LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALi ORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO i
 
 Qfflnnnnnnninn n:,--r: ; ... :.,,, ^_^^_j ^
 
 Little Masterpieces 
 
 Edited by Bliss Perry 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 
 
 LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 
 
 THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER 
 
 THE VOYAGE 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 STRATFOR D-ON-A VON 
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE CO.
 
 Copyright, 1897, by 
 
 DoUBLEDAY & McCLURE Co. 
 
 Acknowledgment is due to Messrs. G. P. Putnam s Sons 
 
 for permission to use the text of the authorized 
 
 edition of Irving s works.
 
 Introduction
 
 Introduction 
 
 IN " The Author s Account of Himself," 
 which prefaces " The Sketch-Book," Geoffrey 
 Crayon compares himself with the unlucky 
 landscape painter who had sketched in 
 nooks and corners and by-places, but had 
 neglected to paint St. Peter s and the Col 
 iseum, and had not a single glacier or vol 
 cano in his whole collection. This restric 
 tion in theme, which Irving whimsically 
 confesses, was in part, no doubt, as he 
 would have us believe, the result of follow 
 ing the bent of a vagrant inclination, but it 
 was also an evidence of the happiest ar 
 tistic instinct. One of Irving s most inti 
 mate friends has noted his " wonderful 
 knack at shutting his eyes to the sinister 
 side of anything." To ignore the sinister 
 side of life is to restrict one s art; but 
 Irving was led by a faultless taste to those 
 subjects that lay well within his powers. 
 Better than most authors of equal rank, he 
 knew what to avoid. In his unfailing sense 
 of proportion, purity of feeling, and fine re-
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Editor s Introduction v 
 
 Rip Van Winkle I 
 
 (From Sketch Boot) 
 
 Legend of Sleepy Hollow . . -35 
 
 (From Sketch Book) 
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker . . . 91 
 
 (From Tails of a Traveller) 
 
 The Voyage 1 1 5 
 
 (From Sketch Book) 
 
 Westminster Abbey .... 129 
 
 (From Sketch Book) 
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 149 
 
 (From Sketch Book) 
 
 The Stout Gentleman .... 183 
 
 (From Braccbridge Half)
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH 
 KNICKERBOCKER
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH 
 KNICKERBOCKER 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre CARTWKIGHT. 
 
 [The following tale was found among- the 
 papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, 
 an old gentleman of New York, who was 
 very curious in the Dutch history of the 
 province, and the manners of the descend 
 ants from its primitive settlers. His his 
 torical researches, however, did not lie so 
 much among books as among men; for the 
 former are lamentably scanty on his favorite 
 topics; whereas he found the old burghers, 
 and still more their wives, rich in that le 
 gendary lore so invaluable to true history. 
 Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a 
 genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its 
 low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading 
 sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped 
 volume of black-letter, and studied it with 
 the zeal of a book-worm. 
 
 3
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 The result of all these researches was a 
 history of the province during the reign of 
 the Dutch governors, which he published 
 some years since. There have been various 
 opinions as to the literary character of his 
 work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a 
 whit better than it should be. Its chief merit 
 is its scrupulous accuracy, \vhich indeed was 
 a little questioned on its first appearance, 
 but has since been completely established; 
 and it is now admitted into all historical 
 collections as a book of unquestionable au 
 thority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the 
 publication of his work; ana now that he is 
 dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to 
 his memory to say that his time might have 
 been much better employed in weightier la 
 bors. He, however, was apt to ride his 
 hobby in his own way; and though it did now 
 and then kick up the dust a little in the 
 eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit 
 of some friends, for w r hom he felt the truest 
 deference and affection, yet his errors and 
 follies are remembered " more in sorrow than 
 in anger," and it begins to be suspected that 
 he never intended to injure or offend. But 
 however his memory may be appreciated by 
 critics, it is still held dear by many folk 
 whose good opinion is well worth having; 
 particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
 have gone so far as to imprint his likeness 
 
 4
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 on their New Year cakes; and have thus 
 given him a chance for immortality, almost 
 equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo 
 medal, or a Queen Anne s farthing.] 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hud 
 son must remember the Kaatskill moun 
 tains. They are a dismembered branch of 
 the great Appalachian family, and are seen 
 away to the west of the river, swelling up 
 to a noble height, and lording it over the 
 surrounding country. Every change of sea 
 son, every change of weather, indeed, every 
 hour of the day, produces some change in 
 the magical hues and shapes of these moun 
 tains, and they are regarded by all the good 
 wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
 When the weather is fair and settled, they 
 are clothed in blue and purple, and print 
 their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; 
 but sometimes, when the rest of the land 
 scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood 
 of gray vapors about their summits, which, 
 in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 
 and light up like a crown of glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the 
 voyager may have descried the light smoke 
 curling up from a village, whose shingle- 
 roofs gleam among the trees, just where the 
 blue tints of the upland melt away into the 
 fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is 
 5
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 a little village, of great antiquity, having 
 been founded by some of the Dutch colonists 
 in the early times of the province, just about 
 the beginning of the government of the good 
 Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), 
 and there were some of the houses of the 
 original settlers standing within a few years, 
 built of small yellow bricks brought from 
 Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
 fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these 
 very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, 
 was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
 there lived, many years since, while the 
 country was yet a province of Great Brit 
 ain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the 
 name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a de 
 scendant of the Van Winkles who figured 
 so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
 Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the 
 siege of Port Christina. He inherited, how 
 ever, but little of the martial character of 
 his ancestors. I have observed that he was 
 a simple, good-natured man; he was, more 
 over, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen 
 pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter cir 
 cumstance might be owing that meekness of 
 spirit which gained him such universal pop 
 ularity; for those men are most apt to be 
 obsequious and conciliating abroad who are 
 under the discipline of shrews at home. 
 Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of 
 domestic tribulation; and a curtain-lecture 
 is worth all the sermons in the world for 
 teaching the virtues of patience and long- 
 suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, 
 in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
 blessing; and, if so, Rip Van Winkle was 
 thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite 
 among all the good wives of the village, 
 who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his 
 part in all family squabbles; and never 
 failed, whenever they talked those matters 
 over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
 the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The chil 
 dren of the village, too, would shout with 
 joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
 at their sports, made their playthings, taught 
 them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
 told them long stories of ghosts, witches, 
 and Indians. Whenever he went dodging 
 about the village he was surrounded by a 
 troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clam 
 bering on his back, and playing a thousand 
 tricks on him with impunity; and not a 
 dog would bark at him throughout the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip s composition was 
 an insuperable aversion to all kinds of prof 
 itable labor. It could not be from the want 
 of assiduity or perseverance, for he would 
 sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and 
 7
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 heavy as a Tartar s lance, and fish all day 
 without a murmur, even though he should 
 not be encouraged by a single nibble. He 
 would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder 
 for hours together, trudging through woods 
 and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to 
 shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He 
 would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
 in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man 
 at all country frolics for husking Indian 
 corn or building stone fences; the women 
 of the village, too, used to employ him to 
 run their errands, and to do such little odd 
 jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
 not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready 
 to attend to anybody s business but his own; 
 but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
 farm in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to 
 work on his farm; it was the most pestilent 
 little piece of ground in the whole country; 
 everything about it went wrong, and would 
 go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were 
 continually falling to pieces; his cow would 
 either go astray, or get among the cabbages; 
 weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields 
 than anywhere else; the rain always made 
 a point of setting in just as he had some 
 out-of-door work to do; so that though his 
 patrimonial estate had dwindled away under 
 his management, acre by acre, until there 
 was little more left than a mere patch of
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the 
 worst conditioned farm in the neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild 
 as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, 
 an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
 promised to inherit the habits, with the old 
 clothes, of his father. He was generally 
 seen trooping like a colt at his mother s 
 heels, equipped in a pair of his father s cast- 
 off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
 hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
 her train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of 
 those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled 
 dispositions, who take the world easy, eat 
 white bread or brown, whichever can be got 
 with least thought or trouble, and would 
 rather starve on a penny than work for a 
 pound. If left to himself, he would have 
 whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
 but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
 ears about his idleness, his carelessness and 
 the ruin he was bringing on his family. 
 Morning, noon and night, her tongue was. 
 incessantly going, and everything he said 
 or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
 household eloquence. Rip had but one way 
 of replying to all lectures of the kind, and 
 that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
 habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
 head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
 9
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 This, however, always provoked a fresh vol 
 ley from his wife; so that he was fain to 
 draw off his forces, and take to the outside 
 of the house the only side which, in truth, 
 belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 
 
 Rip s sole domestic adherent was his dog 
 Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his 
 master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
 them as companions in idleness, and even 
 looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the 
 cause of his master s going so often astray. 
 True it is, in all points of spirit befitting 
 an honorable dog, he was as courageous an 
 animal as ever scoured the woods; but what 
 courage can withstand the ever-during and 
 all-besetting terrors of a woman s tongue? 
 The moment Wolf entered the house his 
 crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, 
 or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
 with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong 
 glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the 
 least flourish of a broomstick or ladle be 
 would fly to the door with yelping precipi 
 tation. 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip 
 Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled 
 on; a tart temper never mellows with age, 
 and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool 
 that grows keener with constant use. For 
 a long while he used to console himself, 
 when driven from home, by frequenting a 
 kind of perpetual club of the sages, philoso- 
 10
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 pliers, and other idle personages of the vil 
 lage, which held its sessions on a bench be 
 fore a small inn, designated by a rubicund 
 portrait of His Majesty, George the Third. 
 Here they used to sit in the shade through a 
 long, lazy summer s day, talking listlessly 
 over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
 stories about nothing. But it would have 
 been worth any statesman s money to have 
 heard the profound discussions that some 
 times took place, when by chance an old 
 newspaper fell into their hands from some 
 passing traveller. How solemnly they would 
 listen to the contents, as drawled out by 
 Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a 
 dapper, learned little man, who was not to 
 be daunted by the most gigantic word in 
 the dictionary; and how sagely they would 
 deliberate upon public events some months 
 after they had taken place. 
 
 The opinions of this junta were completely 
 controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch 
 of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the 
 door of which he took his seat from morning 
 till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid 
 the sun and keep in the shade of a large 
 tree; so that the neighbors could tell the 
 hour by his movements as accurately as by 
 a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to 
 speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
 adherents, however (for every great man has 
 his adherents), perfectly understood him, 
 11
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and knew how to gather his opinions. 
 When anything that was read or related dis 
 pleased him, he was observed to smoke his 
 pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, 
 frequent, and angry puffs; but when 
 pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly 
 and tranquilly, and emit it in light and 
 placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the 
 pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
 vapor curl about his nose, would gravely 
 nod his head in token of perfect appro 
 bation. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky 
 Rip was at length routed by his termagant 
 wife, who would suddenly break in upon the 
 tranquillity of the assemblage and call the 
 members all to naught; nor was that august 
 personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred 
 from the daring tongue of this terrible vi 
 rago, who charged him outright with en 
 couraging her husband in habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to 
 despair; and his only alternative, to escape 
 from the labor of the farm and clamor of his 
 wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll 
 away into the woods. Here he would some 
 times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
 share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, 
 with whom he sympathized as a fellow 
 sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he 
 would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog s 
 life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I 
 12
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 live thou shall never want a friend to stand 
 by thee! " Wolf would wag his tail, look 
 wistfully in his master s face; and if dogs 
 can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated 
 the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine 
 autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously 
 scrambled to one of the highest parts of 
 the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his 
 favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
 still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with 
 the reports of his gun. Panting and fa 
 tigued, he threw himself, late in the after 
 noon, on a green knoll, covered with moun 
 tain herbage, that crowned the brow of a 
 precipice. From an opening between the 
 trees he could overlook all the lower coun 
 try for many a mile of rich woodland. He 
 saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, 
 far below him, moving on his silent but 
 majestic course, with the reflection of a pur 
 ple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here 
 and there sleeping on its glassy bottom, and 
 at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a 
 deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and 
 shagged, the bottom filled with fragments 
 from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
 lighted by the reflected rays of the setting 
 sun. For some time Rip lay musing on 
 this scene; evening was gradually advanc 
 ing; the mountains began to throw their 
 13
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 long, blue shadows over the valleys; he saw 
 that it would be dark long before he could 
 reach the village, and he heaved a heavy 
 sigh when he thought of encountering the 
 terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a 
 voice from a distance, hallooing, " Rip Van 
 Winkle, Rip Van Winkle! " He looked 
 round, but could see nothing but a crow 
 winging its solitary flight across the moun 
 tain. He thought his fancy must have de 
 ceived him, and turned again to descend, 
 when he heard the same cry ring through 
 the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! 
 Rip Van Winkle! " at the same time Wolf 
 bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, 
 skulked to his master s side, looking fear 
 fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a 
 vague apprehension stealing over him; he 
 looked anxiously in the same direction, and 
 perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up 
 the rocks, and bending under the weight of 
 something he carried on his back. He was 
 surprised to see any human being in this 
 lonely and unfrequented place; but suppos 
 ing it to be some one of the neighborhood 
 in need of his assistance, he hastened down 
 to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more sur 
 prised at the singularity of the stranger s ap 
 pearance. He was a short, square-built old 
 fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 
 14
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch 
 fashion a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
 waist several pair of breeches, the outer 
 one of ample volume, decorated with rows 
 of buttons down the sides, and bunches at 
 the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout 
 keg that seemed full of liquor, and made 
 signs for Rip to approach and assist him with 
 the load. Though rather shy and distrustful 
 of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with 
 his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving 
 one another, they clambered up a narrow 
 gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
 torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
 and then heard long, rolling peals, like dis 
 tant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a 
 deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty 
 rocks, toward which their rugged path con 
 ducted. He paused for an instant, but sup 
 posing it to be the muttering of one of those 
 transient thunder showers which often take 
 place in mountain heights, he proceeded. 
 Passing through the ravine, they came to a 
 hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur 
 rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the 
 brinks of which impending trees shot their 
 branches, so that you only caught glimpses 
 of the azure sky and the bright evening 
 cloud. During the whole time Rip and his 
 companion had labored on in silence; for 
 though the former marvelled greatly what 
 could be the object of carrying a keg of 
 15
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was 
 something strange and incomprehensible 
 about the unknown, that inspired awe and 
 checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects 
 of wonder presented themselves. On a level 
 spot in the centre was a company of odd- 
 looking personages playing at ninepins. They 
 were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fash 
 ion; some wore short doublets, others jer 
 kins, with long knives in their belts, and 
 most of them had enormous breeches of 
 similar style with that of the guide s. 
 Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a 
 large beard, broad face, and small, piggish 
 eyes; the face of another seemed to consist 
 entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a 
 white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little 
 red cock s tail. They all had beards of va 
 rious shapes and colors. There was one who 
 seemed to be the commander. He was a 
 stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten 
 countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad 
 belt and hr.nger, high crowned hat and 
 feather, red stockings, and high-heeled 
 shoes, with roses in them. The whole 
 group reminded Rip of the figures in an 
 old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dom 
 inie Van Shaick, the village parson, and 
 which had been brought over from Holland 
 at the time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, 
 16
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 that, though these folks were evidently 
 amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
 gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
 and were, withal, the most melancholy party 
 of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
 interrupted the stillness of the scene but 
 the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
 they were rolled, echoed along the mountains 
 like rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached 
 them, they suddenly desisted from their 
 play, and stared at him with such fixed, 
 statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, 
 lack-lustre countenances, that his heart 
 turned within him, and his knees smote to 
 gether. His companion now emptied the 
 contents of the keg into large flagons, and 
 made signs to him to wait upon the company. 
 He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
 quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and 
 then returned to their game. 
 
 By degrees Rip s awe and apprehension 
 subsided. He even ventured, when no eye 
 was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
 which he found had much of the flavor of 
 excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
 thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat 
 the draught. One taste provoked another; 
 and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so 
 often that at length his senses were over-pow 
 ered, his eyes swam in his head, his head grad 
 ually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 17
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green 
 knoll whence he had first seen the old man 
 of the glen. He rubbed his eyes it was a 
 bright, sunny morning. The birds were 
 hopping and twittering among the bushes, 
 and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breast 
 ing the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," 
 thought Rip, " I have not slept here all 
 night." He recalled the occurrences before 
 he fell asleep. The strange man with a 
 keg of liquor the mountain ravine the wild 
 retreat among the rocks the woe-begone 
 party at ninepins the flagon "Oh! that 
 flagon! that wicked flagon! " thought Rip 
 " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van 
 Winkle?" 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place 
 of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he 
 found an old firelock lying by him, the bar 
 rel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
 and the stock worm-eaten. He now sus 
 pected that the grave roisterers of the moun 
 tain had put a trick upon him, and, having 
 dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his 
 gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he 
 might have strayed away after a squirrel or 
 partridge. He whistled after him, and 
 shouted his name, but all in vain; the 
 echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but 
 no dog was to be seen. 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the 
 last evening s gambol, and if he met with 
 18
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 any of the party to demand his dog and gun. 
 As he rose to walk he found himself stiff 
 in the joints, and wanting in his usual ac 
 tivity. " These mountain beds do not agree 
 with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic 
 should lay me up with a fit of the rheuma 
 tism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame 
 Van Winkle! " With some difficulty he got 
 down into the glen; he found the gully up 
 which he and his companion had ascended 
 the preceding evening; but to his astonish 
 ment a mountain stream was now foaming 
 down it, leaping from rock to rock, and fill 
 ing the glen with babbling murmurs. He, 
 however, made shift to scramble up its sides, 
 working his toilsome way through thickets 
 of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and 
 sometimes tripped up or entangled by the 
 wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or 
 tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
 of network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine 
 had opened through the cliffs to the am 
 phitheatre; but no traces of such opening 
 remained. The rocks presented a high, im 
 penetrable wall, over which the torrent came 
 tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
 fell into a broad deep basin, black from 
 the shadows of the surrounding forest. 
 Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
 He again called and whistled after his dog; 
 he was only answered by the cawing of a 
 19
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
 a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; 
 and who, secure in their elevation, seemed 
 to look down and scoff at the poor man s 
 perplexities. What was to be done? The 
 morning was passing away, and Rip felt 
 famished for want of his breakfast. He 
 grieved to give up his dog and gun; he 
 dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not 
 do to starve among the mountains. He shook 
 his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
 with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
 turned his steps homeward. 
 
 As he approached the village he met a 
 number of people, but none whom he knew, 
 which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
 thought himself acquainted with every one 
 in the country round. Their dress, too, was 
 of a different fashion from that to which 
 he was accustomed. They all stared at him 
 with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
 they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
 stroked their chins. The constant recur 
 rence of this gesture, induced Rip, invol 
 untarily, to do the same, when, to his as 
 tonishment, he found his beard had grown a 
 foot long! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the vil 
 lage. A troop of strange children ran at his 
 heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his 
 gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which 
 he recognized for an old acquaintance, 
 20
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 barked at him as he passed. The very vil 
 lage was altered; it was larger and more 
 populous. There were rows of houses which 
 he had never seen before, and those which 
 had been his familiar haunts had disap 
 peared. Strange names were over the doors 
 strange faces at the windows everything 
 was strange. His mind now misgave him; 
 he began to doubt whether both he and the 
 world around him were not bewitched. 
 Surely this was his native village, which he 
 had left but the day before. There stood 
 the Kaatskill mountains there ran the sil 
 ver Hudson at a distance there was every 
 hill and dale precisely as it had always 
 been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That 
 flagon last night," thought he, " has addled 
 my poor head sadly! " 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found 
 the way to his own house, which he ap 
 proached with silent awe, expecting every 
 moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame 
 Van Winkle. He found the house gone to 
 decay the roof fallen in, the windows 
 shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A 
 half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
 skulking about it. Rip called him by name, 
 but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and 
 passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. 
 " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has for 
 gotten me! " 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the 
 21
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept 
 in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and 
 apparently abandoned. This desolateness 
 overcame all his connubial fears he called 
 loudly for his wife and children the lonely 
 chambers rang for a moment with his voicft, 
 and then all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his 
 old resort, the village inn- but it, too, was 
 gone. A large, rickety wooden building 
 stood in its place, with great gaping win 
 dows, some of then" broken and mended with 
 old hats and petticoats, and over the door 
 was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jona 
 than Doolittle." Instead of the great tree 
 that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
 inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
 naked pole, with something on the top that 
 looked like a red nightcap, and from it was 
 fluttering a flag, on which was a singular 
 assemblage of stars and stripes; all this 
 was strange and incomprehensible. He rec 
 ognized on the sign, however, the ruby face 
 of King George, under which he had smoked 
 so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was 
 singularly metamorphosed. The red coat 
 was changed for one of blue and buff, a 
 sword was held in the hand instead of a 
 sceptre, the head was decorated with a 
 cocked hat, and underneath was painted in 
 large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about 
 22
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 the door, but none that Rip recollected. The 
 very character of the people seemed changed. 
 There was a busy, bustling, disputatious 
 tone about it, instead of the accustomed 
 phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked 
 in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with 
 his broad face, double chin, and fair long 
 pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke in 
 stead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the 
 schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
 ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, 
 bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full 
 cf hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently 
 about rights of citizens elections members 
 of Congress liberty Bunker s Hill heroes 
 of 76 and other words, which were a 
 perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered 
 Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long 
 grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his 
 uncouth dress, and an army of women and 
 children at his heels, soon attracted the 
 attention of the tavern politicians. They 
 crowded round him, eying him from head 
 to foot with great curiosity. The orator 
 bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
 aside, inquired "On which side he voted?" 
 Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another 
 short but busy little fellow pulled him by 
 the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
 his ear, " Whether he was Federal or Demo 
 crat? " Rip was equally at a loss to com- 
 23
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 prehend the question; when a knowing, self- 
 important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked 
 hat, made his way through the crowd, 
 putting them to the right and left with his 
 elbows as he passed, and planting himself 
 before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, 
 the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes 
 and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into 
 his very soul, demanded in an austere tone. 
 " What brought him to the election with a 
 gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels: 
 and whether he meant to breed a riot in 
 the village?" "Alas! gentlemen," cried 
 Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, 
 quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
 subject of the King, God bless him! " 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the by 
 standers "A tory! a tory! ; ^p" a ref 
 ugee! hustle him! away with him! " 
 It was with great difficulty that the self- 
 important man in the cocked hat restored 
 order; and, having assumed a tenfold au 
 sterity of brow, demanded again of the un 
 known culprit, what he came there for, and 
 whom he was seeking? The poor man 
 humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
 but merely came there in search of some of 
 his neighbors, who used to keep about the 
 tavern. 
 
 "Well who are they? name them." 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and in 
 quired, "Where s Nicholas Vedder?" 
 24
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, 
 when an old man replied, in a thin, piping 
 voice, " Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is dead 
 and gone these eighteen years! There was 
 a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that 
 used to tell all about him, but that s rotten 
 and gone too." 
 
