History That Doesn't Suck - 145: Halloween Special III: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Episode Date: October 23, 2023

“If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” This is the story of schoolmaster Ichabod Crane and his ride home after an evening spent trying to woo Katrina Van Tassel at a party hosted by her father at their idyllic farm in rural New York. It’s a terrifying ride–perhaps as deadly as Ichabod’s pursuer is headless. For this third HTDS Halloween special, we “rewind” to one of the oldest ghost stories in American lore: Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”   Starting with a headless Germanic tale, we’ll hear some of the literary history behind the stories of headless riders on horseback; get a brief bio on this year’s featured author; and then … we’ll see if we can reach that covered bridge before it’s too late. ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The Civil War and Reconstruction was a pivotal era in American history. When a war was fought to save the Union and to free the slaves. And when the work to rebuild the nation after that war was over turned into a struggle to guarantee liberty and justice for all Americans. I'm Tracy and I'm Rich and we want to invite you to join us as we take an in-depth look at this pivotal era in American history. Look for The Civil War and Reconstruction wherever you find your podcasts. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson,

and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work, receive ad-free episodes, bonus content,

and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at htdspodcast.com slash membership, or click, sometime in the mid to late 1700s, though the exact date is unimportant. After all, legends do not concern themselves with such chronological specificities. But legend does provide a location. We're in Prussian-ruled Silesia, traveling a country road in a horse-drawn carriage. Our passengers are four women. The countess, Cecilia, her two coming-of-age daughters, and their maid, Mrs. Abigail. Their destination is the Holy Roman Empire-ruled kingdom of Bohemia's famous spa town, Carlsbad, or

Carlovi Vary. It's some 200 miles away, across the giant mountains, but the countess is terribly impatient to arrive. And so, seated on the coach box, her faithful but unnamed driver urges the horses onward as the watchman, John, sits next to him, scanning the countryside for threats. As evening falls, the coachman gently pulls on the reins, bringing the carriage to a stop. Before them lies the pine-covered giant mountains. John feels a sense of foreboding. He knows all too well the tales of the capricious, sometimes troublemaking mountain spirit who takes the form of a gnome or giant and inhabits these undulating peaks.

Yes, the one and only Numbernip, or Rubetzai. Do they dare travel through his domain at night? A gamble indeed, but the Countess is eager, and much time has passed since anyone has heard from or seen Rubetzai. John won't be the coward. He swallows hard and puts on a brave face, while agreeing that they should venture on. The coachman flicks the coward. He swallows hard and puts on a brave face while agreeing that they should venture on.

The coachman flicks the reins. His four horses trot onward toward the mountain road. Hours pass. The star-filled sky and bright moon cast a pale light, one punctuated all the more by bioluminescent insects. The women slumber soundly in the carriage. Nevertheless, John can feel his heartbeat climbing right along with the carriage as their horses hold them up the still dimly lit spruce-lined sloping path. Tall tales of rubitized trickster crafty ways race through the watchman's mind. He wonders, what if the mountain spirit is still here? What life endangering games might he decide to play

with them? Why? John silently asks himself. Didn't he speak up before they entered the woods tonight? John's eyes dart about the forest. Every suspect shadow sends a shiver down his spine. Looking at the coachman, he sees not a hint of worry on his colleague's face, only fatigue from hours of driving. Then another shadow startles John. He turns to the driver and asks, is something now walking on the mountain? His colleague offers reassurances, but John takes no comfort. The watchman now closes his eyes rather than look out upon the night's horrid shadows. But a short while later, John hears and feels the carriage slow, then stop. Dear God, why would the coachman stop?

Finding the terror of the unknown unbearable, John opens his eyes to see a man. No, a giant standing not a stone's throw before the carriage. Yet, atop the towering, black-clad figure, John sees only a scarf, no head. Equally overcome with fear, the coachman asks John, Messmate, dost thou see anything? The watchman replies quietly, I do indeed see something. He then begins softly uttering the Lord's Prayer. Meanwhile, the coachman taps on the carriage window, waking the passengers.

