Sleepy Hollow: The Myth and Legend

Join me, Kieran, as we celebrate the falling leaves, pumpkin spice, and cinnamon bark in the air--with a recounting of Washington Irving's infamous tale: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

WE ARE GOING TO SALEM!
Instagram: @beyondtheseaspodcast
EMAIL ME: beyondtheseaspodcast@gmail.com
Tarot Collaboration: @thefeatherwitchnyc
Weekly Book: Wicked
Podcast website: https://beyondtheseas.buzzsprout.com/
More info: https://www.kierandanaan.com/beyond-the-seas

WINE COLLAB!!!  🍷
Make sure to follow Iruai Winery on Insta, and order your wine from their website:
@iruaiwine
iruaiwine.com

Join us on Patreon! 🎬
Patreon.com/BeyondtheSeas

Author Interview Collaboration 📚
Crossed Crow Books (@crossedcrowbooks)

Sources 🌎
Irving, Washington. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 1820, Print.

Music 🎵
"A Forest Dark" by Alon Feretz
"Intimacy" by Ben Winwood
"Don't Look Back" by Matooma
"Irish Mountains" by Ben Winwood

Cheers Magick Makers,
Kieran

Chapters

• 0:00 Run, run, run...
• 2:10 Grand Tidings!
• 10:52 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
• 33:58 Outro

Transcript

It began in the mists of the dawn. 

The hunting and rolling, 

The clapping and groaning. 

The fear and the pant in his voice as he ran. 

And the clop, clop, clopping of his enemy behind. 

Ahead, salvation. Behind, death. 

And the never-ending road to perdition and hell. 

His heart beat furiously, as he was afraid it would give out. 

But onward did he run as death pursued him.

The spire of a church, the holiness of graveyard. 

Step, step, steps away—

Almost there—

One more foot—

And then…

(transition music)

            Grand tidings and welcome to you on this, the FIFTIETH episode, of Beyond the Seas. My name is Kieran and here we are again, back at it for another week. This past week, Magick Makers, lemme tell ya: woof. The amount of work, opportunity, and responsibility has tripled—but that is okay! Sometimes life gifts you with those curve balls. But something we are all used to: the plugs time. @beyondtheseaspodcast over on Insta, and Claudia’s account, @thefeatherwitchnyc, to follow along with our weekly tarot collaboration—wherein Claudia teaches the tarot one card at a time, one week at a time. Also, our collaboration with Crossed Crow Books, @crossedcrowbooks. Finally, consider signing up for one of the tiers over on our Patreon, patreon.com/BeyondtheSeas. We are constantly coming up with new material to drop over there for all of you to enjoy, once you sign up: an interview with GennaRose Nethercott, guided meditations, rituals for the seasons and moons, and so many more. Finally, please leave a five-star rating and review, on your platform of choice, so the show may course its way through the interwebs and find new Magick Makers the world over. I am so, so, so happy you are all here, sharing some time with me on the show, today.

            And now, artistic and literary updates! I have put myself out there, Magick Makers, in terms of auditions. I know I keep saying it, but they are steadily starting to pop back up again—and I am so happy about it…because health insurance. Now, the book of the week: Wicked. I was headed down to Brooklyn one morning to teach, and I was a little tired. And I thought, “the library has to have a copy of the audiobook for Wicked.” And thus, the adventure began: the narrator, John McDonough, is delightfully funny and witty. He really makes the story come alive by highlighting the humor and wit of Maguire’s writing. I’m almost done with the book, turning it on here and there. And I will be very sad to see it go. So go to your library’s app of choice, in terms of ebooks and audiobooks, and borrow a copy of this narrated edition to follow along with the fun. 

