Washington Irving’s The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow (1820)

Well, Hal­loween is com­ing round again so I thought it time­ly to write about a com­pi­la­tion of creepy tales that I have recent­ly fin­ished read­ing by the 19th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can short-sto­ry writer Wash­ing­ton Irv­ing (1783–1859). If you are unfa­mil­iar with the author, you may be more famil­iar with the titles of two of his more famous sto­ries: Rip Van Win­kle (1819) and The Leg­end of Sleepy Hol­low (1820). He was one of the first Amer­i­can writ­ers to earn acclaim in Europe, and he was admired by the likes of Lord Byron, Charles Dick­ens, Mary Shel­ley and Wal­ter Scott.

Irv­ing had more strings to his bow than just short sto­ry writ­ing: he was a diplo­mat, serv­ing as Amer­i­can ambas­sador to Spain in the 1840s, and a his­to­ri­an, respon­si­ble for sev­er­al his­to­ries of 15th-cen­tu­ry Spain. This no doubt explains why sev­er­al of Irving’s sto­ries are set in and around Grana­da and involve ghost­ly encoun­ters in places like the Alham­bra Palace with long-gone Moors from before the Recon­quista. Many oth­er sto­ries, on the oth­er hand, are set deep inside anoth­er area close to Irving’s heart, rur­al New York State includ­ing the Catskill Moun­tains (where Rip Van Win­kle is set) and the bucol­ic envi­rons of mod­ern-day Tar­ry­town on the Hud­son riv­er (where The Leg­end of Sleepy Hol­low is set and where, in fact, Irv­ing would end his days).

The Leg­end of Sleepy Hol­low sto­ry revolves around local school­mas­ter Ich­a­bod Crane and his com­pe­ti­tion with town alpha-male “Brom Bones” for the hand of beau­ti­ful heiress Kat­ri­na van Tas­sel. The super­nat­ur­al ele­ment to the sto­ry, how­ev­er, is pro­vid­ed by local leg­end which has it that a Hes­s­ian sol­dier who was decap­i­tat­ed by a can­non­ball in bat­tle still roams the area as a Head­less Horse­man. Irv­ing was by no means the first to invoke the motif of the head­less horse­man – they have appeared in numer­ous sto­ries from Gael­ic, Scan­di­na­vian and Ger­man folk­lore, for exam­ple – but Irving’s is the one that has res­onat­ed down the ages, right down to Tim Burton’s (some­what lib­er­ty-tak­ing) movie of 1999, Sleepy Hol­low.

Ichabod’s encounter with the head­less horse­man hap­pens after his rejec­tion by Kat­ri­na at the van Tas­sel house­hold and he is return­ing home, crest­fall­en, on a bor­rowed horse, Gun­pow­der. Pass­ing though a men­ac­ing swamp, he sees a cloaked rid­er and is hor­ri­fied to see that the rider’s head was not on his shoul­ders but in his sad­dle. A fren­zied race ensues as Ich­a­bod rides for his life, des­per­ate­ly goad­ing Gun­pow­der down the Hol­low; as they cross a bridge, Ich­a­bod turns back in ter­ror to see the head­less rid­er rear his horse and hurl his sev­ered head direct­ly at him: the mis­sile strikes Ich­a­bod and sends him tum­bling head­long into the dust. The fol­low­ing morn­ing, Gun­pow­der is found chomp­ing at the grass, with the only sign of Ich­a­bod, who is nev­er seen again, being his dis­card­ed hat along­side a mys­te­ri­ous shat­tered pump­kin…

Wash­ing­ton Irv­ing

George Stubbs’ Cheetah And Stag With Two Indians (1765)

If you hap­pen to be in Man­ches­ter with a spare hour or two, do call into its art gallery on Mosley Street where you’ll find a host of inter­est­ing paint­ings, not least of which is Chee­tah and Stag with Two Indi­ans by George Stubbs. Stubbs was an Eng­lish artist, born in Liv­er­pool in 1724 and who moved to York in 1744 to pur­sue his pas­sion for human anato­my, study­ing under the sur­geon Charles Atkin­son at York Coun­ty Hos­pi­tal. He was also a nat­ur­al and entire­ly self-taught artist, and worked as a por­trait painter in York for ten more years, but he would become famous lat­er not for paint­ing human sit­ters but ani­mal ones, par­tic­u­lar­ly hors­es (of which his best-known, Whistle­jack­et, is at the Nation­al Gallery in Lon­don).

Whistle­jack­et

By 1764, Stubbs had estab­lished a rep­u­ta­tion for his anatom­i­cal­ly accu­rate ani­mal paint­ings, and attract­ed the atten­tion of the roy­al court, who had com­mis­sioned him, the year before, to paint Queen Charlotte’s South African zebra. He was, then, the obvi­ous choice when a cer­tain out­go­ing Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al of Madras, Sir George Pig­ot, arrived back in Lon­don with a menagerie of “wild beasts and curiosi­ties” as gifts for King George III, and was look­ing for an artist to paint a por­trait of the most exot­ic of those gifts, a mag­nif­i­cent chee­tah.

Eas­i­ly tamed and trained, chee­tahs had been used as hunt­ing ani­mals by the Mogul Emper­ors for hun­dreds of years. In that spir­it, the King’s uncle, the Duke of Cum­ber­land, was eager to put the King’s chee­tah through its paces and so arranged a demon­stra­tion in Wind­sor Great Park, where George Stubbs was present to cap­ture the occa­sion on can­vas.

A stag was duly placed in an enclo­sure of the roy­al pad­dock while the chee­tah was pre­pared by Pigot’s Indi­an ser­vants. First, they ‘hood­winked’ the ani­mal by tying a red blind­fold over its face, whilst one of the ser­vants held it by a restrain­ing sash around the hindquar­ters. A ser­vant then pulled back the hood back to allow the chee­tah a first sight of its quar­ry, whilst the oth­er one ges­tured towards the stag, and the preda­tor was unleashed. What hap­pened next was not quite what was intend­ed: accord­ing to the St James’s Chron­i­cle the stag staunch­ly defend­ed itself and end­ed up chas­ing the chee­tah off!

The paint­ing has been praised for its sin­cere ren­der­ing and lack of Euro­pean con­de­scen­sion: in an age when for­eign vis­i­tors were pic­tured at best as colour­ful exotics, at worst as sin­is­ter or ridicu­lous car­i­ca­tures, Stubbs endowed the ser­vants with a grace and authen­tic­i­ty equal to the mag­nif­i­cent crea­ture they were car­ing for.

Post­script Chee­tahs are no longer to be found wild in the Indi­an sub-con­ti­nent: the last three indi­vid­u­als were report­ed­ly shot in 1947 by the Mahara­jah of Sur­gu­ja.

Chee­tah and Stag with Two Indi­ans
George Stubbs, self-por­trait