 " Where s Brom Butcher? " 
 
 " Oh, he went off to the army in the be 
 ginning of the war; some say he was killed 
 at the storming of Stony Point others say 
 he was drowned in a squall at the foot of 
 Antony s Nose. I don t know he never 
 came back again." 
 
 " Where s Van Bummel, the schoolmas 
 ter? " 
 
 " lie went off to the wars, too, was a 
 great m : .*lTi general, and is now in con 
 gress." 
 
 Rip s heart died away at hearing of these 
 sad changes in his home and friends, and 
 finding himself thus alone in the world. 
 Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating 
 of such enormous lapses of time, and of 
 matters which he could not understand: 
 war congress Stony Point he had no 
 courage to ask after any more friends, but 
 cried out in despair, " Does nobody here 
 know Rip Van Winkle? " 
 
 "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two 
 or three, " oh, to be sure ! that s Rip Van 
 Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 
 25
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counter 
 part of himself, as he went up the moun - 
 tain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
 ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 
 confounded. He doubted his own identity, and 
 whether he was himself or another man. 
 In the midst of his bewilderment, the man 
 in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and 
 what was his name. 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits 
 end; " I m not myself I m somebody else 
 that s me yonder no that s somebody else 
 got into my shoes I was myself last night, 
 but I fell asleep on the mountain, and 
 they ve changed my gun, and everything s 
 changed, and I m changed, and I can t tell 
 what s my name, or who I am! " 
 
 The by-standers began now to look at each 
 other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
 fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
 whisper, also, about securing the gun, and 
 keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, 
 at the very suggestion of which the self- 
 important man in the cocked hat retired 
 with some precipitation. At this critical 
 moment a fresh, comely woman pressed 
 through the throng to get a peep at the gray- 
 bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
 arms, which, frightened at his looks, began 
 to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you 
 little fool; the old man won t hurt you." 
 The name of the child, the air of the 
 26
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened 
 a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
 is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 
 
 " Judith Gardenier." 
 
 " And your father s name? " 
 
 " Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his 
 name, but it s twenty years since he went 
 away from home with his gun, and never has 
 been heard of since his dog came home 
 without him; but whether he shot himself, 
 or was carried away by the Indians, nobody 
 can tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask; 
 but he put it with a faltering voice: 
 
 " Where s your mother? " 
 
 " Oh, she, too, had died but a short time 
 since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of 
 passion at a New England peddler." 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in 
 this intelligence. The honest man could con 
 tain himself no longer. He caught his 
 daughter and her child in his arms. " I 
 am your father!" cried he "Young Rip 
 Van Winkle once old Rip Van Winkle 
 now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van 
 Winkle? " 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, 
 tottering out from among the crowd, put her 
 hand to her brow, and peering under it in 
 his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure 
 enough! It is Rip Van Winkle it is him 
 self! Welcome home again, old neighbor.
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Why, where have you been these twenty long 
 years? " 
 
 Rip s story was soon told, for the whole 
 twenty years had been to him but as one 
 night. The neighbors stared when they 
 heard it; some were seen to wink at each 
 other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; 
 and the self-important man in the cocked 
 hat, who, when the alarm was over, had re 
 turned to the field, screwed down the cor 
 ners of his mouth, and shook his head 
 upon which there was a general shaking of 
 the head throughout the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the 
 opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was 
 seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
 was a descendant of the historian of that 
 name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts 
 of the province. Peter was the most an 
 cient inhabitant of the village, and well 
 versed in all the wonderful events and tra 
 ditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
 Rip at once, and corroborated his story in 
 the most satisfactory manner. He assured 
 the company that it was a fact, handed down 
 from his ancestor the historian, that the 
 Kaatskill mountains had always been 
 haunted by strange beings. That it was 
 affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, 
 the first discoverer of the river and coun 
 try, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty 
 years, with his crew of the Half-moon; be- 
 28
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 ing permitted in this way to revisit the 
 scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guar 
 dian eye upon the river and the great city 
 called by his name. That his father had 
 once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
 playing at ninepins in a hollow of the moun 
 tain; and that he himself had heard, one 
 summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, 
 like distant peals of thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company 
 broke up and returned to the more Impor 
 tant concerns of the election. Rip s daugh 
 ter took him home to live with her; she had 
 a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, 
 cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip rec 
 ollected for one of the urchins that used to 
 climb upon his back. As to Rip s son and 
 heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen 
 leaning against the tree, he was employed 
 to work on the farm; but evinced an hered 
 itary disposition to attend to anything else 
 but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; 
 he soon found many of his former cronies, 
 though all rather the worse for the wear and 
 tear of time; and preferred making friends 
 among the rising generation, with whom he 
 soon grew into great favor. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being 
 
 arrived at that happy age when a man can 
 
 be idle with impunity, he took his place 
 
 once more on the bench at the inn door, 
 
 29
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs 
 of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
 times " before the war." It was some time 
 before he could get into the regular track of 
 gossip, or could be made to comprehend the 
 strange events that had taken place during 
 his torpor. How that there had been a rev 
 olutionary war that the country had thrown 
 off the yoke of old England and that, in 
 stead of being a subject of His Majesty, 
 George III., he was now a free citizen of 
 the United States. Rip, in fact, was no poli 
 tician; the changes of states and empires 
 made but little impression on him; but there 
 was one species of despotism under which 
 he had long groaned, and that was petticoat 
 government. Happily that was at an end; 
 he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
 matrimony, and could go in and out when 
 ever he pleased, without dreading the tyr 
 anny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 
 name was mentioned, however, he shook his 
 head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up 
 his eyes; which might pass either for an 
 expression of resignation to his fate or joy 
 at his deliverance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger 
 that arrived at Mr. Doolittle s hotel. He was 
 observed, at first, to vary on some points 
 every time he told it, which was, doubtless, 
 owing to his having so recently awaked. 
 It at last settled down precisely to the 
 30
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 tale I have related, and not a man, woman, 
 or child in the neighborhood but knew it by 
 heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 
 reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been 
 out of his head, and that this was one point 
 on which he always remained flighty. The 
 old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost uni 
 versally gave it full credit. Even to this day 
 they never hear a thunder storm of a sum 
 mer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they 
 say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at 
 their game of ninepins; and it is a common 
 wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the 
 neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on 
 their hands, that they might have a quieting 
 draught out of Rip Van Winkle s flagon. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had 
 been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a 
 little German superstition about the Em 
 peror Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypp- 
 hiiuser mountain: the subjoined note, how 
 ever, which he had appended to the tale, 
 shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated 
 with his usual fidelity. 
 
 " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem 
 
 incredible to many, but nevertheless I give 
 
 it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of 
 
 our old Dutch settlements to have been very 
 
 31
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 subject to marvellous events and appear 
 ances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger 
 stories than this, in the villages along the 
 Hudson; all of which were too well authen 
 ticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
 talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, 
 when last I saw him, was a very venerable 
 old man, and so perfectly rational and con 
 sistent on every other point, that I think 
 no conscientious person could refuse to take 
 this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a 
 certificate on the subject taken before a coun 
 try justice and signed with a cross, in the 
 justice s own handwriting. The story, there 
 fore, is beyond the possibility of a doubt. 
 
 " D. K." 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The following are travelling notes from a 
 memorandum book of Mr. Knickerbocker: 
 
 The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have 
 always been a region full of fable. The In 
 dians considered them the abode of spirits, 
 who influenced the weather, spreading sun 
 shine or clouds over the landscape, and send 
 ing good or bad hunting seasons. They were 
 ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be 
 their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak 
 of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors 
 of day and night to open and shut them at 
 the proper hour. She hung up the new 
 33
 
 Rip Van Winkle 
 
 moon in the skies, and cut up the old ones 
 into stars. In times of drought, if prop 
 erly propitiated, she would spin light sum 
 mer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, 
 and send them off from the crest of the 
 mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of 
 carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dis 
 solved by the heat of the sun, they would fall 
 in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
 spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to 
 grow an inch an hour. If displeased, how 
 ever, she would brew up clouds black as ink, 
 sitting in the midst of them like a bottle- 
 bellied spider in the midst of its web; and 
 when these clouds broke, woe betide the val 
 leys! 
 
 In old times, say the Indian traditions, 
 there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who 
 kept about the wildest recesses of the Cats- 
 kill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleas 
 ure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexa 
 tions upon the red men. Sometimes he would 
 assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a 
 deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary 
 chase through tangled forests and among 
 ragged rocks; and then spring off with a 
 loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the 
 brink of a beetling precipice or raging tor 
 rent. 
 
 The favorite abode of this Manitou is still 
 shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the 
 loneliest part of the mountains, and, from 
 33
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 the- flowering vines which clamber about it, 
 and the wild flowers which abound in its 
 neighborhood, is known by the name of the 
 Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small 
 lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with 
 water-snakes basking in the sun on the 
 leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the 
 surface. This place was held in great awe 
 by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest 
 hunter would not pursue his game within 
 its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a 
 hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to 
 the Garden Rock, where he beheld a num 
 ber of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. 
 One of these he seized and made off with it, 
 but in the hurry of his retreat he let it 
 fall among the rocks, when a great stream 
 gushed forth, which washed him away and 
 swept him down precipices, where he was 
 dashed to pieces, and the stream made Its 
 way to the Hudson, and continues to flow 
 to the present day; being the identical 
 stream known by the name of the Kaaters- 
 kill.
 
 The Legend of Sleepy 
 Hollow 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE 
 LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 
 
 35
 
 The Legend of Sleepy 
 Hollow 
 
 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, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 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 naviga 
 tors 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 hus 
 bands to linger about the village tavern on 
 37
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 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, lay 
 of land, among high hills, which is one of 
 the quietest places in the whole world. A 
 small brook glides through it, with just mur 
 mur 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 neighboring coun- 
 38
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 try. 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 pow-wows there 
 before the country was discovered by Mas 
 ter 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 fre 
 quently see strange sights, and hear music 
 and voices in the air. The whole neighbor 
 hood 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 coun 
 try, and the nightmare, with her whole nine 
 fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of 
 her gambols. 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts 
 this enchanted region, and seems to be com- 
 mander-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 Revolution- 
 39
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ary 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 cer 
 tain 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 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 churchyard 
 before daybreak. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legend 
 ary superstition, which has furnished mate 
 rials 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 pro 
 pensity I have mentioned is not confined to 
 the native inhabitants of the valley, but is 
 unconsciously imbibed by every one who re 
 sides there for a time. However wide awake 
 they may have been before they entered that 
 sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, 
 40
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 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 pos 
 sible laud; for it is in such litle retired 
 Dutch valleys, found here and there em 
 bosomed in the great State of New York, 
 that population, manners, and customs re 
 main fixed; while the great torrent of migra 
 tion and improvement, which is making such 
 incessant changes in other parts of this rest 
 less 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 pass 
 ing 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. 
 
 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 in 
 structing the children of the vicinity. He 
 was a native of Connecticut, a State which 
 supplies the Union with pioneers for the 
 41
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 mind as well as for the forest, and sends 
 forth yearly its legions of frontier woods 
 men and country schoolmasters. The cog 
 nomen of Crane was not inapplicable to hi 3 
 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 
 weathercock 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 de 
 scending upon the earth, or some scare 
 crow eloped from a cornfield. 
 
 His schoolhouse was a low building cf 
 one large room, rudely constructed of logs; 
 the windows partly glazed, and partly 
 patched with leaves of old copy-books. It 
 was most ingeniously secured at vacant 
 hours by a withe twisted in the handle of 
 the door, and stakes set against the win 
 dow 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 eel-pot. 
 42
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 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 les 
 sons, might be heard on a drowsy summer s 
 day, like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted 
 now and then by the authoritative voice 
 of the master, in the tone of menace or 
 command; or, peradventure, by the appall 
 ing sound of the birch, as he urged some 
 tardy loiterer along the flowery path of 
 knowledge. Truth to say, he was a consci 
 entious man, and ever bore in mind the 
 golden maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil 
 the child." Ichabod Crane s scholars cer 
 tainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, 
 that he was one of those cruel potentates of 
 the school, who joy in the smart of their 
 subjects; on the contrary, he administered 
 justice with discrimination rather than se 
 verity, taking the burden off the backs of 
 the weak, and laying it on those of the 
 strong. Your mere puny stripling, that 
 winced at the least nourish of the rod, was 
 passed by with indulgence; but the claims 
 of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double 
 portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, 
 broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and 
 swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath 
 43
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 the birch. All this he called " doing his 
 duty " by their parents; and he never in 
 flicted a chastisement without following it 
 by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
 smarting urchin, that " he would remember 
 it, and thank him for it the longest day he 
 had to live." 
 
 When school hours were over, he was even, 
 the companion and playmate of the larger 
 boys; and on holiday afternoons would con 
 voy some of the smaller ones home, who 
 happened to have pretty sisters, or good 
 housewives for mothers, noted for the com 
 forts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved 
 him to keep on good terms with his pupils. 
 The revenue arising from his school was 
 small, and would have been scarcely suffi 
 cient to furnish him with daily bread, for he 
 was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had 
 the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to 
 help out his maintenance, he was, accord 
 ing to country custom in those parts, boarded 
 and lodged at the houses of the farmers 
 whose children he instructed. With these 
 he lived successively a week at a time; 
 thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, 
 with all his worldly effects tied up in a 
 cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That all this might not be too onerous 
 
 on the purses of nis rustic patrons, who are 
 
 apt to consider the costs of schooling a 
 
 grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere 
 
 44
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 drones, he had various ways of rendering 
 himself both useful and agreeable. He as 
 sisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter 
 labors of their farms; helped to make hay 
 and mended the fences; took the horses to 
 water, drove the cows from pasture; and cut 
 wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, 
 all the dominant dignity and absolute sway 
 with which he lorded it in his little empire, 
 the school, and became wonderfully gentle 
 and ingratiating. He found favor in the 
 eyes of the mothers by petting the children, 
 particularly the youngest; and like the lion 
 bold, which whilom so magnanimously the 
 lamb did hold, he would sit with a child 
 on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot 
 for whole hours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was 
 the singing-master of the neighborhood, and 
 picked up many bright shillings by instruct 
 ing the young folks in psalmody. It was a 
 matter of no little vanity to him, on Sun 
 days, to take his station in front of the 
 church gallery, with a band of chosen sing 
 ers; where, in his own mind, he completely 
 carried away the palm from the parson. 
 Certain it is, his voice resounded far above 
 all the rest of the congregation; and there 
 are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
 that church, and which may even be heard 
 half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of 
 the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
 45
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 which are said to be legitimately descended 
 from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
 divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way 
 which is commonly denominated " by hook 
 and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on 
 tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
 who understood nothing of the labor of head- 
 work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of 
 some importance in the female circle of a 
 rural neighborhood; being considered a kind 
 of idle, gentleman-like personage, of vastly 
 superior taste and accomplishments to the 
 rough country swains, and indeed, inferior 
 in learning only to the parson. His ap 
 pearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some 
 little stir at the tea table of a farmhouse, and 
 the addition of a supernumerary dish of 
 cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the 
 parade of a silver teapot. Our man of let 
 ters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
 smiles of all the country damsels. How he 
 would figure among them in the churchyard, 
 between services on Sundays! gathering 
 grapes for them from the wild vines that 
 overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for 
 their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
 tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole 
 bevy of them, along the banks of the ad 
 jacent mill-pond; while the more bashful 
 country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
 envying his superior elegance and address. 
 46
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was 
 a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the 
 whole budget of local gossip from house to. 
 house: so that his appearance was always 
 greeted with satisfaction. He was, more 
 over, esteemed by the women as a man of 
 great erudition, for he had read several 
 books quite through, and was a perfect 
 master of Cotton Mather s " History of 
 New England Witchcraft," in which, by 
 the way, he most firmly and potently be 
 lieved. 
 
 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small 
 shrewdness and simple credulity. His appe 
 tite fof the marvellous, and his powers of 
 digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and 
 both had been increased by his residence in 
 this spellbound region. No tale was too 
 gross or monstrous for his capacious swal 
 low. It was often his delight, after his 
 school was dismissed in the afternoon, to 
 stretch himself on the rich bed of clover 
 bordering the little brook that whimpered 
 by his schoolhouse, and there con over 
 old Mather s direful tales, until the gath 
 ering dusk of the evening made the printed 
 I/age a mere mist before his eyes. Then 
 as he wended his way, by swamp and stream, 
 And awful woodland, to the farmhouse 
 where he happened to be quartered, every 
 sound of nature, at that bewitching hour, 
 fluttered his excited imagination; the moan 
 47
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 of the whippoorwill * from the hillside; the 
 boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger 
 of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech- 
 owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket 
 of birds frightened from their roost. The 
 fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
 in the darkest places, now and then startled 
 him, as one of uncommon brightness would 
 stream across his path; and if, by chance, a 
 huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his 
 blundering flight against him, the poor 
 varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with 
 the idea that he was struck with a witch s 
 token. His only resource on such occasions, 
 either to drown thought or drive away evil 
 spirits, was *to sing psalm-tunes; and the 
 good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
 their doors of an evening, were often filled 
 with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, " in 
 linked sweetness long drawn out," floating 
 from the distant hill, or along the dusky 
 road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure 
 was, to pass long winter evenings with the 
 old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by 
 the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
 spluttering along the hearth, and listen to 
 their marvellous tales of ghosts and gob 
 lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, 
 
 * The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at night. 
 It receives its name from its note, which is thought to re 
 semble those words. 
 
 48
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, 
 and particularly of the headless horseman, 
 or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they 
 sometimes called him. He would delight 
 them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, 
 and of the direful omens and portentous 
 sights and sounds in the air, which pre 
 vailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; 
 and would frighten them wofully with specu 
 lations upon comets and shooting stars, and 
 with the alarming fact that the world did 
 absolutely turn round, and that they were 
 half the time topsy-turvy! 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, 
 while snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner 
 of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow 
 from the crackling wood-fire, and where, of 
 course, no spectre dared to show his face, 
 it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his 
 subsequent walk homeward. What fearful 
 shapes and shadows beset his path amidst 
 the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night. 
 With what wistful look did he eye every 
 trembling ray of light streaming across the 
 waste fields from some distant window! 
 How often was he appalled by some shrub 
 covered with snow, which, like a sheeted 
 spectre, beset his very path! How often 
 did he shrink with curdling awe at the 
 sound of his own steps on the frosty crust 
 beneath his feet; and dread to look over his 
 shoulder, lest he should behold some un- 
 49
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 couth being tramping close behind him! 
 and how often was he thrown into com 
 plete dismay by some rushing blast, howling 
 among the trees, in the idea that it was 
 the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
 scourings! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of 
 the night, phantoms of the mind that walk 
 in darkness; and though he had seen many 
 spectres in his time, and been more than 
 once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his 
 lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an 
 end to all these evils; and he would have 
 passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the 
 devil and all his works, if his path had not 
 been crossed by a being that causes more 
 perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, gob 
 lins, and the whole race of witches put to 
 gether, and that was a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assem 
 bled, one evening in each week, to receive 
 his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
 Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
 a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a 
 blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a 
 partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked 
 as one of her father s peaches, and uni 
 versally famed, not merely for her beauty 
 but her vast expectations. She was withal a 
 little of a coquette, as might be perceived 
 even in her dress, which was a mixture of 
 ancient and modern fashions, as most suited 
 50
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 to set off her charms. She wore the orna 
 ments of pure yellow gold, which her great- 
 great-grandmother had brought over from 
 Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the 
 olden time; and withal a provokingly short 
 petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
 ankle in the country round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart 
 toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered 
 at that so tempting a morsel soon found 
 favor in his eyes; more especially after he 
 had visited her in her paternal mansion. 
 Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect pic 
 ture of a thriving, contented, liberal- 
 hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent 
 either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
 boundaries of his own farm; but within 
 those everything was snug, happy, and well- 
 conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
 wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued him 
 self upon the hearty abundance rather than 
 the style in which he lived. His stronghold 
 was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
 one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks 
 in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of 
 nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad 
 branches over it; at the foot of which bub 
 bled up a spring of the softest and sweet 
 est water, in a little well, formed of a bar 
 rel; and then stole sparkling away through 
 the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bub 
 bled along among alders and dwarf wil- 
 51
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 lows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast 
 barn that might have served for a church; 
 every window and crevice of which seemed 
 bursting forth with the treasures of the 
 farm; the flail was busily resounding within 
 it from morning till night; swallows and 
 martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; 
 and rows of pigeons, some with one eye 
 turned up, as if watching the weather, some 
 with their heads under their wings, or bur 
 ied in their bosoms, and others swelling, 
 and cooing, and bowing about their dames, 
 were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
 Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in 
 the repose and abundance of their pens; 
 whence sallied forth, now and then, troops 
 of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A 
 stately squadron of snowy geese were rid 
 ing in an adjoining pond, convoying whole 
 fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were 
 gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea 
 fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered 
 housewives, with their peevish, discontented 
 cry. Before the barn-door strutted the gal 
 lant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war 
 rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his bur 
 nished wings, and crowing in the pride and 
 gladness of his heart sometimes tearing up 
 the earth with his feet, and then generously 
 calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
 children to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
 had discovered. 
 
