Thanksgiving ... for Washington Irving, Episcopalian

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town.

And so begins, of course, Washington Irving's 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow'. That Irving was a parishioner of the Episcopal congregation in Tarrytown, "on the eastern shore of the Hudson", adds to the story: he was writing about the place which was his home from 1835 until his death, the place in which he worshipped (in the Episcopal congregation, Christ Church), the landscape in which he rejoiced. It is the custom of laudable Practice on Thanksgiving Day to give thanks for an aspect of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America. This year, we turn to Washington Irving.

Appropriately, in light of the description of Autumn in 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, it was in the Fall of 1848 that Washington Irving became a communicant in PECUSA. In the Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by his nephew, we are told that receiving the Sacrament had a significant impact on Irving:

It was in the autumn ... that he united himself to the Episcopal church ... He first partook of the communion in Grace Church, New York, after an earnest conversation with his friend, its distinguished rector. Dr. Taylor. He had long contemplated doing this, and afterward, in alluding to the occasion to me, spoke of it as "a moment of overwhelming emotion." It has been suggested by some, that in the record of Mr. Irving's life, too little prominence has been given to the religious aspect of his character. It would have ill-suited his feelings to have been held up conspicuously as a Christian. 

The description given by Irving's nephew of his religious life exemplifies an Episcopal piety, in its modesty and generosity:

He was truly and sincerely a religious man, but, as in every thing else, he was a very modest one. He had chosen the Episcopal church, and was an unfailing attendant upon its worship, delighting in its beautiful service. But he was no sectarian, and never inclined to speculate about dogmas and creeds. He gave to all the different denominations in his neighborhood, and his faith was of a truly catholic kind, embracing all. 

The reference to Irving's delight in the Protestant Episcopal liturgy is repeated in accounts of other 19th century Episcopal converts. It is also related to Irving's particular attraction to the Gloria in Excelsis, which BCP 1789 offered as a conclusion to the psalms at Morning Prayer:

To quote the language of the Rev. Mr. Spencer in a sermon delivered on the occasion of his death, "'Glory be to God on high, and on earth, peace, good-will to men,' was his summary of the Gospel." Alluding to that grand anthem in the Church service, of which the above are the opening words, he once said to his pastor, the Rev. Dr. Creighton, "I never hear the 'Gloria in Excelsis ' without feeling better and without my heart being lifted up."

If we wanted an example of Anglican piety having a particular focus on the Incarnation and Christmas, it is here seen in Irving's devotion to the Gloria in Excelsis, particularly appropriate for the author of short stories that wonderfully celebrated Christmas. Indeed, he echoed the canticle in one of those short stories:

The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. 

On this day, then, we might think of those years when Irving set in his pew in Christ Church, Tarrytown, particularly on the Sundays of November and December, with the festive season approaching amidst darker, colder days, Morning Prayer being said according to the 1789 revision of the Prayer Book, with Gloria in Excelsis, echoing the angelic chorus, proclaiming the grace and peace of the Christian faith.

In 1859, Advent Sunday fell on 27th November. On 28th November, Irving's earthly life came to an end. Fittingly, he died and was buried in the season of Advent. 

It was on the 1st of December that the mortal remains of Washington Irving were conveyed to their last resting-place; but no breath of winter chilled the air. The Indian-summer, which this season had lingered into the very winter, shed its soft and melancholy beauty over the scene; and nothing could have been more exquisite than the day, or more in keeping with the sad occasion. "It was one of his own days," was the remark of many present. 

'One of his own days', those days he had described in 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow':

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. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air.