None too pleased, the Countess asks, What's the matter? John answers, Your Honor, there walks a man without a head close beside us. Not one for superstition, the Countess retorts. A man without a head is no rarity. There are plenty in Breslau and other places. Her witticism is wholly unappreciated as her daughters shake in fear and cry out,

Bless us! There is Rubensai, the mountain spirit! Indeed, the figure which had disappeared into the darkness, has since re-emerged from the bushes and pines next to the coach. Now nearly upon the company, the six mortals also see that the creature does in fact have a head. It rests, however, not on his shoulders, but in one of his hands. The girls and maids scream while the countess sits frozen in fear as the

decapitated giant raises his detached head up high, then hurls it directly at John. The ghoulish giant's head strikes John's directly in the forehead, sending the watchman tumbling to the ground. And as John falls, the now truly headless monster raises a club and in a single blow, knocks the driver from the coach box as well. With both men removed, the mouthless, tongueless figure somehow bellows out from the scarf-adorned hole atop his shoulders. Take that from Rubit's eye, the warder of the march! The black-clad creature then leaps upon the carriage, takes the reins, and drives the horses forward. The four women stuck inside this rapidly moving carriage sit frozen in terror,

knowing that they are now the prisoners of this decapitated, this headless horseman. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and the tale I just told you was not a historic event. That was my HTDS-style adaptation of the Fifth Legend of Rubitzai in Johann Karl August Musaus' 1791 publication, Popular Tales of the Germans. Well, the first part of the Fifth Legend, at any rate. I won't say much more, as I'd hate to spoil anything for those inclined to read it, but the tale goes on to reveal the backstory and true identity of its spooky antagonist, the Headless Horseman. Nor is it the only such story from the era. By the 1700s, various narratives of headless riders had galloped their way across much of Northern and Western Europe. And with that

background, it is my pleasure today, on this third HTDS Halloween special, to introduce you to the American descendant of these headless European tales. I am, of course, talking about the one and only Washington Irving's most enduring masterpiece, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. But before I read you this podcast-shortened, abridged version of schoolmaster Ichabod Crane's

Headache of a Night, let's get our own heads straight by starting as we always do in our Halloween specials. It's time to meet our ghoulish author. In 1783, the same year that the American Revolutionary War came to its end, William and Sarah Irving, an English immigrant and New York native, respectively, had their 11th child.

It was a boy, and once again, this meant coming up with a name. They had already gone through several of the classics, using William three times and John twice, as, sadly, only seven of their kids had survived childhood. Nevertheless, Sarah had a wholly new name in mind for this little bundle of joy. Perhaps the inspiration came from seeing revolutionary prisoners freed from the North Dutch Church next to their New York home at 128 William Street, or watching as British soldiers and supporters marched to the East River to board ships and never return. Whatever it was, Sarah declared, quote, Washington's work has ended, and the child shall be named after him, close quote.

That's right. Washington Irving was named after General George Washington. We know little of Washington Irving's earliest years, but legend has it that, at six years old, the young New Yorker met his then-presidential namesake. Little Washington also enjoyed a supportive home. Being the youngest Irving child, his mother and siblings alike doted on him. His strict Presbyterian father wasn't quite as warm, but loved him all the same. Washington's older brother, William, married Julia Paulding. This is noteworthy because Julia was the older sister of the poet, essayist, and hopeful novelist,

James Paulding. Only 13 years old himself at the time, James became a close friend of Washington's and helped the three years younger aspiring author hone his writing skills. James also introduced Washington to a place along the Hudson River filled with legends and lore known as Sleepy Hollow. At 16, Washington joined his brother, John, working at the law office of Henry Masterton. Though praised for his quality writing here, this technical stuff wasn't what the youngest Irving really wanted to do. Thus, he jumped at the chance to join his brother, Peter, sorry, Dr. Irving, as the Columbia Med School grad preferred to be called despite not practicing

medicine, writing in the political realm. See, this was just after the turn of the 19th century United States deeply divided presidential election of 1800, which ended with New Yorker Democratic Republican Aaron Burr as vice president. You and I might know that Aaron's fortunes would soon take an ugly turn, but at this point, he looked like a rising star, especially to his fellow New Yorkers like Irving brothers William, Peter, and Washington. Dr. Peter Irving soon became

the editor for an Aaron Burr-supporting newspaper, the Morning Chronicle, and he was happy to give his teenage brother Washington the opportunity to contribute to the press. Accordingly, Washington wrote about the new vice president. But the youngest Irving, who, in all truth, wasn't all that partisan, really made his mark in his brother's newspaper while writing under the pseudonym of Jonathan Oldstyle. In his Jonathan role, Washington posed as a theater critic while writing nine letters that poked fun at New York culture. In his last letter, published on April 23rd, 1803, Washington commented on dueling, which the New York legislature had recently outlawed. In doing so, he offered intentionally outlandish ideas,

such as dropping bricks on would-be duelers' heads or having the state create the Blood and Thunder Office to issue dueling licenses. Ironic that the pro-Aaron Burr Morning Chronicle published this only a year before the VP's infamous and deadly duel with Alexander Hamilton, but there you go. More important to our short biography, though, is that Washington's nom de plume was no great secret. As such, his witty Jonathan Old-style letters helped him gain greater access to the literary crowd of New York City.

