In
the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the
Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and
implored the protection of Saint Nicholas, there lies a small market town which
is generally known by the name of Tarry Town.
This name was given by the good
housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their
husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Not far from this
village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley among high hills
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook murmurs
through it and, with the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a
woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks the uniform tranquillity.
From the listless repose of the place,
this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow. Some
say that the place was bewitched during the early days of the Dutch settlement;
others, that an old Indian chief, the 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 descendants of the original settlers. They are
given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions,
and frequently hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds
with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions.
