Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated)
Page 187
If an author is too indolent or too stupid to seek new sources for remark, he is surely excusable in employing the ideas of others for his own use and benefit. But I find I have digressed imperceptibly into the “rights of authors,” so let us return to our subject.
An actor, when he “holds the mirror up to nature,” may, by his manœuvres, twist and turn it so as to represent the object in any shape he pleases — nay, even give a caricature where the author intended a resemblance; he may blur it with his breath, or soil it with his dirty fingers, so that the object may have a colouring from the glass in which it is viewed, entirely different from its natural appearance. To be plain, my friend, an actor has a right, whenever he thinks his author not sufficiently explicit, to assist him by his own wit and abilities; and if by these means the character should become quite different from what was originally intended, and in fact belong more to the actor than the author, the actor deserves high credit for his ingenuity. And even though his additions are quaint and fulsome, yet his intention is highly praiseworthy, and deserves ample encouragement.
Only think, my dear sir, how many snug little domestic arrangements are destroyed by the officious interference of these ever dissatisfied critics. The honest King of Scotland, who used to dress for market and theatre at the same time, and wear with his kelt and plaid his half boots and black breeches, looking half king, half cobbler, has been obliged totally to dismiss the former from his royal service; yet I am happy to find, so obstinate is his attachment to old habits, that all their efforts have not been sufficient to dislodge him from the strong hold he has in the latter. They may force him from the boots — but nothing shall drive him out of the breeches, Consider, my friend, the puerile nature of such remarks. Is it not derogating from the elevated character of a critic, to take notice of clubbed wigs, red coats, black breeches, and half boots! Fie! fie upon it! I blush for the critics of the day, who consider it a matter of importance whether a Highlander should appear in breeches and boots, or an Otaheitan in the dress of a New York coxcomb. Trust me, friend Oldstyle, it is to the manner, not the appearance of an actor, we are to look; and as long as he performs his part well, (to use the words of my friend Sterne,) “it shall not be inquired whether he did it in a black coat or a red.” —
Believe me, friend Oldstyle, few of our modern critics can shew any substantial claim to the character they assume. Let me ask them one question — Have they ever been in Europe? Have they ever seen a Garrick, a Kemble, or a Siddons? If they have not, I can assure you, (upon the words of two or three of my friends, the actors,) they have no right to the title of critics. —
They may talk as much as they please about judgment, and taste, and feeling, but this is all nonsense. It has lately been determined, (at the Theatre,) that any one who attempts to decide upon such ridiculous principles, is an arrant goose, and deserves to be roasted. —
Having thus, friend Oldstyle, endeavoured in a feeble manner to show you a few of the rights of an actor, and of his wrongs; having mentioned his constant and disinterested endeavours to please the public, and how much better he knows what will please them, than they do themselves; having also depicted the cruel and persecuting nature of a critic; the continual restraint he lays on the harmless irregularity of the performer, and the relentless manner in which he obliges him to attend sedulously to his professional duty, through fear of censure — let me entreat you to pause! Open your eyes to the precipice on which you are tottering, and hearken to the earnest warning of —
Your, loving friend,
ANDREW Quoz.
My friend Quoz certainly writes with feeling; every line evinces that acute sensibility for which he has ever been remarked. X am, however, perfectly at a loss to conceive on what grounds he suspects me of a disposition to turn critic. My remarks hitherto have rather been the result of immediate impression than of critical examination. With my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, I begin to doubt the motives of our New-York critics; especially since I have, in addition to these arguments, the assurances of two or three doubtless disinterested actors, and an editor, who, Mr. Quoz tells me, is remarkable for his candour and veracity, that the critics are the most ‘presumptuous,’ ‘arrogant,’ ‘malevolent,’ ‘illiberal,’ ‘ungentlemanlike,’ ‘malignant,’ ‘rancorous,’ ‘villainous,’ ‘ungrateful,’ ‘crippled,’ ‘invidious,’ ‘detracting,’ ‘fabricating,’ ‘personal,’ ‘dogmatical,’ illegitimate,’ ‘tyrannical,’ ‘distorting,’ ‘spindle-shanked moppets, designing villains, and upstart ignorants.’ These, I say, and many other equally high polished appellations, have awakened doubts in my mind respecting the sincerity and justice of the critics; and lest my pen should unwittingly draw upon me the suspicion of having a hankering after criticism, I now wipe it carefully, lock it safely up, and promise not to draw it forth again till some new department of folly calls for my attention.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
LETTER VIII.
SIR,
I WAS calmly enjoying my toast and coffee some mornings ago, with my sister Dorothy and Jack Stylish, when we were surprised by the abrupt entrance of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. By the particular expression of his knowing phiz, as cousin Jack calls it, I immediately perceived he was labouring with some important intelligence.
