Crayon Papers

Washington Irving

Description

Washington Irving first made an international literary splash with the essay collection The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. This follow-up volume contains a similarly charming mix of sketches, observations, humor writing, and other short pieces.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776675616
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE CRAYON PAPERS
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WASHINGTON IRVING
 
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The Crayon Papers First published in 1820 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-561-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-562-3 © 2015 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Mountjoy: Or Some Passages Out of the Life of a Castle-Builder The Great Mississippi Bubble — "A Time of Unexampled Prosperity" Don Juan:A Spectral Research Broek: Of the Dutch Paradise Sketches in Paris in 1825 — From the Traveling Note-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent American Researches in Italy — Life of Tasso: Recovery of a Lost Portrait of Dante The Taking of the Veil The Charming Letorières The Early Experiences of Ralph Ringwood — Noted down from His Conversations The Seminoles Origin of the White, the Red, and the Black Men — A Seminole Tradition The Conspiracy of Neamathla — An Authentic Sketch Letter from Granada Abderahman: Founder of the Dynasty of the Ommiades of Spain The Widow's Ordeal: Or a Judicial Trial by Combat The Creole Village: A Sketch from a Steamboat A Contented Man Endnotes
Mountjoy: Or Some Passages Out of the Life of a Castle-Builder
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I was born among romantic scenery, in one of the wildest parts of theHudson, which at that time was not so thickly settled as at present. Myfather was descended from one of the old Huguenot families that came overto this country on the revocation of the edict of Nantz. He lived in astyle of easy, rural independence, on a patrimonial estate that had beenfor two or three generations in the family. He was an indolent,good-natured man, who took the world as it went, and had a kind of laughingphilosophy, that parried all rubs and mishaps, and served him in the placeof wisdom. This was the part of his character least to my taste; for I wasof an enthusiastic, excitable temperament, prone to kindle up with newschemes and projects, and he was apt to dash my sallying enthusiasm by someunlucky joke; so that whenever I was in a glow with any sudden excitement,I stood in mortal dread of his good-humor.
Yet he indulged me in every vagary; for I was an only son, and of course apersonage of importance in the household. I had two sisters older thanmyself, and one younger. The former were educated at New York, under theeye of a maiden aunt; the latter remained at home, and was my cherishedplaymate, the companion of my thoughts. We were two imaginative littlebeings, of quick susceptibility, and prone to see wonders and mysteries ineverything around us. Scarce had we learned to read, when our mother madeus holiday presents of all the nursery literature of the day; which at thattime consisted of little books covered with gilt paper, adorned with"cuts," and filled with tales of fairies, giants, and enchanters. Whatdraughts of delightful fiction did we then inhale! My sister Sophy was of asoft and tender nature. She would weep over the woes of the Children in theWood, or quake at the dark romance of Blue-Beard, and the terriblemysteries of the blue chamber. But I was all for enterprise and adventure.I burned to emulate the deeds of that heroic prince who delivered the whitecat from her enchantment; or he of no less royal blood, and doughtyenterprise, who broke the charmed slumber of the Beauty in the Wood!
The house in which we lived was just the kind of place to foster suchpropensities. It was a venerable mansion, half villa, half farmhouse. Theoldest part was of stone, with loop-holes for musketry, having served as afamily fortress in the time of the Indians. To this there had been madevarious additions, some of brick, some of wood, according to the exigenciesof the moment; so that it was full of nooks and crooks, and chambers of allsorts and sizes. It was buried among willows, elms, and cherry trees, andsurrounded with roses and hollyhocks, with honeysuckle and sweetbrierclambering about every window. A brood of hereditary pigeons sunnedthemselves upon the roof; hereditary swallows and martins built about theeaves and chimneys; and hereditary bees hummed about the flower-beds.
