosen and skillfully

integrated to dramatize the struggle and defeat of Ichabod

Crane. The artistic control evident in the story, in
fact, qualifies it not only as one of Irving's best
works, but as a significant contribution to the American
literary tradition.

As a short story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"
is indeed a classic, but it is matched——perhaps surpassed
by——"Rip Van Winkle." Ironically enough "Rip Van Winkle"
and "The Wife" (discussed in Chapter I) were in the first
installment of The Sketch Book published in America--
ironic because "Rip" is so much more significant as a
creative achievement. Even the contemporary reviews
of The Sketch Book praised the story, though some critics
attacked Irving for his lack of originality. More
recently Henry Pochmann has clearly demonstrated the
source of "Rip Van Winkle" to be a German tale, "Peter
Klaus" from Otmar's Volksagen (p. 494). Some passages
in "Rip" are almost literal translations of the German
tales. Yet Pochmann is quick to point out the original
aspects of Irving's story:

In the first place, it is fully four times as long
as its German source. Otmar was interested, of
course, primarily in collecting folk materials

and only secondarily in the telling of them; Irv—

ing, on the other hand, had a storyteller's technique
in mind. First, he must localize the tale,—-lay

 

137

 

its scene in New York, some miles up the Hudson in
a quaint old Dutch community; he must fit his char—
acters to their parts, and especially, to their
locality; and he must tell the story in his own
humorous Knickerbocker style. (p. 494)

 

Dame Van Winkle's role in the story is also an original
contribution. Pochmann concludes that Irving's borrow-
ings do not detract at all from his originality.
The fact that Irving borrowed the substance of his
story detracts no more from the originality of
Irving as an artist than does Shakespeare's borrow—
ing his plots make him a less original poet. (p. 495)

The originality of the story is no longer of major impor— 1

tance to the critics. Like "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

 

much of "Rip Van Winkle's" popularity stems from its
thematic concerns.

Most of the modern critical responses to "Rip
Van Winkle" emphasize the thematic implications of Rip's
"loss of identity." Terence Martin connects this theme
with the contrast between Rip's imaginative qualities and

the practicality of the new nation which is created while

he sleeps:

Irving does not exact the full penalty from Rip;

he allows him to settle in a corner of this World,
but with a function extremely limited and marginal.
Nonetheless, the tale dramatizes Rip's loss of
identity, and, by inference, the loss of identity
of the imaginative function. Rip's miraculous sleep
has left him ignorant of the American Revolution——
the magical, the marvelous, the imaginative, and the
indolent have had no place in the founding of the
new republic. And when these qualities return in
the person of an antique but childlike man, there
arises a sense of embarrassment overcome only when
he is known to be harmless, one who will not
interfere. (p. 142)

138

 

William Hedges also emphasizes Rip's loss of identity;

while Philip Young is more explicit about what Rip has

avoided in his sleep.
It is clear now that Rip escaped no change of life,
but his very manhood——went from childhood to second
childhood with next to nothing in between. It is
not just his wife he had dodged, either, but all the
obligations of maturity: occupation, domestic and
financial responsibility, a political position,
duty to society in a time of war.8

"Rip Van Winkle's" emphasis on leisure time is emphasized
by Louis Le Fevre who regards the legends of Paul Bunyan

and Rip Van Winkle as the two contrasting methods by

which Americans seek satisfaction. Paul Bunyan “embodies

(p. 66); he

 

the drive of impotent mankind for power"

 

"represents the conscious ambition of Americans to do

great deeds, exaggerated to fantasy" (p. 69). Rip, on

the other hand, represents the opposition to hard work
"desire of men for

and self denial; he represents the

ease and liesure" (p. 70).
The conflict between Paul and Rip goes on within the
mind and emotions of every American. All men have

some degree of ambition for achievement and some
This conflict can never

measure of desire for ease.
find a final solution; like other struggles which

involve the individual libido, it will be resolved
most effectively when it is exposed to the full
light of consciousness. (LeFevre, pp. 70—71)

 

8Philip Young, "Fallen From Time: The Mythic

Rip Van Winkle," EB, 22 (1960), 570.

9Louis LeFevre, "Paul Bunyan and Rip Van Winkle,"

EB, 36 (1946), 66.

 

 

 

139

 

 

 

Undoubtedly Rip's desire to escape, his need for relax—
ation, and his partial sense of loss once he has indeed
escaped contribute greatly to the story's thematic appeal.

Yet the strength of the story lies not only in its thematic

implications but also with its structural brilliance. Why

Irving, so early in The Sketch Book, the first of his col-
lections, was able to craft such a skillful story, and

why he was never able to match it (except perhaps for

"Sleepy Hollow") is not known. Yet it is undoubtedly

true that the later development of the American short

story owes a good deal to "Rip Van Winkle." For both

these reasons, then, its status as Irving's best work

and its contribution to the development of the American

short story, "Rip Van Winkle" deserves close critical

examination.

In "Rip Van Winkle" when Irving removes Crayon
as narrator he also removes many narrative weaknesses.

We no longer have Crayon's presenCe separating us from
the action of the story as we do in the sketches. We

do not View events through his detachment nor are the

crucial events summarized for us. "Rip," in fact, can

be viewed as evidence that Irving was capable of precise

dramatization and narrative control.

As in "The Spectre Bridegroom" and “The Legend
of Sleepy Hollow" the narrative control in “Rip Van

Winkle" is one of its major achievements. Its shaping

 

 

 

 

 

140

influence is perhaps most evident in the early descriptive

part of the story. One of the major functions of the

voice is to establish the tone and mood of the story.

We are prepared by the description of setting for the

possibility of unusual happenings. The description of

setting is presented objectively but with the third para-

graph, in which Rip and his circumstances are introduced,
the irony begins. After describing Rip as a "good-

natured fellow" who is beset upon by a nagging wife, the
narrative voice suggests that the public meekness of

hen—peeked husbands is developed because,

. . . their tempers, doubtless are rendered pliant

and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic trib-
ulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the
sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of
patience and long—suffering. A termigant wife may,
therefore, in some respects be considered a tolerable
blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed. (pp. 46—47)

Indeed almost all the references to Rip's situation early
in the story are laced with humor and irony. Rip's irre—
sponsibility is described in an ironic tone, with the
narrative voice carefully pointing out the apparent

inconsistency in Rip's behavior.

The great error in Rip's composition was an
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable
labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity
or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock,
with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance,
and fish all day without a murmur, even though he
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. (p. 47)

 

141

Rip is thus established as a likeable but "shiftless"
fellow who wins our sympathy but is also the object of
narrative humor.

The lightness of tone is further reinforced by
the description of the village patriarch, Nicholas Vedder,
who each day from morning to night took a seat at the
door of the inn "just moving sufficiently to avoid the
sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as
accurately as by a sun-dial" (p. 50). Even Rip's
twenty—year sleep does not remove the narrative irony,
as is evident from the political humor evoked by Rip's
ignorance. Perhaps one of the most pointed examples of
the narrative irony following the sleep is demonstrated
when Rip—-once he learns how much time has passed--asks
for his wife's whereabouts in a "faltering voice."

The use of narrative irony not only contributes
to the mood of the story, it also is effectively employed
indirectly to guide the reader's reaction. The narrative
does not simply draw conclusions for us; rather it pre—
sents information in such a way that we draw our own
conclusions. Such indirect guidance is evident early
in the story when Rip's steadily disintegrating situation
is established. At first, though he is nagged and bur—
dened, he is able to escape by fishing or doing odd jobs

for the neighbor women. In time, however, he is forced

 

 

 

 

 

 

142

to seek refuge in the inn, and once routed from there,

he has no alternative but the woods. We are guided then
to believe that he is indeed in desperate straits. His
choices have dwindled to one. We are not told, as Crayon
would tell us, that Rip had no other choice, that he was
desperate-—unable to live with his wife and unable to
escape her. We rather are shown by narrative description
that this is in fact the case.

Once the previous exposition has been established,
the dramatic part of the story unfolds, and the narrative
voice withdraws a bit. Rip's actions and words, and the
use of dialogue and setting, are allowed to communicate
directly to the reader. There is little direct narrative
commentary and almost no irony in the dramatic scene in
the glen and the amphitheater. This is partially Irving's
attempt, no doubt, to temporarily interrupt the lightness
of tone and create instead a mysterious mood. It also
encourages the reader to regard the experience in the
mountain seriously. The absence of the narrative voice,
is not restricted to this scene only, however, for there
is little direct narrative influence in the entire second
half of the story. For the most part, the reader is
encouraged to draw his own conclusions, though, of course,
the early description and action influences the reader's
reactions to the drama and ultimately shapes his con—

clusions.

 

 

 

 

 

143

The lack of direct narrative guidance, however,
does not mean that Irving relinquishes control of the
reader's reactions. Perhaps the best example of nar-
rative control in the dramatic half of the story is the
building of tension. Rather than simply being told that
twenty years have passed, the reader is allowed to piece
together the evidence along with Rip. When Rip aWakes
on that sunny morning, we too, at first, are duped and
we respond naively to his lament about "that wicked
flagon" and to his despair about making excuses to
Dame Van Winkle. We share his concern. As the clues
unfold, however, the reader suspects what has happened
long before Rip does. By the time we are told that Rip
"shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and,
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his
steps homeward," we are aware of the possible dramatic
irony. For we suspect that the trouble and anxiety are
not of the nature he expects.

As the gap between what the reader suspects and
what Rip assumes widens, the tension increases. By the
time Rip is entering the village, and is still blaming
"that flagon last night,“ our expectations and antici—
pation have shifted. We no longer are interested in
simply what has happened, we are also able to watch
with both sympathy and amusement as Rip struggles to

comprehend what has happened. What Irving has

 

 

 

 

144

accomplished here is first to involve us directly in the
plot confusing both us and Rip with mysterious events and
persons whose significance and meaning are never fully
explained. Then, he scatters enough clues to enable
even the most obtuse reader to determine what has hap-
pened. Rip, however, is kept in the dark. After all

he has drunk the liquor, not the reader. Once we know
what Rip does not know, we become detached enough from
the drama to be amused by Rip's confusion. In effect,
what heightens the tension is the reader's anticipation
of Rip's eventual perception. This tension is so much
more skillfully created than Crayon‘s feeble attempts to
build tension in "The Wife" that it is difficult to
believe both selections were written by the same author
at roughly the same time.

Further evidence of indirect narrative control
in the second half of the story is the use of details
rather than summary. The glen, the amphitheater, the
personages are described in sufficient detail so we are
convinced of their existence. Yet when Rip awakes and
searches for the glen, its altered condition is described
again in enough detail so that we begin to doubt that
the amphitheater ever existed. Crayon might simply have
said that Rip searched for the opening but found no trace
of it save a waterfall. Instead we are told:

With some difficulty he got down into the glen:
he found the gully up which he and his companion had

 

 

 

 

 

145

ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonish—
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it,
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen

with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift

to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way
through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch— ‘
hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by

the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or
tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of
network in his path. (p. 56)

 

Such a detailed description causes both Rip and the reader
to doubt the reality of the "previous" night's events and
simultaneously convinces us of the passage of time. Simi—
larly detailed descriptions of the alterations in the
people and in the village also contribute to the reali—
zation that many years have passed. We are convinced

that Rip indeed did sleep for twenty years. More details

are included in the second half of the story, because more

 

are required. Irving summarizes the information which is
easiest for the reader to believe: a good-natured, but
irresponsible husband who is plagued by a nagging wife.
But the fantastic events, those events most difficult
for the reader to believe, are dramatized in sufficient
detail to convince us of their reality. Such a balance
again demonstrates Irving's critical perception and his
skillful control of the narrative voice.

The success of "Rip" depends not only on the nar—
rative voice, however, but also on the effective use of
the setting and the skill of characterization, both of

which contribute to the theme and conflict.

 

 

 

146

The opening paragraphs of the story are devoted
to carefully establishing a setting and tone. "Rip" takes
place in a kind of limbo land which is neither real nor
unreal, but rather has much in common with Hawthorne's
"neutral territory" where the "Actual and the Imaginary
may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the
other."10 By establishing an appropriate setting, Irving
conditions the reader--prepares him-—for the introduction
of either realistic dreams of dreamlike realism. As in
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Dolph Heyliger" Irving
takes great pains to prepare the reader for the unusual.
The Kaatskill mountains, the neutral ground of "Rip Van
Winkle," are described as barometers which magically
record the weather. "Every change of season, every change
of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some
change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains"
(p. 45). Thus Irving appropriately establishes a setting
which is subject to change, which to some extent partakes
of magic.

Such a setting, of course, reinforces the action
which is to follow. After Irving introduces Dame Van
Winkle, and Rip himself, and Rip attempts to escape her
tongue, the setting again becomes functional. It is to

the woods and mountains that Rip turns when he has no

 

10Nathaniel Hawthorne, "The Custom House," The
Scarlet Letter (Columbus: Ohio State University Press,

1' '9'6"2‘)—, 'p‘.' '3 6 .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

147

 

where else to go. "Poor Rip was at last reduced almost
to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the
labor of the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take
gun in hand and stroll away into the woods" (p. 31). It
is with this generalization that Irving finishes the
background for the specific incident which composes the
central drama of the story, that is, Rip's encounter with
the men in the mountain.

Considerable attention is given to the setting

ll

of the initial encounter in the mountains. It occurs on
a fine autumnal day“ when Rip climbs high in the mountains
and finds himself exhausted "late in the afternoon, on a

green knoll covered with mountain herbage, that crowned

 

the brow of a precipice" (p. 51). Irving devotes tWO
paragraphs to the surroundings, which includes a glen
"scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting
sun" (p. 52). Close attention is again given to the
setting when Rip is led to the deep ravine by the “strange
figure" with a stout keg on his shoulder. Given the
description of the mountains in the opening paragraphs
of the story, the reader more easily accepts the
appearance of this stranger and, of course, the fact
that Wolf growls when the stranger approaches, helps
verify the validity of his existence. The reality is
further reinforced by the concrete description of the

amphitheater:

 

148

Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow,
like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpen—
dicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening
cloud. (p. 53)
It is by such a realistic description that Irving con—
ditions the reader for what is to follow. We are indeed
in Hawthorne's neutral ground. When we are finally intro-
duced to the "company of odd—looking personages playing
at nine-pins," we have temporarily suspended our dis-
belief. The setting and the physical descriptions of
the men are convincingly drawn, yet the whole affair is
"strange and incomprehensible."

