University of Virginia Library

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

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. This name was given, we are told, in
former days, by the good house-wives of the adjacent
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands
to linger about the village tavern 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 three miles, there
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills,
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A
small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough
to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail,

or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in
squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it
at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and
was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the
sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated
by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a
retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its
distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this
little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long
been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout
all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy
influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the
very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched
by a high German doctor during the early days of the
settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet
or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before
the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of
some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds
of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs;
are subject to trances and visions; and frequently
see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.
The whole neighbourhood abounds with local tales,
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other
part of the country, and the night-mare, with her whole
nine fold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be
the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried
away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle during
the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon

seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of
night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are
not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church
that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most
authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful
in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning
this spectre, allege that, the body of the trooper having
been burried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to
the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that
the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along
the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being
belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard
before day-break.

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

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one
who resides there for a time. However wide awake they
may have been before they entered that sleepy region,
they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence
of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to
dream dreams, and see apparitions.

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