Irving made the most of his time there, dining with Mrs. Renwick's brother, Francis Jeffrey, editor of the powerful Edinburgh Review, the magazine that had given poor Murray such fits back in 1808. Over dinner, he and Jeffrey agreed that the mysterious author of the Waverly novels was, indeed, Walter Scott.
Like his Tory counterpart John Murray, Francis Jeffrey was a talker. He had strong opinions on just about everything—his reviews could be scalding—and Americans did not escape his notice. He was particularly tart regarding American women, who he thought were “brought into company too early—[which] makes them flippant and ignorant.” While Irving bit his lip around Jeffrey and even found him amusing, Brevoort was not a fan. “His foible is an unceasing effort to act the high finished gentleman,” Brevoort had written contemptuously to Irving in 1813; “consequently he is blessed with such an immaculate degree of taste as to contemn every thing in the world both moral & physical.” Brevoort's final word on Jeffrey was cutting—“I would not give the Minstrel for a wilderness of Jeffreys”—but Irving found him pleasant enough company.3
Irving met with Murray's Scottish agent, William Blackwood, who asked if he would consider contributing to the magazine he had established to compete with the Edinburgh Review. Using a letter of introduction from John Miller, the bookseller he had met at Murray's, Irving made the acquaintance of Murray's former publishing partner, Archibald Constable, who also asked Irving to contribute to a new magazine. Irving was suddenly a hot commodity, though in the end he would write for neither magazine. He did, however, reach an informal agreement with both to act as their middleman with the American market—an arrangement that resulted in Thomas publishing an edition of Rob Roy in Philadelphia, but does not otherwise seem to have profited either Blackwood or Constable.
It continued to rain, but after four days in Edinburgh, Irving could wait no longer—he had to see Scott. Squeezing into a mail coach bound for Selkirk, he wondered nervously how he would be received by his idol. As the two later learned, Irving and Scott had much in common. Both had trained as lawyers, and both had experienced early fame from their writing before achieving iconic stature later in their lives. Both wrote out of necessity when money was tight, and both were fiercely protective of their reputations. Like Irving, Scott wrote under thinly veiled pseudonyms, as he had done with the recently published novel Waverly.
The Walter Scott that Irving had read and admired was not yet the Sir Walter Scott of Ivanhoe, Rob Roy, or Kenilworth—those novels all came later, as would the baronetcy. At the time of Irving's visit to Abbotsford in 1817, Scott's fame and reputation were built not upon his talents as a Romantic novelist but on his considerable skills as a Romantic poet.
As a young man in Edinburgh, Scott had been formally trained as a lawyer, but found the pull of the pen too strong to resist. He began dabbling in his early twenties, first translating German works, then eventually writing his own poetry. Within a few years, he had experienced moderate success with The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, a collection of Scottish ballads.
Shortly after marrying in 1797, Scott established his own press to print and publish his poems. Its first product, the poem The Lay of the Last Minstrel, was a huge hit with readers and critics alike. Subsequent works were also enormously successful, especially Lady of the Lake and Marmion, yet the revenue generated by Scott's poetry wasn't enough. The press bogged down in financial troubles.
To bail it out, Scott turned to his pen with the deliberate intention of writing a money-making novel. The result was Waverly, his first foray into fiction, and it sold well. Yet Scott was rather embarrassed by the need to turn to novel-writing and asked Murray to publish it anonymously to protect his hard-earned reputation; he preferred to be known as the poet who had penned Lady of the Lake.
The identity of the anonymous author was the subject of considerable debate. Even as it became generally known that the enigmatic voice belonged to Scott—and that his association with novel-writing was not going to harm his reputation—he still asked that subsequent novels, such as Rob Roy, be attributed to “The Author of Waverly,” just to keep the transparent ruse going.