The mysteriousness of the ravine is dispelled
when Rip wakes on a "bright sunny morning" and finds him—
self "on the green knoll whence he had first seen the
old man of the glen." At first the setting provides
no clue of anything being amiss. In fact the stark
contrast to the previous scene is reassuring. "The
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure
mountain breeze" (p. 55). It is by contrasts such as
this, however, that Irving is able to increase the
tension. The lack of an explanation of the meaning
of the men and their liquor, and the omission of any
explanation as to how Rip came to be once again on the

knoll arouses the reader's curiosity. Gradually, both

 

 

 

 

149

the reader and Rip gather hints that indicate the passage
of time. Rip falls asleep one evening and wakes on a
sunny morning. Except for the fact that he has inex-
plicably changed places from a ravine to a knoll, we
are not initially suspicious about how much time has
passed. But when "in place of the clean well—oiled
fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying by him,
the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off
and the stock worm eaten" (p. 55), it is apparent that
Irving is using time as a means of building tension.

The events which follow are packed with more
and more clues as to the amount of time that has passed.
His dog has disappeared. Rip is "stiff in the joints,"
the glen which he had visited is no longer existent for
"to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming
down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen
with babbling murmurs." He could find “no traces" of
the opening to the amphitheatre. These discoveries about
the surroundings add to the now steadily mounting tension.
In addition the alteration in the setting, that is, the
apparent disappearance of the amphitheater, makes us
doubt the reality of the previous evening's activities,
and this furthers the tension. What is most immediately
convincing is the concrete evidences of the passage of
time, for though we may wonder whether those odd men ever

actually existed, we are increasingly convinced that a

 

 

 

 

150

good deal of time has passed. As Rip journeys homeward
he notices that people are dressed in a "different
fashion from that to which he was accustomed;" he finds
"to his astonishment" that "his beard had grown a foot
long!" He does not recognize a familiar face and even—
tually he "began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bewitched" (p. 57). As if to further
perplex both Rip and the reader, Rip notes that the sur—
roundings of the village had not basically altered.
"There stood the Kaatskill mountains-—there ran the
silver Hudson at a distance——there was every hill and
dale precisely as it had always been" (pp. 57-58). Yet
contrasted to the apparently unaltered state of these
dominant features of the countryside, are the obvious
changes in the particulars of the surroundings. The
villagers themselves are unfamiliar; Rip's house has
"gone to decay," the village inn has disappeared as has
"the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore." These contrasting aspects of the
setting continue to increase the tension until finally
Rip learns what the reader has guessed much earlier:

Rip has slept for twenty years. The immediate resolution
to this tension, based on time and place, comes when both
Rip and the reader are fully aware of the passage of time
and the alteration in place. What contributes greatly to

our sense of resolution at the end of the story is Rip's

 

 

 

151

ability to adapt to his altered surroundings; he success—
fully integrates himself as a member of the village and
functions with much more ease and impunity than when he

was younger.

The characterization in "Rip Van Winkle" is
another significant achievement of the story. Unlike
many of the characters in the sketches and tales, the
characters in "Rip" are integrated into the action of
the story. Rip, of course, is the central character,
but his wife, the strangers in the glen, Nicholas Vedder,
even Rip's dog, Wolf, have functional contributions to
make both to the theme and to the action of the story.

Dame Van Winkle is characterized as a loquacious
nagging wife. She is "continually dinning in his ears
about his idleness, his carelessness and the ruin he was
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or
did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence"
(pp. 48-49). Yet Irving does not allow this narrative

description of Dame Van Winkle to be the only means of

characterizing her. Her actions reinforce the description.

When Rip seeks refuge with the village patriarchs at the
inn, he is "routed by his termagant wife, who would
suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage

and call the members all to naught; nor was that august

 

 

152

personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring
tongue of this terrible Virago, who charged him outright
with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness"

(pp. 50-51). And finally, the nature of Dame Van

Winkle is also substantiated by the reactions of others

to her. Rip was a "great favorite among all the good

wives of the village" and when they discussed his family

 

difficulties, they "lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle."
Even WOlf, the dog, reacts negatively to the woman.

True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an
honorable dog he was as courageous an animal as ever
scoured the woods-~but what courage can withstand the
ever-during and all betting terrors of a woman's
tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest
fell, his tail dropped to the ground, or curled
between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows
air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van
Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick

or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping pre-
cipitation. (p. 49)

 

Thus, even though she is one-dimensional, Dame Van Winkle,
in contrast to Mary in "The Wife," is convincingly por-
trayed and dramatically integrated into the action of the
story. She operates to win our sympathy for Rip and to

provide Rip with a motive for his journey into the woods.

 

The characterization of Rip is of central impor-
tance to the story's success. He is introduced to us as
"a simple good—natured fellow." That Rip is indeed a
likeable man is demonstrated by the fact that the other
women take his part and by the reaction of the Village

children who "would shout with joy whenever he approached."

 

 

 

 

153

We also learn that he was "a kind neighbor, and an
obedient hen—pecked husband." We are told that he has
"an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable
labor;" that he was "ready to attend to anybody's busi—
ness but his own," and that "as to doing family duty, and
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible." When-
ever he attempted to work on the farm, "everything about
it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him." His
children "were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody." Perhaps the best summary description of Rip is
the following:

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy

mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who

take the world easy, eat white bread or brown,

whichever can be got with the least thought or

trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than

work for a pound. If left to himself, he would

have whistled life away in perfect contentment.

(p. 48)
The passage reads almost like a foreshadowing of the
events of the story.

A clear understanding of Rip's character and
situation are of course, essential to fully grasp the
nature of the conflict and theme of the story. Rip is
not suited to function as a husband, father, or provider.
He is most at home "trudging through woods and swamps,
and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or
wild pidgeons" or doing odd jobs for neighbors or

deliberating with the idle personages of the village."

His conflict then is not simply with his wife--that is

 

 

 

 

 

154

only one manifestation of it. His real conflict is with
the role he is expected to perform. He is asked to
function as a young family man who has accepted his
financial responsibility, but he is temperamentally
unsuited to that role. He is suited to be either the
idle bachelor or the "revered" village patriarch. The
resolution of this conflict is not the result of an
alteration in Rip's character. He does not come to a
perception which causes him to alter either his char-
acter or his behavior. Nor is the resolution based on
the reader's increasing perception of Rip. Rip neither
actively solves his problem nor is he defeated by it.
Rather he escapes it. It is true that in the process

he also escapes much more. William Hedges maintains
that the story, "as several commentators have observed,
is concerned with the loss of identity" (p. 140). Yet,
Rip's identity is not really lost at all; it is the one
element which is preserved in spite of the passage of
time. His middle age is lost, complete with its responsi—
bilities of wife, home, and children. These, however,
are not essential to Rip's identity. Rip, in fact, has
been detached from these all along. His essential quali-
ties of a simple nature, aimlessness, and lack of industry
are preserved through the sleep, the crucial difference
being that after the sleep he can enjoy the qualities

with impunity, and in fact with reward.

 

. .

 

 

 

 

 

 

155

It is true, of course, that Rip's dawning compre—
hension that he has slept for twenty years, causes him,
initially, considerable difficulty. In a sense, Rip has
two major struggles in the story: the first with his
role as husband and father, and the second with his
comprehension that he has slept for so long. The second
struggle is the one which Irving so closely dramatizes.
Rip's initial reaction is confusion and fright. As he
approaches the village he realizes that all was not as he
expected it to be. H

Strange names were over doors——strange faces at

windows—-everything was strange. His mind now

misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he

and the world around him were not bewitched. (p. 57)
He attempts to reassure himself by taking note of the
unchanged mountains and river. Yet he was "sorely per-
plexed" by all that was changed, blaming it on "that
flagon last night." His anxiety increases when he enters
his house.

It was empty, forlorn and apparently abandoned.

This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--
he called loudly for his wife and children. (p. 58)

 

In spite of Rip's temporary panic, however, we should not
immediately jump to the conclusion that he has incurred a
tragic loss or that his character is significantly altered.
He simply is undergoing the stress of adjusting to his new
circumstances.

The encounter with the tavern politicians only

serves to further his confusion. He is saddened to learn

 

 

 

 

 

156

that many of his old friends are gone. His "heart died
away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and
friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world."
When he sees his son, his bewilderment reaches a climax:
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm
not myself--I'm somebody else——that's me yonder—-
no--that's somebody else got into my shoes—-I was
myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moun—
tain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's
changed, and I'm changed and I can't tell what's my
name, or who I am!" (p. 61)
It is understandable that Rip assumes it is he who has
changed. Undoubtedly "that flagon" must have contained
something that has caused him to imagine all this. But,
ironically enough, it is not Rip who has changed, except
for some physical alteration; it is the world that has
changed. Once Rip realizes that he has slept for twenty
years, his second struggle is resolved, but he remembers
his earlier struggle, which is not resolved until he is
assured that his wife will no longer plague him. Rip asks
her whereabouts "in a faltering voice." When he learns
of her death, his recovery is immediate and complete. The
narrative voice skillfully guides us by juxtaposition of
the two contrary states of mind which follow. The com-
mentary that "there was a drop of comfort, at least, in
this intelligence" is immediately followed by ironically
contrasting behavior: "The honest man could contain him-

self no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in

his arms. "I am your father!" Now Rip no longer

 

 

 

 

 

 

157

questions himself or doubts his perceptions; he rather
asserts his identity and questions those around him. He
has found—-not a new self--but a new place for the old
self. Perhaps we can say he has come to a perception in
that he becomes aware of his potential in these new,
altered circumstances.

Hedges maintains that "if in the end the story
remains comic rather than tragic, it is because Rip is
able to parlay his loss into a positive asset to make a
success of inadequacy or failure. He acquires a new
identity as a result of having a story to tell. Yet
perhaps the story is not tragic at all; but is rather
a comic story of wish fulfillment. Rip loses none of
his identity but all of his opposition. His wish comes
true. And in addition, he gains a comfortable home, and
is able to function as patriarch and story teller. He
lives with his daughter who has a "snug, well—furnished
house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband," and he
re—establishes his relationship with his "former cronies."
Perhaps, the most convincing evidence of the extent of his
adjustment is that he "preferred making friends among the
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great
favor." He also was able to resume "his old walks and
habits." In short, he Was finally able to indulge himself
with impunity. And rather than being the object of pity

as he once was, he has become the envy of others:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

158

And it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in
the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out
of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. (p. 5

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of "Rip Van
Winkle" lies in the paradoxical nature of the resolution.
The final evaluation of the story's outcome depends in
part upon the reader's attitude toward work and respon—
sibility. On the one hand, if we view "Rip" from the
philosophy that work and responsibility are crucial to
life, or the View that says responsibility makes the man,
then, Rip's sleep is indeed a tragic loss—-a loss of
identity. Even if we view the story as a dramatization
of the difficulty produced by man's contradictory desires——
for ease, on the one hand and for achievement, on the
other——we also sense a loss in Rip's sleep. For Rip
sacrificed the satisfactions of achievement for the
pleasures of leisure and ease. He does indeed, according
to this view, go from childhood to childhood never exper—
iencing maturity.

On the other hand, it is possible to view the
story as exposing the misleading aspects of those very
responsibilities so heavily emphasized by the new nation.
As we watch how quickly Rip adjusts to his new circum—
stances, as we see how much he enjoys this second child—
hood, our suspicions are, at least temporarily, aroused.
Maybe—-just maybe-—all that work, all those responsibili—

ties——are not so valuable as we would like to think. We

 

 

 

 

 

 

159

are reminded, as Philip Young points out, "that we do

indeed grow old, that time and history never stop" (p. 571).
And we are left with unanswered questions. For if We do not
assume that Rip has lost his identity, if we do not reassure
ourselves that his fate is tragic, or at least pathetic,
then What does that say about the value of our own lives,

of our own "productive" years of maturity?

Having examined the three selections which succeed
as short stories, it is possible to summarize some of the
qualities they share——the characteristics which distinguish
them from the sketches and the tales.

The detached narrative voice and the use of irony
is apparent in all three stories. Irving could not devote
adequate attention to his subject matter with the narrator
physically present. In addition, in all three stories the
tension, produced by a conflict, is resolved in a satis-
factory manner. Starkenfaust Wins his bride, Ichabod is
defeated by Brom Bones, and Rip succeeds in escaping
family and financial responsibility. The tension and
conflict are efficiently integrated with the other
fictional elements so that they reinforce each other
producing a unified plot. There is little extraneous
information included in any of these stories and the
focus of each is skillfully controlled.

Finally, the weakness of characterization,

apparent in the tales, is avoided in the stories. Though

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

160

 

the characterization is vividly rendered, none of the
stories attributes deeply emotional internal struggles
to the central character. Since we are not asked to
believe in the psychological depth of any character, we
are not disappointed or frustrated by the lack of adequate
illustration of that depth.

Essentially, what happens in the short stories,
as opposed to the tales, is that Irving more carefully

sorts, limits, balances, and controls his material. He

 

subordinates some material, emphasizes other material,
and efficiently combines the elements of fiction to pro—
duce the most unified impact on the reader.

There are, of course, still many unanswered
questions about Irving's short stories. Why is it, for
instance, that Irving wrote these stories roughly at the
same time for the same collection? Why did he never
again match the quality of these stories? Was he aware
of the structural differences in his sketches, tales,

and short stories? What was his critical appraisal of

 

these selections? What, if any, were the personal reasons
or traits which prevented him from pursuing the short
story mode?

The answers to these questions are largely specu-
lative. Some of the relevant personal factors have already
been noted. Irving's personality inclined him to personal

observations rather than dramatic renderings. Then too,

 

 

 

 

 

161

he liked using the first person voice, though he had
neither the desire nor perhaps the necessary detachment
to create an independent fictional persona (in the later
James tradition). It is possible that Irving simply
could not maintain the detachment necessary to cross
over from the personal sketch to a fictional story.

It is also difficult to determine how Irving
assessed his own writings. Many of his comments are
of the most general kind. It is clear in his notes,
journals, and prefaces that he liked to travel, to sketch
his surroundings, to paint characters. He liked to amuse
his readers, while instilling a moral in his pieces. He
was interested in legend, in the traditions of the past,
in the supernatural. He regarded plot as a frame on
which to stretch his materials and he was consciously

and consistently concerned with the style of his writing.

 

But, except for some of his comments about Tales of a
Traveller, Irving has little to offer as aesthetic
theory. He has little to say about the shaping of his
fiction or the structure of his stories.

The fiction which most obviously illustrates
Irving's concern with form is included in Tales of a
Traveller, the collection which explores the possibilities
of the framing story. As we shall see in the next chapter,
the structure of these selections is the most complex of

Irving's short fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

THE FRAMING STORY

The framing story is the most complex form in
Irving's short fiction. As was mentioned in the Intro-
duction, the framing story consists of a series of tales
each contained within the previous one-—in Chinese box
fashion. Irving did not invent the form. In fact, as
Pochmann points out, the device is as "old as Boccaccio
and Chaucer, and older.“1 Irving, however, was one of
the first American writers to employ the device.

Contrary to the sketches, tales, and short
stories, the framing stories clearly emphasized structure.
In these stories, Irving carefully organizes the tales in
a pattern which contributes to the plot, the characteri-
zation, the mood, and the thematic concerns of the entire
piece.

