Washington Irving

I'm not sure if it's because we have both spent many happy years in Sleepy Hollow, NY or it is our mutual love of mystery, but I have always felt a kinship with the late Washington Irving. Unlike the damp, heavy home's of other great writers of his time, Sunnyside in Tarrytown, NY is filled with light and is noted to have been the hub for unlimited joyful gatherings. The walls hold the memory of Mr. Irving's spirit and the grounds overflow with lilacs in the spring and in the autumn, red and orange maples. Washington Irving was by no means a tortured artist but simply an artist who was able to write about fantasy and out of the box folklore. I admire his courage to write a timeless legend and to question many of the Puritan beliefs which still took precedent during the time in which when he wrote The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
You can tell when you visit the grounds at Sunnyside (where he spent many of his years along the Hudson river), that Mr. Irving was a genuinely happy man with a creative gift. Every October I make it a point to visit Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown and pay his old stomping grounds a special visit. I thank him for his legends, for Ichabod and Rip Van Winkle and the magic folklore which managed to canonize the glorious Hudson Valley.
Cheers to you Washington Irving!


"Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long settled retreats; but are trampled under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarce had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood, so that when they turn out of a night to walk the rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long established Dutch communities.." - excerpt from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

The Legend...

"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 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 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 marvelous 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." - Washington Irving (excerpt from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow)