Washington Irving
Washington Irving was born on 3 April 1783 in New York City, in the years shortly after the founding of the United States. A citizen of that country, Irving wrote in English and pursued a professional life of considerable breadth, working across fields that ranged from law and journalism to diplomacy and literature. This variety of occupations defined the shape of his career from its earliest stages.
Irving worked as a lawyer, journalist, historian, biographer, playwright, and novelist, holding these roles across a working life that extended well into the middle of the nineteenth century. His output in English spanned multiple genres and registers, reflecting the range of occupations he maintained. Few writers of his era accumulated such a diverse set of professional designations simultaneously.
Among his works in fiction, Irving published "Rip Van Winkle" in 1819 and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" in 1820, both appearing within The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. These two pieces, set within a longer collection, became among the most frequently cited examples of his literary output. The Sketch Book itself stands as a central work in his career as a novelist and writer working in the English language.
Irving died on 28 November 1859 in Tarrytown, having been born in New York City some seventy-six years earlier. The Library of Congress catalogues his work under the authorized label "Irving, Washington, 1783-1859," a designation that records the dates of his life and anchors his place within the formal organization of the written record.
Quotes by Washington Irving
Washington Irving's insights on:
Sweet is the memory of distant friends! Like the mellow ray of a departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart.
Love is never lost. If not reciprocated it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.
A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.
He loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark ofweakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than tenthousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelminggrief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal--every other affliction to forget: but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open--this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.
There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse...it is often a comfort to shift one's position and be bruised in a new place.
It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling, the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart.