 52
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 The pedagogue s mouth watered, as he 
 looked upon this sumptuous promise of lux 
 urious winter fare. In his devouring mind s 
 eye he pictured to himself every roasting-pig 
 running about with a pudding in his belly, 
 and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were 
 snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and 
 tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese 
 were swimming in their own gravy; and the 
 ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug 
 married couples, with a decent competency 
 of onion-sauce. In the porkers he saw 
 carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
 and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he 
 beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard 
 under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck 
 lace of savory sausages; and even bright 
 chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 
 back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as 
 if craving that quarter which his chivalrous 
 spirit disdained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, 
 and as he rolled his great green eyes over 
 the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
 wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
 corn, and the orchard burdened with ruddy 
 fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
 of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the 
 damsel who was to inherit these domains, 
 and his imagination expanded with the idea 
 how they might be readily turned into cash, 
 and the money invested in immense tracts of 
 53
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilder 
 ness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized 
 his hopes, and presented to him the bloom 
 ing Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
 mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with 
 household trumpery, with pots and kettles 
 dangling beneath; and he beheld himself be 
 striding a pacing mare, with a colt at her 
 heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, 
 or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house, the conquest 
 of his heart was complete. It was one of 
 those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged 
 but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style 
 handed down from the first Dutch settlers; 
 the low projecting eaves forming a piazza 
 along the front, capable of being closed up 
 in bad weather. Under this were hung 
 flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, 
 and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. 
 Benches were built along the sides for sum 
 mer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one 
 end, and a churn at the other, showed the 
 various uses to which this important porch 
 might be devoted. From this piazza the 
 wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which 
 formed the centre of the mansion and the 
 place of usual residence. Here, rows of re 
 splendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, 
 dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge 
 bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a 
 quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the 
 54
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of 
 dried apples and peaches, hung in gay fes 
 toons along the walls, mingled with the gaud 
 of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave 
 him a peep into the best parlor, where the 
 claw-footed chairs and 1 dark mahogany ta 
 bles shone like mirrors; and irons, with their 
 accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened 
 from their covert of asparagus tops; mock 
 oranges and conch shells decorated the man 
 tel-piece; strings of various colored birds 
 eggs were suspended above it, a great os 
 trich egg was hung from the centre of the 
 room, and a corner-cupboard, knowingly 
 left open, displayed immense treasures of 
 old silver and well-mended china. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes 
 upon these regions of delight, the peace of 
 his mind was at an end, and his only study 
 was how to gain the affections of the peer 
 less daughter of Van Tassel. In this enter 
 prise, however, he had more real difficul 
 ties than generally fell to the lot of a knight- 
 errant of yore, who seldom had anything 
 but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and 
 such like easily conquered adversaries, to 
 contend with; and had to make his way 
 merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
 walls of adamant, to the castle-keep, where 
 the lady of his heart was confined; all which 
 he achieved as easily as a man would carve 
 his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; 
 55
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and then the lady gave him her hand as 
 a matter of course. Ichabod, on the con 
 trary, had to win his way to the heart of a 
 country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of 
 whims and caprices, which were forever pre 
 senting new difficulties and impediments; 
 and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
 adversaries of real flesh and blood, the nu 
 merous rustic admirers, who beset every por 
 tal to her heart; keeping a watchful and 
 angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly 
 out in the common cause against any new 
 competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a 
 burly, roaring, roistering blade, of the name 
 of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
 abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero 
 of the country round, which rang with his 
 feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
 broad-shouldered, and double-jointed, with 
 short, curly black hair, and a bluff but not 
 unpleasant countenance, having a mingled 
 air of fun and arrogance. From his Hercu 
 lean frame and great powers of limb, he had 
 received the nickname of Brom Bones, by 
 which he was universally known. He was 
 famed for great knowledge and skill in 
 horsemanship, being as dexterous on horse 
 back as a Tartar. He was foremost at all 
 races and cockfights; and, with the ascend 
 ancy which bodily strength acquires in rus 
 tic life, was the umpire in all disputes, set- 
 56
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 ting his hat on one side, and giving his 
 decisions with an air and tone admitting 
 of no gainsay or appeal. He was always 
 ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had 
 more mischief than ill-will in his compo 
 sition; and, with all his overbearing rough 
 ness, there was a strong dash of waggish 
 good -humor at bottom. He had three or 
 four boon companions, who regarded him as 
 their model, and at the head of whom he 
 scoured the country, attending every scene 
 of feud or merriment for miles round. In 
 cold weather he was distinguished by a fur 
 cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox s tail; 
 and when the folks at a country gathering 
 descried this well-known crest at a distance, 
 whisking about among a squad of hard rid 
 ers, they always stood by for a squall. 
 Sometimes his crew would be heard dash 
 ing along past the farmhouses at midnight, 
 with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don 
 Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of 
 their sleep, would listen for a moment till 
 the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then 
 exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and 
 his gang! " The neighbors looked upon him 
 with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good 
 will, and when any madcap prank or rustic 
 brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook 
 their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
 at the bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole hero had for some time 
 57
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 singled out the blooming Katrina for the ob 
 ject of his uncouth gallantries; and though 
 his amorous toyings were something like 
 the gentle caresses and endearments of a 
 bear, yet it was whispered that she did not 
 altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it 
 is, his advances were signals for rival can 
 didates to retire, who felt no inclination to 
 cross a lion in his amours; insomuch that, 
 when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel s 
 paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that 
 his master was courting, or, as it is termed, 
 " sparking," within, all other suitors passed 
 by in despair, and carried the war into other 
 quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom 
 Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, consid 
 ering all things, a stouter man than he 
 would have shrunk from the competition, 
 and a wiser man would have despaired. 
 He had, however, a happy mixture of pli 
 ability and perseverance in his nature; he 
 was in form and spirit like a supple-jack 
 yielding, but tough; though he bent, he 
 never broke; and though he bowed beneath 
 the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it 
 was away jerk! he was as erect, and carried 
 his head as high as ever. 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his 
 
 rival would have been madness; for he was 
 
 not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any 
 
 more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Icha- 
 
 58
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 bod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet 
 and gently insinuating manner. Under cover 
 of his character of singing-master, he had 
 made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not 
 that he had anything to apprehend from the 
 meddlesome interference of parents, which 
 is so often a stumbling-block in the path of 
 lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, in 
 dulgent soul; he loved his daughter better 
 even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable 
 man and an excellent father, let her have 
 her way in everything. His notable little 
 wife, too, had enough to do to attend to 
 her housekeeping and manage her poul 
 try; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and 
 geese are foolish things, and must be looked 
 after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
 Thus while the busy dame bustled about 
 the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at 
 one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
 sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, 
 watching the achievements of a little 
 wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in 
 each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
 wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
 mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit 
 with the daughter by the side of the spring 
 under the great elm, or sauntering along in 
 the twilight that hour so favorable to the 
 lover s eloquence. 
 
 I profess not to know how women s hearts 
 are wooed and won. To me they have al- 
 50
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ways been matters of riddle and admira 
 tion. Some seem to have but one vulnerable 
 point, or door of access, while others have 
 a thousand avenues, and may be captured 
 in a thousand different ways. It is a great 
 triumph of skill to gain the former, but a 
 still greater proof of generalship to main 
 tain possession of the latter, for the man 
 must battle for his fortress at every door and 
 window. He who wins a thousand common 
 hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; 
 but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
 heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Cer 
 tain it is, this was not the case with the 
 redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the mo 
 ment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the 
 interests of the former evidently declined; 
 his horse was no longer seen tied at the 
 palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
 gradually arose between him and the precep 
 tor of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry 
 in his nature, would fain have carried mat 
 ters to open warfare, and have settled their 
 pretensions to the lady according to the 
 mode of those most concise and simple 
 reasoners, the knights-errant of yore by 
 single combat; but Ichabod was too con 
 scious of the superior might of his adver 
 sary to enter the lists against him; he 
 had overheard a boast of Bones, that he 
 would " double the schoolmaster up, and lay 
 60
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse; " 
 and he was too wary to give him oppor 
 tunity. There was something extremely 
 provoking in this obstinately pacific system; 
 it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon 
 the funds of rustic waggery in his disposi 
 tion, and to play off boorish practical jokes 
 upon his rival. Ichabod became the object 
 of whimsical persecution to Bones and his 
 gang of rough riders. They harried his 
 hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his 
 singing school, by stopping up the chim 
 ney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, 
 in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
 and window-stakes, and turned everything 
 topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster 
 began to think all the witches in the coun 
 try held their meetings there. But, what was 
 still more annoying, Brom took opportuni 
 ties of turning him into ridicule in presence 
 of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog 
 whom he taught to whine in the most lu 
 dicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
 Ichabod s to instruct her in psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, 
 without producing any material effect on the 
 relative situation of the contending powers. 
 On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in 
 pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty 
 stool whence he usually watched all the 
 concerns of his little literary realm. In his 
 hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of 
 61
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 despotic power; the birch of justice reposed 
 on three nails, behind the throne, a con 
 stant terror to evil-doers; while on the 
 desk before him might be seen sundry con 
 traband articles and prohibited weapons, de 
 tected upon the persons of idle urchins; such 
 as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, 
 fiy-cages and whole legions of rampant little 
 paper gamecocks. Apparently there had 
 been some appalling act of justice recently 
 inflicted, for his scholars were all busily 
 intent upon their books, or slyly whisper 
 ing behind them with one eye kept upon the 
 master; and a kind of buzzing stillness 
 reigned throughout the schoolroom. It 
 was suddenly interrupted by the appearance 
 of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, 
 a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like 
 the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the 
 back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, 
 which he managed with a rope by way of 
 halter. He came clattering up to the school 
 door with an invitation to Ichabod to at 
 tend a merry-making or " quilting frolic," 
 to be held that evening at Mynheer Van 
 Tassel s; and having delivered his message 
 with that air of importance, and effort at 
 fine language, which a negro is apt to dis 
 play on petty embassies of the kind, he 
 dashed over the brook, and was seen scam 
 pering away up the Hollow, full of the im 
 portance and hurry of his mission. 
 62
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the 
 late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were 
 hurried through their lessons, without stop 
 ping at trifles; those who were nimble 
 skipped over half with impunity, and those 
 who were tardy had a smart application 
 now and then in the rear, to quicken their 
 speed, or help them over a tall word. 
 Books were flung aside without being put 
 away on the shelves, inkstands were over 
 turned, benches thrown down, and the 
 whole school was turned loose an hour be 
 fore the usual time, bursting forth like a 
 legion of young imps, yelping and racketing 
 about the green, in joy at their early eman 
 cipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an 
 extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and 
 furbishing up his best and indeed only suit 
 of rusty black and arranging his looks by a 
 bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in 
 the schoolhouse. That he might make his 
 appearance before his mistress in the true 
 style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from 
 the farmer with whom he was domiciled, a 
 choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans 
 Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, 
 issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of 
 adventures. But it is meet I should, in the 
 true spirit of romantic story, give some ac 
 count of the looks and equipments of my 
 hero and his steed. The animal he be- 
 63
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 strode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
 had outlived almost everything but his vi- 
 ciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with 
 a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his 
 rusty mane and tail were tangled and 
 knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pu 
 pil, and was glaring and spectral; but the 
 other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. 
 Still he must have had fire and mettle in 
 his day, if we may judge from the name 
 he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, 
 been a favorite steed of his master s, the 
 choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious 
 rider, and had infused, very probably, some 
 of his own spirit into the animal; for, 
 old and broken-down as he looked, there 
 was more of the lurking devil in him than 
 in any young filly in the country. 
 
 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a 
 steed. He rode with short stirrups, which 
 brought his knees nearly up to the pommel 
 of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out 
 like grasshoppers ; he carried his whip per 
 pendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, 
 as his horse jogged on, the motion of his 
 arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair 
 of wings. A small wool hat rested on the 
 top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of 
 forehead might be called; and the skirts of 
 his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
 horse s tail. Such was the appearance of 
 Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out 
 64
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was 
 altogether such an apparition as is seldom to 
 be met with in broad daylight. 
 
 It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal 
 day, the sky was clear and serene, and na 
 ture wore that rich and golden livery which 
 we always associate with the idea of abun 
 dance. The forests had put on their sober 
 brown and yellow, while some trees of the 
 tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts 
 into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
 scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks be 
 gan to make their appearance high in the 
 air; the bark of squirrel might be heard 
 from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, 
 and the pensive whistle of the quail at in 
 tervals from the neighboring stubble field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their farewell 
 banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, 
 they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from 
 bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
 from the very profusion and variety around 
 them. There was the honest cockrobin, the 
 favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with 
 its loud, querulous notes; and the twitter 
 ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the 
 golden-winged woodpecker, with his crim 
 son crest, his broad black gorget, and splen 
 did plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its 
 red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and 
 its little montero cap of feathers; and the 
 blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay, 
 65
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 light-blue coat and white under-clothes, 
 screaming and chattering, nodding and bob 
 bing and bowing, and pretending to be on 
 good terms with every songster of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his 
 eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary 
 abundance, ranged with delight over the 
 treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he 
 beheld vast stores of apples; some hanging 
 in oppressive opulence on the trees; some 
 gathered into baskets and barrels for the 
 market; others heaped up in rich piles for 
 the cider-press. Further on he beheld 
 great fields of Indian corn, with its golden 
 ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and 
 holding out the promise of cakes and hasty- 
 pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying be 
 neath them, turning up their fair round 
 bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros 
 pects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon 
 he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
 breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as 
 he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over 
 his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, 
 and garnished with honey or treacle, by the 
 delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van 
 Tassel. 
 
 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet 
 thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he 
 journeyed along the sides of a range of hills 
 which look out upon some of the goodliest 
 scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun grad- 
 66
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 ually wheeled his broad disk down into the 
 west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
 lay motionless and glossy, excepting that 
 here and there a gentle undulation waved 
 and prolonged the blue shadow of the dis 
 tant mountain. A few amber clouds floated 
 in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
 them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, 
 changing gradually into a pure apple-green, 
 and from that into the deep blue of the mid- 
 heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the 
 woody crests of the precipices that overhung 
 some parts of the river, giving greater depth 
 to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky 
 sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, 
 dropping slowly down with the tide, her 
 sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and 
 as the reflection of the sky gleamed along 
 the still water, it seemed as if the vessel 
 was suspended in the air. 
 
 It was toward evening that Ichabod ar 
 rived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, 
 which he found thronged with the pride and 
 flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, 
 a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun 
 coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge 
 shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. 
 Their brisk withered little dames, in close 
 crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, 
 homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin 
 cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging 
 on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as 
 67
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 antiquated as their mothers, excepting 
 where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps 
 a white frock, gave symptoms of city in 
 novation. The sons, in short, square-skirted 
 coats with rows of stupendous brass but 
 tons, and their hair generally queued in the 
 fashion of the times, especially if they could 
 procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being 
 esteemed, throughout the country, as a po 
 tent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 
 
 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the 
 scene, having come to the gathering on his 
 favorite steed, Daredevil, a creature, like 
 himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
 which no one but himself could manage. 
 He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious 
 animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which 
 kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, 
 for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as 
 unworthy of a lad of spirit. 
 
 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the 
 world of charms that burst upon the en 
 raptured gaze of my hero, as he entered 
 the state parlor of Van Tassel s mansion. 
 Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with 
 their luxurious display of red and white; but 
 the ample charms of a genuine Dutch coun 
 try tea-table, in the sumptuous time of au 
 tumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of 
 various and almost indescribable kinds, 
 known only to experienced Dutch house 
 wives! There was the doughty doughnut, 
 68
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 the tenderer oly-koek, and the crisp and 
 crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short 
 cakes, ginger-cakes and honey-cakes, and 
 the whole family of cakes. And then there 
 were apple-pies and peach-pies and pump 
 kin-pies; besides slices of ham and smoked 
 beef; and, moreover, delectable dishes of pre 
 served plums, and peaches, and pears, and 
 quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
 roasted chickens; together with bowls of 
 inilk and cream, all mingled higgledy-pig 
 gledy, pretty much as I have enumerated 
 them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up 
 its clouds of vapor from the midst Heaven 
 bless the mark! I want breath and time 
 to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and 
 am too eager to get on with my story. Hap 
 pily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a 
 hurry as his historian, but did ample justice 
 to every dainty. 
 
 He was a kind and thankful creature, 
 whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin 
 was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits 
 rose with eating as some men s do with 
 drink. He could not help, too, rolling his 
 large eyes round him as he ate, and chuck 
 ling with the possibility that he might one 
 day be lord of all this scene of almost un 
 imaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
 thought, how soon he d turn his back upon 
 the old school-house; snap his fingers in the 
 face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant 
 pedagogue out-of-doors that should dare to 
 call him comrade! 
 
 Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about 
 among his guests with a face dilated with 
 content and good-humor, round and jolly as 
 the harvest-moon. His hospitable attentions 
 were brief, but expressive, being confined to 
 a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a 
 loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall 
 to, and help themselves." 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the 
 common room, or hall, summoned to the 
 dance. The musician was an old gray-headed 
 negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra 
 of the neighborhood for more than half a 
 century. His instrument was as old and bat 
 tered as himself. The greater part of the 
 time he scraped on two or three strings, ac 
 companying every movement of the bow with 
 a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the 
 ground and stamping with his foot when 
 ever a fresh couple were to start. 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing 
 as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a 
 limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and 
 to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
 motion, and clattering about the room, you 
 would have thought Saint Vitus himself, 
 that blessed patron of the dance, was figur 
 ing before you in person. He was the ad 
 miration of all the negroes ; who, having 
 70
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the 
 farm and the neighborhood, stood forming 
 a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
 door and window, gazing with delight at the 
 scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and 
 showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to 
 ear. How could the flogger of urchins be 
 otherwise than animated and joyous ? the 
 lady of his heart was his partner in the 
 dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all 
 his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, 
 sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat 
 brooding by himself in one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod 
 was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, 
 who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at 
 one end of the piazza, gossiping over former 
 times, and drawing out long stories about 
 the war. 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of which I 
 am speaking, was one of those highly fa 
 vored places which abound with chronicle 
 and great men. The British and American 
 line had run near it during the war; it had, 
 therefore, been the scene of marauding, and 
 infested with refugees, cowboys, and all 
 kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient 
 time had elapsed to enable each story-teller 
 to dress up his tale with a little becoming 
 fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his rec 
 ollection, to make himself the hero of every 
 exploit. 
 
 71
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a 
 large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had near 
 ly taken a British frigate with an old iron 
 nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only 
 that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 
 And there was an old gentleman who shall 
 be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to 
 be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of 
 Whiteplains, being an excellent master of 
 defence, parried a musket-ball with a small 
 sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it 
 whiz around the blade, and glance off at the 
 hilt ; in proof of which he was ready at any 
 time to show the sword, with the hilt a little 
 bent. There were several more that had 
 been equally great in the field, not one of 
 whom but was persuaded that he had a con 
 siderable hand in bringing the war to a 
 happy termination. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of 
 ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The 
 neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures 
 of the kind. Local tales and superstitions 
 thrive best in these sheltered long-settled 
 retreats; but are trampled underfoot 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 scarcely 
 had time, to finish their first nap, and turn 
 themselves in their graves before their sur 
 viving friends have travelled away from the
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 neighborhood; so that when they turn out 
 at night to walk their 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. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the 
 prevalence of supernatural stories in these 
 parts was doubtless owing to the vicinity 
 of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in 
 the very air that blew from that haunted 
 region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of 
 dreams and fancies infecting all the land. 
 Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were 
 present at Van Tassel s, and, as usual, were 
 doling out their wild and wonderful legends. 
 Many dismal tales were told about funeral 
 trains, and mouring cries and wailings 
 heard and seen about the great tree where 
 the unfortunate Major Andre" was taken, and 
 which stood in the neighborhood. Some 
 mention was made also of the woman in 
 white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
 Rock, and was often heard to shriek on 
 winter nights before a storm, having per 
 ished there in the snow. The chief part of 
 the stories, however, turned upon the favor 
 ite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless 
 horseman, who had been heard several times 
 of late, patrolling the country; and, it was 
 said, tethered his horse nightly among the 
 graves in the churchyard. 
 73
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church 
 seems always to have made it a favorite 
 haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a 
 knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty 
 elms, from among which its decent white 
 washed walls shine modestly forth, like 
 Christian purity beaming through the shades 
 of retirement. A gentle slope descends from 
 it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
 high trees, between which peeps may be 
 caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To 
 look upon its grass-grown yard, where the 
 sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
 would think that there at least the dead 
 might rest in peace. On one side of the 
 church extends a wide woody dell, along 
 which raves a large brook among broken 
 rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a 
 deep black part of the stream, not far from 
 the church, was formerly thrown a wooden 
 bridge; the road that led to it, and the 
 bridge itself, were thickly shaded by over 
 hanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, 
 even in the daytime, but occasioned a fear 
 ful darkness at night. This was one of the 
 favorite haunts of the headless horseman; 
 and the place where he was most frequently 
 encountered. The tale was told of old Brou- 
 wer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, 
 how he met the horseman returning from 
 his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
 obliged to get up behind him; how they 
 74
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 galloped over bush and brake, over hill and 
 swamp, until they reached the bridge; when 
 the horseman suddenly turned into a skele 
 ton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and 
 sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap 
 of thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a 
 thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, 
 who made light of the galloping Hessian as 
 an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on re 
 turning one night from the neighboring 
 village of Sing Sing, he had offered to race 
 with him for a bowl of punch, and should 
 have won it too, for Daredevil beat the gob 
 lin horse all hollow, but, just as they came 
 to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, 
 and vanished in a flash of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in that drowsy un 
 dertone with which men talk in the dark, 
 the countenances of the listeners only now 
 and then receiving a casual gleam from the 
 glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of 
 Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large 
 extracts from his invaluable author, Cot 
 ton Mather, and added many marvellous 
 events which had taken place in his native 
 State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
 which he had seen in his nightly walks 
 about the Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The 
 old farmers gathered together their families 
 in their wagons, and were heard for some 
 75
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 time rattling along the hollow roads, and 
 over the distant hills. Some of the dam 
 sels mounted on pillions behind their favor 
 ite swains, and their light-hearted laugh 
 ter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, 
 echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding 
 fainter and fainter until they gradually died 
 away and the late scene of noise and frolic 
 was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only 
 lingered behind, according to the custom of 
 country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the 
 heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
 the high road to success. What passed at 
 this interview I will not pretend to say, for 
 in fact I do not know. Something, however, 
 I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he 
 certainly sallied forth, after no very great 
 interval, with an air quite desolate and 
 chopf alien. Oh, these women! these wom 
 en! Could that girl have been playing off 
 any of her coquettish tricks? Was her en 
 couragement of the poor pedagogue all a 
 mere sham to secure conquest of his rival? 
 Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to 
 say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of 
 one who had been --acking a hen-roost, rather 
 than a fair lady s heart. Without looking 
 to the right or left to notice the scene of 
 rural wealth on which he had so often 
 gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
 with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused 
 his steed most uncourteously from the com- 
 76
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 fortable quarters in which he was soundly 
 sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
 oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
 clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night 
 that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, 
 pursued his travels homewards, along tne 
 sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
 Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so 
 cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
 dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tap- 
 pan Zee spread its dusty and indistinct 
 waste of waters, with here and there the tall 
 mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor 
 under the land. In the dead hush of mid 
 night he could even hear the barking of the 
 watch-dog from the opposite shore of the 
 Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as 
 only to give an idea of his distance from this 
 faithful companion of man. Now and then, 
 too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, ac 
 cidentally awakened, would sound far, far 
 off, from some farmhouse away among the 
 hills but it was like a dreaming sound in 
 his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
 but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 
 cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a 
 bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if 
 sleeping uncomfortably, and turning sud 
 denly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that 
 he had heard in the afternoon, now came
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 crowding upon his recollection. The night 
 grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to 
 sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds 
 occasionally hid them from his sight. He 
 had never felt so lonely and dismal. He 
 was, moreover, approaching the very place 
 where many of the scenes of the ghost sto 
 ries had been laid. In the centre of the 
 road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which 
 towered like a giant above all the other 
 trees of the neighborhood and formed a 
 kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled 
 and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
 for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to 
 the earth, and rising again into the air. It 
 was connected with the tragical story of the 
 unfortunate Andre, who had been taken 
 prisoner hard by; and was universally 
 known by the name of Major Andre s tree. 
 The common people regarded it with a mix 
 ture of respect and superstition, partly out 
 of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred 
 namesake, and partly from the tales of 
 strange sights and doleful lamentations told 
 concerning it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, 
 he began to whistle: he thought his whistle 
 was answered, it was but a blast sweeping 
 sharply through the dry branches. As he 
 approached a little nearer, he thought he 
 saw something white, hanging in the midst 
 of the tree, he paused and ceased whis- 
 78
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 tling; but on looking more narrowly, per 
 ceived that it was a place where the tree 
 had been scathed by lightning, and the 
 white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard 
 a groan, his teeth chattered and his knees 
 smote against the saddle: it was but the 
 rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as 
 they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
 passed the tree in safety; but new perils lay 
 before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a 
 small brook crossed the road, and ran into 
 a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known 
 by the name of Wiley s swamp. A few 
 rough logs, laid side by side, served for a 
 bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
 road where the brook entered the wood, a 
 group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick 
 with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous 
 gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the 
 severest trial. It was at this identical spot 
 that the unfortunate Andre was captured, 
 and under the covert of those chestnuts and 
 vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed 
 who surprised him. This has ever since been 
 considered a haunted stream, and fearful 
 are the feelings of the school-boy who has 
 to pass it alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream, his heart 
 
 began to thump; he summoned up, however, 
 
 all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
 
 score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
 
 79
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 dash briskly across the bridge; but instead 
 of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
 made a lateral movement, and ran broad 
 side against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears 
 increased with the delay, jerked the reins 
 on the other side, and kicked lustily with 
 the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his 
 steed started, it is true, but it was only to 
 plunge to the opposite side of the road into 
 a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The 
 schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and 
 heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpow 
 der, who dashed forward, snuffling and snort 
 ing, but came to a stand just by the bridge, 
 with a suddenness that had nearly sent his 
 rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 
 moment a plashy tramp by the side of the 
 bridge caught the pensitive ear of Ichabod. 
 In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
 margin of the brook, he beheld something 
 huge, misshapen, black and towering. It 
 stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the 
 gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to 
 spring upon the traveller. 
 