Washington went on trips with his family and employers, meeting and learning from fur traders and Native Americans in upstate New York. He next crossed the Atlantic to France and Italy on a trip financed by his doting brothers, who hoped to stave off Washington's increasingly poor health. On the way to Sicily, pirates robbed Washington's ship. The quick-thinking New Yorker got away well enough, though, successfully hiding his money from these sea-roving bandits. Upon his return to America, and to cover many years in but a sentence, Washington began his literary career in full earnestness. He wrote short stories and histories, mostly with more story than history. In doing so, he birthed New York City's nickname of Gotham. Nor is this the only notable appellation that Washington bequeathed to NYC.

A second comes from yet another one of his pseudonyms, Diedrich Knickerbocker, which he used for his 1809 book, A History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty. Once written, Washington tricked the whole city into believing Mr. Knickerbocker was a real person and had gone missing. This ginned up interest in the supposedly missing Dutch-American historian and, of course, book sales as well. Washington gladly acknowledged the hoax, and in the meanwhile, his largely satirical false history proved immensely successful.

The name Knickerbocker then became synonymous with New York. In brief, Washington Irving is why modern-day New York City has an NBA team called the Knickerbockers, often abbreviated as the Knicks. Between 1819 and 1820, after more travel, newspaper writing, and in the midst of depression brought on by the death of his mother and financial hardships, Washington published 34 short stories and essays on a serial basis and under yet another pseudonym. He called it the sketchbook of Jeffrey Crayon, Gent. The sketchbook was enormously successful on both sides of the Atlantic. For many, it was the first proof that an American author could be the equal of a European author.

And in it, we find his two most famous works, Rip Van Winkle and, of course, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Yes, now we come to today's tale. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is sprinkled with real places. This includes Sleepy Hollow itself, nearby Tarrytown, as well as the old Dutch church near Washington Irving's childhood home. The story also includes homegrown legends. These include the tree next to which, Washington tells us, British Major John Andre was captured en route to meet Benedict Arnold during the American Revolution, as well as the legend of an unfortunate Hessian soldier decapitated by a cannonball. Ah, but was Hessian the inspiration for Washington's headless horsemen?

Or did the Knickerbocker get his inspiration not only from a European mountain spirit, but Patriot militiaman Abraham Onderdonk, who we know lost his head to a cannonball at White Plains in 1776. I suppose we'll never know, but it is fun to see how much revolutionary history Washington Irving has mashed up in this short story. And as we enter this historical era, let's situate a few words for our 21st century ears. For one, you'll hear our protagonist, Ichabod,

described as a quote-unquote worthy white. Ah, homonyms. The word is not W-H-I-T-E, but W-I-G-H-T, which is an archaic word for a living being. So rest assured, Washington Irving isn't commenting on race here. That said, race does appear in the story. We will hear passing mention of a black gentleman described as a Negro in a position of servitude. Let's not be surprised. Remember, this tale is situated in the early post-revolutionary United States.

New York had not yet abolished slavery in the 1790s. The legend of Sleepy Hollow is also, in many ways, a celebration of Southern New York's early Dutch inhabitants. Washington even attributes the legend to his faux-Dutch identity, claiming that the tale was, quote, found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, close quote. Loving the region almost as much as he loved pseudonyms, Washington made his home there and upon his death in 1859, was buried in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. With its odd mix of

history, prose, and good old-fashioned ghosts, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow has become an American classic with adaptations across various mediums, including comics, movies, television, the stage, and well, podcasts. And having myself grown up watching the classic Disney cartoon version narrated by Bing Crosby, it's a genuine honor to step into that tradition of recounting Washington Irving's tale of schoolmaster Ichabod Crane fleeing the headless horseman for the safety of the covered bridge. Well, now that we are acquainted with today's author and know to keep our ears sharp for nods to New York history, I won't make you lose your head with any further anticipation. Ladies and gentlemen, without further interruption

or commentary, I give you the abridged but immortal and haunting words of Washington Irving. Happy Halloween. When Johann Rall received the letter on Christmas Day 1776, he put it away to read later. Maybe he thought it was a season's greeting and wanted to save it for the fireside. But what it actually was, was a warning delivered to the Hessian colonel, letting him know that General George Washington was crossing the Delaware and would soon attack his forces.

The next day, when Raw lost the Battle of Trenton and died from two colonial Boxing Day musket balls, the letter was found, unopened in his vest pocket. As someone with 15,000 unread emails in his inbox, I feel like there's a lesson there. Oh well, this is The Constant, a history of getting things wrong. I'm Mark Chrysler. Every episode, we look at the bad ideas, mistakes, and accidents that misshaped our world. Find us at ConstantPodcast.com or wherever you get your podcasts. Want to learn how you can make smarter decisions with your money?

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and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed. There lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburg, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarrytown. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it with just murmur enough to lull one to repose.

And the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility. From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow. And its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor during the early days of

the settlement. Others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions.

Stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambles. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper whose head had been carried away by a cannonball in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying

along in the gloom of night as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this specter, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated

and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows. And the specter is known at all the country firesides by the name

of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are

sure in a little time to inhale the witching influence of the air and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams and see apparitions. In this by-place of nature, their abode in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some 30 years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or as he expressed it, tarried in sleepy hollow

for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs,

hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose so that it looked like a 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 descending upon the earth or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

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, a vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains and indeed inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, 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 sweet meats, or, per adventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 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 believed. 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 specter dared to show its face. It was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. 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?

And how often was he thrown into complete 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 specters in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in diverse 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, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together. And that was a woman. Among the musical disciples who assembled 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 18,

plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally 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 to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Jeanne d'Homme, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provoking 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 picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. 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 bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole, sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. 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 peerless daughter of Van Tassel. He had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers who beset every portal 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, Bram van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardyhood. 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 Herculean 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 horseback as a tartar. The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and goodwill. 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. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering 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 pliability 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. I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me, they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones. And from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined. His horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gladly arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

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show. Historians like Barry Strauss, podcasters like Liv Albert, Mike Duncan, and authors like Joanne Harris and Ben Aronovich. We take you to the top of Hadrian's Wall to watch the Roman Empire fall at the end of the world. We walk the catacombs beneath the Temple of the Feathered Serpent under Teotihuacan. We walk the sacred spirals of the Nazca Lines in search of ancient secrets. And we explore mythology from ancient cultures around the world. Come find us at ancienthistoryfangirl.com or wherever you get your podcasts. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm.

Suddenly, a negro in toe-cloth jacket and trousers came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking or quilting frolic to be held that evening at Meinhier van Tassels. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The gallant Ichabod, that he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman by the name of Hans van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant in quest of adventures. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow horse

that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. Still, he must have had fire and metal in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of gunpowder. 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 perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, 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. It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. 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 metal and mischief, in 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. 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. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. 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. The revel now gradually broke up.

The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. 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 chap-fallen. 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 comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping. It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came 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 stories had been laid. In the center 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 mixture 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 whistling, but, on looking more narrowly, perceived 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 200 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 Swamp. A few rough logs laid side by side served for a bridge over the 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 yeoman concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump. He summed up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge.

Instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement and ran broadside 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 starving ribs of old Gunpowder,

who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, 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 sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 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 escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind?

Summing up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, 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 cuddled the sides of the inflexible gunpowder and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then, the shutting object of alarm put itself in 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 dimensions and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Dunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. Ichabod 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 and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling.

It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless. But his horror was still more increased on observing that the head,

which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him in the pommel of his 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 specters 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, lanky 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 downhill 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. As yet, the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as he had got halfway 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 endeavored 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 underfoot 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 unskillful 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 the 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 beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bone's ghostly competitor had disappeared. If I can but reach that bridge, thought Ichabod, I am safe.

Just then he heard 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 resounding 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 horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, 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 under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance 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 von 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' hoofs, deeply dented in the road, and evidently 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 unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it, a shattered pumpkin. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode research and written by Greg Jackson, Will King, and special guest author, Washington Irving. Special thanks to Bing Crosby, whose narration in The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad first exposed me to the legend of Sleepy Hollow when I was a child and contributed to my love for both Halloween and history. Initial research and outlining by Darby Glass and Riley

Neubauer. Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted right in this episode, visit htdspodcast.com. HTDS iscast.com. Bob Drazovic, Brian Goodson, Bronwyn Cohen, Carrie Begle, Charles and Shirley Clendenden, Charlie Magis, Chloe Tripp, Christopher Merchant, Christopher Pullman, David DeFazio, David Rifkin, Denki, Durante Spencer, Donald Moore, Donna Marie Jeffcoat, Ellen Stewart, Bernie Lowe, George Sherwood, Gurwith Griffin, Henry Brunges, Jake Gilbreth, James G. Bledsoe, Janie McCreary, Jeff Marks, Jennifer Moods, Jennifer Magnolia, Jeremy Wells, Jessica Poppock, Joe Dovis, John Frugal-Dougal, John Boovey, John Keller, John Oliveros, John Radlavich, Thank you. Hello, dear listener, and welcome to Conflicted, a podcast that tells stories of the Islamic past

and present to help you make sense of the world today. Hosted by me, Thomas Small, Thank you.