In one hand he held the Morning Chronicle, and with the forefinger of the other, pointed to a particular paragraph. I hastily put on my spectacles, and seized the paper with eager curiosity. Judge my surprise, Mr. Editor, on reading an act of our legislature, pronouncing any citizen of this State who shall send, bear, or accept a challenge, either verbal or written, disqualified from holding any office of honour or confidence, or of voting at any election within this State, &c. &c.
The paper fell from my hands — I turned my eyes to friend Andrew in mute astonishment. Quoz put his finger on his nose, and winking significantly, cried, “what do you think of this, my friend Jonathan?”
“Here is a catastrophe,” exclaimed I, in a melancholy tone. “Here is a damper for the mettlesome youths of the age. Spirit of chivalry, whither hast thou flown! Shade of Don Quixote, dost thou not look down with contempt on the degeneracy of the times!”
My sister Dorothy caught a sympathetic spark of enthusiasm; — deep read in all the volumes of ancient romance, and delighted with the glowing description of the heroic age, she had learned to admire the gallantry of former days, and mourned to see the last spark of chivalric fire thus rudely extinguished.
Alas! my brother, said she, to what a deplorable state are our young men reduced! how piteous must be their situation — with sensibilities so easily injured, and bosoms so tremblingly alive to the calls of honour and etiquette!
Indeed, my dear Dorothy, said I, I feel most deeply for their melancholy situation.
Deprived, in these dull, monotonous, peaceable times, of all opportunities of evincing, in the hardy contest of the tented field, that heroic flame that burns within their breasts; they were happy to vent the lofty fumings of their souls, in the more domestic and less dangerous encounters of the duel: — like the warrior in the fable, who, deprived of the pleasure of slaughtering armies, contented himself with cutting down cabbages. —
Here a solemn pause ensued. I called to mind all the tales I had heard or read of ancient knights; their amours, their quarrels, and their combats; how, on a fair summer’s morning, the knight of the Golden Goose met the knight of the Fiery Fiddle; how the knight of the Fiery Fiddle exclaimed in lofty tones, “whoever denies that Donna Fiddleosa is the most peerless beauty in the universe, must brave the strength of this arm!” how they both engaged with dreadful fury, and, after fighting till sunset, the knight of the Fiery Fiddle fell a martyr to his constancy; murmuring, in melodious accents, with his latest breath, the beloved name of Fiddleosa.
From these ancient engagements, I descended to others more modern in their dates, but equally important in their origins. I recalled the genuine politeness and polished ceremony with which duels were conducted in my youth
ful days; when that gentlemanly weapon, the smallsword, was in highest vogue. A challenge was worded with the most particular complaisance; and one that I have still in my possession, ends with the words, “your friend and affectionate servant, Nicholas Stubbs.” When the parties met on the field, the same decorum was observed; they pulled off their hats, wished one another a good day, and helped to draw off each other’s coats and boots, with the most respectful civility. Their fighting, too, was so handsomely conducted; no awkward movements; no eager and angry pushes; all cool, elegant, and graceful. Every thrust had its sa-sa; and a ha-hah lunged you gently through the body. Then nothing could equal the tenderness and attention with which à wounded antagonist was treated; his adversary, after wiping his sword deliberately, kindly supported him in his arms, examined his pulse, and inquired, with the most affectionate solicitude, “how he felt himself now?” Thus every thing was conducted in a well-bred, gentlemanly manner.
Our present customs, I cannot say I much admire; — a twelve inch barrel pistol, and ounce ball, are blunt, unceremonious affairs, and prevent that display of grace and elegance allowed by the small sword; besides, there is something so awkward, in having the muzzle of a pistol staring one full in the face, that I should think it might be apt to make some of our youthful heroes (feel rather disagreeable; unless, as I am told has been sometimes the case, the duel was fought by twilight.
The: ceremony of loading, priming, cocking, &c has not the most soothing effects on a person s feelings; and I am told that some of our warriors have been known to tremble, and make wry faces, during these preparations; though this has been attributed, and doubtless with much justice, to the violence of their wrath, and fierceness of their courage.
I had thus been musing for some time, when I broke silence at last, by hinting to friend Quoz, some of my objections to the mode of fighting with pistols.
Truly, my friend Oldstyle, said Quoz, I am surprised at your ignorance of modern customs; trust me, I know of no amusement that is, generally speaking, more harmless. To be sure, there may now and then a couple of determined fellows take the field, who resolve to do the thing in good earnest; but, in general, our fashionable duellists are content with only one discharge; and then, either they are poor shots, or their triggers pull hard, or they shut the wrong eye, or some other cause intervenes, so that it is ten, ay, twenty chances to one in their favour.
