A Sleepy End to September

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 favorite scene of her gambols. 

It is the eve of October, and my heart is still in Sleepy Hollow.

I have just returned home from spending the better part of a week in the enchanted Hudson River Valley, exploring the towns of Sleepy Hollow, Tarrytown, Irvington, and meandering further north and east. I reveled in cemeteries with gravestones from the 1700's, got lost in a giant corn maze, ate apple cider doughnuts, drove winding back roads canopied by the limbs of trees growing on either side, squealed at the biggest jack-o-lantern display I've ever seen, and swept my fingertips over the very same walls and woodwork that Washington Irving did 160 years ago. I've still got the Sleepy Hollow spirit humming within me, and now I feel so ready to dive into one of the most magical months of the year.

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.

The history and folklore, old magic and superstition, and the hardworking and hopeful spirits of the early Dutch settlers, left an imprint on the land in the area along the Hudson River. That imprint would also include their treatment of the original inhabitants, the first peoples of that place, and the enslaved Africans they brought in to work on their farms. The raids and eventual surrender of New Netherland (New York state) to the English, and then the devastating spread of tuberculosis, added layers of complexity to the way of life in the valley, but through it all these small settlements flourished and grew into the bustling riverside towns of today. Spending even a short amount of time in this area it is easy to see why writers, inventors, dreamers and others took such a shine to it and chose to make it their home.

I can still hear the rustling of leaves in the old Dutch burying ground, the whispers of the great oaks and horse chestnut, and the dreamy burbling of the Pocantico River (more of a brook in the area where I met it). The voice of that place will surely haunt me for a very long time.

The year is flying swiftly along like the galloping hooves of that old Hessian's horse. I've found myself surrounded by a large stack of books and other goodies that will be making their way across spellbound bridges (via the modern pony express services of Canada Post) to some lucky folks in the weeks ahead. Sleep well tonight, if you can. The enchantment of this next month is bound to fill your head with delights and devilry and you'll need to keep your strength up. Pop back around tomorrow as the light slips from the sky and the first dusk of October settles. I've got a mug of something warm for you and some wonderful reads to curl up with.

Happy almost-October, friends.



Quoted excerpts above from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washinton Irving. You can read it here via Project Gutenberg. And if you enjoy a story being read to you, my friend Cory over at New World Witchery narrated the tale a few years back here.

PS - If you don't know what I'm talking about, this post from last year will give you more of a hint about the not-so-secret October happenings at Rue and Hyssop.