The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

by Washington Irving

  Produced by Ilana M. (Kingsley) Newby and Greg Newby

  THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

  by Washington Irving

  FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

  A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

  In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the easternshore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominatedby the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they alwaysprudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholaswhen they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, whichby some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properlyknown by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, informer days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from theinveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the villagetavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic.Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a littlevalley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of thequietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasionalwhistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only soundthat ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

  I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit insquirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades oneside of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all natureis peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as itbroke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberatedby the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I mightsteal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away theremnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than thislittle valley.

  From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of itsinhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, thissequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, andits rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all theneighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over theland, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the placewas bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of thesettlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard ofhis tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered byMaster Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues underthe sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds ofthe good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They aregiven to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances andvisions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices inthe air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots,and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener acrossthe valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare,with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of hergambols.

  The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, andseems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is theapparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by someto be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried awayby a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War,and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along inthe gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are notconfined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, andespecially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed,certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have beencareful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning thisspectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in thechurchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightlyquest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimespasses along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his beingbelated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

  Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which hasfurnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; andthe spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of theHeadless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

  It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is notconfined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciouslyimbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awakethey may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they aresure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, andbegin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

  I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in suchlittle retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in thegreat State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remainfixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which ismaking such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country,sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of stillwater, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw andbubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimicharbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though manyyears have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yetI question whether I should not still find the same trees and the samefamilies vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

  In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of Americanhistory, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of thename of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried,"in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of thevicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies theUnion with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sendsforth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters.The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall,but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, handsthat dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served forshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head wassmall, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and along snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon hisspindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding alongthe profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging andfluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius offamine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from acornfield.

  His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructedof logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves ofold copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by awithe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against thewindow shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease,he would find some embarrassment in getting out,--an idea most probablyborrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of aneelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation,just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, anda formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the lowmurmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heardin a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now andthen by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace orcommand, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as heurged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth tosay, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim,"Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainlywere not spoiled.

  I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of
those cruelpotentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; onthe contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather thanseverity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it onthose of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the leastflourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims ofjustice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some littletough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelledand grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called "doinghis duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisementwithout following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smartingurchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest dayhe had to live."

  When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmateof the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some ofthe smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or goodhousewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the