 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose 
 upon his head with terror. What was to be 
 done? To turn and fly was now too late; 
 and, besides, what chance was there of es 
 caping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which 
 could ride upon the wings of the wind? 
 Summoning up, therefore, a show of cour 
 age, Re demanded in stammering accents 
 80
 
 "Who are you?" He received no reply. He 
 repeated his demand in a still more agitated 
 voice. Still there was no answer. Once 
 more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
 Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke 
 forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm- 
 tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm 
 put itself into motion, and, with a scramble 
 and a bound, stood at once in the middle 
 of the road. Though the night was dark 
 and dismal, yet the form of the unknown 
 might now in some degree be ascertained. 
 He appeared to be a horseman of large di 
 mensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
 powerful frame. He made no offer of mol 
 estation or sociability, but kept aloof on 
 one side of the road, jogging along on the 
 blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now 
 got over his fright and waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange 
 midnight companion, and bethought himself 
 of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Gal 
 loping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in 
 hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
 however, quickened his horse to an equal 
 pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a 
 walk, thinking to lag behind, the other did 
 the same. His heart began to sink within 
 him; he endeavored to resume his psalm- 
 tune, but his parched tongue clove to the 
 roof of his mouth, and he could not utter 
 a stave. There was something in the moody 
 81
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and dogged silence of this pertinacious com 
 panion that was mysterious and appalling. 
 It was soon fearfully accounted for. On 
 mounting a rising ground, which brought 
 the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
 against the sky, gigantic in height, and muf 
 fled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck 
 on perceiving that he was headless! but his 
 horror was still more increased, on observ 
 ing that the head, which should have rested 
 on his shoulders, was carried before him on 
 the pommel of the saddle: his terror rose to 
 desperation; he rained a shower of kicks 
 and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by 
 a sudden movement, to give his companion 
 the slip, but the spectre started full jump 
 with him. Away then they dashed, through 
 thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks 
 flashing at every bound. Ichabod s flimsy 
 garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched 
 his long, lank body away over his horse s 
 head, in the eagerness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached the road which 
 turns off to Sleepy Hollow: but Gunpowder, 
 who seemed possessed with a demon, instead 
 of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and 
 plunged headlong down hill to the left. This 
 road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded 
 by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where 
 it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, 
 and just beyond swells the green knoll on 
 which stands the whitewashed church. 
 82
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his 
 unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the 
 chase ; but just as he had got half way 
 through the hollow, the girths of the saddle 
 gave way, and he felt it slipping from under 
 him. He seized it by the pommel, and en 
 deavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and 
 had just time to save himself by clasping 
 old Gunpowder round the neck, when the 
 saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it 
 trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a 
 moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper s 
 wrath passed across his mind for it was 
 his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time 
 for petty fears ; the goblin was hard on his 
 haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) 
 he had much ado to maintain his seat; 
 sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
 on another, and sometimes jolted on the 
 high ridge of his horse s backbone, with a 
 violence that he verily feared would cleave 
 him asunder. 
 
 An opening in the trees now cheered him 
 with the hopes that the church-bridge was 
 at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver 
 star in the bosom of the brook told him that 
 he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of 
 the church dimly glaring under the trees be 
 yond. He recollected the place where Brom 
 Bones s ghostly competitor had disappeared. 
 " If I can but reach that bridge," thought 
 Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then he heard 
 83
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 the black steed panting and blowing close 
 behind him; he even fancied that he felt 
 his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
 the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon 
 the bridge; he thundered over the resound 
 ing planks; he gained the opposite side; 
 and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see 
 if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
 rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 
 then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, 
 and in the very act of hurling his head at 
 him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the hor 
 rible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
 cranium with a tremendous crash, he was 
 tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gun 
 powder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, 
 passed by like a whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found 
 without his saddle, and with the bridle un 
 der his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his 
 master s gate. Ichabod did not make his ap 
 pearance at breakfast; dinner hour came, 
 but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the 
 schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the 
 banks of the brook, but no schoolmaster. 
 Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some 
 uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, 
 and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
 and after diligent investigation they came 
 upon his traces. In one part of the road 
 leading to the church was found the saddle 
 trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses 
 84
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evi 
 dently at furious speed, were traced to the 
 bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
 part of the brook, where the water ran deep 
 and black, was found the hat of the unfor 
 tunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shat 
 tered pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of 
 the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. 
 Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, 
 examined the bundle which contained all his 
 worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts 
 and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair 
 or two of worsted stockings, an old pair of 
 corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a 
 book of psalm-tunes, full of dogs ears, and 
 a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and 
 furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged 
 to the community, excepting Cotton Math 
 er s " History of Witchcraft," a " New Eng 
 land Almanac," and a book of dreams and 
 fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of 
 foolscap much scribbled and blotted in sev 
 eral fruitless attempts to make a copy of 
 verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tas 
 sel. These magic books and the poetic 
 scrawl were forthwith consigned to the 
 flames by Hans Van Ripper; who from that 
 time forward determined to send his chil 
 dren no more to school; observing, that he 
 never knew any good come of this same 
 reading and writing. Whatever money the 
 85
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 schoolmaster possessed, and he had received 
 his quarter s pay but a day or two before, he 
 must have had about his person at the time 
 of his disappearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much specu 
 lation at the church on the following Sun 
 day. Knots of gazers and gossips were col 
 lected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and 
 at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had 
 been found. The stories of Brouwer, of 
 Bones, and a whole budget of others, were 
 called to mind; and when they had diligent 
 ly considered them all, and compared them 
 with the symptoms of the present case, they 
 shook their heads, and came to the conclu 
 sion that Ichabod had been carried off by 
 the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bache 
 lor, and in nobody s debt, nobody troubled 
 his head any more about him. The school 
 was removed to a different quarter of the 
 Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in 
 his stead. 
 
 It is true, an old farmer, who had been 
 down to New York on a visit several years 
 after, and from whom this account of the 
 ghostly adventure was received, brought 
 home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane 
 was still alive; that he had left the neigh 
 borhood, partly through fear of the goblins 
 and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifi 
 cation at having been suddenly dismissed by 
 the heiress; that he had changed his quar-
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 ters to a distant part of the country; had 
 kept school and studied law at the same 
 time, had been admitted to the bar, turned 
 politician, electioneered, written for the 
 newspapers, and finally had been made a 
 justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, 
 too, who shortly after his rival s disappear 
 ance conducted the blooming Katrina in tri 
 umph to the altar, was observed to look ex 
 ceeding knowing whenever the story of 
 Ichabod was related, and always burst into 
 a hearty laugh at the mention of the pump 
 kin; which led some to suspect that he knew 
 more about the matter than he chose to tell. 
 The old country wives, however, who are 
 best judges of these matters, maintain to 
 this day that Ichabod was spirited away 
 by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 
 story often told about the neighborhood 
 round the winter evening fire. The bridge 
 became more than ever an object of super 
 stitious awe, and that may be the reason 
 why the road has been altered of late years, 
 so as to approach the church by the border 
 of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse, being 
 deserted, soon fell to decay, and was report 
 ed to be haunted by the ghost of the unfor 
 tunate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loit 
 ering homeward of a still summer evening, 
 has often fancied his voice at a distance, 
 chanting a melancholy psalm-tune among 
 the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. 
 KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 The preceding tale is given, almost in the 
 precise words in which I heard it related at a 
 corporation meeting of the ancient city of 
 Manhattoes, at which were present many of 
 its sagest and most illustrious burghers. 
 The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gen 
 tlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt 
 clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and 
 one whom I strongly suspec-ted of being poor 
 he made such efforts to be entertaining. 
 When his story was concluded, there was 
 much laughter and approbation, particularly 
 from two or three deputy aldermen, who 
 had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
 There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old 
 gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who 
 maintained a grave and rather severe face 
 throughout; now and then folding his arms, 
 inclining his head, and looking down upon 
 the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his 
 mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
 never laugh, but on good grounds when they 
 have reason and the law on their side. 
 When the mirth of the rest of the company 
 had subsided and silence was restored, he 
 leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, 
 and sticking the other akimbo, demanded,
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 
 
 with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of 
 the head, and contraction of the brow, what 
 was the moral of the story, and what it went 
 to prove? 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a 
 glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment 
 after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
 at his inquirer with an air of infinite def 
 erence, and, lowering the glass slowly to the 
 table, observed, that the story was intended 
 most logically to prove: 
 
 " That there is no situation in life but has 
 its advantages and pleasures provided we 
 will but take a joke as we find it: 
 
 That, therefore, he that runs races with 
 goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding 
 of it. 
 
 " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be re 
 fused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a cer 
 tain step to high preferment in the state." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows 
 tenfold closer after this explanation, being 
 sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syl 
 logism; while, methought, the one in pepper- 
 and-salt eyed him with something of a tri 
 umphant leer. At length he observed, that 
 all this was very well, but still he thought 
 the story a little on the extravagant 
 there was one or two points on which he had 
 his doubts. " Faith, sir," replied the story 
 teller, " as to that matter, I don t believe one 
 half of it myself." D. K. 
 
 89
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 91
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 A FEW miles from Boston in Massachu 
 setts, there is a deep inlet, winding 
 several miles into the interior of the 
 country from Charles Bay, and terminat 
 ing in a thickly wooded swamp or morass. 
 On one side of this inlet is a beauti 
 ful dark grove; on the opposite the land 
 rises abruptly from the water s edge into 
 a high ridge, on which grow a few scattered 
 oaks of great age and immense size. Under 
 one of these gigantic trees, according to old 
 stories, there was a great amount of treasure 
 buried by Kidd the pirate. The inlet allowed 
 a facility to bring the money in a boat se 
 cretly and at night to the very foot of the 
 hill; the elevation of the place permitted a 
 good lookout to be kept that no one was at 
 hand; while the remarkable trees formed 
 good landmarks by which the place might 
 easily be found again. The old stories add, 
 moreover, that the devil presided at the hid 
 ing of the money, and took it under his guar 
 dianship; but this, it is well known, he al 
 ways does with buried treasure, particularly 
 93
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 when it has been ill-gotten. Be that as it 
 may, Kidd never returned to recover his 
 wealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, 
 sent out to England, and there hanged for a 
 pirate. 
 
 About the year 1727, just at the time that 
 earthquakes were prevalent in New England, 
 and shook many tall sinners down upon 
 their knees, there lived near this place a 
 meagre, miserly fellow, of the name of Tom 
 Walker. He had a wife as miserly as him 
 self: they were so miserly that they even 
 conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the 
 woman could lay hands on, she hid away; a 
 hen could not cackle but she was on the alert 
 to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was 
 continually prying about to detect her secret 
 hoards, and many and fierce were the con 
 flicts that took place about what ought to 
 have been common property. They lived in 
 a forlorn-looking house that stood alone, 
 and had an air of starvation. A few strag 
 gling savin-trees, emblems of sterility, grew 
 near it; no smoke ever curled from its 
 chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. A 
 miserable horse, whose ribs were as articu 
 late as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about 
 a field, where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely 
 covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, 
 tantalized and balked his hunger; and some 
 times he would lean his head over the fence, 
 look piteously at the passer-by, and seem to 
 94
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 petition deliverance from this land of fam 
 ine. 
 
 The house and its inmates had altogether 
 a bad name. Tom s wife was a tall terma 
 gant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and 
 strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in 
 wordy warfare with her husband; and his 
 face sometimes showed signs that their con 
 flicts were not confined to words. No one 
 ventured, however, to interfere between 
 them. The lonely wayfarer shrunk within 
 himself at the horrid clamor and clapper 
 clawing; eyed the den of discord askance; 
 and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bach 
 elor, in his celibacy. 
 
 One day that Tom Walker had been to a 
 distant part of the neighborhood, he took 
 what he considered a short cut homeward, 
 through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it 
 was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was 
 thickly grown with great gloomy pines and 
 hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, 
 which made it dark at noonday, and a re 
 treat for all the owls of the neighborhood. 
 It was full of pits and quagmires, partly 
 covered with weeds and mosses, where the 
 green surface often betrayed the traveller 
 into a gulf of black, smothering mud: there 
 were also dark and stagnant pools, the 
 abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and 
 the water-snake; where the trunks of 
 pines and hemlocks lay half-drowned, half- 
 95
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 rotting, looking like alligators sleeping in 
 the mire. 
 
 Tom had long been picking his way cau 
 tiously through this treacherous forest; 
 stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and 
 roots, which afforded precarious footholds 
 among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, 
 like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of 
 trees; startled now and then by the sudden 
 screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of 
 a wild duck rising on the wing from some 
 solitary pool. At length he arrived at a firm 
 piece of ground, which ran out like a penin 
 sula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It 
 had been one of the strongholds of the In 
 dians during their wars with the first colo 
 nists. Here they had thrown up a kind of 
 fort, which they had looked upon as almost 
 impregnable, and had used as a place of 
 refuge for their squaws and children. Noth 
 ing remained of the old Indian fort but a 
 few embankments, gradually sinking to the 
 level of the surrounding earth, and already 
 overgrown in part by oaks and other forest 
 trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast 
 to the dark pines and hemlocks of the 
 swamp. 
 
 It was late in the dusk of evening when 
 Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he 
 paused there awhile to rest himself. Any 
 one but he would have felt unwilling to lin 
 ger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the 
 96
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 common people had a bad opinion of it, from 
 the stories handed down from the time of 
 the Indian wars; when it was asserted that 
 the savages held incantations here, and made 
 sacrifices to the evil spirit. 
 
 Tom Walker, however, was not a man to 
 be troubled with any fears of the kind. He 
 reposed himself for some time on the trunk 
 of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding 
 cry of the tree-toad, and delving with his 
 walking-staff into a mound of black mould 
 at his feet. As he turned up the soil uncon 
 sciously, his staff struck against something 
 hard. He raked it out of the vegetable 
 mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an In 
 dian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before 
 him. The rust on the weapon showed the 
 time that had elapsed since this death-blow 
 had been given. It was a dreary memento of 
 the fierce struggle that had taken place in 
 this last foothold of the Indian warriors. 
 
 " Humph! " said Tom Walker, as he gave 
 it a kick to shake the dirt from it. 
 
 " Let that skull alone! " said a gruff voice. 
 Tom lifted up his eyes, and beheld a great 
 black man seated directly opposite him, on 
 the stump of a .tree. He was exceedingly 
 surprised, having neither heard nor seen 
 any one approach; and he was still more 
 perplexed on observing, as well as the gath 
 ering gloom would permit, that the stranger 
 was neither negro nor Indian. It is true he 
 97
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 was dressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and 
 had a red belt or sash swathed round his 
 body; but his face was neither black nor 
 copper-color, but swarthy and dingy, and 
 begrimed with soot, as if he had been accus 
 tomed to toil among fires and forges. He 
 had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood 
 out from his head in all directions; and bore 
 an axe on his shoulder. 
 
 He scowled for a moment at Tom with a 
 pair of great red eyes. 
 
 "What are you doing on my grounds?" 
 said the black man, with a hoarse, growling 
 voice. 
 
 "Your grounds! " said Tom with a sneer, 
 " no more your grounds than mine; they be 
 long to Deacon Peabody." 
 
 " Deacon Peabody be d d," said the 
 
 stranger, " as I flatter myself he will be, if 
 he does not look more to his own sins and 
 less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, 
 and see how Deacon Peabody is faring." 
 
 Tom looked in the direction that the 
 stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great 
 trees, fair and flourishing without, but rot 
 ten at the core, and saw that it had been 
 nearly hewn through, so that the first high 
 wind was likely to blow it down. On the 
 bark of the tree was scored the name of 
 Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had 
 waxed wealthy by driving shrewd bargains 
 with the Indians. He now looked around, 
 98
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 and found most of the tall trees marked 
 with the name of some great man of the col 
 ony, and all more or less scored by the axe. 
 The one on which he had been seated, and 
 which had evidently just been hewn down, 
 bore the name of Crowninshield; and he rec 
 ollected a mighty rich man of that name, 
 who made a vulgar display of wealth, which 
 it was whispered he had acquired by bucca 
 neering. 
 
 " He s just ready for burning! " said the 
 black man, with a growl of triumph. " You 
 see I am likely to have a good stock of fire 
 wood for winter." 
 
 " But what right have you," said Tom, " to 
 cut down Deacon Peabody s timber? " 
 
 " The right of a prior claim," said the 
 other. " This woodland belonged to me long 
 before one of your white-faced race put foot 
 upon the soil." 
 
 "And pray, who are you, if I may be so 
 bold? " said Tom. 
 
 "Oh, I go by various names. I am the 
 wild huntsman in some countries; the black 
 miner in others. In this neighborhood I 
 am known by the name of the black woods 
 man. I am he to whom the red men conse 
 crated this spot, and in honor of whom 
 they now and then roasted a white man, by 
 way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the 
 red men have been exterminated by you 
 white savages, I amuse myself by presiding 
 99
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 at the persecutions of Quakers and Ana 
 baptists! I am the great patron and prompter 
 of slave-dealers, and the grand-master of the 
 Salem witches." 
 
 " The upshot of all which is, that, if I 
 mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you are 
 he commonly called Old Scratch." 
 
 " The same, at your service! " replied the 
 black man, with a half civil nod. 
 
 Such was the opening of this interview, 
 according to the old story; though it has 
 almost too familiar an air to be credited. 
 One would think that to meet with such 
 a singular personage, in this wild, lonely 
 place, would have shaken any man s nerves; 
 but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not 
 easily daunted, and he had lived so long 
 with a termagant wife, that he did not even 
 fear the devil. 
 
 It is said that after this commencement 
 they had a long and earnest conversation to 
 gether, as Tom returned homeward. The 
 black man told him of great sums of money 
 buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak- 
 trees on the high ridge, not far from the 
 morass. All these were under his com 
 mand, and protected by his power, so that 
 none could find them but such as propitiated 
 his favor. These he offered to place within 
 Tom Walker s reach, having conceived an 
 especial kindness for him; but they were to 
 be had only on certain conditions. What 
 100
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 these conditions were may be easily sur 
 mised, though Tom never disclosed them 
 publicly. They must have been very hard, 
 for he required time to think of them, and 
 he was not a man to itick at trifles when 
 money was in view. When they had reached 
 the edge of the swamp, the stranger paused. 
 " What proof have I that all you have been 
 telling me is true? " said Tom. " There s 
 my signature," said the black man, pressing 
 his finger on Tom s forehead. So saying, he 
 turned off among the thickets of the swamp, 
 and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, 
 down, into the earth, until nothing but his 
 head and shoulders could be seen, and so on, 
 until he totally disappeared. 
 
 When Tom reached home, he found the 
 black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into 
 his forehead, which nothing could obliterate. 
 
 The first news his wife had to tell him was 
 the sudden death of Absalom Crownin- 
 shield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced 
 in the papers with the usual flourish, that 
 " A great man had fallen in Israel." 
 
 Tom recollected the tree which his black 
 friend had just hewn down, and which was 
 ready for burning. " Let the freebooter 
 roast," said Tom, " who cares! " He now 
 felt convinced that all he had heard and seen 
 was no illusion. 
 
 He was not prone to let his wife into his 
 confidence; but as this was an uneasy se- 
 101
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 cret, lie willingly shared it with her. All 
 her avarice was awakened at the mention 
 of hidden gold, and she urged her husband 
 to comply with the black man s terms, and 
 secure what would make them wealthy for 
 life. However Tom might have felt disposed 
 to sell himself to the devil, he was deter 
 mined not to do so to oblige his wife; so 
 he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of 
 contradiction. Many and bitter were the 
 quarrels they had on the subject; but the 
 more she talked, the more resolute was Tom 
 not to be damned to please her. 
 
 At length she determined to drive the 
 bargain on her own account, and if she suc 
 ceeded, to keep all the gain to herself. Be 
 ing of the same fearless temper as her hus 
 band, she set off for the old Indian fort to 
 ward the close of a summer s day. She was 
 many hours absent. When she came back, 
 she was reserved and sullen in her replies. 
 She spoke something of a black man, whom 
 she had met about twilight hewing at the 
 root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, 
 and would not come to terms; she was to 
 go again with a propitiatory offering, but 
 what it was she forebore to say. 
 
 The next evening she set off again for the 
 swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom 
 waited and waited for her, but in vain; mid 
 night came, but she did not make her ap 
 pearance; morning, noon, night returned, 
 102
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 but still she did not come. Tom now grew 
 uneasy for her safety, especially as he found 
 she had carried off in her apron the silver 
 teapot and spoons, and every portable article 
 of value. Another night elapsed; another 
 morning came; but no wife. In a word, she 
 was never heard of more. 
 
 What was her real fate nobody knows, in 
 consequence of so many pretending to know. 
 It is one of those facts which have become 
 confounded by a variety of historians. 
 Some asserted that she lost her way among 
 the tangled mazes of the swamp, and sank 
 into some pit or slough; others, more un 
 charitable, hinted that she had eloped with 
 the household booty, and made off to some 
 other province; while others surmised that 
 the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal 
 quagmire, on the top of which her hat was 
 found lying. In confirmation of this, it was 
 said a great black man, with an axe on his 
 shoulder, was seen late that very evening 
 coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle 
 tied in a check apron, with an air of surly 
 triumph. 
 