"Dolph Heyliger," one of Irving's most skillfully
constructed stories, is one of the earliest and most

successful examples of his use of the form. What he

 

1Henry A. Pochmann, "Irving's German Tour and Its
Influence on His Tales," PMLA, 45 (1930), 1170.

162

 

 

 

 

 

163

begins here, in Bracebridge Hall, he explores more fully

in Tales of a Traveller, but unfortunately, after the

 

unfavorable reaction to the Tales, Irving virtually
abandoned the form. The tWo examples from The Alhambra
which conclude this chapter demonstrate Irving's retreat
to simple tales roughly cast in a framing structure. And
though we might accept such looseness before "Dolph" or

Tales of a Traveller, it is disappointing indeed to read

 

these last stories knowing that Irving was capable of so
much better.
The three selections of "Dolph Heyliger"—-"The

Haunted House," "Dolph Heyliger,“ and "The Storm Ship"——

 

form an integrated series and immediately precede the
final selection of Bracebridge Hall. The selection which
introduces the series, "The Historian," is narrated by
Crayon who explains how he introduced Diedrich Knicker—
bocker and his works to the group at Bracebridge Hall.
"The Haunted House" is then presented as a manuscript
found among the papers of Knickerbocker. This selection
describes a house in Manhattoes about which there were
traditional ghost tales. Knickerbocker, after visiting
the houses, engages in conversation with his friend John
Josse Vandermoere who offers a tale about the house.
"Dolph Heyliger," the third selection in the series, is
then narrated by Vandermoere who later narrates "Wolfert

Webber" in Tales of a Traveller. "Dolph Heyliger," in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

164

turn, acts as a frame for the innermost tale, "The Storm
Ship," which is attributed to Mynheer Selyne, a poet,
but is narrated by Antony Vander Heyden. As a unit the
series composes the most complex structural organization
in Bracebridge Hall, and though "The Haunted House" intro-
duces "Dolph Heyliger" simply as a tale about a haunted
house, the story complete with "The Storm Ship" is one of
Irving's richest, most skillful and most significant
stories.

The plot of "Dolph Heyliger" is relatively com—
plex. Dolph, the only son of a poor Dutch widow, was a
mischievious child. "Not that the whipster was really
vicious; he was only full of fun and frolic, and had that
daring, gamesome spirit, which is extolled in a rich man's
child, but execrated in a poor man's" (p. 376). In an
attempt to provide him with a profession, he is appren—
ticed to a "famous German doctor" (p. 378), Dr. Karl
Lodovick Knipperhausen. Dolph ends up doing the doctor's
busy work, but he still retains his "fondness for sport
and mischief that had marked his childhood." In fact
"he daily grew more and more untractable, and lost favor
in the eyes, both of the doctor and the housekeeper"
(p. 384). Meanwhile the doctor has bought a farm which
is said to be haunted. Dolph, then twenty—one years old,
volunteers to "garrison" (p. 392) the house. For three

successive nights he is visited by an apparition, an

 

 

 

165

elderly man, large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish

fashion" (p. 396). The man beckons him to follow to the

well outside the house. After the visitor disappears on

the third night, Dolph dreams of sailing on a ship.

Sometimes he was sailing; sometimes on shore; now
amidst storms and tempests, and now wandering
quietly in unknown streets. The figure of the

old man was strangely mingled up with the incidents
of the dream, and the whole distinctly wound up by
his finding himself on board of the vessel again,
returning home, with a great bag of money! (p. 401)

The following morning he wanders in the fields and finds

himself on the banks of the Hudson. About to depart, is

the sloop in his dream and its captain is the same captain

of his dream who beckoned him aboard. Dolph complies.

On the second day of the voyage, Dolph is Washed over-

board during a storm. He swims ashore and finds himself

in the wilderness Where all was “savage and trackless"

(p. 407). That night, he meets a hunting party whose

leader, Antony Vander Heyden, reminds him of the old man

who visited him in the haunted house. VanderHeyden was

the hero of many stories familiar to Dolph. He joins the
party.

In listening to stories by Antony (and watching
Antony) Dolph "was again repeatedly perplexed by something
that reminded him of the phantom of the haunted house;
some vague resemblance not to be fixed upon any precise
feature or lineament, but pervading the general air of

his countenance and figure" (p. 415). Gathered around

the fire that night, Antony offers the story of the

 

 

 

 

 

166

Storm Ship, a tale of a ghost ship which appeared in the
bay near Manhattoes. Several theories and explanations
are offered about the ship's significance, but no reso—
lution is given. For several days Dolph travels up the
Hudson with Vander Heyden. He feels for the first time
that he is in surroundings best suited to him. Vander
Heyden offers him shelter in Albany. When they arrive
they are welcomed by Vander Heyden's daughter with whom
Dolph falls in love, though he is painfully aware that
he cannot support her. That night in his chamber he
sees the portrait of the phantom of the haunted house.
Once again he dreams of following the phantom to the

well. In the morning the pieces of the puzzle fall

 

into place. He learns that Killian Vander Spiegal is

 

the man in the portrait and the phantom of his dreams.
He was rumored to have buried all his money before he
died. Dolph recalls that his mother had said that her
father was Killian's rightful heir "only that the old
man died without leaving any thing to be inherited“
(p. 438). Dolph hurries home and after several unsuc-
cessful tries, he finds the fortune at the bottom of the
well. The story ends happily with Dolph and Marie Vander
Heyden married, his mother taken care of, and his social
position secured.

Even such a brief plot summary emphasizes and

illuminates the thematic elements of a quest which are

 

 

 

 

167

evident in the story. In effect the story deals with a
young man who rejects the traditional role of abiding by
society's expectations, and in spite of his uncertainty,
and fear he sets out on a journey which leads him through
a wilderness where he discovers he is in his element.
His self-perception grows with his willingness to
accept responsibility. He worries about his mother,
falls in love with the daughter of his mentor, but
realizes that he cannot support her. Once he comes to
these perceptions his true identity and the way to success
is revealed to him and he gains wealth, happiness, and
social position.

As in any good story the fictional elements of
"Dolph Heyliger" are so skillfully integrated that it is
difficult to isolate them for analysis and discussion.
Like the narrator of "Rip Van Winkle," the voice of John
Vandermoere, though it is apparent, does not obviously
interfere with the central focus of the story. The most
evident influences of Vandermoere on the story are the
examples of social satire, particularly the comments about
the public "concern" toward the poor. (Such comments are
later common in Wolfert Webber.) When Dolph's mother is
widowed, "it was universally agreed that 'something ought
to be done for the widow;' and on the hopes of this 'some-
thing' she lived tolerable for some years; in the mean

time everybody pitied and spoke well of her, and that

 

 

 

 

 

168

helped along" (p. 375). Later, Dolph returns from his

trip up the Hudson and finds that his mother's house has

burned. Public concern for her is once again satirized.
She forthwith became again a subject of universal
sympathy; every body pitied her more than ever; and
if pity could but have been coined into cash--good
Lord! how rich she would have been! (p. 441)

Once Dolph becomes wealthy, of course, the public response

alters both toward his mother and toward his youthful

pranks.

Dolph often related, at his own table, the wicked
pranks which had once been the abhorrence of the
town; but they were now considered excellent jokes,
and the gravest dignitary was fain to hold his
sides when listening to them. (pp. 446-47)
Except for these scatted incidences of social satire, how—
ever, the narrative voice is not unduly evident. Once or
twice some claim about the truth of the story is made.
Were this a mere tale of fancy, here would be a fine
opportunity for weaving in strange adventures among
these wild mountains, and roving hunters; and, after
involving my hero in a variety of perils and dif—
ficulties, rescuing him from them all by some
miraculous contrivance; but as this is absolutely
a true story, I must content myself with simple
facts, and keep to probabilities. (p. 427)
The narrator is not physically present in the story as he
is in most of the sketches. And though the narrator
refers to himself several times, his relationship to the

story is detached.
The opening is presented mainly in a third person
voice which describes the setting, the widow's poverty,

and her attempts to sell some cakes and trinkets. We are

 

 

 

   

 

169

then introduced to Dolph who is described from an

omniscient point of view. It is not until the sixth

page, when he enters the doctor's house, that we begin

to view matters from Dolph's perspective. The activities

at the doctor's house, however, are related primarily from

an omniscient view. Some incidents such as Claus Hopper's

visit to the doctor (p. 389), are dramatized in dialogue

without Dolph's even being present. Beginning with the

first night he stays at the haunted farm house, however,
much of the action is presented from Dolph's viewpoint.

We are often privy to his thoughts and participate in

his emotions. After hearing the footsteps that first

night in the house, Dolph's reaction is described in

considerable detail.

Dolph rubbed his eyes, and stared about him; he
could see to every part of the dimly—lighted chamber;
all was vacant; yet still he heard those mysterious
footsteps, solemnly walking about the chamber. They
ceased, and all was dead silence. There was some—
thing more appalling in this invisible visitation,
than there would have been in any thing that
addressed itself to the eyesight. It was awfully
vague and indefinite. He felt his heart beat
against his ribs; a cold sweat broke out upon his
forehead; he lay for some time in a state of

violent agitation; nothing, however, occurred to
increase his alarm. (p. 395)

When he jumps aboard the vessel headed up the Hudson we

again are given a detailed description of the confusion

of his mind.

Dolph's thoughts and feelings were all in tumult and
confusion. He had been strongly worked upon by the
events which had recently befallen him, and could
not but think there Was some connection between his

 

 

 

170

present situation and his last night's dream. He
felt as if under supernatural influence; and tried
to assure himself with an old and favorite maxim

of his, that 'one way or other, all would turn out
for the best.’ (p. 403)

Allowing the reader to overhear Dolph's thoughts in these

scenes contributes dramatic realism. We are more directly

involved in the action; there is no narrative presence

separating us from the action.
At his most perceptive moment, musing in his

bed at Antony's house, Dolph actually states his thoughts
aloud.

"This is a fine conclusion, truly, of my voyage,"

said he, as he almost buried himself in a sumptuous
featherbed, and drew the fresh white sheets up to his
chin. "Here am I,

instead of finding a bag of money
launched in a strange place, with
scarcely a stiver in my pocket; and, what is worse,
have jumped ashore up to my very ears in love into
the bargain. "However," added he, after some pause
stretching himself, and turning himself in bed,

"I'm in good quarters for the present, at least;

so I'll e'en enjoy the present moment, and let the
next take care of itself; I dare say all will work
out, 'somehow or other,’ for the best." (p. 436)

to carry home,

The detailed narrative focus which is illustrated in this

scene is missing in "The Student of Salamanca" and

“Annette Delarbre." In the latter tales we are seldom

allowed to share the thoughts and emotions of the central

characters. Instead their intense experiences are sum-

marized for us. Not only does such summarizing weaken

the characterization, but it also removes possible

sources of tension in the tale. One effective method

of building tension is to dramatize the most significant

 

 

 

 

 

171
scenes in a piece. The first half of "Rip Van Winkle,"
for example, contains a good deal of summarizing, but the

important parts of the story are dramatized in detail.

One of the characteristics, then, that dis-

tinguishes Irving's weaker tales from his successful

stories is the author's choice of what is summarized

and what is dramatized. In "Dolph" Irving focuses on

the scenes which are most important to the characteri-

zation, theme, and plot. Dolph's experiences with the

phantom, his embarkment up the Hudson, the storm which

washes him overboard, the description of the wilderness,

his meeting with Vander Heyden, Vander Heyden's house in

Albany, and the discovery of Dolph's identity and the

retrieval of the treasure are described in detail. His
mother‘s poor condition, his experiences at the doctor's,

the first day of the voyage, the days voyaging with Vander

Heyden, his courting of Marie, his return voyage, his

welcome home, and his later social success all are filled

with detail but are nevertheless summarized. This alter-

ation of summarizing and dramatic focus contributes

realism and tension to the story.

The initial visit of the phantom to Dolph‘s

room is narrated as Dolph views it and is full of dra-

matic tension.

By-and—by he thought he heard a sound as of some one
walking below stairs. He listened, and distinctly
heard a step on the great staircase. It approached
solemnly and slowly, tramp—~tramp-—tramp! It was

 

 

 

 

172

evidently the tread of some heavy personage; and yet
how could he have got into the house without making
a noise? He had examined all the fastenings, and
was certain that every entrance was secure. Still
the steps advanced, tramp--tramp——tramp! It was
evident that the person approaching could not be

a robber, the step was too loud and deliberate;

a robber would either be stealthy or precipitate.
And now the footsteps had ascended the staircase;
they were slowly advancing along the passage,
resounding through the silent and empty apartments.
The very cricket had ceased its melancholy note,
and nothing interrupted their awful distinctness.
The door, which had been locked on the inside,
slowly swung open, as if self—moved. (pp. 394—95)

 

The successive visits are also tension—filled: each time

the phantom participates in more unexplained activities

which intensify Dolph's fear and curiosity. Both the

use of supernatural events and the journey up the Hudson

provide tension. Most immediately we are eager to learn

what will happen. Will the phantom appear again; will

Dolph get on the boat; will he find his way out of the

 

wilderness; what will he find in Albany; will he be

reunited with his mother; will he find the gold in the

well? The repetitious appearance of the phantom and

the repetition of the dreams helps reinforce this plot

tension. There is also, however, a tension which is

built on unexplained meanings. Who is the phantom; why

does he point to the well; why does Dolph dream of the
ship; what is the reason for his journey; why does
Antony remind him of the phantom; what is the meaning
of the storm ship; who is the man in the picture?

These

last questions, of course, not only keep us interested

 

 

 

 

173

in the story's outcome, but encourage us to consider the
meaning of the story. They add depth to what otherwise

might be simply another plot story. Stories dominated

by plot, such as the early ghost tales in Part I of Tales

of a Traveller, do contain tension but it is a tension
based solely on plot. In these tales, we Wonder what is
going to happen, but we are not encouraged to seek the
meaning of the events. Though plot is an important
element in "Dolph Heyliger," the story is not merely
a plot story. Rather the thematic concerns and the
characterization are perhaps the most important aspects.
Before examining the theme and characterization,
however, it will be useful to first note Irving's use of
the supernatural. The supernatural not only adds to the
tension of plot and theme, but it also is functionally
integrated with the setting and characterization. The
setting is most emphasized during the events which occur
at the two houses and in the wilderness. The detailed
description of the interior of the haunted house helps
reinforce the realistic portrayal of the supernatural
events which take place there. When Dolph first enters
the haunted house, we are given a lengthy description of
the interior.
The front door of the mansion Opened with a grating
sound, that made the doctor turn pale. They entered
a tolerably large hall, such as is common in American
countryhouses, and which serves for a sitting—room in

warm weather. From this they went up a wide stair—
case, that groaned and creaked as they trod, every

 

 

174

step making its particular note, like the key of a
harpsichord. This led to another hall on the second
story, whence they entered the room where Dolph was
to sleep. It was large, and scantily furnished;

the shutters were closed; but as they were much
broken, there was no want of a circulation of air.
p. 393)

 

The description continues for more than a page. Once such
a detailed realistic setting has been established, we are
more likely to believe in the reality of the phantom when
it appears. Again when Dolph is lost in the wilderness,
the surroundings are described in detail. In fact, Irving
devotes two consecutive paragraphs to the setting.

