Name: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving (Audiobook)
Uploaded: 2023-10-12T07:49:46.000Z
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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.

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 housewives 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 two

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 noontime,

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

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 neighboring 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 neighborhood 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 nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it

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 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 buried in the churchyard, 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 churchyard before daybreak.

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 harbor, 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

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that

is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned,

or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing

the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the

Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth 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, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels,

and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with

huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a

weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him

striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering

about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth,

or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the

windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most

ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and

stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect

ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,—an idea most probably borrowed

by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood

in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook

running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low

murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy

summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative

voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling

sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge.

Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare

the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the

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