Irving's coach clattered to a stop in front of the gates at Abbotsford, and he excitedly presented Campbell's letter of introduction, asking the attendant if it would be agreeable for Mr. Scott to receive him. The servant retreated to the house, and Irving held his breath for the answer. As dogs yelped in the distance, he feared for a moment that Scott might not be at home. He could see the mansion some distance below the road on a hillside rolling down toward the Tweed River.
To his delight, here came Scott, walking slowly up the hill toward the front gate. A spry forty-six-year-old, he was twelve years Irving's senior, but his limp—the result of childhood polio—fooled one into thinking he was older. Writing of their initial meeting at Abbotsford years later, Irving never forgot his first sight of the man: “He was tall, and of a large and powerful frame. His dress was simple, almost rustic. An old green shooting coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor.”4
Scott shook Irving's hand warmly, and invited him to breakfast with his family. Irving tried to beg off, saying that he had already eaten, but Scott would have none of it. “Hout, man,” Scott said in his deep Scotch burr, “a ride in the morning in the keen air of the Scotch hill is warrant enough for a second breakfast.” It was all the encouragement Irving needed; he spent a pleasant morning with Scott and his wife, Charlotte, their daughters, Sophia and Ann, and their sons, Walter and Charles.
After breakfast, Scott tapped Charles to take Irving on a tour of the ruins of Melrose Abbey—from which Scott pilfered stone for his house—while he stayed behind to work on Rob Roy. To make up for his absence, he promised to personally escort Irving the following day to the same Dryburgh Abbey that had been described in the poetry of Robert Burns. Irving's head spun. “I found myself committed for a visit of several days,” he wrote, “and it seemed as if a little realm of romance was suddenly opened before me.”
That afternoon, Scott himself, ever the good Scottish laird, provided Irving with a walking tour of Abbotsford, its grounds, and the surrounding neighborhood. At the time of Irving's visit in 1817, the estate spanned more than a thousand acres, with a number of houses within its boundaries. Scott had purchased the core of his property in 1811, and continued to buy up surrounding parcels of land and adjoining farms each year. Parts of the property butted up against Cauldshield's Loch, which, like any proper Scottish loch, was rumored to have its own sea monster, though Scott reported with some disappointment that he had yet to see it.5
In 1812 he had built a small villa that he named Abbotsford, in recognition of the nearby ford where abbots had crossed the river to reach Melrose Abbey. Scott was constantly extending the small house, adding four new rooms in 1816, building the ruins of nearby castles and abbeys into its walls, transforming the original farmhouse into the feudal manor Irving had seen from the front gates. Even as the two men walked the property, hammers were flying.6
Although Irving was presently the only guest in the house, Abbotsford often swelled with visitors, as friends, admirers, and the merely curious stopped by to gaze at the writer of Marmion. Charlotte Scott once remarked that Abbotsford was “a hotel in all but name and pay,” and its bedrooms were occupied so frequently that Scott had advised the inns at Melrose and Selkirk to be prepared for guests who either could not be accommodated or were not expected at the estate.7
Despite his limp, Scott was a strong walker, and he steered his guest to the hills overlooking the Tweed, where Irving expressed surprise at the barrenness of the landscape that Scott had described so lovingly in his poetry. The two talked of their mutual friend Campbell, and Scott remarked that it was a pity the man did not write more, little suspecting that Campbell w
as far too intimidated by him to write quickly or often. “Campbell is, in a manner, a bug-bear to himself,” Scott harrumphed knowingly. “The brightness of his early success is a detriment to all his further efforts. He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him.” He might have said the same of Irving.
Irving shared an intimate dinner with the writer's family that evening, listening to Scott talk colorfully of dogs, his neighbors, and the Scottish character. After dinner, Sophia sang Scottish border songs, much to her father's delight and approval, and Irving stayed up late into the evening chatting with, but mainly listening to, his idol. At evening's end, he retired, giddy, to his quarters, finding it impossible to sleep.