In the wilderness, Dolph,like Rip Van Winkle,
finds himself in a kind of neutral ground. Though we
are tempted to think it is all a dream, since Dolph did
dream the beginning, the description of the setting con—

vinces us of the reality of his whereabouts and the events

 

which follow. With his arrival in Albany, our doubts of
the reality of events are again countered by the detailed
description of Antony's house which parallels the detailed
rendition of the ghost house. These details, of course,
help to reinforce the already established character of
Antony. But also, the description gives a reality to

the sequence of events experienced by Dolph. The house

is real so we are more willing to believe that, despite
its mysterious quality, the voyage, too, was real. In
addition the warm and cheery atmosphere of Antony's house

is noted by Dolph, who "could not help continually comparing

175

the free, open-hearted cheeriness of this establishment,
with the starveling, sordid, joyless housekeeping, at
Doctor Knipperhausen's" (p. 435). The contrast in the
atmospheres of the two houses symbolically emphasizes
Dolph's movement from the unhappiness of poverty to the
joy and security of wealth.

The characterization of Dolph is one of Irving's
most successful achievements. Dolph is a realistically
portrayed character who is rendered in depth. (Only a
few other Irving characters equal or surpass him.) We
gather information about Dolph in several ways. He is
first introduced to us in a direct description as the
widow's only son. "He was the child of her old age; but
could hardly be called the comfort, for, of all unlucky
urchins, Dolph Heyliger was the most mischievous" (p. 376).
This appraisal is reinforced by the comments of towns-

people.

In a word, he had not reached his fourteenth year
before he was pronounced, by all the neighborhood,
to be a "wicked dog, the wickedest dog in the
street!" Nay, one old gentleman, in a claret-
colored coat, with a thin red face, and ferret
eyes, went so far as to assure Dame Heyliger,
that her son would, one day or other, come to

the gallows! (p. 377)

Yet we are assured that "notwithstanding all this, the
poor old soul loved her boy" (p. 377). We also learn
about Dolph as an employee of the doctor, for Dolph
fears the doctor. When he first meets the doctor,

Knipperhausen looks Dolph over carefully, and "the

 

 

 

176

poor lad's heart quailed as these great glasses glared

on him like two full moons" (p. 380). Despite his fear,

however, Dolph's temperament does not improve at the

doctor's. "He daily grew more and more untractable,

and lost favor in the eyes, both of the doctor and the

housekeeper" (p. 384). Dolph's love of adventure is

demonstrated when he offers to protect the haunted

house, and his determination and courage are evident,

when in spite of his fear, he returns more than one ’
night. This love of adventure and willingness to face u
the unknown are reinforced when he boards the mystery

vessel and later when he makes his way through the

wilderness.

 

We are told early in the story of Dolph's

accomplishments.

He was, for instance, a sure marksman, and won all

the geese and turkeys at Christmas—holidays. He

was a bold rider; he was famous for leaping and

wrestling; he played tolerably on the fiddle;

could swim like a fish; and was the best hand in

the whole place at fives or ninepins. (p. 388)
Later, when he joins Vander Heyden, we learn that Dolph
never had felt “so completely in his element; never had
he met with any thing so completely to his taste as this
wild, hap—hazard life" (p. 430). Vander Heyden is
delighted with Dolph and outraged that his skills were

wasted in his job with the doctor.

But to think that a young fellow like Dolph, of such
wonderful abilities, who could shoot, fish, run,

 

177

jump, ride, and wrestle, should be ogliged to roll
pills, and administer juleps for a living-—'twas
monstrous! (p. 430)
Thus, it is in the wilderness that Dolph finds his place,
gains his confidence, and develops his natural abilities.
Wilderness is for Dolph a kind of testing grounds on which
he undergoes an initiation into manhood. Antony is his
mentor for this experience, encouraging and reassuring
him.
"This is your true life, my boy!" said he, slapping v
Dolph on the shoulder; "a man is never a man till he H
can defy wind and weather, range woods and wilds,
sleep under a tree, and live on bass-wood leaves!" '

(p. 414)

Following this reassurance Dolph hears the tale of "The

 

Storm—Ship." It is not an accident that this supernatural
tale occupies the center of "Dolph Heyliger," and is nar—
rated in the midst of Dolph's initiation. Like the bowlers
in "Rip Van Winkle," the meaning and significance of the
ship is never clearly resolved. Instead the selection is
filled with various theories and speculations as to what
ship it is and why it has appeared. But except for the
fact that she appears after storms no one knows her true
identity. Dolph, however, though he too appears aban-
doned in the wilderness after a storm, does gain an
identity. He is not suited to the role forced upon him
as a doctor's apprentice. (Unlike Robin in "My Kinsman
Major Molineaux“ who comes from the country to the city

to gain his manhood, Dolph journeys from town, through

 

 

 

178

wilderness to the city to gain his identity.) It is not
until he reaches Albany and falls in love with Marie that
we see evidence of his internal development. For though
Dolph enjoys the cheeriness of Vander Heyden's mansion
and loves the daughter of the house, he knows that he

cannot aspire for her hand. He knows he will have to

leave.

To linger here would be folly; he should only get

deeper in love; and for a poor varlet, like himself,

to aspire to the daughter of the great Heer Vander 3
Heyden—-it was madness to think of such a thing! The i
very kindness that the girl had shown towards him 4
prompted him, on reflection, to hasten his departure; ‘
it Would be a poor return for the frank hospitality

of his host, to entangle his daughter's heart in an

injudicious attachment. (p. 436)

This decision is followed immediately by an ironic nar—

 

rative comment that Dolph, like other young men, might
change his mind in the morning. But such indecision is
never confirmed for Dolph's dreams give him new hope.
Despite the narrative irony, however, Dolph's realization
that he is in no position to seek the hand of Marie does
indicate that he is learning to face the difficulties
and complexities of his position. It is immediately
after this recognition that he also recognizes the face
of the man in the portrait in his chambers. It is the
phantom of the haunted house. Dolph has his second
dream, again of the well and in the morning when Antony
explains the identity of the man in the portrait, Dolph

realizes that he has also found his own identity as the

 

179

rightful heir to Killian Vander Spiegel's treasure. The
change is not a drasticone, but the Dolph who returns
home is a more mature Dolph. He acknowledges his
previous faults as a son and promises to reform.

To the humble dwelling of Peter de Groodt, then, did
Dolph turn his steps. On his way thither, he recalled
all the tenderness and kindness of his simple-hearted
parent, her indulgence of his errors, her blindness
to his faults; and then he bethought himself of his
own idle, harum—scarum life. "I've been a sad scape—
grace," said Dolph, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"I've been a complete sink—pocket, that's the truth
of it. "But," added he briskly, and clasping his
hands, "only let her live—-only let her live--and
I'll show myself indeed a son!" (p. 442)

Keeping this promise is, of course, much easier
for Dolph once he finds the treasure. He wisely shows
restraint and control by not announcing the discovery

"but managed to bring his property into use without

 

exciting surprise and inquiry" (p. 446). Once his

wealth is secured, his social success is assured. His

subsequent social and charitable contributions are

satirized by the narrator.
Thus did Dolph Heyliger go on, cheerily and pros-
perously, growing merrier as he grew older and
wiser, and completely falsifying the old proverb
about money got over the devil's back; for he made
good use of his wealth, and became a distinguished
citizen, and a valuable member of the community.
(p. 447)

Though Dolph's behavior is in part satirized, it is more

the society which is satirized by the narrator.

The unity of "Dolph Heyliger" is evident after

even a first reading. The use of the four framing stories,

 

180

the character development of Dolph, the repetition of the
appearance of the phantom and the dreams, the parallel
use of two houses, the employment of the pattern of
journey and return, and the alternate emphasis on focus
and then summary, all help unify the story, making it one
of Irving's most skillful works.

It is interesting that "Dolph" appears late in

Bracebridge Hall. Having written it, Irving must have

 

become intrigued with the possibilities of the form, for
he bases the entire structure of his next collection on
the framing device. Each of the four parts of Tales of

a Traveller is a framing story.

 

"Strange Stories" which comprises Part I of Tales

of a Traveller is one of Irving's most complex framing

 

 

stories. It is narrated by more than one person, though
the entire selection is attributed to "a nervous gentle—
man," the same man who narrated "The Stout Gentleman" in

Bracebridge Hall. Despite the use of multiple narrators,

 

however, the collection has a specific unity and form.
"The Great Unknown," the first of the nine selections,
is devoted to denying that the nervous gentleman is the
author of Waverley.

The framing story begins with "The Hunting Dinner"
told by the nervous gentleman. This opening selection
cannot be considered a short story though as a framing

story which incorporates several other tales, it does

 

 

 

 

181

possess an interesting and complex structure that is

independent in form from the other parts of Tales of a

 

Traveller. Brought together by a hunting dinner at the

 

hall of "a worthy fox-hunting old Baronet" (p. 17), the
nervous gentleman and other guests are forced by a sudden
storm to stay overnight. To pass the time they exchange
ghost stories. This format of a company of people
gathered together exchanging stories is a favorite of

Irving and is repeated in three parts of Tales of a

 

Traveller.

 

In form, the individual selections of Part I

differ considerably from the sketches in Bracebridge Hall

 

and The Sketch Book. In nearly all the selections of

 

Tales there is a heavy emphasis on plot and conflict,

 

though there is no selection which exhibits the technical
craftsmanship of "Rip Van Winkle."
Tone is probably the most emphasized element in
Part I. The framing story begins in a rather neutral
tone with some evidence of the narrator's "gentle"
humor and irony. Describing the post dinner discussion
which slowly dies, the nervous gentleman makes the follow—
ing observations:
Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so
bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and
none kept on their way but certain of those long—
winded prosers, who, like short—legged hounds, worry

on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are
sure to be in at the death. (p. 18)

 

 

 

182

The comfortable humor of this opening selection appro-
priately prepares us for the next three selections which
are in fact burlesques of ghost stories. In "The Adventure
of My Uncle" told by the "old gentleman with the drooping
lid," there is an aborted story within another aborted
story. The uncle visits a friend (the Marquis) at his
chateau. A storm sets in as the uncle is shown to his
chamber which "had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to
strike any one who had read romances with apprehension
and foreboding" (p. 27). Shortly after midnight he is
"roused by the sound of footsteps, slowly pacing along
the corridor." Into his room glides a female figure "all
in white" (p. 29). The uncle thinks about the incident
but is relatively unaffected by it and eventually turns
his back to the door and falls asleep. The next morning
while examining the portraits in the Marquis gallery, he
recognizes a picture of the lady who was in his room. He
asks who she is and the Marquis tells the story of the
Duchess who was locked up during the civil war and escaped
one stormy night to the chateau sleeping in the same
chamber as the uncle. In fact the Marquis explains that
last night was the anniversary of her visit. Just as

he is about to explain "a strange, mysterious, inexplicable
occurrence" (p. 36), the Marquis pauses. He starts again
and then abruptly cuts off the story and changes the

subject. In the same abrupt fashion the narrator with

 

 

 

 

 

 

183

the drooping lid also ends his story. Neither story is
resolved. If we examine the form, we find that there
are three stories. There is the story of the hunting
party gathered together on a stormy night, one of whom
tells a story about his uncle which occurs on a stormy
night and that story leads to another story told by the
uncle's host. In each of the stories someone experiences
a mysterious occurrence. We have thus worked our way
through three frames, but at the point where an expla-
nation is expected, the two inner stories are abruptly
ended. Not even a partial explanation is provided. In
response to the uncle's story, the nervous gentleman
notes:
There was a murmur round the table, half of merriment,
half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the
old gentleman had really an afterpart of his story
in reserve; but he sipped his wine and said nothing
more; and there was an odd expression about his
dilapidated countenance which left me in doubt
whether he were in drollery or earnest. (p. 38)

The burlesque is, of course, aimed partly at the
poor construction of the story which allows for no satis—
factory resolution, but is also aimed at the narrative
style. The narrator devotes an undue amount of time
describing the Marquis and his chateau. He readily
admits and in fact asserts that "all this has nothing
to do with my story" (p. 26). The Marquis too wanders

from the topic by offering to describe the family back-

ground of the duchess. We are saved only by the

 

 

 

 

 

 

184

interruption of the Uncle which brings the Marquis back
to the main topic. The reiteration of the stormy night
of course is also a kind of burlesque of typical settings
for ghost stories—-a setting which Irving himself heavily
relied upon.

"The Adventure of My Aunt" provides an effective
contrast to the preceding tale, though it too is a bur-
lesque. Rather than giving no explanation for mysterious
events, the narrator provides a concrete, realistic
explanation. Told by the "knowing gentleman, with the
flexible nose," the tale describes a widowed aunt who
goes to live in a house "in a lonely, wild part of the
country, among the gray Derbyshire hills, with a murderer
hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view" (p. 40).
She begins to sense something is wrong when she retires
for the night.

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move
behind her. She looked hastily round, but there was
nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted
portrait of her poor dear man, hanging against the
wall. (p. 41)
Dismissing the incident with a sigh, she is startled to
hear an answering sigh, and at the same time "she thought
she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move" (p. 41).
Another look and she is sure it moved. " . . . it seemed
to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband
to do when living!" Rather than being unduly frightened

or surrendering to various mysterious explanations for

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

185

the occurrence, the aunt summons her servants and has them
remove the painting from the wall and (to the surprise of
the eager ghost story fan) behind the picture we discover
"a round—shouldered, black—bearded varlet, with a knife
as long as my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen—
leaf" (p. 43). Thus, not only is there no ghostly pos-
sibilities, there is in fact, no ghost, as the inquisitive
gentleman obtusely observes.