The description of Irving's funeral not only demonstrated how he was regarded within Episcopalian circles, it also captured something of the culture of mid-19th century Episcopalianism, and the manner in which he embodied that culture:

Upon [the procession's] arrival at Christ Church, Tarrytown, where the services were to be held, it was met by a large concourse of the inhabitants of the neighboring country, and an array of men eminent in the various walks of literature and commerce, who had assembled from New York and other cities to pay the last tribute of respect to the honored dead. At half past one, the clergy present entered the chancel, led by Bishop Potter. They were the Rev. Dr. Vinton, of St. Paul's, New York; Rev. Dr. Taylor, of Grace Church; Rev. Mr. Meade; Rev. Mr. Farmington, of Trinity; Rev. Dr. Morgan, of St. Thomas's; Rev. Dr. McVickar; Rev. Mr. Babbitt; and Rev. Mr. Moore. At the door of the church, the coffin was met by the rector, Rev. Dr. Creighton (pastor and friend of the deceased) and Rev. Mr. Spencer, his assistant, who preceded it up the aisle, the rector reading the opening sentences of the Episcopal burial service. The coffin was placed in front of the altar, when the choir joined in the solemn and beautiful anthem, "Lord, let me know my end."

As the funeral moved to the graveside, overlooking the Hudson, the themes of Sleepy Hollow, memories of the Revolutionary War, Episcopal liturgy and piety, and the "fine golden tint" of a seasonal sunset combined:

The coffin was then returned to the hearse, and the procession of carriages, computed at one hundred and fifty, formed anew, and, accompanied by a large concourse of pedestrians, proceeded to the cemetery. It was situated about a mile north of the church, on a beautiful hill, commanding on one side a noble view of the Hudson, and on the other a portion of the Sleepy Hollow valley. The route passed by the monument erected to the captors of Major Andre on the spot where he was taken, and across the bridge immortalized in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow," which was hung with emblems of mourning. On reaching the place of interment, Dr. Creighton, according to the beautiful and impressive service of the Episcopal Church, consigned the body to the grave: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." As he was laid down to take his last sleep among the scenes he had loved and celebrated, and by the side of his mother, as he had himself desired, the sun was declining; and soon another gorgeous sunset, such as brightened his last evening in life, again lighted up the western sky. It was a glorious scene; and few of the sad-hearted mourners who had stood around the grave failed to associate that day's decline with the close of that pure and beautiful life.

Of all that might be said about 19th century Episcopalian piety, I am not sure anything quite conveys the attraction of its quiet, modest goodness as this description of Irving's mortal remains being committed to the earth, until the general resurrection. To quote another great expression of Victorian Anglican piety:

The golden evening brightens in the west;

Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;

Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.

That TEC is the church of Washington Irving is not, I am sure, something that crosses the mind of the Episcopalian progressive activist class; and, if it does, I am guessing that, for whatever reason ideologues decide, embarrassment or lament, rather than joyful affirmation, would be the likely response. Likewise, I doubt that harsh critics of TEC on the Right see much of value in the relationship with Irving, a figure particularly unsuited for the pursuit of victory in culture wars. And yet Irving is an exemplar of much in the Episcopal tradition for which it is right to give thanks. He speaks of the particularities of place and parish, of (to use Sir Roger Scruton's term) the oikophilia that is inherent to the Anglican experience; of faith sustained over a lifetime, even unto the grave, by the words and phrases, rites and ceremonies of the Book of Common Prayer; of "faith ... of a truly catholic kind", generous because the grace of God is infinitely generous, and thus not walking in the paths of sectarianism; and, as the author of culturally significant stories which rejoiced in Christmas, "this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love", of faith rooted in the grace and light of the Incarnation. An Episcopalianism seeking to deepen and widen its cultural presence could do much worse than consider afresh the example of Washington Irving.

It is a day, then, to give thanks for Washington Irving and the Episcopal spirit which he embodied - and perhaps to begin (again) to read his stories of Old Christmas.

A happy Thanksgiving to friends and readers in the United States.

And, as it may have been the version of 'Lord, let me know mine end' sung at Irving's funeral, I share the choir of Saint Thomas, Fifth Avenue, singing Maurice Greene's setting of the anthem.

(The first picture is of the sun setting over the Hudson on a December day. The second is, from 'Harper's Weekly', a depiction of Irving's funeral. The third is of Irving's pew in Christ Church, Tarrytown.)