Under the influence of our story-books every object around us now assumed anew character, and a charmed interest. The wild flowers were no longer themere ornaments of the fields, or the resorts of the toilful bee; they werethe lurking-places of fairies. We would watch the humming-bird, as ithovered around the trumpet creeper at our porch, and the butterfly as itflitted up into the blue air, above the sunny tree-tops, and fancy themsome of the tiny beings from fairyland. I would call to mind all that I hadread of Robin Goodfellow and his power of transformation. Oh, how I enviedhim that power! How I longed to be able to compress my form into utterlittleness; to ride the bold dragonfly; swing on the tall bearded grass;follow the ant into his subterraneous habitation, or dive into thecavernous depths of the honeysuckle!
While I was yet a mere child I was sent to a daily school, about two milesdistant. The schoolhouse was on the edge of a wood, close by a brookoverhung with birches, alders, and dwarf willows. We of the school wholived at some distance came with our dinners put up in little baskets. Inthe intervals of school hours we would gather round a spring, under a tuftof hazel-bushes, and have a kind of picnic; interchanging the rusticdainties with which our provident mothers had fitted us out. Then, when ourjoyous repast was over, and my companions were disposed for play, I woulddraw forth one of my cherished story-books, stretch myself on the greensward, and soon lose myself in its bewitching contents.
I became an oracle among my schoolmates on account of my superiorerudition, and soon imparted to them the contagion of my infected fancy.Often in the evening, after school hours, we would sit on the trunk of somefallen tree in the woods, and vie with each other in telling extravagantstories, until the whip-poor-will began his nightly moaning, and thefireflies sparkled in the gloom. Then came the perilous journey homeward.What delight we would take in getting up wanton panics in some dusky partof the wood; scampering like frightened deer; pausing to take breath;renewing the panic, and scampering off again, wild with fictitious terror!
Our greatest trial was to pass a dark, lonely pool, covered withpond-lilies, peopled with bullfrogs and water snakes, and haunted by twowhite cranes. Oh! the terrors of that pond! How our little hearts wouldbeat as we approached it; what fearful glances we would throw around! Andif by chance a plash of a wild duck, or the guttural twang of a bullfrog,struck our ears, as we stole quietly by—away we sped, nor paused untilcompletely out of the woods. Then, when I reached home, what a world ofadventures and imaginary terrors would I have to relate to my sister Sophy!
As I advanced in years, this turn of mind increased upon me, and becamemore confirmed. I abandoned myself to the impulses of a romanticimagination, which controlled my studies, and gave a bias to all my habits.My father observed me continually with a book in my hand, and satisfiedhimself that I was a profound student; but what were my studies? Works offiction; tales of chivalry; voyages of discovery; travels in the East;everything, in short, that partook of adventure and romance. I wellremember with what zest I entered upon that part of my studies whichtreated of the heathen mythology, and particularly of the sylvan deities.Then indeed my school books became dear to me. The neighborhood was wellcalculated to foster the reveries of a mind like mine. It abounded withsolitary retreats, wild streams, solemn forests, and silent valleys. Iwould ramble about for a whole day with a volume of Ovid's Metamorphoses inmy pocket, and work myself into a kind of self-delusion, so as to identifythe surrounding scenes with those of which I had just been reading. I wouldloiter about a brook that glided through the shadowy depths of the forest,picturing it to myself the haunt of Naiads. I would steal round some bushycopse that opened upon a glade, as if I expected to come suddenly uponDiana and her nymphs, or to behold Pan and his satyrs bounding, with whoopand halloo, through the woodland. I would throw myself, during the pantingheats of a summer noon, under the shade of some wide-spreading tree, andmuse and dream away the hours, in a state of mental intoxication. I drankin the very light of day, as nectar, and my soul seemed to bathe withecstasy in the deep blue of a summer sky.
In these wanderings nothing occurred to jar my feelings, or bring me backto the realities of life. There is a repose in our mighty forests thatgives full scope to the imagination. Now and then I would hear the distantsound of the woodcutter's ax, or the crash of some tree which he had laidlow; but these noises, echoing along the quiet landscape, could easily bewrought by fancy into harmony with its illusions. In general, however, thewoody recesses of the neighborhood were peculiarly wild and unfrequented. Icould ramble for a whole day, without coming upon any traces ofcultivation. The partridge of the wood scarcely seemed to shun my path, andthe squirrel, from his nut-tree, would gaze at me for an instant, withsparkling eye, as if wondering at the unwonted intrusion.
I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my life; when as yet Ihad known no sorrow, nor experienced any worldly care. I have since studiedmuch, both of books and men, and of course have grown too wise to be