 The most current and probable story, 
 however, observes that Tom Walker grew 
 so anxious about the fate of his wife and his 
 property that he set out at length to seek 
 them both at the Indian fort. During a long 
 summer s afternoon he searched about the 
 gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. 
 103
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 He called her name repeatedly, but she was 
 nowhere to be heard. The bittern alone re 
 sponded to his voice, as he flew scream 
 ing by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully 
 from a neighboring pool. At length, it is 
 said, just in the brown hour of twilight, 
 when the owls began to hoot, and the bats to 
 flit about, his attention was attracted by the 
 clamor of carrion crows hovering about a 
 cypress-tree. He looked up, and beheld a 
 bundle tied in a check apron, and hanging 
 in the branches of the tree, with a great 
 vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch 
 upon it. He leaped with joy; for he recog 
 nized his wife s apron, and supposed it to 
 contain the household valuables. 
 
 " Let us get hold of the property," said he, 
 consolingly, to himself, " and we will en 
 deavor to do without the woman." 
 
 As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture 
 spread its wide wings, and sailed off scream 
 ing, into the deep shadows of the forest. 
 Tom seized the checked apron, but, woful 
 sight! found nothing but a heart and liver 
 tied up in it! 
 
 Such, according to this most authentic 
 old story, was all that was to be found of 
 Tom s wife. She had probably attempted to 
 deal with the black man as she had been ac 
 customed to deal with her husband; but 
 though a female scold is generally consid 
 ered a match for the devil, yet in this in- 
 104
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 stance she appears to have had the worst 
 of it. She must have died game, however; 
 for it is said Tom noticed many prints of 
 cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, 
 and found handfuls of hair, that looked as if 
 they had been plucked from the coarse, black 
 shock of the woodman. Tom knew his wife s 
 prowess by experience. He shrugged his 
 shoulders, as he looked at the signs of a 
 fierce clapper-clawing. " Egad," said he to 
 himself, " Old Scratch must have had a 
 tough time of it! " 
 
 Tom consoled himself for the loss of his 
 property, with the loss of his wife, for he 
 was a man of fortitude. He even felt some 
 thing like gratitude toward the black wood 
 man, who, he considered, had done him a 
 kindness. He sought, therefore, to culti 
 vate a further acquaintance with him, but 
 for some time without success; the old 
 blacklegs played shy, for whatever people 
 may think, he is not always to be had for 
 calling for; he knows how to play his cards 
 when pretty sure of his game. 
 
 At length, it is said, when delay had 
 whetted Tom s eagerness to the quick, and 
 prepared him to agree to anything rather 
 than not gain the promised treasure, he 
 met the black man one evening in his usual 
 woodman s dress, with his axe on his 
 shoulder, sauntering along the swamp, and 
 humming a tune. He affected to receive 
 105
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Tom s advances with great indifference, 
 made brief replies, and went on humming 
 his tune. 
 
 By degrees, however, Tom brought him to 
 business, and they began to haggle about the 
 terms on which the former was to have the 
 pirate s treasure. There was one condition 
 which need not be mentioned, being gener 
 ally understood in all cases where the devil 
 grants favors; but there were others about 
 which, though of less importance, he was in 
 flexibly obstinate. He insisted that the 
 money found through his means should be 
 employed in his service. He proposed, there 
 fore, that Tom should employ it in the black 
 traffic; that is to say, that he should fit out 
 a slave-ship. This, however, Tom resolutely 
 refused: he was bad enough in all con 
 science; but the devil himself could not 
 tempt him to turn slave-trader. 
 
 Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, 
 he did not insist upon it, but proposed, 
 instead, that he should turn usurer; the 
 devil being extremely anxious for the in 
 crease of usurers, looking upon them as his 
 peculiar people. 
 
 To this no objections were made, for it was 
 just to Tom s taste. 
 
 You shall open a broker s shop in Boston 
 next month," said the black man. 
 
 " I ll do it to-morrow, if you wish," said 
 Tom Walker. 
 
 106
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 " You shall lend money at two per cent, a 
 month." 
 
 " Egad, I ll charge four! " replied Tom 
 Walker. 
 
 " You shall extort bonds, foreclose mort 
 gages, drive the merchants to bankruptcy" 
 
 " I ll drive them to the d 1," cried Tom 
 
 Walker. 
 
 " You are the usurer for my money! " said 
 blacklegs with delight. " When will you 
 want the rhino? " 
 
 " This very night." 
 
 " Done! " said the devil. 
 
 " Done! " said Tom Walker. So they shook 
 hands and struck a bargain. 
 
 A few days time saw Tom Walker seated 
 behind his desk in a counting-house in 
 Boston. 
 
 His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, 
 who would lend money out for a good con 
 sideration, soon spread abroad. Everybody 
 remembers the time of Governor Belcher, 
 when money was particularly scarce. It 
 was a time of paper credit. The country had 
 been deluged with government bills, the fa 
 mous Land Bank had been established; 
 there had been a rage for speculating; the 
 people had run mad with schemes for new 
 settlements; for building cities in the wil 
 derness; land-jobbers went about with maps 
 of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, 
 lying nobody knew where, but which every- 
 107
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 body was ready to purchase. In a word, 
 the great speculating fever which breaks 
 out every now and then in the country, had 
 raged to an alarming degree, and everybody 
 was dreaming of making sudden fortunes 
 from nothing. As usual, the fever had sub 
 sided; the dream had gone off, and the 
 imaginary fortunes with it; the patients 
 were left in doleful plight, and the whole 
 country resounded with the consequent cry 
 of " hard times." 
 
 At this propitious time of public distress 
 did Tom Walker set up as usurer in Boston. 
 His door was soon thronged by customers. 
 The needy and adventurous; the gambling 
 speculator; the dreaming land-jobber; the 
 thriftless tradesman; the merchant with 
 cracked credit; in short, every one driven to 
 raise money by desperate means and des 
 perate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker. 
 
 Thus Tom was the universal friend of 
 the needy, and acted like a " friend in need;" 
 that is to say, he always exacted good pay 
 and good security. In proportion to the 
 distress of the applicant was the hardness 
 of his terms. He accumulated bonds and 
 mortgages; gradually squeezed his custom 
 ers closer and closer: and sent them at 
 length, dry as a sponge, from his door. 
 
 In this way he made money hand over 
 hand; became a rich and mighty man, and 
 exalted his cocked hat upon Change. He 
 108
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of 
 ostentation; but left the greater part of it 
 unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsi 
 mony. He even set up a carriage in the 
 fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly 
 starved the horses which drew it; and as 
 the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched 
 on the axle-trees, you would have thought 
 you heard the souls of the poor debtors he 
 was squeezing. 
 
 As Tom waxed old, however, he grew 
 thoughtful. Having secured the good things 
 of this world, he began to feel anxious about 
 those of the next. He thought with regret 
 on the bargain he had made with his black 
 friend, and set his wits to work to cheat 
 him out of the conditions. He became, there 
 fore, all of a sudden, a violent church 
 goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously, as 
 if heaven were to be taken by force of 
 lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when 
 he had sinned most during the week, by the 
 clamor of his Sunday devotion. The quiet 
 Christians who had been modestly and 
 steadfastly travelling Zionward, were struck 
 with self-reproach at seeing themselves so 
 suddenly outstripped in their career by this 
 new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in 
 religious as in money matters; he was a 
 stern supervisor and censurer of his neigh 
 bors, and seemed to think every sin entered 
 up to their account became a credit on his 
 109
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 own side of the page. He even talked of 
 the expediency of reviving the persecution 
 of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, 
 Tom s zeal became as notorious as his riches. 
 
 Still, in spite of all this strenuous atten 
 tion to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that 
 the devil, after all, would have his due. That 
 he might not be taken unawares, therefore, 
 it is said he always carried a small Bible in 
 his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio 
 Bible on his counting-house desk, and would 
 frequently be found reading it when people 
 called on business; on such occasions he 
 would lay his green spectacles in the book, 
 to mark the place, while he turned round to 
 drive some usurious bargain. 
 
 Some say that Tom grew a little crack- 
 brained in his old days, and that, fancying 
 his end approaching, he had his horse new 
 shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with 
 his feet uppermost; because he supposed that 
 at the last day the world would be turned 
 upside-down; in which case he should find 
 his horse standing ready for mounting, and 
 he was determined at the worst to give his 
 old friend a run for it. This, however, is 
 probably a mere old wives fable. If he 
 really did take such a precaution, it was 
 totally superfluous; at least so says the au 
 thentic old legend; which closes his story 
 in the following manner. 
 
 One hot summer afternoon in the dog- 
 110
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 days, just as a terrible black thunder-gust 
 was coming up, Tom sat in his counting- 
 house, in his white linen cap and India silk 
 morning-gown. He was on the point of 
 foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would 
 complete the ruin of an unlucky land-spec 
 ulator for whom he had professed the great 
 est friendship. The poor land-jobber begged 
 him to grant a few months indulgence. 
 Tom had grown testy and irritated, and re 
 fused another day. 
 
 " My family will be ruined, and brought 
 upon the parish," said the land-jobber. 
 "Charity begins at home," replied Tom; "I 
 must take care of myself in these hard 
 times." 
 
 " You have made so much money out of 
 me," said the speculator. 
 
 Tom lost his patience and his piety. " The 
 devil take me," said he, " if I have made a 
 farthing! " 
 
 Just then there were three loud knocks 
 at the street door. He stepped out to see 
 who was there. A black man was holding 
 a black horse, which neighed and stamped 
 with impatience. 
 
 " Tom, you re come for," said the black 
 fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too 
 late. He had left his little Bible at the 
 bottom of his coat-pocket, and his big Bible 
 on the desk buried under the mortgage he 
 was about to foreclose: never was sinner 
 111
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 taken more unawares. The black man 
 whisked him like a child into the saddle, 
 gave the horse the lash, and away he gal 
 loped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of 
 the thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their 
 pens behind their ears, and stared after him 
 from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, 
 dashing down the streets; his white cap 
 bobbing up and down; his morning-gown 
 fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking 
 fire out of the pavement at every bound. 
 When the clerks turned to look for the 
 black man, he had disappeared. 
 
 Tom Walker never returned to foreclose 
 the mortgage. A countryman, who lived on 
 the border of the swamp, reported that in 
 the height of the thunder-gust he had heard 
 a great clattering of hoofs and a howling 
 along the road, and running to the window 
 caught sight of a figure, such as I have 
 described, on a horse that galloped like mad 
 across the fields, over the hills, and down 
 into the black hemlock swamp toward the 
 old Indian fort; and that shortly after a 
 thunderbolt falling in that direction seemed 
 to set the whole forest in a blaze. 
 
 The good people of Boston shook their 
 heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had 
 been so much accustomed to witches and 
 goblins, and tricks of the devil, in all kinds 
 of shapes, from the first settlement of the 
 colony, that they were not so much horror - 
 112
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 struck as might have been expected. 
 Trustees were appointed to take charge of 
 Tom s effects. There was nothing, however, 
 to administer upon. On searching his cof 
 fers, all his bonds and mortgages were 
 found reduced to cinders. In place of gold 
 and silver, his iron chest was filled with, 
 chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in 
 his stable instead of his half-starved horses, 
 and the very next day his great house took 
 fire and was burnt to the ground. 
 
 Such was the end of Tom Walker and 
 his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping money- 
 brokers lay this story to heart. The truth, 
 of it is not to be doubted. The very 
 hole under the oak-trees, whence he dug 
 Kidd s money, is to be seen to this day; 
 and the neighboring swamp and old Indian 
 fort are often haunted in stormy nights by 
 a figure on horseback, in morning-gown and 
 white cap, which is doubtless the troubled 
 spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has 
 resolved itself into a proverb, and is the 
 origin of that popular saying, so prevalent 
 through New England, of " The Devil 
 and Tom Walker." 
 
 113
 
 The Voyage
 
 The Voyage 
 
 Ships, ships, I will descrie you 
 
 Amidst the main. 
 I will come and try you, 
 What you are protecting, 
 And projecting, 
 
 What s your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
 Another stay** to keep his country from invading, 
 A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
 Halloo . my fancie, whither wilt thoii go ? OLD POEM. 
 
 To an American visiting Europe, the long 
 voyage he has to make is an excellent pre 
 parative. The temporary absence of worldly 
 scenes and employments produces a state of 
 mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and 
 vivid impressions. The vast space of wa 
 ters that separates the hemispheres is like 
 a blank page in existence. There is no grad 
 ual transition, by which, as in Europe, the 
 features and population of one country blend 
 almost imperceptibly with those of another. 
 From the moment you lose sight of the land 
 you have left, all is vacancy until you step 
 on the opposite shore, and are launched at 
 117
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 once into the bustle and novelties of another 
 world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity 
 of scene and a connected succession of per 
 sons and incidents, that carry on the story 
 of life, and lessen the effect of absence and 
 separation. We drag, it is true, " a length 
 ening chain " at each remove of our pil 
 grimage; but the chain is unbroken: we can 
 trace it back link by link; and we feel that 
 the last still grapples us to home. But a 
 wide sea-voyage severs us at once. It makes 
 us conscious of being cast loose from the 
 secure anchorage of settled life, and sent 
 adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes 
 a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, be 
 tween us and our homes a gulf subject 
 to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, ren 
 dering distance palpable, and return preca 
 rious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. 
 As I saw the last blue line of my native 
 land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, 
 it seemed as if I had closed one volume of 
 the world and its concerns, and had time 
 for meditation, before I opened another. 
 That land, too, now vanishing from my view, 
 which contained all most dear to me in life; 
 what vicissitudes might occur in it, what 
 changes might take place in me, before I 
 should visit it again! Who can tell, when 
 he sets forth to wander, whither he may be 
 118
 
 The Voyage 
 
 driven by the uncertain currents of exist 
 ence; or when he may return; or whether 
 it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes 
 oi his childhood? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should 
 correct the expression. To one given to day 
 dreaming, and fond of losing himself in 
 reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for 
 meditation; but then they are the wonders 
 of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend 
 to abstract the mind from worldly themes. 
 I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing, 
 or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, 
 and muse for hours together on the tranquil 
 bosom of a summer s sea; to gaze upon the 
 piles of golden clouds just peering above 
 the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, 
 and people them with a creation of my own; 
 to watch the gentle undulating billows, roll 
 ing their silver volumes, as if to die away 
 on those happy shores. 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of min 
 gled security and awe with which I looked 
 down, from my giddy height, on the mon 
 sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. 
 Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
 of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his 
 huge form above the surface; or the raven 
 ous shark, darting, like a spectre, through 
 the blue waters. My imagination would con 
 jure up all that I had heard or read of 
 the watery world beneath me; of the finny 
 119
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of 
 the shapeless monsters that lurk among 
 the very foundations of the earth; and of 
 those wild phantasms that swell the tales 
 of fishermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along 
 the edge of the ocean, would be another 
 theme of idle speculation. How interesting 
 this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
 the great mass of existence! What a glo 
 rious monument of human invention; which 
 has in a manner triumphed over wind and 
 wave; has brought the ends of the world 
 into communion; has established an inter 
 change of blessings, pouring into the sterile 
 regions of the north all the luxuries of the 
 south; has diffused the light of knowledge 
 and the charities of cultivated life; and has 
 thus bound together those scattered portions 
 of the human race, between which nature 
 seemed to have thrown an insurmountable 
 barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless ob 
 ject drifting at a distance. At sea, every 
 thing that breaks the monotony of the sur 
 rounding expanse attracts attention. It 
 proved to be the mast of a ship that must 
 have been completely wrecked; for there 
 were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which 
 some of the crew had fastened themselves to 
 this spar, to prevent their being washed off 
 by the waves. There was no trace by 
 120
 
 The Voyage 
 
 which the name of the ship could be ascer 
 tained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
 about for many months; clusters of shell 
 fish had fastened about it, and long sea 
 weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
 thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has 
 long been over they have gone down amid 
 the roar of the tempest their bones lie 
 whitening among the caverns of the deep. 
 Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed 
 over them, and no one can tell the story of 
 their end. What sighs have been wafted 
 after that ship! What prayers offered up at 
 the deserted fireside of home! How often 
 has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored 
 over the daily news, to catch some casual 
 intelligence of this rover of the deep! How 
 has expectation darkened into anxiety 
 anxiety into dread and dread into despair! 
 Alas! not one memento may ever return for 
 love to cherish. All that may ever be known, 
 is, that she sailed from her port, " and was 
 never heard of more! " 
 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise 
 to many dismal anecdotes. This was particu 
 larly the case in the evening, when the 
 weather, which had hitherto been fair, be 
 gan to look wild and threatening, and gave 
 indications of one of those sudden storms 
 which will sometimes break in upon the 
 serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat 
 round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, 
 121
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 that made the gloom more ghastly, every 
 one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. 
 I was particularly struck with a short one 
 related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a 
 fine stout ship across the banks of New 
 foundland, one of those heavy fogs which 
 prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
 for us to see far ahead even in the day 
 time; but at night the weather was so thick 
 that we could not distinguish any object at 
 twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 
 at the mast-head, and a constant watch for 
 ward to look out for fishing-smacks, which 
 are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. 
 The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, 
 and we were going at a great rate through 
 the water. Suddenly the watch gave the 
 alarm of a sail ahead! it was scarcely ut 
 tered before we were upon her. She was a 
 small schooner, at anchor, with her broad 
 side toward us. The crew were all asleep, 
 and had neglected to hoist a light. We 
 struck her just amidships. The force, the 
 size, and weight of our vessel bore her down 
 below the waves; we passed over her, and 
 hurried on our course. As the crashing 
 wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a 
 glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches 
 rushing from her cabin; they just started 
 from their beds to be swallowed shrieking 
 by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 122
 
 The Voyage 
 
 mingling with the wind. The blast that bore 
 it to our ears swept us out of all further 
 hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It 
 was some time before we could put the ship 
 about, she was under such headway. We 
 returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the 
 place where the smack had anchored. We 
 cruised about for several hours in the dense 
 fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if 
 we might hear the halloo of any survivors; 
 but all was silent we never saw or heard 
 anything of them more." 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an 
 end to all my fine fancies. The storm in 
 creased with the night. The sea was lashed 
 into tremendous confusion. There was a 
 fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and 
 broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At 
 times the black volume of clouds overhead 
 seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning 
 which quivered along the foaming billows, 
 and made the succeeding darkness doubly 
 terrible. The thunders bellowed over the 
 wild waste of waters, and were echoed and 
 prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw 
 the ship staggering and plunging among 
 these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous 
 that she regained her balance, or preserved 
 her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into 
 the water: her bow was almost buried be 
 neath the waves. Sometimes an impend 
 ing surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, 
 123
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and nothing but a dexterous movement of 
 the helm preserved her from the shock. 
 
 When I retired to my cabin, the awful 
 scene still followed me. The whistling of 
 the wind through the rigging sounded like 
 funereal wailings. The creaking of the 
 masts, the straining and groaning of bulk 
 heads, as the ship labored in the weltering 
 sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves 
 rushing along the sides of the ship, and roar 
 ing in my very ear, it seemed as if Death 
 were raging round this floating prison, seek 
 ing for his prey; the mere starting of a 
 nail, the yawning of a seam, might have 
 given him entrance. 
 
 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea 
 and favoring breeze, soon put all these dis 
 mal reflections to flight. It is impossible to 
 resist the gladdening influence of fine 
 weather and fair wind at sea. When the 
 ship is decked out in all her canvas, every 
 sail swelled, and careering gayly over the 
 curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
 appears how she seems to lord it over the 
 deep! 
 
 I might fill a volume with the reveries 
 of a sea-voyage, for with me it is almost a 
 continual reverie but it is time to get to 
 shore. 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the 
 thrilling cry of " land! " was given from the 
 mast-head. None but those who have ex- 
 124
 
 The Voyage 
 
 perienced it can form an idea of the deli 
 cious throng of sensations which rush into 
 an American s bosom when he first comes 
 in sight of Europe. There is a volume of 
 associations with the very name. It is the 
 land of promise, teeming with everything 
 of which his childhood has heard, or on 
 which his studious years have pondered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of ar 
 rival, it was all feverish excitement. The 
 ships-of-war that prowled like guardian gi 
 ants along the coast of the headlands of 
 Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the 
 Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; 
 all were objects of intense interest. As we 
 sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the 
 shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
 delight on neat cottages, with their trim 
 shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the 
 mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with 
 ivy, and the taper spire of a village church 
 rising from the brow of a neighboring hill; 
 all were characteristic of England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favorable that 
 the ship was enabled to come at once to the 
 pier. It was thronged with people: some, 
 idle lookers-on; others, eager expectants of 
 friends or relatives. I could distinguish the 
 merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
 I knew him by his calculating brow and 
 restless air. His hands were thrust into his 
 pocket; he was whistling thoughtfully, and 
 125
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 walking to and fro, a small space having 
 been accorded him by the crowd, in defer 
 ence to his temporary importance. There 
 were repeated cheerings and salutations in 
 terchanged between the shore and the ship, 
 as friends happened to recognize each other. 
 I particularly noticed one young woman of 
 humble dress, but interesting demeanor. 
 She was leaning forward from among the 
 crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it 
 neared the shore, to catch some wished for 
 countenance. She seemed disappointed and 
 agitated; when I heard a faint voice call 
 her name. It was from a poor sailor who 
 had been ill all the voyage, and had excited 
 the sympathy of every one on board. When 
 the weather was fine, his messmates had 
 spread a mattress for him on deck in the 
 shade; but of late his illness had so in 
 creased that he had taken to his hammock, 
 and only breathed a wish that he might see 
 his wife before he died. He had been helped 
 on deck as we came up the river, and was 
 now leaning against the shrouds, with a 
 countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, 
 that it was no wonder even the eye of 
 affection did not recognize him. But at the 
 sound of his voice, her eye darted on his 
 features; it read at once a whole volume 
 of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a 
 faint shriek, and stood wringing them in 
 silent agony. 
 
 126
 
 The Voyage 
 
 All now was hurry anri bustle. The meet 
 ings of acquaintances the greeting of 
 friends the consultations of men of busi 
 ness. I alone was solitary and idle. I had 
 no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. 
 I stepped upon the land of my forefathers 
 but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 
 
 127
 
 Westminster Abbey
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
 To famous Westminster how there resorte 
 Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
 The princes and the worthies of all sorter 
 Doe not I see reforuide nobilitie, 
 Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
 And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
 Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
 Whome all the world which late they stood upon. 
 Could not content or quench their appetites. 
 Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
 And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
 
 CHIUSTOLEKO S EPIGRAMS, BY T. B. 1598. 
 