"But I don't see, after all," said the inquisitive

gentleman, "that there was any ghost in this last

story." (p. 44)
To further the humor we find not a ghost who frightens
others but a surrogate ghost who is himself frightened
and trembling. In addition to the typical resolution
pattern of the ghost story which is burlesqued in this
selection, the hunting party is also satirized, particu—
larly the inquisitive gentleman who is always anxious
for pat explanations. His eagerness is apparent when,
after only a few lines of the aunt's story have been
delivered, he prematurely inquires whether it was her
husband's ghost which appeared to the aunt.‘ Later when
the varlet is discovered behind the picture the inquisi-
tive gentleman naively asks, "Well, and who was he? (No
ghost, I suppose" (p. 43). Not satisfied with the story's
ending the gentleman pursues his questioning seeking all
the details of the affair and finally concludes that

there were not any ghosts in the story after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

186

The third story is perhaps more a tale of fantasy
and sexual exploits than a ghost story. The sexual impli—
cations are humorously wound up with the action and sym-
bolism of the story and are intensified by the unpercep-
tive questions and remarks of the inquisitive gentleman.
The selection is narrated by an Irish Captain about his
grandfather who was "a bold dragoon." The narrator con—
tinually wanders from the topic, bringing himself back
with comments such as "Well, my grandfather, as I said,"
and "as I was saying." There are five of these in the
first two paragraphs alone. The plot of the story is a
combination ghost story and sexual adventure story. The
sexual implications are, however, hidden under the facade
of the ghost story. The grandfather, who "had always a
knack of making himself understood among the women" (p. 46),
stops at an inn where he is initially refused a room. The
refusal is partially caused by the landlord's dislike of
the dragoon's "saucy eye." Eventually he is offered a
room which is supposedly haunted and he accepts it. His
sexual interests are again evident by his treatment of
the women. "So he blarneyed the landlord, kissed the
landlord's wife, tickled the landlord's daughter, chucked
the bar-maid under the chin" (p. 49). Later he "whispered
something to the girl which made her laugh, and give him

a good-humored box on the ear." The narrator conbluded

 

 

 

 

 

 

187

that “there was nobody knew better how to make his way
among the petticoats than my grandfather.“ (p. 49)

Once settled in his room, the grandfather
undresses for bed. To prepare us further for the events
which follow, the tongs in the fireplace are described as
seeming "to be making love to the shovel in the chimney
corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear" (p. 51).
Once in bed the grandfather becomes overheated, another
sexual suggestion this time not so buried. He leaves
the bed to go “strolling about the house" to "cool him—
self" (p. 52). The exchange between the narrator and the
inquisitive gentleman at this point in the story is espe-
cially humorous. The inquisitive gentleman completely
misses the sexual implications of the dragoon's behavior.
When the narrator explains that his grandfather's bed
was too hot, the gentleman interrupts:

"May be the maid had warmed it too much?" said

the curious gentleman, inquiringly.

"I rather think the contrary," replied the Irish—
man. "But be that as it may, it grew too hot for my
grandfather."

"Faith, there's no standing this any longer,"
says he. So he jumped out of bed and went strolling
about the house.

"What for?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Why to cool himself, to be sure——or perhaps to
find a more comfortable bed——or perhaps-~But no matter'
what he went for-—he never mentioned--and there's no
use in taking up our time in conjecturing." (p. 52)

When the grandfather returns to his room he finds all his

furniture dancing. "By the light of the fire he saw a

pale weazen-faced fellow, in a long flannel gown and a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

188

tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the
fire with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from
which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered
my grandfather" (pp. 52-53). To the tune of the music
the furniture dances round the room.
The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and
bobbed his head and his night-cap about like mad.
By degrees the dancing mania seemed to seize upon
all the other pieces of furniture. The antique,
long-bodied chairs paired off in couples and led
down a country dance; a three-legged stool danced
a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by its super-
numerary limb; while the amorous tongs seized the
shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the
room in a German waltz. (p. 53)
The symbolic explanation for the dancing furniture is
of course full of sexual implications. The realistic
explanation is provided by the landlady's daughter,
who recollects that "the last person who had dwelt in
that chamber was a famous juggler who died of St. Vitus
dance and had no doubt infected all the furniture" (p. 55).
Symbolically, the dance suggests the sexual encounter
between the landlady's daughter and the dragoon. When
the dragoon-falls during the dance, the landlord "hurried
up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his
haste his daughter had arrived at the scene of uproar
before him" (p. 54). The implication is that the
daughter was in fact "dancing" with the dragoon.

And the humor of the dragoon's sexual exploits is

made even more clear by the narrator's response

 

 

 

 

 

189

to the inquisitive gentleman's query about whether or not

the grandfather slept in his room again.
"That's more than I can tell. Where he passed the
rest of the night was a secret he never disclosed.
In fact, though he had seen much service, he was but
indifferently acquainted with geography, and apt to
make blunders in his travels about inns at night,
which it would have puzzled him sadly to account for
in the morning." (p. 55)

The humorous quality of these opening selections is

acknowledged by the hunting party when one old gentleman

observes that the "stories hitherto related had rather a

burlesque tendency" (p. 56).

It is not only the humor and burlesque which
make these opening tales successful and enjoyable to
read. In addition, Irving has skillfully controlled the
various elements of plot, conflict, characterization,
setting, and point of view. Though the elements are not
integrated in such a way as to qualify these opening

selections as full—fledged short stories, there is a

significant degree of narrative skill apparent.

Plot is heavily emphasized throughout Tales of a

Traveller, and the humor and interest of these opening
spoofs relies heavily on plot, unlike the plotless
sketches of Bracebridge Hall. Conflict in all three
tends to consist of obvious external struggles which
contrast fact and fiction, reality and supernatural.
The central characters undergo no searching internal

turmoil and usually are merely frightened, confused or

 

 

 

 

 

190

amused by the events occurring around them. The charac—
terization tends to be one dimensional, but still ade—
quately motivated to make the story at least partially
credible. The uncle is described as "a man not easily
frightened" (p. 29), and the events which follow verify
this. The aunt is described as "a lady of large frame,
strong mind, and great resolution: she was what might
be termed a very manly woman" (p. 39). Her actions too
demonstrate these qualities. The grandfather's sexual
exploits fulfill the behavior promised by his flirtations
and confidence with women.

Setting functions rather obviously in the first
two selections. The use of storms in the uncle's adventure
is one method of burlesque employed in the story and thus
contributes to its humor. The storm and the country house
of the aunt's story are then accepted a bit warily by the
reader. We are not altogether surprised by the twist in
the outcome of the story, that is, the realistic expla—
nation. It begins as a ghost story should, but being
conditioned by the first selection, we are prepared to
find a departure from the usual formula, despite the
use of a typical ghost story setting. And, of course,
part of the function of the setting is tied to the
narrator who in all three stories overemphasizes irrele-
vant details of the setting and frequently wanders from

the topic. In the dragoon's story the function of the

 

..

 

 

 

 

 

191

setting is obvious. The symbolic use of the furniture
in the haunted room is used to reinforce action, charac-
terization and theme.

Dialogue is used in all three selections to aid
characterization and to dramatize the action. In the
uncle's story the dialogue is limited to questions and
answers which lead to explanations. The dialogue in the
aunt's story is restricted to the hunting party rather
than the tale itself. The effect of the aunt's story,
in fact, relies heavily on the interaction between the
listeners and the storyteller. The inquisitive gentle—
man's persistent interruptions add humor as does the
comments made by other listeners. At one point in the
story when we are told that the aunt was setting her hair
and thought she saw the eye of the portrait move, one of
the listeners interrupts:

She ascribed these sounds to the wind oozing through
the rat—holes of the old mansion, and proceeded
leisurely to put her hair in papers, when, all at

once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of
the portrait move.
"The back of her head being towards it!" said
the storyteller with the ruined head, —-"good!"
"Yes, sir!" replied dryly the narrator, "her
back being towards the portrait, but her eyes
fixed on its reflection in the glass." (p. 41)

These exchanges add not only humor to the tales but help
to weave the framing story and the individual tales
together. In the dragoon's story the humorous exchanges

between the narrator and the inquisitive gentlemen are

 

 

 

 

 

 

192

more frequent and more subtle than in the previous stories.

In fact much of the success of the dragoon's story rests
on these exchanges.

The function of the narrator varies in each of

the stories though it can be said of the entire Tales of a

Traveller that the narrator is further removed, less
physically apparent, than in either The Sketch Book or
Bracebridge Hall. In these stories Irving three times
removes himself from the tales. Crayon is responsible
for the entire volume, The Nervous Gentleman for Part I,
and three separate narrators for each of the opening
three stories. This combination allows for considerable
variety in tone, emphasis, form, and point of view. In
the first story a light tone is established by the nar—
rator's wandering off the topic. Rather than being a
weakness, this wandering is an effective technique to
achieve humor. In fact each of the narrators seems
appropriately suited to the tale he tells. The narrator
of the uncle's story is "an old gentleman, one side of
whose face was no match for the other" (p. 22).
The eye—lid drooped and hung down like an unhinged
Window-shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head
was dilapidated, and seemed like the Wing of a house
shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side was well
stuffed with ghost stories. (p. 22)
Just as the face of the narrator is off balance so his
story is off balance. Half of his story, the resolution,

is never revealed. The narrator of the aunt's story is

 

 

 

 

 

193

rather matter-of-fact in his attitude. He is not easily
irritated by the pestering questions of the inquisitive
gentleman, nor is he caught off balance when the old
gentleman points out that the aunt must have had eyes

in the back of her head. Like his aunt he is practical.
His dispatch of the story parallels his aunt's handling
of the "mysterious" situation. Finally, the tale of the
dragoon, a chapter taken out of his own family history,
reveals not only the grandfather's sexual sportiveness,
but the narrator's capacity to sport and jest.

Thus, what Irving has done is to interrelate the
framing story and the individual tales so that each rein-
forces and illuminates the other. The narrators are in
part characterized by the tale they tell and in part by
the conversations they have with the hunting party. In
addition they are characterized by the direct description

of them which is offered by the nervous gentleman.

The fourth tale of Part I, "Adventure of the
German Student," acts as a pivotal story between the
humor and lightness of the opening three selections and
the seriousness of the last three. These last three are
also skillfully integrated with the framing story. We
move from a spoof of form, narration, plot, and atmosphere
in the first two selections to a humor which is more
thematically oriented in the third selection. In the

fourth selection the emphasis is again thematic, though

 

 

 

 

 

 

194

instead of dealing with the sporting, humorous aspects of
sexual adventure, the tale of the German student concen—
trates on the darker more frightening aspects of love.
It in fact deals with the psychological possibility of
falling in love with death.
The link between the third and fourth selection

offers some preparation for the switch in mood.

There was a little pause after this rigmarole Irish

romance, when the old gentleman with the haunted

head observed, that the stories hitherto related

had rather a burlesque tendency. "I recollect an

adventure, however," added he, "which I heard of

during a residence at Paris, for the truth of which

I can undertake to vouch, and which is of a very

grave and singular nature." (p. 56)
This introduction combined with the position of the story
(following the humor of the opening selections) gives it
both some credibility and some shock value. It begins
with the usual trappings of a ghost story-~a storm at
night--and then focuses on the typical mysterious
personage, in this case a young student who thinks
that there is "an evil influence hanging over him; an
evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him and ensure
his perdition" (p. 57). Ironically enough it perhaps is
easier to accept these premises because of the previous
selections. They poked fun at the tradition, exaggerated
its weaknesses, but once this has been accomplished (our
doubts are dispelled in the former laughter) we can or

are willing to accept a well—written story in the ghost

tale tradition. To help reinforce the seriousness of the

 

 

 

 

 

195

tale, Irving allows no interruptions from the inquisitive
gentleman except at the very end. Also, the narrator is
relatively detached. He tells the tale in the first
person but he neither participates in the story nor does
he include himself as part of the central focus.

The plot of "Adventure of the German Student"
is relatively simple. The student, Gottfried Wolfgang,
leads a secluded life of intense study which eventually
affects his mind and body. "His health was impaired; his
imagination diseased" (p. 57). He believes that he is
being influenced by an evil spirit. He goes to Paris at
the beginning of the revolution and spends hours in the
libraries. "He was, in a manner, a literary ghoul,
feeding in the charnel-house of decayed literature"
(p. 58). In spite of his isolation, or perhaps because
of it, he is a "passionate admirer of female beauty" and
he repeatedly dreams of a particular beautiful woman.. One
night on his way home during a storm he sees a "shadowy
form" at the foot of the scaffold. When he approaches
closer, he discovers that she is the woman in his dreams.
He offers her shelter and once they are in his lodgings,
he, "in the infatuation of the moment," declares his
passion for her and pledges himself to her "forever"
(p. 63). He leaves her the next morning to find larger
apartments and when he returns, he finds her dead. The

police are summoned and they inform him that the woman

 

 

 

 

 

 

196

had been guillotined the previous morning. He bursts into
a frenzy declaring that the fiend has taken possession of
him and eventually he becomes distracted and dies in a
mad—house. The narrator ends the tale by assuring the
inquisitive gentleman that the story is true.

"I had it from the best authority. The student told

it me himself. I saw him in a mad-house in Paris."
(p. 64)

The story verges on being a complete short story,
the major weaknesses being a lack of adequate dramati-
zation and internal conflict. Much of the story is "told"
rather than dramatically revealed. Dialogue between
Wolfgang and the mysterious female stranger helps to
advance the theme and the plot but does only a little
to dramatize the story. The tale works quite effectively
as a kind of psychological parable warning of the dangers
of introspection and alienation. Shutting himself off
from the world the student eventually ends up pledging
himself forever to death, for the woman is an apparition
of his introspective mind. The supernatural-psychological
quality of the story is similar to what Hawthorne later
does in several of his tales.

The last three selections in Part I are inter-
related and functionally integrated with the framing story
(as are the last three selections in Parts III and IV).

The "Adventure of the Mysterious Picture" brings

us back once again to the hunting party and the nervous

 

 

 

 

 

 

197

gentleman resumes his function as narrator and also becomes
the central figure in the selection. After a discussion
of the previous tales the Baronet refers to a haunted room
which one of his guests will be sleeping in that very
night. Unknown to him, the nervous gentleman gets the
room and the major portion of the selection is devoted to
his uncomfortable and unpleasant experience in the room.
The effects of a painting hanging in the room are so psy—
chologically unnerving that at length he is forced to
abandon the room and sleep on the sofa downstairs. When
his retreat is exposed the following morning at breakfast,
he is soundly teased by the company until the Baronet
interrupts to offer the history of the picture.

The next selection, "Adventure of the Mysterious
Stranger," is narrated by the Baronet and introduces his
relationship with Ottavio who is the mysterious stranger.
We View Ottavio largely through the eyes of the Baronet.
But in the final selection, "The Story of the Young
Italian," we hear the history recorded and given to the
Baronet. Thus, once again we have moved into a multiple
frame arrangement, this time of a more serious mood.

The framing story of the nervous gentleman's experiences
in the room with the picture (a kind of serious variation
of the experiences of both the uncle and the aunt) prompts
the narrator (Baronet) to explain how he got the picture,

and thus, he tells a story within which there is another

 

 

 

198

story. Contrary to the opening three selections these

last three, though exaggerated,

are evidently intended
to be taken seriously.

The first of these three,

"Adventure of the Mys-
terious Picture,"

is the most technically skillful. It

makes effective use of the narrator's perceptions since
he is the central character.