He awoke early to find Scott already up and about, giving orders to the masons and carpenters who were banging noisily about Abbotsford's grounds. Scott regaled Irving over breakfast with endless stories of local color, spinning one tale after another in inimitable style. He and Irving read over proofs of Rob Roy, then took another stroll around the countryside, poking through the remains of a Roman camp. The following day the two set out to visit the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, a still impressive structure that had been decimated in the sixteenth century. Again Scott pointed out all the local landmarks and scenery, but Irving was paying no attention to the scenery; he was completely focused on Scott. He loved to listen to the man talk, and preferred their walks in the countryside to tours of local sights.
Caught in a sudden rainstorm one afternoon, Scott wrapped his tartan around himself and pulled Irving under the cover of a thicket. Motioning for Irving to sit beside him, he draped the tartan around Irving's shoulders, literally taking his young admirer under his wing. It was a gesture Irving never forgot.
Leaving proved difficult; his three days with Scott were the happiest he had spent since his arrival in England two years prior. Scott walked Irving to his carriage, and warmly took his hand. “I will not say farewell,” Scott said, “for it is always a painful word, but I will say, come again… come when you please, you will always find Abbotsford open to you, and a hearty welcome.”8
“I came prepared to admire him,” Irving wrote of Scott later, “but he completely won my heart and made me love him.” We can only imagine how much this visit meant to Irving; the great man actually liked him. “It was if I were admitted to a social communion with Shakespeare, for it was with one of a kindred, if not equal genius,” Irving gushed later. “Every night I returned with my mind filled with delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I rose with the certainty of new enjoyment. The days thus spent I shall ever look back to as among the very happiest of my life; for I was conscious at the time of being happy.”9
His affection was reciprocated; Scott was genuinely fond of Irving. “When you see Tom Campbell,” Scott said to one correspondent, shortly after Irving's departure, “tell him, with my best love, that I have to thank him for making me known to Mr. Washington Irving, who is one of the best and pleasantest acquaintances I have made this many a day. He stayed two or three days with me, and I hope to see him again.”10 It was the beginning of a long and warm personal and professional friendship.
Returning to Edinburgh, Irving was reunited with Preston, and the two set out for an extended tour of Scotland that lasted for weeks. The weather was ideal, warm and sunny, and the two traveled “in every variety of mode—by chaise, by coach, by gig, by boat, on foot, and in a cart.” They explored the haunts of Macbeth, rolling through Birnham Wood and Dunsinane, and visited the castle in Linlithgow where Mary Queen of Scots had been born. Irving also took special care to steer them through Stirling Castle, where Scott had set part of Lady of the Lake.
Travel always invigorated him, and he began writing regularly, the words flowing much more easily as he sat in the shadow of a Scottish castle or watched the sun glitter on the Clyde. His writing was more experimental, the phrases more finely tuned, and the people and places more fully and artfully described. Irving scribbled, as he usually did, in short bursts, with phrases separated by dashes. At times, even the most routine activities were painted vividly, even elegantly, in Irving's deliberate prose: “Tuesday morning—waiting for Steam boat—seated on a rock at the foot of Dunbarton castle—Hazy warm day—Sun just struggling thro the haze—tide low—beach grey—stones & seaweeds—Coal smack floating lazily in—hear now & then the creaking of the yards & hum of the boatmans song who is pacing his deck with folded arms… birds singing from the rocks over my head. [H]um of large blue flies about me—tokens of lingering Summer.”11
At other moments, he indulged in rambling ruminations on life and love that seemed addressed to himself, a lifelong habit: “Man must be aspiring; ambition belongs to his nature. He cannot rest content but is continually reaching after higher attainments and more felicitous conditions. To rest satisfied with the present is a sign of an abject spirit.”12 Such self-examination was starting to resonate, for at this time Irving was clearly aspiring to something more than the role of frustrated businessman. The notebooks contain intriguing hints of plots, characters, and snatches of sentences that would appear in later works. The essay that became “The Widow and Her Son” was born in the 1817 notebook, among lines that could have easily described Irving's relationship with his own mother: “The purest & strongest affection that winds itself round the human heart is that between the mother & the son:—she will sacrifice all her comforts for him—she will love & cherish him in adversity—in disgrace—when all the world beside cast him off she will be all the world to him—”13