 ON one of those sober and rather mel 
 ancholy days, in the latter part of autumn, 
 when the shadows of morning and evening 
 almost mingle together, and throw a gloom 
 over the decline of the year, I passed several 
 hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. 
 There was something congenial to the sea 
 son in the mournful magnificence of the old 
 pile; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed 
 like stepping back Into the regions of an- 
 131
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 tiquity, and losing myself among the shades 
 of former ages. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of West 
 minster School, through a long, low, 
 vaulted passage, that had an almost subter 
 ranean look, being dimly lighted in one part 
 by circular perforations in the massive 
 walls. Through this dark avenue I had a 
 distant view of the cloisters, with the figure 
 of an old verger, in his black gown, moving 
 along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like 
 a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. 
 The aproach to the abbey through these 
 gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind 
 for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters 
 still retain something of the quiet and se 
 clusion of former days. The gray walls are 
 discolored by damps, and crumbling with 
 age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over 
 the inscriptions of the mural monuments, 
 and obscured the death s heads, and other 
 funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the 
 chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the 
 arches; the roses which adorned the key 
 stones have lost their leafy beauty; every 
 thing bears marks of the gradual dilapida 
 tions of time, which yet has something 
 touching and pleasing in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was pouring down a yellow au 
 tumnal ray into the square of the cloisters; 
 beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the 
 centre, and lighting up an angle of the 
 132
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splen 
 dor. From between the arcades, the eye 
 glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a pass 
 ing cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles 
 of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes con 
 templating this mingled picture of glory and 
 decay, and sometimes endeavoring to de 
 cipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, 
 which formed the pavement beneath my feet, 
 my eye was attracted to three figures rudely 
 carved in relief, but nearly worn away by 
 the footsteps of many generations. They 
 were the effigies of three of the early ab 
 bots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; 
 the names alone remained, having no doubt 
 been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Ab 
 bas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Ab 
 bas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I 
 remained some little while, musing over 
 these casual relics of antiquity, thus left 
 like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, 
 telling no tale but that such beings had 
 been, and had perished; teaching no moral 
 but the futility of that pride which hopes 
 still to exact homage in its ashes, and to 
 live in an inscription. A little longer, and 
 even these faint records will be obliterated, 
 and the monument will cease to be a me 
 morial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
 upon these gravestones, I was roused by the 
 sound of the abbey clock, reverberating 
 133
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 from buttress to buttress, and echoing 
 among the cloisters. It is almost startling 
 to hear this warning of departed time sound 
 ing among the tombs, and telling the lapse 
 of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled 
 us onward toward the grave. I pursued my 
 walk to an arched door opening to the in 
 terior of the abbey. On entering here, the 
 magnitude of the building breaks fully upon 
 the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the 
 cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 
 clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, 
 with arches springing from them to such 
 an amazing height; and man wandering 
 about their bases, shrunk into insignificance 
 in comparison with his own handiwork. 
 The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edi 
 fice produces a profound and mysterious awe. 
 We step cautiously and softly about, as if 
 fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of 
 the tomb; while every footfall whispers 
 along the walls, and chatters among the 
 sepulchres, making us more sensible of the 
 quiet we have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the 
 place presses down upon the soul, and hushes 
 the beholder into noiseless reverence. We 
 feel that we are surrounded by the congre 
 gated bones of the great men of past times, 
 who have filled history with their deeds, 
 and the earth with their renown. 
 
 And yet it almost provokes a smile at the 
 134
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 vanity of human ambition, to see how they 
 are crowded together and jostled in the dust; 
 what parsimony is observed in doling out a 
 scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little por 
 tion of earth, to those whom, when alive, 
 kingdoms could not satisfy; and how many 
 shapes, and forms, and artifices are devised 
 to catch the casual notice of the passen 
 ger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few 
 short years, a name which once aspired to 
 occupy ages of the world s thought and ad 
 miration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poets Corner, which 
 occupies an end of one of the transepts or 
 cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments 
 are generally simple; for the lives of literary 
 men afford no striking themes for the sculp 
 tor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues 
 erected to their memories; but the greater 
 part have busts, medallions, and sometimes 
 mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the 
 simplicity cf these memorials, I have always 
 observed that the visitors to the abbey re 
 mained longest about them. A kinder and 
 fonder feeling takes place of that cold cu 
 riosity or vague admiration with which they 
 gaze on the splendid monuments of the great 
 and the heroic. They linger about these as 
 about the tombs of friends and companions; 
 for indeed there is something of companion 
 ship between the author and the reader. 
 Other men are known to posterity only 
 135
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 through the medium of history, which is 
 continually growing faint and obscure; but 
 the intercourse between the author and his 
 fellowmen is ever new, active and immedi 
 ate. He has lived for them more than for 
 himself; he has sacrificed surrounding en 
 joyments, and shut himself up from the de 
 lights of social life, that he might the more 
 intimately commune with distant minds and 
 distant ages. Well may the world cherish 
 his renown; for it has been purchased, not 
 by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
 diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may 
 posterity be grateful to his memory; for he 
 has left it an inheritance, not of empty 
 names and sounding actions, but whole 
 treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, 
 and golden veins of language. 
 
 From Poets Corner, I continued my stroll 
 toward that part of the abbey which contains 
 the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered 
 among what once were chapels, but which 
 are now occupied by the tombs and monu 
 ments of the great. At every turn I met 
 with some illustrious name or the cogni 
 zance of some powerful house renowned in 
 history. As the eye darts into these dusky 
 chambers of death, it catches glimpses of 
 quaint effigies; some kneeling in niches, as 
 if in devotion; others stretched upon the 
 tombs, with hands piously pressed together: 
 warriors in armor, as if reposing after bat- 
 ICG
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 tie; prelates with croziers and mitres; and 
 nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 
 were in state. In glancing over this scene, 
 so strangely populous, yet where every form 
 is so still and silent, it seems almost as if 
 we were treading a mansion of that fabled 
 city where every being had been suddenly 
 transmuted into stone. 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which 
 lay the effigy of a knight in complete ar 
 mor. A large buckler was on one arm; the 
 hands were pressed together in supplication 
 upon the breast; the face was almost cov 
 ered by the morion; the legs were crossed 
 in token of the warrior s having been en 
 gaged in the hcly war. It was the tomb of 
 a Crusader; of one of those military enthu 
 siasts who so strangely mingled religion and 
 romance, and whose exploits form the con 
 necting link between fact and fiction; be 
 tween the history and the fairy tale. There 
 is something extremely picturesque in the 
 tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they 
 are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic 
 sculpture. They comport with the anti 
 quated chapels in which they are generally 
 found; and in considering them, the imag 
 ination is apt to kindle with the legendary 
 associations, the romantic fiction, the chiv 
 alrous pomp and pageantry which poetry 
 has spread over the wars for the sepulchre 
 of Christ. They are the relics of times 
 187
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 utterly gone by; of beings passed from rec 
 ollection; of customs and manners with 
 which ours have no affinity. They are like 
 objects from some strange and distant land, 
 of which we have no certain knowledge, and 
 about which all our conceptions are vague 
 and visionary. There is something ex 
 tremely solemn and awful in those effigies 
 on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep 
 of death, or in the supplication of the dying 
 hour. They have an effect infinitely more 
 impressive on my feelings than the fanciful 
 attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and al 
 legorical groups, which abound on modern 
 monuments. I have been struck, also, with 
 the superiority of many of the old sepul 
 chral inscriptions. There was a noble way, 
 in former times, of saying things simply, 
 and yet saying them proudly; and I do 
 not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier 
 consciousness of family worth and honor 
 able lineage than one which affirms, of a 
 noble house, that " all the brothers were 
 brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poets Corner 
 stands a monument which is among the 
 most renowned achievements of modern 
 art; but which to me a,ppears horrible rather 
 than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. 
 Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of 
 the monument is represented as throwing 
 open its marble doors, and a sheeted skele- 
 138
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 ton is starting forth. The shroud is falling 
 from his fleshless frame as he launches his 
 dart at his victim. She is sinking into her 
 affrighted husband s arms, who strives, with 
 vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. 
 The whole is executed with terrible truth 
 and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the 
 gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the 
 distended jaws of the spectre. But why 
 should we thus seek to clothe death with un 
 necessary terrors, and to spread horrors 
 round the tomb of those we love? The grave 
 should be surrounded by everything that 
 might inspire tenderness and veneration for 
 the dead; or that might win the living to 
 virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and 
 dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 
 
 While wandering about those gloomy 
 vaults and silent aisles, studying the records 
 of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
 from without occasionally reaches the ear; 
 the rumbling of the passing equipage; the 
 murmur cf the multitude; or perhaps the 
 light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is 
 striking with the deathlike repose around: 
 and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
 thus to hear the surges of active life hurry 
 ing along, and beating against the very walls 
 of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb 
 to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The 
 day was gradually wearing away; the dis- 
 139
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 tant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew 
 less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued 
 bell was summoning to evening prayers; and 
 I saw at a distance the choristers, in their 
 white surplices, crossing the aisle and en 
 tering the choir. I stood before the entrance 
 to Henry the Seventh s chapel. A flight of 
 steps lead up to it, through a deep and 
 gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates 
 of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn 
 heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly re 
 luctant to admit the feet of common mor 
 tals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the 
 pomp of architecture, and the elaborate 
 beauty of sculptured detail. The very 
 walls are wrought into universal ornament, 
 in crusted with tracery, and scooped into 
 niches, crowded with the statues of saints 
 and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning 
 labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of 
 its weight and density, suspended aloft, as 
 if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved 
 with the wonderful minuteness and airy se 
 curity of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty 
 stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly 
 carved of oak, though with the grotesque 
 decorations of Gothic architecture. On the 
 pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the hel 
 mets and crests of the knights, with their 
 scarfs and swords; and above them are sus- 
 140
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 pended their banners, emblazoned with ar 
 morial bearings, and contrasting the splen 
 dor of gold and purple and crimson with 
 the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the 
 midst of this grand mausoleum stands the 
 sepulchre of its founder his effigy, with thai 
 of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 
 and the whole surrounded by a superbly 
 wrought brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnifi 
 cence, this strange mixture of tombs and 
 trophies; these emblems of living and as 
 piring ambition, close beside mementos 
 which show the dust and oblivion in which 
 all must sooner or later terminate. Noth 
 ing impresses the mind with a deeper feel 
 ing of loneliness than to tread the silent 
 and deserted scene of former throng and 
 pageant. On looking round on the vacant 
 stalls of the knights and their esquires, and 
 on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners 
 that were once borne before them, my im 
 agination conjured up the scene when this 
 liall was bright with the valor and beauty of 
 the land; glittering with the splendor of 
 jewelled rank and military array; alive with 
 the tread of many feet and the hum of an 
 admiring multitude. All had passed away; 
 the silence of death had settled again upon 
 the place, interrupted only by the casual 
 chirping of birds, which had found their 
 way into the chapel, and built their nests 
 141
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 among its friezes and pendants sure signs 
 of solitariness and desertion. 
 
 When I read the names inscribed on the 
 banners, they were those of men scattered 
 far and wide about the world; some tossing 
 upon distant seas; some under arms in dis 
 tant lands; some mingling in the busy in 
 trigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking 
 to deserve one more distinction in this man 
 sion of shadowy honors: the melancholy re 
 ward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this 
 chapel present a touching instance of the 
 equality of the grave; which brings down the 
 oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and 
 mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies to 
 gether. In one is the sepulchre of the 
 haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of 
 her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
 Mary. Not an hour in the day but some 
 ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate 
 of the latter, mingled with indignation at 
 her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth s 
 sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of 
 sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 
 where Mary lies buried. The light struggles 
 dimly through windows darkened by dust. 
 The greater part of the place is in deep 
 shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted 
 by time and weather. A marble figure of 
 Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round 
 142
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 which is an iron railing, much corroded, 
 bearing her national emblem the thistle. 
 I was weary with wandering, and sat down 
 to rest myself by the monument, revolving 
 in my mind the checkered and disastrous 
 story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased 
 from the abbey. I could only hear, now and 
 then, the distant voice of the priest re 
 peating the evening service, and the faint 
 responses of the choir these paused for a 
 time, and all were hushed. The stillness, 
 the desertion and obscurity that were grad 
 ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and 
 more solemn interest to the place. 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 No careful father s counsel nothing is heard, 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 Dust, and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring 
 organ burst upon the ear, falling with dou 
 bled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, 
 as it were, huge billows of sound. How 
 well do their volume and grandeur accord 
 with this mighty building! With what 
 pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, 
 and breathe their awful harmony through 
 these caves of death, and make the silent 
 sepulchre vocal! And now they rise in tri- 
 143
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 umph and acclamation, heaving higher and 
 higher their accordant notes, and piling 
 sound on sound. And now they pause, and 
 the soft voices of the choir break out into 
 sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and 
 warble along the roof, and seem to play 
 about these lofty vaults like the pure airs 
 of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves 
 its thrilling thunders, compressing air into 
 music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. 
 What long-drawn cadences! What solemn 
 sweeping concords! It grows more and 
 more dense and powerful it fills the vast 
 pile, and seems to jar the very walls the 
 ear is stunned the senses are overwhelmed. 
 And now it is winding up in full jubilee 
 it is rising from the earth to heaven the 
 very soul seems rapt away and floated up 
 ward on this swelling tide of harmony! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of 
 reverie which a strain of music is apt some 
 times to inspire: the shadows of evening 
 were gradually thickening round me; the 
 monuments began to cast deeper and deeper 
 gloom; and the distant clock again gave 
 token of the slowly waning day. 
 
 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As 
 I descended the flight of steps which lead 
 into the body of the building, my eye was 
 caught by the shrine of Edward the Con 
 fessor, and I ascended the small staircase 
 that conducts to it, to take from thence a 
 144
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 general survey of this wilderness of tombs. 
 The shrine is elevated upon a kind of plat 
 form, and close around it are the sepul 
 chres of various kings and queens. From 
 this eminence the eye looks down between 
 pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels 
 and chambers below, crowded with tombs 
 where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and 
 statesmen lie mouldering in their " beds of 
 darkness." Close by me stood the great 
 chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 
 in the barbarous taste of a remote and 
 Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if 
 contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce 
 an effect upon the beholder. Here was a 
 type of the beginning and the end of hu 
 man pomp and power; here it was literally 
 but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. 
 Would not one think that these incongruous 
 mementos had been gathered together as a 
 lesson to living greatness? to show it, even, 
 in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the 
 neglect and dishonor to which it must soon. 
 arrive; how soon that crown which en 
 circles its brow must pass away, and it must 
 lie down in the dust and disgraces of the 
 tomb and be trampled upon by the feet 
 of the meanest of the multitude. For, 
 strange to tell, even the grave is here no 
 longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking- 
 levity in some natures, which leads them 
 to sport with awful and hallowed things; 
 145
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 and there are base minds, which delight 
 to revenge on the illustrious dead the ab 
 ject homage and grovelling servility which 
 they pay to the living. The coffin of Ed 
 ward the Confessor has been broken open, 
 and his remains despoiled of their funereal 
 ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from 
 the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the 
 effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a 
 royal monument but bears some proof how 
 false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. 
 Some are plundered; some mutilated; some 
 covered with ribaldry and insult all more 
 or less outraged and dishonored! 
 
 The last beams of day were now faintly 
 streaming through the painted windows in 
 high vaults above me; the lower parts of the 
 abbey were already wrapped in the obscu 
 rity of twilight. The chapels and aisles 
 grew darker and darker. The effigies of the 
 kings faded into shadows; the marble fig 
 ures of the monuments assumed strange 
 shapes in the uncertain light; the evening 
 breeze crept through the aisles like the 
 cold breath of the grave; and even the dis 
 tant footfall of a verger, traversing the 
 Poets Corner, had something strange and 
 dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my 
 morning s walk, and as I passed out at the 
 portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with 
 a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole 
 building with echoes. 
 
 146
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 
 I endeavored to form some arrangement in 
 my mind of the objects I had been contem 
 plating, but found they were already fallen 
 into indistinctness and confusion. Names, 
 inscriptions, trophies, had all become con 
 founded in my recollection, though I had 
 scarcely taken my foot from off the thresh 
 old. What, thought I, is this vast assem 
 blage of sepulchres but a treasury of humil 
 iation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies 
 on the emptiness of renown, and the cer 
 tainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire 
 of death his great shadowy palace, where 
 he sits in state, mocking at the relics of 
 human glory, and spreading dust and for- 
 getfulness on the monuments of princes. 
 How idle a boast, after all, is the immor 
 tality of a name! Time is ever silently turn 
 ing over his pages; we are too much en 
 grossed by the story of the present, to think 
 of the characters and anecdotes that gave 
 interest to the past; and each age is a 
 volume thrown aside to be speedily forgot 
 ten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of 
 yesterday out of our recollection; and will, 
 in turn, be supplanted by his successor of 
 to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
 Browne, " find their graves in our short 
 memories, and sadly tell us how we may 
 be buried in our survivors." History fades 
 into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt 
 and controversy; the inscription moulders 
 147
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 from the tablet; the statue falls from the 
 pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what 
 are they but heaps of sand; and their epi 
 taphs, but characters written in the dust? 
 What is the security of a tomb, or the per 
 petuity of an embalmment? The remains of 
 Alexander the Great have been scattered to 
 the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now 
 the mere curiosity of a museum. " The 
 Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time 
 hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Miz- 
 raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for 
 balsams." * 
 
 What, then, is to insure this pile which 
 now towers above me from sharing the fate 
 of mightier mausoleums? The time must 
 come when its gilded vaults, which now 
 spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish be 
 neath the feet; when, instead of the sound 
 of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 
 through the broken arches, and the owl hoot 
 from the shattered tower, when the gairish 
 sunbeam shall break into these gloomy man 
 sions of death, and the ivy twine round the 
 fallen column; and the foxglove hang its 
 blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in 
 mockery of the dead. Thus man passes 
 away; his name perishes from record and 
 recollection; his history is as a tale that is 
 told, and his very monument becomes a 
 ruin. 
 
 * Sir T. Browne. 
 148
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 149
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
 
 Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; 
 
 The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
 
 For hallow d the turf is which pillow d his head. 
 
 GAKKICK. 
 
 To a homeless man, who has no spot on 
 this wide world which he can truly call his 
 own, there is a momentary feeling of some 
 thing like independence and territorial con 
 sequence, when, after a weary day s travel, 
 he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into 
 slippers, and stretches himself before an inn 
 fire. Let the world without go as it may; 
 let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has 
 the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for 
 the time being, the very monarch of all he 
 surveys. The armchair is his throne, the 
 poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some 
 twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. 
 It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from 
 the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is 
 a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
 cloudy day; and he who has advanced some 
 151
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 way on a pilgrimage of existence, knows the 
 importance of husbanding even morsels 
 and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not 
 take mine ease in mine inn? " thought I, as 
 I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow 
 chair, and cast a complacent look about the 
 little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford- 
 on-Avon. 
 
 The words of sweet Shakspeare were just 
 passing through my mind as the clock struck 
 midnight from the tower of the church in 
 which he lies buried. There was a gentle 
 tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, 
 putting in her smiling face, inquired, with 
 a hesitating air, whether I had rung. 1 
 understood it as a modest hint that it was 
 time to retire. My dream of absolute do 
 minion was at an end; so abdicating my 
 throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid 
 being deposed, and putting the Stratford 
 Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow com 
 panion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night 
 cf Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David Gar- 
 rick. 
 
 The next morning was one of those quick 
 ening mornings which we sometimes have 
 in early spring; for it was about the middle 
 of March. The chills of a long winter had 
 suddenly given way; the north wind had 
 spent its last gasp; and a mild air came 
 stealing from the west, breathin - the breath 
 of life into nature, and wooing every bud 
 152
 
 Stratfbrd-on-Avon 
 
 and flower to burst forth into fragrance and 
 beauty. 
 
 I had come to Stratford on a poetical pil 
 grimage. My first visit was to the house 
 where Shakspeare was born, and where, 
 according to tradition, he was brought up to 
 his father s craft of wool-combing. It is a 
 small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plas 
 ter, a true nestling-place of genius, which 
 seems to delight in hatching its offspring in 
 by-corners. The walls of its squalid cham 
 bers are covered with names and inscrip 
 tions in every language, by pilgrims of all 
 nations, ranks, and conditions, from the 
 prince to the peasant; and present a simple, 
 but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
 universal homage of mankind to the great 
 poet of nature. 
 
 The house is shown by a garrulous old 
 lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a 
 cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 
 artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from 
 under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was pe 
 culiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
 with which this, like all other celebrated 
 shrines, abounds. There was the shattered 
 stock of the very matchlock with which 
 Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poach 
 ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco 
 box; which proves that he was a rival 
 smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword 
 also with which he played Hamlet; and the 
 153
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 identical lantern with which Friar Lau 
 rence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the 
 tomb! There was an ample supply also of 
 Shakspeare s mulberry-tree, which seems 
 to have as extraordinary powers of self- 
 multiplication as the wood of the true cross; 
 of which there is enough extant to build a 
 ship of the line. 
 
 The most favorite object of curiosity, 
 however, is Shakspeare s chair. It stands 
 in the chimney nook of a small gloomy 
 chamber, just behind what was his father s 
 shop. Here he may many a time have sat 
 when a boy, watching the slowly revolving 
 spit with all the longing of an urchin; or 
 of an evening, listening to the cronies and 
 gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church 
 yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the 
 troublesome times in England. In this 
 chair it is the custom of every one that visits 
 the house to sit: whether this be done with 
 the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration 
 of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely 
 mention the fact; and mine hostess privately 
 assured me, that, though built on solid oak, 
 such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that 
 the chair had to be new bottomed at least 
 once in three years. It is worthy of notice 
 also, in the history of this extraordinary 
 chair, that it partakes something of the vola 
 tile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, 
 or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; 
 154
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 for though sold some few years since to a 
 northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has 
 found its way back again to the old chim 
 ney corner. 
 
 I am always of easy faith in such matters, 
 and am ever willing to be deceived, where 
 the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I 
 am therefore a ready believer in relics, le 
 gends, and local anecdotes of goblins and 
 great men; and would advise all travellers 
 who travel for their gratification to be the 
 same. What is it to us, whether these 
 stories be true or false, so long as we can 
 persuade ourselves into the belief of them, 
 and enjoy all the charm of the reality? 
 There is nothing like resolute good-humored 
 credulity in these matters; and on this occa 
 sion I went even so far as willingly to be 
 lieve the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
 descent from the poet, when, luckily for my 
 faith, she put into my hands a play of her 
 own composition, which set all belief in her 
 consanguinity at defiance. 
 
 From the birthplace of Shakspeare a few 
 paces brought me to his grave. He lies 
 buried in the chancel of the parish church, 
 a large and venerable pile, mouldering with 
 age, but richly ornamented. It stands on 
 the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
 point, and separated by adjoining gardens 
 from the suburbs of the town. Its situation 
 is quiet and retired; the river runs murmur-
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ing at the foot of the churchyard, and the 
 elms which grow upon its banks droop 
 their branches into its clear bosom. An 
 avenue of limes, the boughs of which are 
 curiously interlaced, so as to form in sum 
 mer an arched way of foliage, leads up from 
 the gate of the yard to the church porch. 
 The graves are overgrown with grass; the 
 gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk 
 into the earth, are half covered with moss, 
 which has likewise tinted the reverend old 
 building. Small birds have built their nests 
 among the cornices and fissures of the walls, 
 and keep up a continual flutter and chirp 
 ing; and rooks are sailing and cawing about 
 its lofty gray spire. 
 
