Dream Life | Page 2

descriptions of natural objects which
occur in his books.
"Not wholly," he replied; and went on to tell me it had been his way, in
the earlier days of his authorship, to carry little tablets with him into the
country, and whenever he saw a scene specially picturesque,--a cottage
of marked features, a noticeable tree, any picture, in short, which
promised service to him,--to note down its distinguishing points, and
hold it in reserve.
"This," said he, "is one among those small arts and industries which a
person who writes much must avail himself of: they are equivalent to
the little thumb-sketches from which a painter makes up his larger
compositions."
On our way to the church on a certain Sunday morning, he tapped my
shoulder as we entered the little gate, and called my attention to a lithe
young Indian girl, who had strolled down from the campment on the
plains, and was standing proudly erect upon the church-porch, with
finger to her lips, scanning curiously the worshippers as they passed in.
"What a splendid figure of a woman!" said he, "she is puzzling over the
extravagances and devotions of the white-faces."
The black, straight elf-locks, the swart face, the great wondering eye,
with the gay blanket, short gown of woollen-stuff, and brilliant
moccasins, made a striking picture to be sure; and I could not help
thinking, that if the apparition had chanced upon him earlier, she might

have figured in some story of Pokanoket or of the Prairies.
I took occasion one morning to ask if he was always able to control the
"humors of writing," and to put himself resolutely to work, whatever
might be the state of his feeling.
"No," he said, very decidedly,--"unfortunately I cannot: there are men
who do, I believe. I always envied them; but there was a period of a
month or more, after I had finally decided upon literary labors, and had
declined a lucrative position under Government, when it seemed as if I
was utterly bereft of all the fancies I ever had; for weeks I could do
nothing; but at last the clouds lifted, and I wrote off the first numbers of
the 'Sketch-Book,' and dispatched them to my good friends in this
country, to make the most of. I feared it would not be much.
"And the worst of it is," continued he, "the good people do not allow
for these periods of depression; if a man does a thing tolerably well in
his happy moods, they see no reason why he should not be always in a
happy mood."
I asked if he had never found relief, and a stimulant to work, in the
reading aloud of some favorite old author.
"Often," said he; "and none are more effective with me for this service
than the sacred writers; I think I have waked a good many sleeping
fancies by the reading of a chapter in Isaiah."
In answer to inquiries of mine in regard to the incomplete state of
several of the stories of "Wolfert's Roost," he said: "Yes, we do not get
through all we lay out. Some of those sketches had lain in my mind for
a great many years; they made a sort of garret-trumpery, of which I
thought I would make a general clearance, leaving the odds and ends to
take care of themselves.
"There was a novel too, I once laid out, in which an English lad, being
a son of one of the old Regicide Judges, was to come over to New
England in search of his father: he was to meet with a throng of
adventures, and to arrive at length upon a Saturday night, in the midst

of a terrible thunder-storm, at the house of a stern old Massachusetts
Puritan, who comes out to answer to the rappings; and by a flash of
lightning which gleams upon the harsh, iron visage of the old man, the
son fancies he recognizes his father."
And as he told it, the old gentleman wrinkled his brow, and tried to put
on the fierce look he would describe.
"It's all there is of it," said he. "If you want to make a story, you can
furbish it up."
There were among other notable people at Saratoga, during the summer
of which I speak, the well-known Mrs. Dr. R----, of Philadelphia, since
deceased,--a woman of great eccentricities, but of a wonderfully
masculine mind, and of great cultivation. It was a fancy of hers to give
special, social patronage to foreign artists; and among those just then at
Saratoga, and the recipients of her favor, were a distinguished
violinist--whose name I do not now recall--and the newly married Mme.
Alboni. Mr. Irving, in common with her other acquaintances, she was
inclined to make contributory to her attentions.