There is the whiff of a novel in these pages, as Irving scratched out a vague and disjointed outline of a story involving a southern belle named Rosalie and her husband, Frederick. The larger plot is now lost, but there seemed to have been a coy meeting, a rescue from a fire, a fight, a reconciliation, a marriage, and then—in a sudden, jarring entry in the notebook—Rosalie's death. Irving was experimenting with formats and with his voice. He may have figured that if Walter Scott could write a novel out of necessity, he might, too.14
As the Scottish excursion came to an end, Irving wrote Scott a letter of thanks and farewell, obviously agonizing over every word, as his notebooks reveal a first draft full of deletions and rewrites. The final version was warm, sincere, and appropriately self-deprecating: “Surrounded as you are by friends among the most intelligent and illustrious, the goodwill of an individual like myself cannot be a matter of much importance yet I feel a gratification in expressing it, and in assuring you that I shall ever consider the few days I passed with you and your amiable family as among the choicest of my life.”15 This was no overstatement. Irving's visit to Scott had been the highlight of his trip, and his friendship with Scott was one he treasured for the rest of his life.
Irving and Preston returned to Liverpool in late September. It had been a most satisfactory trip; his only real gripe was with Preston. While Irving was notoriously lazy at times, he took his traveling seriously, and Preston's proclivities for sleeping late and taking carriages when they could be walking was particularly galling to him. “The journey has been a complete trial of Preston's indolent habits,” he had written to Peter in exasperation from Edinburgh. “I had at first to tow him along by main strength for he has as much alacrity at coming to anchor and is as slow getting under way as a Dutch Lugger.”16 Despite Preston's flaws as a traveler, Irving liked him and was sad to see the young man depart for London.
With Preston gone, there was no excuse not to return to the daily drudgery of P. Irving and Company. While he had Peter to keep him company and help with the work, his high spirits from the Scottish excursion disappeared quickly. His brother William, who understood his youngest brother's misery only too well, was pulling all the strings available to him as a member of Congress in an effort to secure for Irving an appointment as secretary to the United States Legation in London. Friends and family alike were promoting Irving as the most desirable candidate for the position, and William had even approached House Speaker Henry Clay to p
ersonally discuss the appointment.17 Washington was grateful for the intervention, but told Brevoort that he doubted he would receive the appointment. He was right.
Time in Liverpool dragged on. Irving focused more intently on the essays he was writing in his assorted journals, and in his spare moments urged Campbell to publish a series of lectures the poet had written and delivered on poetry and belles lettres.
And then there was his work as the middleman between American and British publishers. To Murray he wrote official-sounding letters, vapidly explaining the intricacies of international publishing to London's master publisher: “If it is your wish to secure a participation in the profits of the American republication [of Byron's Childe Harold] in the way I suggested when I had the pleasure of seeing you in London, I would advise you not to lose time, as ships sometimes loiter in port and days may be lost here even after the work is sent.”18 He informed Murray that Moses Thomas was sending him a package of materials that had recently been published in America, and advised Murray to publish them quickly if he wished to secure their British copyrights.
Murray must have groaned when he opened the crate from Thomas; inside was a distinctly mediocre assortment of books, although William Wirt's Sketches of the Life and Character of Patrick Henry was probably the diamond in the rough. Murray declined, without comment, to publish any. When Irving asked Murray if he might send along Byron's Childe Harold, Canto IV, it appears that Murray did so, as an American edition appeared in Philadelphia in 1818. It was no wonder, then, that Irving and Thomas were excited about the prospects of effectively being Murray's American copublisher. So far, the advantages were decidedly one-sided.
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