 In the course of my rambles I met with 
 the gray-headed sexton, Edmonds, and ac 
 companied him home to get the key of the 
 church. He had lived in Stratford, man and 
 boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to 
 consider himself a vigorous man, with the 
 trivial exception that he had nearly lost the 
 use of his legs for a few years past. His 
 dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the 
 Avon and its bordering meadows, and was a 
 picture of that neatness, order, and comfort 
 which pervade the humblest dwellings in 
 this country. A low, white-washed room, 
 with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served 
 for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of 
 pewter and earthen dishes glittered along 
 156
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
 rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible 
 and prayer-book, and the drawer contained 
 the family* library, composed of about half 
 a score of well-thumbed volumes. An an 
 cient clock, that important article of cottage 
 furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the 
 room; with a bright warming pan hanging 
 on one side of it, and the old man s horn- 
 handled Sunday cane on the other. The 
 fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough 
 to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In 
 one corner sat the old man s granddaugh 
 ter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl -and in 
 the opposite corner was a superannuated 
 crony, whom he addressed by the name of 
 John Ange, and who, I found, had been his 
 companion since childhood. They had played 
 together in infancy; they had worked to 
 gether in manhood; they were now totter 
 ing about and gossiping away the evening 
 of life; and in a short time they will proba 
 bly be buried together in the neighboring 
 churchyard. It is not often that we see two 
 streams of existence running thus evenly 
 and tranquilly side by side; it is only in 
 such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they 
 are to be met with. 
 
 I had hoped to gather some traditionary 
 
 anecdotes of the bard from these ancient 
 
 chroniclers; but they had nothing new to 
 
 impart. The long interval during which 
 
 157
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Shakspeare s writings lay in comparative 
 neglect has spread its shadow over his his 
 tory ; and it is his good or evil lot that 
 scarcely anything remains to his biographers 
 but a scanty handful of conjectures. 
 
 The sexton and his companion had been 
 employed as carpenters on the preparations 
 for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and 
 they remembered Garrick, the prime mover 
 of the fete, who superintended the arrange 
 ments, and who, according to the sexton, 
 was " a short punch man, very lively and 
 bustling." John Ange had assisted also in 
 cutting down Shakspeare s mulberry-tree, of 
 which he had a morsel in his pocket for 
 sale; no doubt a sovereign quickener of lit 
 erary conception. 
 
 I was grieved to hear these two worthy 
 wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent 
 dame who shows the Shakspeare house. 
 John Ange shook his head when I mentioned 
 her valuable collection of relics, particularly 
 her remains of the mulberry-tree; and the 
 old sexton even expresed a doubt as to 
 Shakspeare having been born in her house. 
 I soon discovered that he looked upon her 
 mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the 
 poet s tomb; the latter having comparative 
 ly but few visitors. Thus it is that historians 
 differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles 
 make the stream of truth diverge into differ 
 ent chanels even at the fountainhead. 
 158
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 We approached the church through the 
 avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic 
 porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors 
 of massive oak. The interior is spacious, 
 and the architecture and embellishments 
 superior to those of most country churches. 
 There are several ancient monuments of 
 nobility and gentry, over some of which 
 hang funeral escutcheons, and banners drop 
 ping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb 
 of Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place 
 is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave be 
 fore the pointed windows, and the Avon, 
 which runs at a short distance from the 
 walls, keeps up a low, perpetual murmur. A 
 flat stone marks the spot where the bard is 
 buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, 
 said to have been written by himself, and 
 which have in them something extremely 
 awful. If they are indeed his own, they 
 show that solicitude about the quiet of 
 the grave which seems natural to fine sen 
 sibilities and thoughtful minds. 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeare 
 To dig the dust inclosed here. 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves my bones. 
 
 Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, 
 is a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after 
 his death, and considered as a resemblance. 
 159
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a 
 finely arched forehead, and I thought I 
 could read in it clear indications of that 
 cheerful, social disposition, by which he was 
 as much characterized among his contem 
 poraries as by the vastness of his genius. 
 The inscription mentions his age at the time 
 of his decease fifty-three years ; an un 
 timely death for the world : for what fruit 
 might not have been expected from the 
 golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as 
 it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, 
 and flourishing in the sunshine of popular 
 and royal favor. 
 
 The inscription on the tombstone has not 
 been without its effect. It has prevented the 
 removal of his remains from the bosom of 
 his native place to Westminster Abbey, 
 which was at one time contemplated. A few 
 years since also, as some laborers were dig 
 ging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
 caved in, so as to leave a vacant space al 
 most like an arch, through which one might 
 have reached into his grave. No one, how 
 ever, presumed to meddle with his remains 
 so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and 
 lest any of the idle or the curious, or any 
 collector of relics, should be tempted to com 
 mit depredations, the old sexton kept watch 
 over the place for two days, until the vault 
 was finished and the aperture closed again. 
 He told me that he had made bold to look 
 160
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 in at the hole, but could see neither coffin 
 nor bones; nothing but dust. It was some 
 thing, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Next to this grave are those of his wife, 
 his favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others 
 of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is 
 a full-length effigy of his old friend John 
 Combe of usurious memory; on whom he is 
 said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
 There are other monuments around, but the 
 mind refuses to dwell on anything that is 
 not connected with Shakspeare. His idea 
 pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but 
 as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
 checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge 
 in perfect confidence : other traces of him 
 may be false or dubious, but here is palpable 
 evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod 
 the sounding pavement, there was something 
 intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in 
 very truth, the remains of Shakspeare were 
 mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long 
 time before I could prevail upon myself to 
 leave the place ; and as I passed through the 
 churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of 
 the yew-trees, the only relic that I have 
 brought from Stratford. 
 
 I had now visited the usual objects of a 
 
 pilgrim s devotion, but I had a desire to see 
 
 the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charle- 
 
 cot, and to ramble through the park where 
 
 161
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Shakspeare, in company with, some of the 
 roysterers of Stratford, committed his youth 
 ful offense of deer-stealing. In this hare 
 brained exploit we are told that he was taken 
 prisoner, and carried to the keeper s lodge, 
 where he remained all night in doleful cap 
 tivity. When brought into the presence of 
 Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have 
 been galling and humiliating; for it so 
 wrought upon his spirit as to produce a 
 rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the 
 park gate at Charlecot.* 
 
 This flagitious attack upon the dignity of 
 the knight so incensed him, that he applied 
 to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity 
 of the laws in force against the rhyming 
 deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to 
 brave the united puissance of a knight of the 
 shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
 abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon 
 and his paternal trade ; wandered away to 
 London ; became a hanger-on to the the 
 atres; then an actor, and, finally, wrote for 
 the stage; and thus, through the persecu- 
 
 * The following is the only stanza extant of this lam 
 poon : 
 
 A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
 If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie. whatever befall it. 
 
 He thinks himself great ; 
 
 Yet an asse in his state, 
 We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
 If Lucy is lowgie, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 162
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 tion of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an 
 indifferent wool-comber, and the world 
 gained an immortal poet. He retained, how 
 ever, for a long time, a sense of the harsh 
 treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and re 
 venged himself in his writings ; but in the 
 sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir 
 Thomas is said to be the original Justice 
 Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon 
 him by the justice s armorial bearings, 
 which, like those of the knight, had white 
 luces* in the quarterings. 
 
 Various attempts have been made by his 
 biographers to soften and explain away this 
 early transgression of the poet ; but I look 
 upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits 
 natural to his situation and turn of mind. 
 Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all 
 the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, 
 undisciplined, and undirected genius. The 
 poetic temperament has naturally something 
 in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it 
 runs loosely and wildly, and delights in 
 everything eccentric and licentious. It is 
 often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling 
 freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall 
 turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and 
 had not Shakspeare s mind fortunately taken 
 a literary bias, he might have as daringly 
 transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic 
 laws. 
 
 "The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
 Charlecot. 
 
 163
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 I have little doubt that, in early life, when 
 running, like an unbroken colt, about the 
 neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be 
 found in the company of all kinds of odd 
 anomalous characters, that he associated 
 with all the madcaps of the place, and was 
 one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of 
 whom old men shake their heads, and pre 
 dict that they will one day come to the gal 
 lows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas 
 Lucy s park was doubtless like a foray to a 
 Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and 
 as yet untamed, imagination, as something 
 delightfully adventurous.* 
 
 * A proof of Shakspeare s random habits and associates in 
 his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, 
 picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned 
 in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 
 
 About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
 market-town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies 
 of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation 
 of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good 
 ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. 
 Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to 
 prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the 
 champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that 
 " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale 
 as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of SJratford was stag 
 gered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had 
 yet legs to carry them off the field . They had scarcely 
 marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were 
 forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the 
 night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shak 
 speare s tree. 
 
 In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and pro- 
 
 164
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 The old mansion of Charlecot and its sur 
 rounding park still remain in the possession 
 of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly in 
 teresting, from being connected with this 
 whimsical but eventful circumstance in the 
 scanty history of the bard. As the house 
 stood but little more than three miles dis 
 tance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a 
 pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely 
 through some of those scenes from which 
 Shakspeare must have derived his earliest 
 ideas of rural imagery. 
 
 The country was yet naked and leafless ; 
 but English scenery is always verdant, and 
 the sudden change in the temperature of the 
 weather was surprising in its quickening ef 
 fects upon the landscape. It was inspiring 
 and animating to witness this first awaken 
 ing of spring; to feel its warm breath steal 
 ing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow 
 earth beginning to put forth the green 
 sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees 
 and shrubs, in their reviving tints and burst- 
 posed returning to Bedford, but lie declined, saying he had 
 had enough, having drank with 
 
 Piping Pelnvorth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted Ililbro 1 , Hungry Graf ton, 
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wlcksford, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 
 
 "The villages hero alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear 
 the epithets thus given them : the people of Pebworth are 
 still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough 
 Is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is famous 
 for the poverty of its soil." 
 
 165
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ing buds, giving the promise of returning 
 foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that 
 little borderer on the skirts of winter, was 
 to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in 
 the small gardens before the cottages. The 
 bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly 
 heard from the fields. The sparrow twit 
 tered about the thatched eaves and budding 
 hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into 
 his late querulous wintry strain ; and the 
 lark, springing up from the reeking bosom 
 of the meadow, towered away into the bright 
 fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of mel 
 ody. As I watched the little songster, 
 mounting up higher and higher, until his 
 body was a mere speck on the white bosom 
 of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
 with his music, it called to mind Shak- 
 ppeare s exquisite little song in Cymbeline: 
 
 Hark! hark! the lark at heaven s gate sings, 
 
 And Phcebus gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies; 
 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes; 
 "With everything that pretty bin, 
 
 My lady sweet, arise! 
 
 Indeed the whole country about here is 
 poetic ground : everything is associated with 
 166
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cottage 
 that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his 
 boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate 
 knowledge of rustic life and manners, and 
 heard those legendary tales and wild su 
 perstitions which he has woven like witch 
 craft into his dramas. For in his time, we are 
 told, it was a popular amusement in winter 
 evenings " to sit around the fire, and tell 
 merry tales of errant knight, queens, lovers, 
 lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheat 
 ers, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." * 
 
 My route for a part of the way lay in 
 sight of Avon, which made a variety of 
 the most fancy doublings and windings 
 through a wide and fertile valley; some 
 times glittering from among willows which 
 fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing 
 among groves, or beneath green banks; and 
 sometimes rambling out into full view, and 
 making an azure sweep round a slope cf 
 meadow land. This beautiful bosom of coun 
 try is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A 
 
 * Scot, in his "Diseoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a 
 host of these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us 
 with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fai 
 ries, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can stieke, tri- 
 tons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, 
 nyinphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the 
 npoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the 
 lier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tum 
 bler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our 
 o\vn shadowes." 
 
 167
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 distant line of undulating blue hills seems 
 to be its boundary, whilst all the soft in 
 tervening landscape lies in a manner en 
 chained in the silver links of the Avon. 
 
 After pursuing the road for about three 
 miles, I turned off into a footpath, which 
 led along the borders of fields, and under 
 hedgerows to a private gate of the park; 
 there was a stile, however, for the benefit 
 of the pedestrian; there being a public right 
 of way through the grounds. I delight in 
 these hospitable estates, in which every one 
 has a kind of property at least as far as the 
 footpath is concerned. It in some measure 
 reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what 
 is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, 
 thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds 
 thrown open for his recreation. He breathes 
 the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuri 
 ously under the shade, as the lord of the 
 soil; and if he has not the privilege of call 
 ing all that he sees his own, he has not, 
 at the same time, the trouble of paying for 
 it, and keeping it in order. 
 
 I now found myself among noble avenues 
 of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke 
 the growth of centuries. The wind sounded 
 solemnly among their branches, and the 
 rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in 
 the tree-tops. The eye ranged through a 
 long lessening vista, with nothing to inter 
 rupt the view but a distant statue; and a 
 168
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across 
 the opening. 
 
 There is something about these stately old 
 avenues that has the effect of Gothic archi 
 tecture, not merely from the pretended sim 
 ilarity of form, but from their bearing the 
 evidenc of long duration, and of having had 
 their origin in a period of time with which 
 we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. 
 They betoken also the long-settled dignity, 
 and proudly concentrated independence of 
 an ancient family; and I have heard a 
 worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, 
 when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of 
 modern gentry, that " money could do much 
 with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, 
 there was no such thing as suddenly build 
 ing up an avenue of oaks." 
 
 It was from wandering in early life among 
 this rich scenery, and about the romantic 
 solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, 
 which then formed a part of the Lucy es 
 tate, that some of Shakspeare s commen 
 tators have supposed he derived his noble 
 forest meditations of Jaques, and the en 
 chanting woodland pictures in " As You Like 
 It." It is in lonely wanderings through such 
 scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet 
 draughts of inspiration, and becomes in 
 tensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of 
 nature. The imagination kindles into rev- 
 ery and rapture; vague but exquisite im- 
 109
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ages and ideas keep breaking upon it; and 
 we revel in a mute and almost incommuni 
 cable luxury of thought. It was in some 
 such mood, and perhaps under one of those 
 very trees before me, which threw their 
 broad shades over the grassy banks and 
 quivering waters of the Avon, that the 
 poet s fancy may have sallied forth into that 
 little song which breathes the very soul of 
 a rural voluptuary. 
 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry throat 
 Unto the sweet bird s note, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 I had now come in sight of the house. It 
 is a large building of brick, with stone 
 quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen 
 Elizabeth s day, having been built in the 
 first year of her reign. The exterior re 
 mains very nearly in its original state, and 
 may be considered a fair specimen of the 
 residence of a wealthy country gentleman 
 of those days. A great gateway opens from 
 the park into a kind of courtyard in front 
 of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, 
 shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in. 
 170
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 imitation of the ancient barbacan; being a 
 kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; 
 though evidently for mere ornament, instead 
 of defence. The front of the house is com 
 pletely in the old style; with stone-shafted 
 casements, a great bow-window of heavy 
 stone-work, and a portal with armorial bear 
 ings over it, carved in stone. At each cor 
 ner of the building is an octagon tower, sur 
 mounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 
 
 The Avon, which winds through the park, 
 makes a bend just at the foot of a gently 
 sloping bank, which sweeps down from the 
 rear of the house. Large herds of deer were 
 feeding or reposing upon its borders; and 
 swans were sailing majestically upon its 
 bosom. As I contemplated the venerable 
 old mansion, I called to mind Palstaff s en 
 comium on Justice Shallow s abode, and the 
 affected indifference and real vanity of the 
 latter. 
 
 " Falxtaff. You have a goodly dwelling and 
 a rich. 
 
 Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars 
 all, beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air." 
 
 Whatever may have been the joviality of 
 the old mansion in the days of Shakspeare, 
 it had now an air of stillness and solitude. 
 The great iron gateway that opened into 
 the courtyard was locked; there was no 
 show of servants bustling about the place; 
 171
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, 
 being no longer harried by the moss-troopers 
 of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life 
 that I met with was a white cat, stealing 
 with wary look and stealthy pace toward the 
 stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. 
 I must not omit to mention the carcass of 
 a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended 
 against the barn wall, as it shows that the 
 Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of 
 poachers, and maintain that rigorous exer 
 cise of territorial power which was so stren 
 uously manifested in the case of the bard. 
 
 After prowling about for some time, I at 
 length found my way to a lateral portal, 
 which was the every-day entrance to the 
 mansion. I was courteously received by a 
 worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civil 
 ity and communicativeness of her order, 
 showed me the interior of the house. The 
 greater part has undergone alterations, and 
 been adapted to modern tastes and modes of 
 living: there is a fine old oaken staircase; 
 and the great hall, that noble feature in an 
 ancient manor-house, still retains much of 
 the appearance it must have had in the days 
 of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and 
 lofty; and at one end is a gallery in which 
 stands an organ. The weapons and trophies 
 of the chase, which formerly adorned the 
 hall of a country gentleman, have made way 
 for family portraits. There is a wide hos- 
 172
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 pitable fireplace, calculated for an ample, 
 old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rally 
 ing place of winter festivity. On the op 
 posite side of the hall is the huge Gothic 
 bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks 
 out upon the courtyard. Here are emblaz 
 oned in stained glass the armorial bearings 
 of the Lucy family for many generations, 
 some being dated in 1558. I was delighted 
 to observe in the quarterlngs the three 
 white luces, by which the character of Sir 
 Thomas was first identified with that of Jus 
 tice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
 first scene of the " Merry Wives of Wind 
 sor," where the justice is in a rage with 
 Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed 
 his deer, and broken into his lodge." The 
 poet had no doubt the offences of himself 
 and his comrades in mind at the time, and 
 we may suppose the family pride and vin 
 dictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be 
 a caricature of the pompous indignation of 
 Sir Thomas. 
 
 " Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I 
 will make a Star-Chamber matter of it; if 
 he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not 
 abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 
 
 Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice 
 of peace, and oram. 
 
 Shallou 1 . Ay, cousin Slender, and custa- 
 lorum. 
 
 173
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a 
 gentleman born, master parson; who writes 
 himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quit 
 tance, or obligation, Armigero. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done 
 any time these three hundred years. 
 
 Slender. All his successors gone before him 
 have done t, and all his ancestors that come 
 after him may; they may give the dozen 
 white luces in their coat. * * * * 
 
 Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a 
 riot. 
 
 Evans. It is not meet the council hear 
 of a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; 
 the council, hear you, shall desire to hear 
 the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; 
 take your vizaments in that. 
 
 Shallow. Ha! o my life, if I were young 
 again, the sword should end it! " 
 
 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a 
 portrait by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy 
 family, a great beauty of the time of Charles 
 the Second: the old housekeeper shook her 
 head as she pointed to the picture, and in 
 formed me that this lady had been sadly 
 addicted to cards, and had gambled away 
 a great portion of the family estate, among 
 which was that part of the park where 
 Sbakspeare and his comrades had killed 
 the deer. The lands thus lost had not been 
 entirely regained by the family even at the 
 174
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 present day. It is but justice to this recreant 
 dame to confess that she had a surpassingly 
 fine hand and arm. 
 
 The picture which most attracted my at 
 tention was a great painting over the fire 
 place, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
 Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall 
 in the latter part of Shakspeare s lifetime. 
 I at first thought that it was the vindictive 
 knight himself, but the housekeeper assured 
 me that it was his son; the only likeness ex 
 tant of the former being an effigy upon his 
 tomb in the church of the neighboring ham 
 let of Charlecot.* The picture gives a lively 
 
 * This effigy is in white marhle, and represents the Knight 
 in complete armor. ?vear him lies the effigy of his wife, and 
 on her tomb is the following inscription ; which, if really 
 composed by her husband, places him quite above the intel 
 lectual level of Master Shallow : 
 
 Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy 
 of Charlecot in ye county of Warw ick, Knight, Daughter and 
 heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester 
 Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her heav 
 enly kingdom ye 10 day of February iu ye yeare of our Lord 
 God 1595 and of her age GO and three. All the time of her 
 lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never 
 detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in 
 love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship 
 most constant ; to what in trust was committed unto her 
 most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her 
 house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did con 
 verse with her mosto rare and singular. A great maintayner 
 of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked 
 of none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can 
 be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bet 
 tered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most 
 175
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 idea of the costume and manners of the 
 time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and 
 doublet; white shoes with roses in them; 
 and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slen 
 der would say, " a cane-colored beard." His 
 lady is seated on the opposite side of the 
 picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, 
 and the children have a most venerable stiff 
 ness and formality of dress. Hounds and 
 spaniels are mingled in the family group; 
 a hawk is seated on his perch in the fore 
 ground, and one of the children holds a 
 bow; all intimating the knight s skill in 
 hunting, hawking, and archery so indispen 
 sable to an accomplished gentleman in those 
 days.* 
 
 I regretted to find that the ancient fur- 
 virtuously so slice died most Godly. Set downe by him yt 
 best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 
 
 Thomas Lucye. 
 
 * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his 
 time, observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the differ 
 ent families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their ken 
 nels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his 
 discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, 
 and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the 
 sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, 
 in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all 
 sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger, 
 and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His 
 great hall was commonly strewed with marrow bones, and 
 full of hawk? perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a 
 broad hearth paved with brick lay some of the choicest ter 
 riers, hounds, and spaniels." 
 
 1n/ 
 1(3
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 niture of the hall had disappeared; for I 
 had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
 chair of carved oak, in which the country 
 squire of former days was wont to sway the 
 sceptre of empire over his rural domains; 
 and in which it might be presumed the re 
 doubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful 
 state when the recreant Shakspeare was 
 brought before him. As I like to deck out 
 pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased 
 myself with the idea that this very hall had 
 been the scene of the unlucky bard s exam 
 ination on the morning after his captivity in 
 the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural 
 potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of 
 butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, 
 with their badges; while the luckless culprit 
 was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in. 
 the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and 
 whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout 
 of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of 
 curious housemaids peeping from the half- 
 opened doors; while from the gallery the 
 fair daughters of the knight leaned grace 
 fully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner 
 with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." 
 Who would have thought that this poor var- 
 let, thus trembling before the brief author 
 ity of a country squire, and the sport of rus 
 tic boors, was soon to become the delight of 
 princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
 the dictator to the human mind, and was to 
 177
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 confer immortality on his oppressor by a car 
 icature and a lampoon? 
 