In contrast to the narrative
distance of both the uncle's and aunt's story, the

sensations experienced by the nervous gentleman in his

room are rendered in detail. The experience begins with
ill—defined psychological reactions:

Some strange indefinite evil seemed hanging over me
which I could not avert; something terrible and
loathesome oppressed me which I could not shake off.
I was conscious of being asleep, and strove to rouSe
myself, but every effort redoubled the evil; until
gasping,

struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly
sprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke. (p. 67)

The narrator eventually identifies the picture as the

source of his apprehension. He attempts to avoid looking

at it, but finds that "its chilling, creeping influence

over my flesh and blood was redoubled" (p. 67). He

describes the visage as having an expression of agony,
"the agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace scowled

upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added to

its ghastliness" (p. 68).

A storm rages outside all this

time, and once the narrator is in bed, his imagination

operates in even more vivid detail.

 

 

 

 

 

199

The faintly lighted apartment had all the qualifi-
cations requisite for a haunted chamber.

It began
in my infected imagination to assume strange
appearances--the old portraits turned paler and
paler, and blacker and blacker; the streaks of
light and shadow thrown among the quaint articles

of furniture gave them more singular shapes and
characters. (p. 69)

When his fire goes out, the sense of oppression intensi—
fies.

The fire gradually went out,

and left the room in
darkness.

Still I had the idea of that inexplicable

countenance gazing and keeping watch upon me through
the gloom-—nay, what was worse,

the very darkness
seemed to magnify its terrors. It was like having
an unseen enemy hanging about one in the night.

Instead of having one picture now to worry me, I
had a hundred.

I fancied it in every direction.
(p. 70)

Once he leaves the room, however, he is released from the

influence and easily falls asleep on the sofa. Though
the external details in this selection are perhaps not

as vividly rendered as they are in a Poe story, they are

 

more effective and more immediately convincing than in

the opening selections of Part I.

The conflict in these last selections, however,

is similar to that of the opening tales.

Once again the
conflict is an external one.

The central character

struggles against the psychological influences of the

painting which he senses to be supernatural. In fact

in all the stories the central character struggles with

the mysterious or the supernatural, but in "Adventure of

the German Student" the external conflict can be Viewed

simply as a reflection of the student's internal

   

 

 

 

 

 

200

disturbance. An obvious plot story "The Mysterious

Picture" does have a clearly defined beginning, middle,
and end, but it cannot stand independently as a story

for its thematic resolution depends upon the two

selections which follow it.

In one sense "The Adventure of the Mysterious
Picture" is an introduction for the next selection,

"Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger," which is nar—
rated by the Baronet. He sketches his relationship
with Ottavio, how he first met him, and what he thought
of him. Because considerable attention is given to the

Venetian setting and the narrator's perceptions of the

young stranger, the piece reverts to the earlier style

of a Crayon character sketch. Once again the narrator
acts as a kind of outside observer, first seeing Ottavio
in the casino then following him. Later he watches

Ottavio whenever he encounters him at concerts and the

theater. Bit by bit he collects information about the

stranger and eventually the narrator asserts, "I gradually
edged myself into his acquaintance" (p. 80). The rest of

the selection is devoted to the narrator's attempt to

learn more about his new friend. The piece has almost
no dialogue; the events are described from a narrative

distance; and the behavior of Ottavio is lacquered in

romanticism. This selection, too, is not adequately

resolved though the plot line does provide an ending.

 

 

 

201

Ottavio leaves the picture and a written explanation with

the Baronet and disappears forever. Thus, in a more

 

serious repetition of the uncle's story, two tales in a
row end with partial explanations, each pointing to the

next for its full resolution.

Ottavio's Written explanation, "The Story of the
Young Italian" provides the final selection of Part I.
The piece does stand independently as a story, an auto-
biographical narration of Ottavio's earlier struggles 1
with adversity. But though the piece includes several
specific incidents and ample background information, it

nevertheless fails as a story. The narrative voice "tells"

rather than "shows." The reader is seldom directly

involved; there is little dialogue; and though we learn
a considerable amount about Ottavio, his actions and the

actions of others are often insufficiently motivated.
The piece is melodramatic, overly sentimental-—almost
gothic——in both plot and style. Ottavio's extreme

emotionalism is a typical example:

I showed when quite a child, an extreme sensibility.
Everything affected me violently. While yet an
infant in my mother's arms, and before I had learned
to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful
degree of anguish or delight by the power of music.

(p. 86)

In addition Ottavio's father demonstrates an extreme indif-

ference to his second son.

 

 

 

202

My father, as I have already said, never liked me-—
in fact, he never understood me; he looked upon me

as wilful and wayward, as deficient in natural
affection. (p. 87)

Later his father treats him cruelly. When Ottavio escapes

from the convent to which his father has sent him, his

father does not even recognize him.

I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my
father's presence; for the domestics scarcely knew
that there was such a being as myself in existence,
and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor.
Even my father entertained no recollection of my
person. I told him my name, threw myself at his
feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that
I might not be sent back to the convent. (pp. 91—92)

Such unnatural extremes of human behavior (though in the
gothic tradition) are indeed difficult to accept, par-

ticularly when so little motivation is offered. Some

evidence of Ottavio's willfulness and uncontrolled
passion is provided--he says later that he strikes a

servant——but his father's treatment of him strikes the

reader as being undeserVed.

Ottavio is thus made the victim of a cruel

father and later he is subject to cruel, largely

undeserved, twists of fate, the final blow being his

realization that his beloved has been tricked into

marrying another. His experiences are not tightly

organized into a plot, however. Instead one event

follows another in an even rhythm which makes the

story tedious to read. There is no central focus,

no incident which is more heavily emphasized than

 

 

 

 

 

 

203

another. Rather, we plod from one to the next, each

described in the same sentimental but detached narrative
voice. There is some tension created in the latter part
of the story, when Ottavio, after a long absence, returns
to find his beloved married to another. But even this

discovery makes him appear to be a victim of fate and
the murder of his rival, though it provides a sensational

plot resolution, does not offer any internal resolution
for Ottavio. It is interesting in a way, that Irving

ends the story at the point where a modern story might
begin, for it is after he has so irrevocably contributed

to his own damnation (by committing murder) that Ottavio's
internal struggle begins to take shape. Such an internal
struggle would provide interesting material for a short
story.

With the conclusion of Ottavio‘s story, we return
briefly to the framing story. The Baronet, acquiescing
to the company's wish, shows them a painting which they

suppose to be the mysterious painting, but in the final

paragraph we learn that he in fact has shown them another
painting.

I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and
did not choose that the memento of the poor Italian
should be made jest of. So I gave the housekeeper

a hint to show them all to a different chamber!

(p. 120)

 

 

 

 

204

With this final revelation Part I ends, having come full
circle back to the hunting party which opened the framing
structure.

It is true that "Strange Stories" has structural
weaknesses, but the selections demonstrate that Irving
was capable of considerable artistic control of the
elements of fiction. Even with its sometimes obvious

flaws, Tales of a Traveller promises Irving's further

 

artistic development. But his next collection fails

to fulfill that promise. Nothing in The Alhambra matches
the skill evident in the framing structure of Tales of a
Traveller, though the Spanish collection does contain two
selections, "A Ramble in the Hills," and "Governor Manco
and the Soldier" which are crudely constructed framing
stories.

"A Ramble in the Hills" might best be described
as a sketch containing an episodic series of legends, with
the entire selection acting as an introduction to a longer
tale which follows. In "Ramble" Irving walks in the hills
with his favorite guide Mateo who tells tales along the
way, for "there was scarce a rock, or ruin, or broken
fountain, or lonely glen, about which he had not some
marvellous story" (p. 237). The framing story is thus
unified by the setting. At least seven legends are
mentioned in the course of the walk, some of them only

briefly. An archway in the foundation of the Tower of

 

 

 

205

the Seven Floors is linked with Belludo, a legendary
headless horse who is pursued by six dogs. Some Moorish
bathing tanks remind Mateo of the tales of a hideous
Moor "who used to issue forth from the door in the

rock to entrap unwary bathers" (p. 238). Later the

two walkers pass the ravine of the jar so named ”because
a jar full of Moorish gold was found here in old times"
(p. 239). More legends of subterranean caves occupied
by Boabdil, and an iron pot filled with Moorish gold are
also briefly mentioned.

During the walk considerable attention is given
to the surrounding countryside. The mountains and the
setting sun are described several times and even the
"deep tones of the cathedral bell" (p. 240) are mentioned.
(Such frequent references to the setting help unify the
selection and provide a functional link with the legends.)
The "deepening twilight" encourages the walkers "to leave
this haunted ground" (p. 241), but not before Irving asks
about the fires of the ice gatherers in the darkening
distance. The fires plus the appearance of a funeral
procession prompts Mateo to relate the tale of Tio Nicolo,
the longest tale contained within the framing story. The
legend concerns an old ice gatherer who after falling
asleep on his mule, wakes to find himself outside-—not
Granada—-but another Moorish city. He watches as a

"hobgoblin army" of Moorish soldiers marches by. At the

 

 

206

rear of the procession between "two black Moorish horse—
men" rode the Grand Inquisitor of Granada. Tio calls to
the Inquisitor but his only response is to be struck from
his mule. When Tio recovers his senses, he finds himself
once again outside Granada. No one believes his story
though they take him more seriously later in the year
when the Grand Inquisitor dies.

The tale ends quickly and is folloWed by a brief
conversation between Mateo and Irving. The framing story
concludes with Irving claiming historical authenticity
for his legends which he says are collected and collated
in the longer legend following "Ramble."

What is disappointing about "A Ramble in the

 

Hills" is its weak structure as a framing story. Though

greatest attention is given to the legend of Tio Nicolo,

 

‘ there is little structural or thematic reason for focus-

I ing on this particular legend. And though aspects of the
setting trigger particular legends, there is little con—
nection made between these legends. Other than demon—
strating that the area is rich with legendary associations,
there seems to be little purpose or point to the selection.
It is only in the loosest sense then that the selection
can be considered a framing story. There is an external
sketch which incorporates several brief references to
other tales, one a little longer than the others, which

is narrated by a new person. The inner and outer sketches

 

. fi-p"—-—H_ ‘ ‘ ' .' ‘
' '5‘.
I 5
a!

A xiii

 

 

207

are connected by the use of setting and dialogue. But
these strengths are not enough to make the selection
successful as a framing story. Rather, "A Ramble in the
Hills" falls far short of "Strange Stories" and "Dolph
Heyliger."-

"Governor Manco and the Soldier" is the other
selection from The Alhambra which might be classified as
a framing story. The plot is more complicated than that
of many of the selections. It begins with the appearance
at the Alhambra of a strange soldier leading an Arabian
horse. When he announces that he has a mysterious tale
to tell, he is taken to the Governor who at the time is
being attended by his housekeeper's daughter, “a demure
dark—eyed damsel" (p. 330). Assured by the Governor that
the handmaid "is of great secrecy and discretion, and to
be trusted with any thing" (p. 331), the soldier tells his
tale in her presence. The tale, which is repeatedly
interrupted by comments and responses from the Governor,
begins the previous evening on a plain of Old Castile
which is two or three hundred miles distant from the
Alhambra. The soldier relates how he met a Moorish
soldier, shared his meal with him, and then the two
rode off together on the Moor's horse. The horse travels
as fast as lightning and soon they are in a cavern filled
with Moors on the side of a mountain. In the midst of all

the peOple is a throne occupied by Boabdil himself. The

 

 

208

soldier is informed that once every year on the eve of
St. John "spell—bound warriors sleeping from age to age"
(p. 337) are released from enchantment to pay homage to
Boabdil.- Sometime the warriors will be permanently
released and will accompany Boabdil when he regains his
throne in the Alhambra. The soldier flees the cavern on
the magic horse and in the rush of the multitude which is
also leaving, he is "thrown senseless to the earth"
(p. 339). He awakes to find himself on the hill outside
Granada. The tale ends with the soldier's advice to Manco
to wall up all the caves and entrances into the mountain.
The governor calls the tale a "cock—and—bull"

(p. 340) story and throws the soldier in the dungeon, first

 

relieving him of a purse of jewels. Jail does not alter

the good humor of the soldier, however; he plays his

 

guitar, charms the damsel, and becomes popular with the
common people. Eventually, the prisoner escapes. Missing
also are the damsel, the purse of jewels, and the Arabian
horse. Left behind is a "stout cudgel" and a note for
the Governor bearing the words: "A gift to Governor Manco,
from an Old Soldier" (p. 347).

One interesting aspect of this story is that
Governor Manco, the central character of the framing story,
is one of the central characters in the preceding selection
"The Governor and the Notary" in which he is characterized

as stubborn, self—centered, and determined to have his OWn

 

 

209

way. The reader brings this information to his reading of
"The Governor and the Soldier." The governor's actions
and words reinforce the initial impression and further
develop the ruler as lacking in self—perception and in
accurate judgement of those around him. In fact the
characterization of Manco is probably the most successful
aspect of the selection. Often we view him through the
ironic voice of the narrator, but that irony is supported
by the Governor's actions and words. Like the King in
the "Legend of the Arabian Astrologer," Manco is overly
confident of his own shrewdness and power, and like Aben
Habuz, his overconfidence and lack of perception lead to
his defeat. Rejecting the soldier's tale as hogwash,
Manco assumes that he is the soldier's mental superior.
Manco's physical and political superiority is enforced
when he throws the soldier in prison. So confident is
the governor, in fact, that he completely trusts the
housekeeper's daughter; so imperceptive is he, that he
is assured that she worships him. Ironically enough,
the soldier outwits the governor on all three counts.
Another effective technique used in the selection
is the dialogue, particularly in the opening scenes which
provide the selection with dramatic realism. The selection
begins with a conversation between the strange soldier
and the "testy old Corporal" (p. 328) who first encounters

him. This is followed by the longer discussion between

 

 

 

210

the soldier and Manco during which the inner tale is
introduced. The frequent interruptions by the governor
also help provide a dramatic integration of the two nar—
ratives.

Yet, despite these successful aspects of the
story, the reader who has read Irving at his structural
best in "Dolph" or "Strange Stories," is bound to be
disappointed by the inferior structure of the framing
stories in The Alhambra. These selections are neither
structurally nor thematically well-integrated with the
center tales. Instead it usually appears that Irving
simply tried to string together some legends with a
semblance of order. It is almost as if, after the
strongly negative critical reaction to Tales of a
Traveller, Irving abandoned any pretense of shaping
the structure of his selections. Rather he simply
relates a plot, a sketch of surroundings, or a legend.
His intent seems to be once again to relay a mood or
atmosphere, and to avoid any concentrated effort to
reshape the material into a well—unified story. Thus,
in "A Ramble Among the Hills" or "The Governor and the
Soldier" Irving relies on a loose, almost flimsy structure
to incorporate more than one legend. There is little
attempt to skillfully weave one legend with another to
form a new unified whole. In the story of Manco, even

the strength of characterization is not consistent, for

 

 

 

 

 

 

211

while the governor is adequately characterized, the plaus-
ibility and motivation of the soldier is weak. There is
little apparent reason for the soldier to come to the
Alhambra, or try to hoodwink the governor; nor is there
adequate indication that the soldier is, in fact, after
the damsel or had planned all along to win her aid and
attention. In fact, the conflict between the soldier and
the governor is not adequately motivated or developed.
Too often in these last framing stories, as in most of
the selections in The Alhambra, plausibility and realism
are sacrificed-—not for mood or effect——but simply for

the purpose of telling another legend.