            And now, the Card of the Week! So the energy this week, Magick Makers, is something to be reckoned with: The Hanged Man is guiding our way. Our rather, swinging in our way? Hahaha. Regardless, things are somewhat topsy-turvy right now: unexpected visitors, malcontent, and a swathe of riotous energies that cease to blend together. It is definitely a week where things are most unnormal. Thus, we must approach everything that happens with a grain of salt: a wisdom and an understanding that all of this shall one day, too, pass. And brighter days come ahead. That the majority of the problems that occur are beyond our control and not of our making. So breathe deeply of the air around you and seek to move forward on your own path—and damn those who stand in your way, hehehe. 

            And now, the Wine of the Week! So we are back at it with our collaboration with Iruai Wine, out in Oregon. And this week, the third week of the collab, we are reviewing somewhat of a white-orange wine combo. It is Iruai’s 2023 “Road Opener” Savagnin Rose Musqué. So, the musqué grape is a Chardonnay grape, which gives this wine a nice buttery texture, and the Savagnin is a varietal that produces white wine. Both are inherently French, which gives the wine an overall dry, but smooth experience. When I first smelled it, wow oh wow, it was grapefruit, grapefruit, grapefruit! I was stunned by how much of that I got. Then tasting it, I immediately got orange and strawberry, with some pear and mango undertones in there. It hit the back of my mouth first, can you believe, which I hooooope is where the citrusy flavors live on the tongue? I hope? Regardless, that’s where I experienced these flavors. Now, red wine has my heart—but this wine was so damn good! I would pair this with your appetizers and hot desserts: think cheese boards, that are sharpy and chewy, and a good seedy bread like rye. Dessert wise, anything that is pie and sweet—or cheesecake. Actually, cheesecake. I see this wine and cheesecake making sweet dessert babies with each other. Hahahaha!

            And, finally, this week’s topic. It seems abundantly appropriate and lovely that, during this, the spookiest of seasons, we travel a hop, skip, and a jump away from New York City. To a little town that most of us are familiar with. Right by Tarry Town, it is…Sleepy Hollow. And what better way to ring in the spiral towards Samhain than with a spooky tale and a little magick to go along with it? 

            Ergo, grab your favorite bottle of red, find a comfy chair, and close your eyes as I tell you the tale of Sleepy Hollow: The Myth and Legend—and take you…

            Beyond the Seas. 

            (transition music)

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

            “In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson…there lies a small market port, which is generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. Not far from this village, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world…

            “From the listless repose of the place, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country.

            “The dominant spirit that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts extend to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

            “Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

            “In this by-place of nature there abodes, in a remote period of American history, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. 

            “His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master…

            “The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. Our man of letters, therefore, was happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. 

            “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. Then, as he wended his way to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. 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 its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards, 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 he would have passed a pleasant life of it, if his path had not been crossed by the woman.

            “Among the musical disciples who assembled 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; universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. 

            “Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 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. 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. 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.

            “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. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore…Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and 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 Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out Katrina for the object 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.

            “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. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse.

            “On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a man in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, who came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s.

            “It was a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance…It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, 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.

            “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 ghosts and apparitions. 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 mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André 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 perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite 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.

            “The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. Such 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 Brouwer, 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 galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

            “All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone 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.

            “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 Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. In the dead hush of midnight, 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 was approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories 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.

            “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.

            “Just at this moment, 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 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 escaping ghost or goblin which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up 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 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 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 Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

            “Ichabod 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. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller 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 on 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 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, plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees, 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 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 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 under foot by his pursuer. 

            “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. “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 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’ 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.

            “The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected 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 diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. 

            “The old country wives, who are the 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 superstitious 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 millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering 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.”

            (transition music)

            The stories, research, and production elements were done and edited, respectively, by me, Kieran, with sources attached in the description. If you want to be a guest on the show, or have a topic you wish me to explore and discuss, send me an email at beyondtheseaspodcast@gmail.com. And be sure to hit the follow button, on whichever platform you enjoy the podcast, and look forward to more content next week. Until then, seek the veil between the worlds, and allow yourself to travel…Beyond the Seas.