 I was now invited by the butler to walk 
 into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit 
 the orchard and arbor where the justice 
 treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence 
 " to a last year s pippin of his own grafting, 
 with a dish of caraways;" but I had already 
 spent so much of the day in my ramblings 
 that I was obliged to give up any further 
 investigations. When about to take my 
 leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties 
 of the housekeeper and butler, that I would 
 take some refreshment; an instance of good 
 old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we 
 castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern 
 days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which 
 the present representative of the Lucys in 
 herits from his ancestors; for Shakspeare, 
 even in his caricature, makes Justice Shal 
 low importunate in this respect, as witness 
 his pressing instances to Falstaff: 
 
 "By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away 
 to-night * * * I w ni not excuse you; you shall 
 not be excused; excuses shall not be ad 
 mitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you 
 shall not be excused * * *. Some pigeons, 
 Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint 
 of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kick 
 shaws, tell William Cook." 
 
 I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old 
 178
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 hall. My mind had become so completely 
 possessed by the imaginary scenes and char 
 acters connected with it, that I seemed to be 
 actually living among them. Everything 
 brought them as it were before my eyes; and 
 as the door of the dining-room opened, I 
 almost expected to hear the feeble voice of 
 Master Silence quavering forth his favorite 
 ditty: 
 
 " T is merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
 And welcome merry shrove-tide! " 
 
 On returning to my inn, I could not but 
 reflect on the singular gift of the poet; to be 
 able thus to spread the magic of his mind 
 over the very face of nature; to give to 
 things and places a charm and character not 
 their own, and to turn this " working-day 
 world " into a perfect fairyland. He is in 
 deed the true enchanter, whose spell op 
 erates, not upon the senses, but upon the 
 imagination and the heart. Under the wiz 
 ard influence of Shakspeare I had been walk 
 ing all day in a complete delusion. I had 
 surveyed the landscape through the prism 
 of poetry, which tinged every object with 
 the hues of the rainbow. I had been sur 
 rounded with fancied beings; with mere 
 airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; 
 yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
 reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize 
 17ft
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosa 
 lind and her companion adventuring through 
 the woodlands; and, above all, had been 
 once more present in spirit with fat Jack 
 Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the 
 august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle 
 Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. 
 Ten thousand honors and blessings on the 
 bard who has thus gilded the dull realities 
 of life with innocent illusions; who has 
 spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in 
 my checkered path; and beguiled my spirit 
 in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial 
 and cheerful sympathies of social life! 
 
 As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on 
 my return, I paused to contemplate the dis 
 tant church in which the poet lies buried, 
 and could not but exult in the malediction 
 which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its 
 quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor 
 could his name have derived from being 
 mingled in dusty companionship with the 
 epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulo- 
 giums of a titled multitude? What would a 
 crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have 
 been, compared with this reverend pile, 
 which seems to stand in beautiful loneli 
 ness as his sole mausoleum? The solicitude 
 about the grave may be but the offspring 
 of an over-wrought sensibility; but human 
 nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; 
 and its best and tenderest affections are min- 
 180
 
 Stratford-on-Avon 
 
 gled with these factitious feelings. He who 
 has sought renown about the world, and has 
 reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will 
 find, after all, that there is no love, no ad 
 miration, no applause so sweet to the soul 
 as that which springs up in his native 
 place. It is there that he seeks to be gath 
 ered in peace and honor among his kindred 
 and his early friends. And when the weary 
 heart and failing head begin to warn him 
 that the evening of life is drawing on, he 
 turns as fondly as does the infant to the 
 mother s arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom 
 of the scene of his childhood. 
 
 How would it have cheered the spirit of 
 the youthful bard when, wandering forth in 
 disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast 
 back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
 could he have foreseen that, before many 
 years, he should return to it covered with 
 renown; that his name should become the 
 boast and glory of his native place; that 
 his ashes should be religiously guarded as 
 its most precious treasure; and that its 
 lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed 
 in tearful contemplation, should one day be 
 come the beacon towering amidst the gentle 
 landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of 
 every nation to his tomb! 
 
 181
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 A STAGE-COACH ROMANCE 
 
 183
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 A STAGE-COACH ROMANCE 
 
 I ll cross it though it blast me ! 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 IT was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy 
 month of November. I had been detained, in 
 the course of a journey, by a slight indis 
 position, from which I was recovering; but 
 was still feverish, and obliged to keep within 
 doors all day, in an inn of the small town 
 of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn! 
 whoever has had the luck to experience 
 one can alone judge of my situation. The 
 rain pattered against the casements; the 
 bells tolled for church with a melancholy 
 sound. I went to the windows in quest of 
 something to amuse the eye; but it seemed 
 as if I had been placed completely out of the 
 reach of all amusement. The windows of 
 my bedroom looked out among tiled roofs 
 and stacks of chimneys, while those of my 
 sitting-room commanded a full view of the 
 stable-yard. I know of nothing more cal 
 culated to make a man sick of this world 
 185
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The 
 place was littered with wet straw that had 
 been kicked about by travellers and stable- 
 boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool 
 of water, surrounding an island of muck; 
 there were several half-drowned fowls 
 crowded together under a cart, among which 
 was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched 
 out of all life and spirit, his drooping tail 
 matted, as it were, into a single feather, 
 along which the water trickled from his 
 back; near the cart was a half-dozing cow, 
 chewing the cud, and standing patiently to 
 be rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising 
 from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, 
 tired of the loneliness of the stable, was 
 poking his spectral head out of a window, 
 with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; 
 an unhappy cur, chained to a doghouse 
 hard by, uttered something, every now and 
 then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab 
 of a kitchen-wench tramped backward and 
 forward through the yard in pattens, looking 
 as sulky as the weather itself; everything, 
 in short, was comfortless and forlorn, ex 
 cepting a crew of hardened ducks, assembled 
 like boon companions round a puddle, and 
 making a riotous noise over their liquor. 
 
 I was lonely and listless, and wanted 
 amusement. My room soon become insup 
 portable. I abandoned it, and sought what 
 is technically called the travellers room. 
 186
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 This is a public room set apart at most 
 inns for the accommodation of a class of 
 wayfarers called travellers, or riders; a kind 
 of commercial knights-errant, who are in 
 cessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on 
 horseback, or by coach. They are the only 
 successors that I know of at the present day 
 to the knights-errant of yore. They lead 
 the same kind of roving, adventurous life, 
 only changing the lance for a driving-whip, 
 the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat 
 of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead 
 of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, 
 they rove about, spreading the fame and 
 standing of some substantial tradesman, or 
 manufacturer, and are ready at any time to 
 bargain in his name; it being the fashion 
 nowadays to trade, instead of fight, with one 
 another. As the room of the hostel, in the 
 good old fighting-times, would be hung 
 round at night with the armor of wayworn 
 warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, 
 and yawning helmets, so the travellers 
 room is garnished with the harnessing of 
 their successors, with box-coats, whips of 
 all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth cov 
 ered hats. 
 
 I was in hopes of finding some of these 
 worthies to talk with, but was disappointed. 
 There were, indeed, two or three in the 
 room; but I could make nothing of them. 
 One was just finishing his breakfast, quar- 
 187
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 railing with his bread and butter, and huf 
 fing the waiter; another buttoned on a pair 
 of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots 
 for not having cleaned his shoes well; a 
 third sat drumming on the table with his 
 fingers and looking at the rain as it streamed 
 down the window-glass; they all appeared 
 infected by the weather, and disappeared, one 
 after the other, without exchanging a word. 
 
 I sauntered to the window, and stood 
 gazing at the people, picking their way to 
 church, with petticoats hoisted midleg high, 
 and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to 
 toll, and the streets became silent. I then 
 amused myself with watching the daughters 
 of a tradesman opposite; who, being con 
 fined to the house for fear of wetting their 
 Sunday finery, played off their charms at the 
 front windows, to fascinate the chance ten 
 ants of the inn. They at length were sum 
 moned away by a vigilant, vinegar-faced 
 mother, and I had nothing further from 
 without to amuse me. 
 
 What was I to do to pass away the long- 
 lived day? I was sadly nervous and lonely; 
 and everything about an inn seems calcu 
 lated to make a dull day ten times duller. 
 Old newspapers, smelling of beer and to 
 bacco-smoke, and which I had already read 
 half a dozen times. Good-for-nothing books, 
 that were worse than rainy weather. I bored 
 myself to death with an old volume of the 
 188
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 Lady s Magazine. I read all the common 
 place names of ambitious travellers scrawled 
 on the panes of glass; the eternal families 
 of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the 
 Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the 
 other sons; and I deciphered several scraps 
 of fatiguing inn-window poetry which I have 
 met with in all parts of the world. 
 
 The day continued lowering and gloomy; 
 the slovenly, ragged, spongy cloud drifted 
 heavily along; there was no variety even in 
 the rain: it was one dull, continued, monot 
 onous patter patter patter, excepting that 
 now and then I was enlivened by the idea of 
 a brisk shower, from the rattling of the 
 drops upon a passing umbrella. 
 
 It was quite refreshing (if I may be al 
 lowed a hackneyed phrase of the day) when, 
 in the course of the morning, a horn blew, 
 and a stage-coach whirled through the 
 street, with outside passengers stuck all 
 over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, 
 and seethed together, and reeking with the 
 steams of wet box-coats and upper Benja 
 mins. 
 
 The sound brought out from their lurk 
 ing-places a crew of vagabond boys, and 
 vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hos 
 tler, and that nondescript animal ycleped 
 Boots, and all the other vagabond race that 
 infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle 
 was transient; the coach again whirled on 
 189
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 its way; and boy and dog, and hostler and 
 Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; 
 the street again became silent, and the rain 
 continued to rain on. In fact, there was no 
 hope of its clearing up; the barometer 
 pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess s 
 tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her 
 face, and rubbing her paws over her ears; 
 and, on referring to the Almanac, I found a 
 Direful prediction stretching from the top 
 of the page to the bottom through the 
 whole month, "expect much rain about 
 this time! " 
 
 I was dreadfully hipped. The hours 
 seemed as if they would never creep by. 
 The very ticking of the clock became irk 
 some. At length the stillness of the house 
 was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. 
 Shortly after I heard the voice of a waiter 
 at the bar : " The stout gentleman in No. 
 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and 
 butter, with ham and eggs; the eggs not to 
 be too much done." 
 
 In such a situation as mine, every incident 
 is of importance. Here was a subject of 
 speculation presented to my mind, and am 
 ple exercise for my imagination. I am prone 
 to paint pictures to myself, and on this oc 
 casion I had some materials to work upon. 
 Had the guest upstairs been mentioned as 
 Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or 
 Mr. Johnson, or merely as " the gentleman 
 190
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 in No. 13," it would have been a perfect 
 blank to me. I should have thought nothing 
 of it; but " The stout gentleman! " the very 
 name had something in it of the picturesque. 
 It at once gave the size; it embodied the 
 personage to my mind s eye, and my fancy 
 did the rest. 
 
 He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; 
 in all probability, therefore, he was ad 
 vanced in life, some people expanding as 
 they grow old. By his breakfasting rather 
 late, and in his own room, he must be a man 
 accustomed to live at his ease, and above 
 the necessity of early rising; no doubt, a 
 round, rosy, lusty old gentleman. 
 
 There was another violent ringing. The 
 stout gentleman was impatient for his 
 breakfast. He was evidently a man of im 
 portance; " well to do in the world; " accus 
 tomed to be promptly waited upon; of a 
 keen appetite, and a little cross when hun 
 gry; " perhaps," thought I, " he may be 
 some London Alderman; or who knows but 
 he may be a Member of Parliament? " 
 
 The breakfast was sent up, and there was 
 a short interval of silence; he was, doubt- 
 Jess, making the tea. Presently there was a 
 violent ringing; and before it could be an 
 swered, another ringing still more violent. 
 " Bless me! what a choleric old gentleman! " 
 The waiter came down in a huff. The butter 
 was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the 
 191
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 ham was too salt; the stout gentleman was 
 evidently nice in his eating; one of those 
 who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on 
 the trot, and live in a state militant with 
 the household. 
 
 The hostess got into a fume. I should ob 
 serve that she was a brisk, coquettish 
 woman; a little of a shrew, and something 
 of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal; 
 with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews 
 are apt to have. She rated the servants 
 roundly for their negligence in sending up so 
 bad a breakfast, but said not a word against 
 the stout gentleman; by which I clearly per 
 ceived that he must be a man of conse 
 quence, entitled to make a noise and to give 
 trouble at a country inn. Other eggs, and 
 ham, and bread and butter were sent up. 
 They appeared to be more graciously re 
 ceived; at least there was no further com 
 plaint. 
 
 I had not made many turns about the 
 travellers room, when there was another 
 ringing. Shortly afterward there was a stir 
 and an inquest about the house. The stout 
 gentleman wanted the Times or the Chron 
 icle newspaper. I set him down, therefore, 
 for a Whig; or, rather, from his being so 
 absolute and lordly where he had a chance, 
 I suspected him of being a Radical. Hunt, I 
 had heard, was a large man; " who knows," 
 thought I, " but it is Hunt himself! " 
 192
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 My curiosity began to be awakened. I in 
 quired of the waiter who was this stout gen 
 tleman that was making all this stir; but 
 1 could get no information: nobody seemed 
 to know his name. The landlords of bustling 
 inns seldom trouble their heads about the 
 names or occupations of their transient 
 guests. The color of a coat, the shape or 
 size of the person, is enough to suggest a 
 travelling name. It is either the tall gentle 
 man, or the short gentleman, or the gentle 
 man in black, or the gentleman in snuff- 
 color; or, as in the present instance, the 
 stout gentleman. A designation of the kind 
 once hit on, answers every purpose, and 
 saves all further inquiry. 
 
 Rain rain rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! 
 No such thing as putting a foot out of doors, 
 and no occupation nor amusement within. 
 By and by I heard some one walking over 
 head. It was in the stout gentleman s room. 
 He evidently was a large man by the heavi 
 ness of his tread; and an old man from his 
 wearing such creaking soles. " He is doubt 
 less," thought I, " some rich old square-toes 
 of regular habits, and is now taking exercise 
 after breakfast." 
 
 I now read all the advertisements of 
 coaches and hotels that were stuck about the 
 mantelpiece. The Lady s Magazine had be 
 come an abomination to me; it was as te 
 dious as the day itself. I wandered out, not 
 193
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 knowing what to do, and ascended again 
 to my room. I had not been there long, 
 when there was a squall from a neighbor 
 ing bedroom. A door opened and slammed 
 violently; a chambermaid, that I had re 
 marked for having a ruddy, good-humored 
 face, went downstairs in a violent flurry. 
 The stout gentleman had been rude to her! 
 
 This sent a whole host of my deductions to 
 the deuce in a moment. This unknown per 
 sonage could not be an old gentleman; for 
 old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstrep 
 erous to chambermaids. He could not be 
 a young gentleman; for young gentlemen are 
 not apt to inspire such indignation. He 
 must be a middle-aged man, and confounded 
 ugly into the bargain, or the girl would not 
 have taken the matter in such terrible dud 
 geon. I confess I was sorely puzzled. 
 
 In a few minutes I heard the voice of my 
 landlady. I caught a glance of her as she 
 came tramping up-stairs her face glowing, 
 her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole 
 way. " She d have no such doings in her 
 house, she d warrant. If gentlemen did 
 spend money freely, it was no rule. She d 
 have no servant-maids of hers treated in 
 that way, when they were about their work, 
 that s what she wouldn t." 
 
 As I hate squabbles, particularly with 
 women, and above all with pretty women, I 
 slunk back into my room, and partly closed 
 194
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 the door; but my curiosity was too much 
 excited not to listen. The landlady marched 
 intrepidly to the enemy s citadel, and entered 
 it with a storm: the door closed after her. 
 I heard her voice in high windy clamor 
 for a moment or two. Then it gradually 
 subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret; 
 then there was a laugh; then I heard noth 
 ing more. 
 
 After a little while my landlady came out 
 with an odd smile on her face, adjusting her 
 cap, which was a little on one side. As she 
 went down stairs, I heard the landlord ask 
 her what was the matter; she said, " Noth 
 ing at all, only the girl s a fool." I was more 
 than ever perplexed what to make of this 
 unaccountable personage, who could put a 
 good-natured chambermaid in a passion, and 
 send away a termagant landlady in smiles. 
 He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly 
 either. 
 
 I had to go to work at his picture again, 
 and to paint him entirely different. I now 
 set him down for one of those stout gentle 
 men that are frequently met with swagger 
 ing about the doors of country inns. Moist, 
 merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, 
 whose bulk is a little assisted by malt- 
 liquors. Men who have seen the world, and 
 been sworn at Highgate; who are used to 
 tavern-life; up to all the tricks of tapsters, 
 and knowing in the ways of sinful publi- 
 195
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 cans. Free-livers on a small scale; who are 
 prodigal within the compass of a guinea; 
 who call all the waiters by name, tousle the 
 maids, gossip with the landlady at the bar, 
 and prose over a pint of port, or a glass of 
 negus, after dinner. 
 
 The morning wore away in forming these 
 and similar surmises. As fast as I wove one 
 system of belief, some movement of the un 
 known would completely overturn it, and 
 throw all my thoughts again into confusion. 
 Such are the solitary operations of a fever 
 ish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely 
 nervous; and the continual meditation on 
 the concerns of this invisible personage be 
 gan to have its effect I was getting a fit 
 of the fidgets. 
 
 Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout gen 
 tleman might dine in the travellers room, 
 and that I might at length get a view of 
 his person; but no he had dinner served in 
 his own room. What could be the meaning 
 of this solitude and mystery? He could not 
 be a radical; there was something too aris- 
 tocratical in thus keeping himself apart from 
 the rest of the world, and condemning him 
 self to his own dull company throughout a 
 rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well 
 for a discontented politician. He seemed to 
 expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit 
 over his wine like a jolly friend of good liv 
 ing. Indeed, my doubts on this head were 
 196
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 soon at an end; for he could not have fin 
 ished his first bottle before I could faintly 
 hear him humming a tune; and on listening 
 1 found it to be " God Save the King." 
 T was plain, then, he was no radical, but 
 a faithful subject; one who grew loyal over 
 his bottle, and was ready to stand by king 
 and constitution, when he could stand by 
 nothing else. But who could he be? My 
 conjectures began to run wild. Was he not 
 some personage of distinction travelling in 
 cog.? "God knows! " said I, at my wits 
 end; " it may be one of the royal family for 
 aught I know, for they are all stout gentle 
 men! " 
 
 The weather continued rainy. The mys 
 terious unknown kept his room, and, as far 
 as I could judge, his chair, for I did not hear 
 him move. In the mean time, as the day ad 
 vanced, the travellers room began to be fre 
 quented. Some, who had just arrived, came 
 in buttoned up in box-coats; others came 
 home who had been dispersed about the 
 town; some took their dinners, and some 
 their tea. Had I been in a different mood, 
 I should have found entertainment in study 
 ing this peculiar class of men. There were 
 two especially, who were regular wags of 
 the road, and up to all the standing jokes of 
 travellers. They had a thousand sly things 
 to say to the waiting-maid, whom they called 
 Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other 
 197
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 fine names, changing the name every time, 
 and chuckling amazingly at their own wag 
 gery. My mind, however, had been com 
 pletely engrossed by the stout gentleman. 
 He had kept my fancy in chase during a 
 long day, and it was not now to be diverted 
 from the scent. 
 
 The evening gradually wore away. The 
 travellers read the papers two or three times 
 over. Some drew round the fire and told 
 long stories about their horses, about their 
 adventures, their overturns, and breakings- 
 clown. They discussed the credit of differ 
 ent merchants and different inns; and the 
 two wags told several choice anecdotes of 
 pretty chambermaids and kind landladies. 
 All this passed as they were quietly taking 
 what they called their night-caps, that is 
 to say, strong glasses of brandy and water 
 and sugar, or some other mixture of the 
 kind; after which they one after another 
 rang for " Boots " and the chambermaid, 
 and walked off to bed in old shoes cut down 
 into marvellously uncomfortable slippers. 
 
 There was now only one man left: a short- 
 legged, long-bodied, plethoric fellow, with a 
 very large, sandy head. He sat by himself, 
 with a glass of port-wine negus, and a 
 spoon; sipping and stirring, and meditating 
 and sipping, until nothing was left but the 
 spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright 
 in his chair, with the empty glass standing 
 198
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 before him; and the candle seemed to fall 
 asleep too, for the wick grew long, and 
 black, and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed 
 the little light that remained in the cham 
 ber. The gloom that now prevailed was con 
 tagious. Around hung the shapeless, and 
 almost spectral, box-coats of departed travel 
 lers, long since buried in deep sleep. I 
 only heard the ticking of the clock, with the 
 deep-drawn breathings of the sleeping to 
 pers, and the drippings of the rain, drop 
 drop drop, from the eaves of the house. 
 The church-bells chimed midnight. All at 
 once the stout gentleman began to walk 
 overhead, pacing slowly backward and for 
 ward. There was something extremely aw 
 ful in all this, especially to one in my state 
 of nerves. These ghastly great-coats, these 
 guttural breathings, and the creaking foot 
 steps of this mysterious being. His steps 
 grew fainter and fainter, and at length died 
 away. I could bear it no longer. I was 
 wound up to the desperation of a hero of 
 romance. " Be he who or what he may," 
 said I to myself, " I ll have a sight of him! " 
 I seized a chamber-candle, and hurried up 
 to No. 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated 
 I entered: the room was deserted. There 
 stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow-chair at 
 a table, on which was an empty tumbler, and 
 a " Times " newspaper, and the room smelt 
 powerfully of Stilton cheese. 
 199
 
 Washington Irving 
 
 The mysterious stranger had evidently 
 but just retired. I turned off, sorely dis 
 appointed, to my room, which had been 
 changed to the front of the house. As I 
 went along the corridor, I saw a large pair 
 of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at 
 the door of a bedchamber. They doubtless 
 belonged to the unknown; but it would not 
 do to disturb so redoubtable a personage in 
 his den: he might discharge a pistol, or 
 something worse, at my head. I went to 
 bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night 
 in a terribly nervous state; and even when 
 I fell asleep, I was still haunted in my 
 dreams by the idea of the stout gentleman 
 and his wax-topped boots. 
 
 I slept rather late the next morning, and 
 was awakened by some stir and bustle in 
 the house, which I could not at first com 
 prehend; until getting more awake, I found 
 there was a mail-coach starting from the 
 door. Suddenly there was a cry from be 
 low, " The gentleman has forgotten his um 
 brella! Look for the gentleman s umbrella 
 in No. 13! " I heard an immediate scam 
 pering of a chambermaid along the pas 
 sage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " Here it 
 is! here s the gentleman s umbrella! " 
 
 The mysterious stranger then was on the 
 
 point of setting off. This was the only 
 
 chance I should ever have of knowing him. 
 
 I sprang out of bed, scrambled to the win- 
 
 200
 
 The Stout Gentleman 
 
 dow, snatched aside the curtains, and just 
 caught a glimpse of the rear of a person 
 getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of 
 a brown coat parted behind, and gave me 
 a full view of the broad disk of a pair of 
 drab breeches. The door closed " all 
 right! " was the word the coach whirled 
 off; and that was all I ever saw of the 
 stout gentleman! 
 
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