 

 

 

 

 

CONCLUSION

With the publication of The Alhambra in 1832,
Irving ended both his long European sojourn and his major
efforts as a Writer of short fiction. Later in 1835 he

published The Crayon Miscellany which includes "Newstead

 

Abbey," a short collection of tales and sketches. In
1855 he published Wolfert's Roost, a collection of short
selections which had been written before 1824. (Neither
of these collections adds significantly to our under—
standing of Irving's short fiction.) Most of his pub-
lications after 1832 were longer, more historical, non—

fiction works including Astoria, Adventures of Captain

 

Bonneville, Life of Oliver Goldsmith, Mahomet and His

 

Successors, and the five volume Life of Washington which

 

he finished in 1859, the year of his death.

His turn to longer, non—fiction works does not
come as a surprise to the careful reader of his shorter
works. Scattered throughout the four volumes discussed
in this dissertation are Irving‘s apologies for the

lightness, simplicity, and briefness of various

 

 

 

 

 

213

selections. As if to compensate, Irving frequently makes
claims——half in jest, half in earnest——f0r the authenticity
of his stories or tales. And when information can be his—
torically validated, he takes great pains to do so in
footnotes, postscripts, and introductions. He seemed to
be haunted by a desire to produce what he considered a
"serious" work.

It is, however, probably not simply this desire
which alters his previous course of writing collections
of short works. The negative critical reaction to Tales
of a Traveller greatly upset Irving. Not only did Brace—

bridge Hall and Tales of a Traveller fail to match the

 

 

popularity of The Sketch Book, but the careful structure
of Tale§_was overlooked or misread by the critics. His
skill in organizing short works to form a larger, unified
whole went largely unnoticed. Instead, he was criticized
for lack of originality and lack of propriety in his
choice of subject matter.

It is no wonder that he saw little hope in the
further production of short selections. In 1826 he began
the Life of Columbus which Was published in 1828 followed

in 1829 with the publication of The Conquest of Granada.

 

His stay at the Alhambra in 1829 so enchanted him, how—
ever, that he was unable to resist one more try at working
with legends and tales. This time, though, he devoted

only a minimal effort to structure and design. His

 

 

 

 

 

 

214

primary purpose was simply to retell the legends and
recapture the magical atmosphere of Granada's past. He
dropped the use of a pseudonym and did little to develop
either character or conflict in the selections. Instead
of thematically or formally structuring the selections,
Irving, in The Alhambra, usually just tacks one tale on
to the next in the loosest fashion.

The modern reader often finds The Alhambra
tedious reading. Irving is able to capture the magic
atmosphere of the region, but atmosphere alone is not
sufficient to sustain a reader's interest through such
a long collection. Yet, ironically enough, Irving's
contemporaries warmly received the book. Having thus

placated his critics, Irving could end his endeavors

 

in short fiction with a sense of satisfaction.

Anyone who reads the volumes discussed in this
dissertation will be struck first, by the differences
in the quality of the selections, and second, by the
fact that those differences do not closely correspond
either to the chronological production of the works or
the development of the writer's abilities. Each volume
contains some of Irving's best and some of his worst work.
Despite this variety, however, it is possible to discern
in the first three volumes Irving's increasing concern
with the narrative point of View and the structure. The

divided focus between the narrator and the subject matter

 

 

 

 

 

215

in early sketches, such as, “The Wife,“ becomes even more
evident, but also more controlled, in "The Stout Gentle—
man." The difficulties which arise from such a division,

however, are resolved in "Dolph Heyliger, which ends
Irving's second collection. Here, by removing the nar—
rator's presence via a series of frame stories, Irving

avoids the difficulties of a divided focus. Finally,

in Tales of a Traveller Irving was able not only to unify

 

the focus of individual selections, but also to organize
several selections into a unified whole which functionally
integrated the narrator.

Of most interest to the modern reader, perhaps,
is not Irving's development as a writer, but the variety
of forms and techniques he employed, albeit sporadically.
This dissertation has imposed an order on these writings
for the purpose of examining them. It is clear that,
scattered throughout Irving's short fiction, are the
makings of the American short story. Setting, charac—
terization, conflict, tension, tone, point of View,
theme——all the elements that he only sometimes was able
to successfully integrate into a short story——are sep-
arately emphasized in one selection or another, and are
handled competently enough to point the way for other
writers.

As is usually the case with dissertations, this

examination is just a beginning. There are several kinds

 

 

 

 

 

 

216

of studies which might follow. Perhaps the most fruitful
path would be to ascertain how Irving's writings specifi—
cally influenced the major American writers who immediately
followed him——Poe, Hawthorne, Melville, and others. Or
perhaps it would be possible to trace the structural
devices employed in American short fiction since Irving.
Even more specifically, one could examine the development
of the first-person narrator in American short fiction.
Certainly there is still much to be learned about the

genesis and development of the American short story.

 

 

 

 

LIST OF REFERENCES

 

 

 

 

 

LIST OF REFERENCES

A. Irving's Work

Journal of Washington Irving, 1823-1824. Ed. Stanley T.
Williams. Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
1931.

Journal of Washington Irving, 1828, and Miscellaneous Notes
on Moorish Legend and History. Ed. Stanley T.
Williams. New York: American Book Company, 1937.

Journals and Notebooks. Vol. I, 1803—1806. Ed. Nathalia
Wright. The Complete Works of Washington Irving
Gen. Ed. Henry Pochmann. Madison: University
of Wisconsin Press, 1969.

The Journals of Washington Irving. 3 vols. Ed. William P.
Trent and George S. Hellman. Boston: The Bib—
liophile Society, 1919.

Letter From Sunnyside and Spain. Ed. Stanley T. Williams.
New Haven: Yale University Press, 1928.

 

The Letters of Washington Irving to Henry Brevoort. 2 vols.
Ed. George S. Hellman. New York: G. P. Putnam's

Sons, 1915.

Notes While Preparing Sketch Book, etc. . . . 1817. Ed._
Stanley T. Williams. New Haven: Yale UniverSity

Press, 1927.

Tour in Scotland, 1817, and Other Manuscript Notes, Ed._
Stanley T. Williams. New Haven: Yale Univer51ty

Press, 1927.

Washington Irving and the House of Murray: Geoffrey
Crayon Charms the British, 1817~1856. Ed. Ben
Harris McClary. Knoxville: The University of
Tennessee Press, 1969.

217

 

l2

218

Washington Irving andrthe Storrows: Letters from England
and the Continent, 1821-1828. Ed. Stanley T.
ngliams. Cambridge: Harvard University Press,

 

Washington Irving Diary: Spain, 1828-1829. Ed. Clara
Louisa Penney. New York: The Hispanic Society
of America, 1930.

 

Washington Irving's Contributions to The Corrector, Ed.
Martin Roth. Minneapolis: University of Minne—
sota Press, 1968.

The Western Journals of Washington Irving, Ed. John Francis
McDermott. Norman, Oklahoma: University of
Oklahoma Press, 1944.

The WOrks of Washington Irving, New Edition, Revised.
21 vols. New York: G. P. Putnam, 1860-1861.

B. Other References

Abel, Darrel. American Literature, Vol. I: Colonial and
Early National Writipg, New York: Barron's'
Educational Series, 1963.

Anonymous Review. "American Writers, No. IV." Black-
wood's Magazine, 17 (Jan., 1825), 60-67.

 

"Letters of Timothy Tickler, Esq., No. XVIII."
Blackwood's Magazine, 16 (Sept., 1824), 294-304.

 

Tales of a Traveller, Part I. The United States
Eiterary Gazette, I, No. 11 (Sept. 15, 1824), 161—

62.

 

The United

Tales of a Traveller, Part II.
12—(Oct., 1824),

States Literary Gazette, I, No.
177-78.

 

Parts III and IV. The

Tales of a Traveller,
I, No. 15 (Nov. 15,

United States Literary Gazette,
1824), 228-29.

 

"Irving's Headless Hessian: Prosperity

Bone Robert A.
’ Quarterly, 15

and the Inner Life." American
(1963), 167-75.

rt to Washingtee

 

Brevoort, Henry. Letters of Henry Brevoo
Irving. EdTCGeorge S. Hellman. New York: G. P.

Putnam's Sons, 1918.

 

 

 

 

219

Brooks, Van Wyck. The World of Washington Irving. New
York: E. P. Button and Co., 1944.

 

Bruner, Marjorie W. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: A

Mythological Parody." College English, 25
(1964), 278—83.

Burbank, Rex J., and Jack B. Moore. The Literature of
Early America. Columbus, Ohio: Charles E.
Merrill Books, Inc., 1967.

 

Canby, Henry Seidel. The Short Story in English. New
York: Henry Holt and Co., 1909.

 

Clendenning, John. "Irving and the Gothic Tradition."
Bucknell Review, 12, No. 2 (1964), 90—98.

Coad, Oral Sumner. "The Gothic Element in American Liter-
ature Before 1835." Journal of English and
Germanic Philology, 24 (1925), 72—93.

Everett, A. H. Review of The Alhambra. North American
Review, 35 (1832), 265—82.

Review of Bracebridge Hall. North American
Review, 15 (1822), 204—24.

. Review of The Sketch Book. North American
Review, 9 (1819), 322-56.

Guttmann, Allen. "Washington Irving and the Conservative
Imagination." American Literature, 36 (1964),

165-73.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "The Custom House." The Scarlet
Letter. The Centenary Edition of the Works of
Nathaniel Hawthorne. Vol. I, Gen. Ed. William
Charvat, Roy H. Pearce, and Claude M. Simpson.
Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1962.

An American Study,

Hedges, William L. Washington Irving:
The Johns

1802-1832. Baltimore, Maryland:
Hopkins Press, 1965.

Heiman, Marcel. "Rip Van Winkle: A Psychoanalytic Note
on the Story and Its Author." American Imago,
16 (1959), 3—47.

' ' ' Es uire:
Hellman George Sidney. Washington IrVin ,
I Ambassador at Large from the New World to the

Old. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1925.

 

 

’x

220

Hoffman, Daniel. Form and Fabel in American Fiction

Irving,

 

New York: Oxford University Press, 1961.

Pierre M. The Life and Letters of Washington
Irv1ng. 4 vols. New York: G. P. Putnam's
Sons, 1864.

Jeffrey, Francis. Review of Bracebrid e Hall. Edin-
burgh Review, 37 (1822), 337—50. .

Leary,

. Review of The Sketch Book. Edinburgh
ReView, 34 (1820), 160—76.

Lewis. Washington Irving. American Writers, No. 25.
Minneapolis: UniverSity of Minnesota Press, 1963.

 

 

 

LeFevre, Louis. "Paul Bunyan and Rip Van Winkle." Yale
Review, 36 (1946), 66-76.

Lloyd, Francis V. "Irving's Rip Van Winkle." Explicator,
4, No. 4 (1946), 26.

Martin, Terence. "Rip, Ichabod, and the American Imagi—
nation." American Literature, 31 (1959), 137—49.

Mengeling, Marvin E. "Characterization in 'Rip Van
Winkle.'" The English Journal, 53, No. 9 (1964),
643—46.

Nye, Russel Blaine.

Orians,

Parrington, Vernon Louis.

Pattee,

Payne,

Peden,

"Structure and Tone in 'Rip Van Winkle'; The
Irony of Silence." Discourse, 9 (1966), 457—63.

The Cultural Life of the New Nation,
1776—1830. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1960.

B. Harrison. A Short History of American Liter-
ature. New York: F. S. Crofts and Co., 1940.

Main Currents in American
Vol. II: The Romantic Revolution in

 

 

Thought.
America. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co.,
1927.

The Development of the American Short

Fred Lewis.
Harper and Brothers, 1923.

Story. New York:

 

William Morton. Leading American Essayists. New

York: Henry Holt and Co., 1910.

William. The American Short Story: Front Line in
the Defense of Literature. Boston: Houghton

Mifflin Co., 1964.

 

 

 

221

Pochmann, Henry A. "Irving's German Sources in The Sketch
Book.’ Studies in Philology, 27 (1930), 477-507.

 

. "Irving's German Tour and Its Influence on His
Tales." PMLA, 45 (1930), 1150—1187.

. Washington Irving. New York: American Book
Company, 1934.

 

Reichart, Walter A. Washington Irving and Germany. Ann
Arbor, Michigan: University of Michigan Press,
1957.

 

Rodes, Sara P. "Washington Irving's Use of Traditional
Folklore." Southern Folklore Quarterly, 20
(1956), 143-53.

Ross, Danforth. The American Short Story. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1961.

 

Simison, Barbara D. "Washington Irving's 'My Uncle.'"
Yale University Library Gazette, 38 (1964),
86-91.

Snell, George. "Washington Irving: A Revaluation."

Modern Language Quarterly, 7 (1946), 303—10.

Spiller, Robert E. The Cycle of American Literature: An
Essay in Historical Criticism. New York: The

Free Press, 1967.

, et a1. Literary History of the United States.
3 vols. New York: The MacMillan Co., 1948.

"The Genesis of the Rip Van Winkle Legend.".

Thom son J.
p ' 617—22.

Harper's Monthly Magazine, 67 (1883),

Washington Irving: Moderation Dis—

Wagenknecht, Edward. _
Oxford UniverSity Press, 1962.

played. New York:

West, Ray B. The Short Story in America, 1900—1950.
Chicago: Henry Regnery Co., 1952.

The Life of Washington Irving.

Williams Stanley T. _
I Oxford UniverSity Press, 1935.

2 vols. New York:
Wetzel, George. "Irving's Rip Van Winkle." Explicator,
10, No. 8 (1952), 54.

Woodward, Robert H. "Dating the Action of 'Rip Van
Winkle.'" New York Folklore Quarterly, 15

(1959), 70.

 

 

 

 

222

Young, Philip. "Fallen From Time: The Mythic Rip Van
Winkle." Kenyon Review, 22 (1960), 547-73.

 

 

 

 

 

 

APPENDIX

 

 

 

 

APPENDIX

A. "The Balcony" (The Alhambra)

"The Balcony" emphasizes Irving's delight in
watching others. He refers to the balcony which is on
the Hall of Ambassadors as an observatory where ue "used
often to take [his] seat, and consider not merely the
heaven above but the earth beneath" (p. 117). What he
sees is "a moving picture of Spanish life and character,
which [he] delighted to study." His role is further
emphasized when he compares himself to an astronomer,
acknowledging that he too had a pocket size telescope
which he used to aid his vision.

