Washington Irving-Mystic Memory in America

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. – Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Halloween holds myriad meanings. For me, it is a subtle collection of brooding images and emotions. Remembrances flow forth on a clear, chill, October evening. Especially toward Halloween. Inevitably, I’m enamored of a place deep within the memory’s eye, where corn shocks stand as silent sentries in the shadows, and jack-o-lanterns smile, nestled atop far hills. The twilit landscape evokes ethereal emotion. In these moments, even the most jaded old codger pays heed to the supernatural.

Once in a while, a story-writer like Washington Irving weaves a lasting effect across time. It is of no consequence when or where his reader lives. If a reader absorbs Irving’s work, a part of her thereafter gazes out from some quiet landing along a bank of the Hudson River, curled up in mists beneath the Catskills, never far from Sleepy Hollow. I’m not a Dutchman. Strangely though, I feel kinship with Brom Bones, the Van Winkles, and the Van Tassels. Neither am I a New Yorker, but I’m a “Knickerbocker” nonetheless. I have not yet experienced New York mountains, but I’ve felt the thunder of nine-pins and cringed from the searing force of a tongue-lashing by Dame Van Winkle. I have lived a lifetime, sometime, somewhere, along the banks of the Hudson River, in mythic upstate New York, of all places. Such is the lilting, lyric power of Washington Irving’s prose.

. . . . he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. – Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Irving is a quintessential American author. Born in New York City at Revolutionary War’s end, he was once cradled in the arms of his namesake, General Washington. Arguably little more than a blip on the American literary radar, Washington Irving nevertheless managed to put America on the ‘well-written’ map. He gave us a lasting, mythical, vision of America. Think no further than Halloween. No matter your experience, somewhere within it is a wisp of Sleepy Hollow.

Irving wrote essays, travel books, biographies, and legendary histories in the early years of the 19^th century. He set standards for subsequent generations of American short story writers, but we remember him for two tales: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Both appear in The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent, a collection of stories which were set in America and Britain. Oddly, these most American of tales were written and published when he lived in England. In the aftermath of the War of 1812, relations between the British motherland and her defiant American child were sorely frayed. Washington Irving’s talent helped heal hurt feelings across the Atlantic. His portraiture of rural England was a refreshing look for American readers into the happy country life of an erstwhile antagonist. Irving’s inimitable bent for recasting Catskill legends into fanciful stories among the valleys and and along the winding lanes of Sleepy Hollow gave English readers a new and imaginative literary style, free of pervasive old Europe.

The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. – Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle are his great artistic efforts. We cringe at the abject terror and dread silhouette of the Headless Horseman bearing down on us, and smile upon the hapless figures of superstitious schoolmaster Ichabod Crane and a mercilessly henpecked, time-traveling Rip Van Winkle. Irving wove elements of myth, legend, fable, folklore, and drama into a narrative that achieved immediate classic status. Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle hold many elements of the modern short story, although we are drawn to the simple power of the stories. Irving's other historical writings are valued for their graceful prose and historical interest, but critics generally agree that The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is — with Rip Van Winkle — his lasting artistic achievement.

Abraham Lincoln once wrote of ‘the mystic chords of memory’. With Washington Irving, they wail. In shadows past, a cool twilight breeze flows through autumnal hollows, and stirs emotions that hearken back to magical moments early in our lives. When I hear the yaps of coyotes deep in the bottoms of the Bayou de Chein, I can’t help but think Ichabod Crane is floundering there, screaming as a menacing, long-dead, high-collared Hessian headless horseman is gaining hard upon him.

... On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!--but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! – Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow