Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories

by Washington Irving

  “Ah,” said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, “I see how it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Sackville’s stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine spun euphuisms of the ”unparalelled John Lyly.”

  “There you are again mistaken,” said I, “the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney’s Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,20 and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after the fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious.

  “For my part,” I continued, “I consider this mutability of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, and pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may in some measure be owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has swoln into a torrent—augmented into a river—expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three and four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy, and the press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a life time merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information at the present day reads scarce any thing but reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking catalogue.”

  “My very good sir,” said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in my face, “excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for deer stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion.”

  “On the contrary,” said I, “it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There arise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the everflowing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them.”

  Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a short plethoric fit of laughter that had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. “Mighty well!” cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, “mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer stealer! by a man without learning! by a poet, forsooth—a poet!” And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.

  I confess I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point.

  “Yes,” resumed I positively, “a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded with common places, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth of the language—its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies. What bogs of theological speculations; what dreary wastes of metaphysics. Here and there only do we behold the heaven illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age.”*

  I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed, and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavoured to draw it into farther conversation, but in vain. And whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been able to discover.

  *Thorow earth, and waters deepe,

  The pen by skill doth passe:

  And featly nyps the worldes abuse,

  And shoes us in a glasse,

  The vertu and the vice

  Of every wight alyve;

  The honey combe that bee doth make,

  Is not so sweete in hyve,

  As are the golden leves

  That drop from poets head:

  Which doth surmount our common talke

  As farre as dros doth lead.

  CHURCHYARD.

  RURAL FUNERALS

  Here’s a few flowers; but about midnight, more:

  The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night

  Are strewings fitt‘st for graves.—

  You were as flowers now wither’d: even so

  These herb’lets shall, which we upon you strow.

  CYMBELINE.

  Among the beautiful and simple hearted customs of rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at the graves, of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were no doubt the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time.

  In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies, is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia:White his shroud as the mountain snow

  Larded all with sweet flowers;

  Which be-wept to the grave did go,

  With true-love showers.

  There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has did young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven.

  In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns: a kind of triumph, “to show,” says Bourne, “that they have finished their course with joy, and are become conquerors.” This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape.

  Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round

  Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground,

  And as we sing thy dirge, we will

  The Daffodill,

  And other flowers lay upon

  The altar of our love, thy stone.21

  There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the passing funeral in these sequestered places, for such spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey.

  The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people for an honoured and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the “faire and happy milkmaid,” observes, “thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the spring time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding sheet.” The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In “The Maid’s Tragedy,” by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken hearted girl:When she sees a bank

  Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell

  Her servants, what a pretty place it were

  To bury lovers in; and make her maids

  Pluck ’em, and strew her over like a corse.

  The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent: osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. “We adorn their graves,” says Evelyn, in his Sylva, “with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in holy scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonour, rise again in glory.” This usage has now become extremely rare in England; but it may still be met with in the church yards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay; some drooping others quite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb stones.

  There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement of these rustic offerings that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. “This sweet flower,” says Evelyn, “borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a shew for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses.” The nature and colour of the flowers, and of the ribbands with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled “Corydon’s Doleful Knell,” a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use:A garland shall be framed

  By art and nature’s skill,

  Of sundry-coloured flowers,

  In token of good will.

  And sundry-coloured ribbands

  On it I will bestow;

  But chiefly blacke and yellowe

  With her to grave shall go.

  I’ll deck her tomb with flowers

  The rarest ever seen;

  And with my tears as showers

  I’ll keepe them fresh and green.

  The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin; her chaplet was tied with white ribbands, in token of her spotless innocence, though sometimes black ribbands were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in general were appropriated to the grave
s of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, “where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes.” And Camden, likewise, remarks in his Britannia: “Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this church yard is now full of them.”

  When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress; and if flowers were strewn they were of the most melancholy colours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651) is the following stanza:Yet strew

  Upon my dismall grave

  Such offerings as you have,

  Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe;

  For kinder flowers can take no birth

  Or growth from such unhappy earth.

  In “The Maid’s Tragedy,” a pathetic little air is introduced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who had been disappointed in love:Lay a garland on my hearse

  Of the dismall yew,

  Maidens willow branches wear,

  Say I died true.

  My love was false, but I was firm

  From my hour of birth,

  Upon my buried body lie