Here I begged leave to differ from friend Andrew. I am well convinced, said I, of the valour of our young men, and that they determine, when they march forth to the field, either to conquer or die; but it generally happens, that their seconds are of a more peaceable mind, and interpose after the first shot; but I am informed, that they come often very near being killed, having bullet holes through their hats and coats; which, like Falstaff’s hacked sword, are strong proofs of the serious nature of their encounters.
My sister Dorothy, who is of a humane and benevolent disposition, would, no doubt, detest the idea of duels, did she not regard them as the last gleams of those days of chivalry, to which she looks back with a degree of romantic enthusiasm. She now considered them as having received their deathblow; for how can even the challenges be conveyed, said she, when the very messengers are considered as principals in the offence?
Nothing more easy, said friend Quoz; — a man gives me the lie — very well; I tread on his toes in token of challenge; — he pulls my nose by way of acceptance; thus, you see, the challenge is safely conveyed without a third party. We then settle the mode in which satisfaction is to be given; as, for instance, we draw lots which of us must be slain to satisfy the demands of honour. Mr. A. or Mr. B., my antagonist, is to fall: well, madam, he stands below in the street; I run up to the garret window, and drop a brick upon his head; if he survives, well and good — if he falls, why nobody is to blame, it was purely accidental. Thus, the affair is settled, according to the common saying, to our mutual satisfaction.
Jack Stylish observed, that, as to Mr. Quoz’s project of dropping bricks on people’s heads, he considered it a vulgar substitute.
For his part, he thought it would be well for the legislature to amend their law respecting duels, and license them under proper restrictions; — That no persons should be allowed to fight, without taking out a regular license from what might be called the Blood and Thunder Office; — That they should be obliged to give two or three weeks notice of the intended combat in the newspapers That the contending parties should fight, till one of them fell; — and that the public should be admitted to the show. This, he observed, would, in some degree, be reviving the spectacles of antiquity, when the populace were regaled with the combats of gladiators. We have, at present, no games resembling those of the ancients, except, now and then, a bull or bear bait; and this would be a valuable addition to the list of our refined amusements.
I listened to their discourse in silence: yet I cannot but think, Mr. Editor, that this plan is entitled to some attention. Our young men fight, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, through fear of being branded with the epithet of coward; and since they fight to please the world, the world, being thus interested in their encounters, should be permitted to attend and judge in person of their conduct.
As I think the subject of importance, I take the liberty of requesting a corner in the Morning Chronicle, to submit it to the consideration of the public.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
A HISTORY OF NEW YORK
FROM THE BEGINNING OF THE WORLD TO THE END OF THE DUTCH DYNAST
In late 1809, whilst mourning the loss of his seventeen year old fiancée Matilda Hoffman, Irving completed his first major work, with the full title of: A History of New-York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty by Diedrich Knickerbocker. It is an ambitious book, forming a satire on self-important local history and contemporary politics.
Prior to its publication, Irving started a hoax campaign for promotional purposes, placing a series of missing person adverts in New York newspapers seeking information on Diedrich Knickerbocker, a cantankerous Dutch historian that had ‘gone missing’ from his hotel in New York. As part of the ruse, Irving placed a notice from the hotel’s proprietor, informing readers that if Mr. Knickerbocker failed to return to the hotel to pay his bill, he would publish a manuscript he had left behind. Unsuspecting readers followed the story of Knickerbocker and his manuscript with interest, with city officials being concerned enough for the missing historian that they considered offering a reward for his safe return. Due to the publicity created by this hoax, A History of New York received immediate critical and popular success with the reading public. Nowadays, the name of Knickerbocker has become a nickname for Manhattan residents in general.
The frontispiece depiction of Diedrich Knickerbocker
CONTENTS
VOLUME I.
INTRODUCTION.
THE AUTHOR’S APOLOGY.
NOTICES WHICH APPEARED IN THE NEWSPAPERS PREVIOUS TO THE PUBLICATION OF THIS WORK.
ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR
TO THE PUBLIC.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
VOLUME II.
INTRODUCTION.
BOOK IV.
(continued.)
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
The original title page
VOLUME I.
INTRODUCTION.
KNICKERBOCKER’S HISTORY OF NEW YORK is the book, published in December, 1809, with which Washington living, at the age of twenty-six, first won wide credit and influence. Walter Scott wrote to an American friend, who sent him the second edition ——
“I beg you to accept my best thanks for the uncommon degree of entertainment which I have received from the most excellently jocose History of New York. I am sensible that, as a stranger to American parties and politics, I must lose much of the concealed satire of the piece, but I must own that, looking at the simple and obvious meaning only, I have never read anything so closely resembling the style of Dean Swift as the annals of Diedrich Knickerbocker. I have been employed these few evenings in reading them aloud to Mrs. S. and two ladies who are our guests, and our sides have been absolutely sore with laughing. I think, too, there are passages which indicate that the author possesses powers of a different kind, and has some touches which remind me much of Sterne.”