I was thus, in a manner, an invisible observer, and,
without quitting my solitude, could throw myself in
an instant into the midst of society--a rare advantage
to one of somewhat shy and quiet habits, and fond,
like myself, of observing the drama of life without
becoming an actor in the scene. (p. 118)
Not only does he openly admit his preference to remain a
detached observer but he also confesses that rather than
learning factual history or listening to Mateo's gossip,

he prefers to create his own imaginative stories about

the people.

223

 

 

 

 

 

224

I preferred, however, to form conjectural histories
for myself, and thus would sit for hours, weaving,
from casual incidents and indications passing under
my eye, a whole tissue of schemes, intrigues, and
occupations of the busy mortals below. There was
scarce a pretty face or a striking figure that I
daily saw, about which I had not thus gradually
framed a dramatic story, though some of my characters
would occasionally act in direct opposition to the
part assigned them, and disconcert the whole drama.
(pp. 118-19)

B. "The Generalife" (The Alhambra)

 

Crayon's preoccupation with imagination and his
detached observation as narrator are again underscored in
the sketch "The Generalife" which acts as a short two-page
introduction to a longer legend. High in the towers of
the Generalife, a legendary palace, Irving once again
watches the life beneath him.

Here I had an opportunity of witnessing those scenes
which painters are fond of depicting about southern
palaces and gardens. It was the saint's day of the
count's daughter, and she had brought up several of
her youthful companions from Granada, to sport away
a long summer's day among the breezy halls and bowers
of the Moorish palaces. (p. 201)
Later, sitting in an "open gallery or colannade commanding
a vast prospect," Irving describes the scene before him
as a "dreamy world, all glimmering to the eye in summer
sunshine" (p. 201). The sights, sounds, and the weather
all have "a witching effect upon the mind," which of

course, establishes the atmosphere for the legend which

follows.

 

 

 

 

 

225

C. "Love Symptoms" (Bracebridge Hall)

 

"Love Symptoms" picks up a secondary love theme

of Bracebridge Hall, the relationship between Lady Lilly-

 

craft and the general. Once again Crayon as observer is
more inactive than what he observes. .Prompted by Master
Simon's comments, Crayon describes what he has seen
between Lady Lillycraft and the general.

I have, indeed, noticed a growing attention and
courtesy in the veteran towards her ladyship; he
softens very much in her company, sits by her at
table, and entertains her with long stories about .
Seringapatam, and pleasant anecdotes of the Mulli— {
gatawney club. (p. 109)

 

Crayon refers to himself five times in the first two para—
graphs. The entire sketch is composed of four or five
examples of the behavior of the couple, each incident
observed by Crayon. Each, he feels, demonstrates the
affection between the couple. In the incident which

ends the sketch, Crayon is a passive participant but

an active observer.

There is still another circumstance which inclines

me to give very considerable credit to Master Simon's
suspicions. Lady Lillycraft is very fond of quoting
poetry, and the conversation often turns upon it, on
which occasions the general is thrown completely out.
It happened the other day that Spenser's Fairy Queen
was the theme for the great part of the morning, and
the poor gentleman sat perfectly silent. I found him
not long after in the library, with spectacles on his
nose, a book in his hand, and fast asleep. On my
approach he awoke, slipped the spectacles into his
pocket, and began to read very attentively. After a
little while he put a paper in the place, and laid
the volume aside, which I perceived was the Fairy
Queen. I have had the curiosity to watch how he got

 

 

 

226

on in his poetical studies; but, though I have
repeatedly seen him with the book in his hand
yet I find the paper has not advanced above
three or four pages; the general being extremely
apt to fall asleep when he reads. (p. 111)

D. "Lovers' Troubles" (Bracebridge Hall)

 

"Lovers' Troubles" (p. 360) deals with the
unrequited love of Phoebe Wilkins. After some intro—
ductory remarks about the preparations for Julia's wed—
ding, Crayon explains his interest in Phoebe's circum-

stances.

 

The season has been equally unpropitious to the
lovelorn Phoebe Wilkins. I fear the reader will be
bmpatient at having this humble amour so often
alluded to; but I confess I am apt to take a great
interest in the love troubles of simple girls of
this class. Few people have an idea of the world
of care and perplexity these poor damsels have in
managing the affairs of the heart. (p. 362)

He continues to draw comparisons between the rich and poor,
all of which tell us more about Crayon than about any of

the amorous relationships at Bracebridge Hall. He uses

 

the plight of Phoebe as an opportunity to demonstrate his
own imaginative sensitivity to the lot of the poor.

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to
from some lynx—eyed dame, or staid old vestal of a
mistress, who keeps a dragon watch over her virtue,
and scouts the lover from the door. . . . (p. 323)

Poor baggage! after all her crosses and dif-
ficulties, when she marries, what is it but to
exchange a life of comparative ease and comfort,
for one of toil and uncertainty? Perhaps, too, the
lover for whom in the fondness of her nature she has
committed herself to fortune's freaks, turns out a
worthless churl, the dissolute, hardhearted husband
of low life; who, taking to the ale—house, leaves
her to a cheerless home, to labor, penury, and
childbearing. (pp. 363-64)

 

 

 

227

The emphasis given to these generalizations is almost
strong enough to make the selection an essay rather than
a sketch. In the final paragraph, however, Crayon again
refers to an incident when he has observed Phoebe in the
church-yard with the schoolmaster, and once again he
becomes not merely the philosophizer, but the observer.
The external events are still of considerable importance
in the selection. We are reminded of his physical sur—

roundings, his own presence and are not simply drowned

 

in his abstractions about life.

E. "The Lovers" (Bracebridge Hall)

 

"The Lovers" ostensibly is a description of the
conduct of Julia and the captain. Information about the
lovers and about Julia comprises the subject matter of
the sketch, but Crayon's observations-—how he gathers
this information--is really perhaps more important than
the information itself. Crayon watches the young lovers
closely. After noting that Julia has "all the delightful,
blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inexperienced
in coquetry, who has made her first conquest" (p. 38),
Crayon describes his personal observation of the couple.

I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancing
along one of the retired Walks. The sun was shining
with delicious warmth, making great masses of bright
verdure, and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that
"harbinger of spring," was faintly heard from a
distance; the thrush piped from the hawthorn; and

the yellow butterflies sported, and toyed, and
coquetted in the air. (pp. 38-39)

 

 

 

228

This is not merely a description of the couple for we are
also aware of Crayon's presence in the scene, or perhaps
it is more accurate to say on the edge of the scene.
Crayon the observer is, of course, almost always accom—
. panied by Crayon the philOSOpher.
The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm,
listening to his conversation, with her eyes cast
down, a soft blush on her cheek, and a quiet smile
on her lips, while in the hand that hung negligently
by her side was a bunch of flowers. In this way they
were sauntering slowly along; and when I considered
them, and the scene in which they were moving, I
could not but think it a thousand pities that the
season should ever change, or that young people
should ever grow older, or that blossoms should give
way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get married.
(p. 39)
The philosophy itself, of course, has echoes of "West—
minster Abbey" and is a familiar theme in Irving's work.
The scene he paints is not unlike the description of the
couple in "The Wife"--both are kinds of static portraits.
But what is most striking is that the couple really is not
the central topic in the scene. Crayon is the dominant
character and his presence is perhaps more strongly felt
than is the couple's.
It is not unusual for Crayon's observations to
lead him to theoretical conclusions which tend to shift

the focus and emphasis from the external world to the

narrator himself.

 

 

 

 

229

F. "May Day" (Bracebridge Hall)

 

Crayon involves us more directly in the activities
of "May Day" than in "Hawking." He says he "repaired to
the village at an early hour to enjoy the merrymaking"

(p. 293). Though he does not directly participate him-
self, he does enjoy wandering among the crowd drawing our
attention to the behavior of various individuals. The
sketch is almost a catalog of activities and persons who
engage in them. And once again the scenes which have
considerable action in them are painted by Crayon rather
than dramatized.

His opening description of the celebration is a
kind of painted scene. As he approaches the village, he
sees some dancers.

A band of morris—dancers were capering on the green
in their fantastic dresses, jingling with hawks'
bells, with a boy dressed up as Maid Marian, and
the attendant fool rattling his box to collect con-
tributions from the bystanders. The gipsy-women
too were already plying their mystery in by—corners
of the village, reading the hands of the simple
country girls, and no doubt promising them all good
husbands and tribes of children. (p. 293)
He goes on to take note of several characters as they make
their appearances at the fair. The Squire, the parson,
Jack Tibbets, Master Simon and later Julia, Lady Lilly—
craft, Christy, and Phoebe all get their share of attention.

And a few specific incidents of action are scattered among

these character introductions.

 

 

 

 

 

230

At one point, the "harmony of the day" is nearly
interrupted by a political argument, which attracts the
attention of Master Simon and the general who come "drift—
ing down into the field of action" (p. 296). The action,
however, is never dramatized for us; Crayon merely sum—
marizes and abstracts the encounter.
He talked with greater volubility than ever, and soon
drowned them in declamation on the subject of taxes
poors' rates, and the national debt. Master Simon
endeavored to brush along in his usual excursive
manner, which always answered amazingly well with
the villagers; but the radical was one of those
pestilent fellows that pin a man down to facts;
and, indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in his
pocket, to support every thing he advanced by
printed documents. (p. 296)

Crayon's voice is there guiding our response, this time

by use of irony and humor. We are not allowed to judge

for ourselves and though the scene ends with a couple

lines of dialogue, the incident has little, if any,

dramatic impact.

Perhaps the scene of most activity in the entire
volume occurs at the end of this sketch when Phoebe,
seeing Tibbets engaged in a gymnastic contest, and
thinking her "recreant lover" in danger, rushes to his
aid.

In a moment pride, pique, and coquetry were forgotten:
she rushed into the ring, seized upon the rival
champion by the hair, and was on the point of wreaking
on him her puny vengeance, when a buxom, strapping
country lass, the sweetheart of the prostrate swain,
pounced upon her like a hawk, and would have stripped
her of fine plumage in a twinkling had she also not
been seized in her turn. (p. 299)

 

 

 

 

231

The tumult which ensues is described with a humorous
detachment by Crayon.

Blows began to be dealt, and sticks to be flourished.
Phoebe was carried off from the field in hysterics.
In vain did the sages of the village interfere. The
sententious apothecary endeavored to pour the sooth-
ing oil of his philosophy upon this tempestuous sea
of passion, but was tumbled into the dust. Slingsby,
the pedagogue, who is a great lover of peace, went
into the midst of the throng, as marshal of the day,
to put an end to the commotion; but was rent in twain,
and came out with his garment hanging in two strips
from his shoulders: upon which the prodigal son
dashed in with fury to revenge the insult sustained
by his patron. (p. 300)

Not until Ready—Money Jack enters the throng does the '11
storm settle.
Both these action scenes, despite their enter-
taining humor, are subject to the control and distance of
the narrator. As in "Hawking" these group scenes are
rendered pictorially rather than dramatically. The
presence of Crayon is an essential element in each of

the sketches.

G. "The Mysterious Chamber" (The Alhambra)

 

"The Mysterious Chamber" from The Alhambra is

 

perhaps most dramatic illustration of the narrator's
imagination. It has many similarities to "The Adventure

of the Mysterious Picture" (Tales of a Traveller) and

 

"Dolph Heyliger" (Bracebridge Hall). Wandering at night

 

through the passageways of the Alhambra, Irving discovers

the former chambers of Elizabetta, the wife of Phillip V.

 

 

 

 

232

The first night he spends in these quarters his imagination
runs away with him. Once he is alone he is "reminded of
those hobgoblin stories, where the hero is left to accom-
plish the adventure of an enchanted house" (p. 99). His
anxiety mounts as his mind dwells on the thoughts of
previous inhabitants now dead.

A vague and indescribable awe was creeping over me.

I would fain have ascribed it to the thoughts of

robbers awakened by the evening's conversation,

but I felt it was something more unreal and absurd.

The long-buried superstitions of the nursery were

reviving, and asserting their power over my imagi—

nation. (p. 100)
In an effort to shake his apprehension, he takes a lamp
and begins a tour of the surrounding rooms, but the
shadows cast around him and the echoing sounds of his
footsteps serve only to further his anxiety. Soon he
hears low sounds and then "low moans and broken ejacu—
lations" which send him back to his chamber with "infi~
nitely more alacrity than I had sallied forth" (p. 101).

His fears are not subdued until the next morning

when he wakes to see the sun shining in his window. Then
his spirits are lifted.

I could scarcely recall the shadows and fancies

conjured up by the gloom of the preceding night;

or believe that the scenes around me, so naked and

apparent, could have been clothed with such imaginary

horrors. (p. 102)
Yet those horrors did have an effect on Irving, and the

sketch serves to illustrate how active his imagination

could be.

 

 

 

 

233

H. "The Veteran" (The Alhambra)

 

"The Veteran" a very short selection appearing

late in The Alhambra can also be classified as a character

 

sketch, though it is even less complete than "The Busy
Man." Irving's major reason for introducing the "brave
and battered old colonel of Invalids, who was nestled
like a hawk in one of the Moorish towers" (p. 317), is
as a source for the legend which follows the sketch.
Though there is little reason to fully characterize
him, Irving does devote a paragraph to the colonel's
background and another paragraph to his lodgings. The
historical information is catalogued summarily and in
it Irving manages to make the old soldier representative
of Spain's history of conflict.

He had taken a part in all the wars of his country;

he could speak experimentally of most of the prisons
and dungeons of the Peninsula; had been lamed of one
leg, crippled in his hands, and so cut up and car—
bonadoed that he was a kind of walking monument of
the troubles of Spain, on which there was a scar for
every battle and broil, as every year of captivity
was notched upon the tree of Robinson Crusoe. (p. 317)

Similar to "The Busy Man" the direct description of the
man is followed by a description of his lodgings, which
reinforces the characterization.

It was arranged with a soldier's precision. Three
muskets and a brace of pistols, all bright and shin—
ing, were suspended against the wall, with a sabre

and a cane hanging side by side, and above them, two
cocked hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary

use. A small shelf, containing some half dozen books,
formed his library, one of which, a little old mouldy
volume of philosophical maxims, was his favorite read—
ing. This he thumbed and pondered over day by day.
(p. 318)

 

 

 

 

 

234

The narrative presence of Irving is always apparent in
the sketch. The description of the room is the result
of a personal visit by Irving to the soldier's quarters,
and it is followed by Irving's personal response to the
man.
Yet he was social and kind-hearted, and provided he
could be diverted from his wrongs and his philosophy,
was an entertaining companion. I like these old
weatherbeaten sons of fortune, and enjoy their rough
compaigning anecdotes. (p. 318)
Following this personal note, Irving concludes by saying
that he learned the story which follows in the next
selection from the old soldier. Though this sketch is
indeed slight, it does act as an example of a sketch
which concentrates on characterization and it also

demonstrates Irving's awareness of setting as a means

of reinforcing characterization.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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