Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories

by Washington Irving

  I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this country—the unpretending great and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by true nobility of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming-Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others; whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbour.

  As I have brought these families into contrast I must notice their behaviour in church. That of the nobleman’s family was quiet, serious and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervour of devotion but rather a respect for sacred things and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others on the contrary were in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation.

  The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burthen of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of those thorough Church and King men who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty; who consider the deity somehow or other, of the government party, and religion “a very excellent sort of thing that ought to be countenanced and kept up.”

  When he joined so loudly in the service it seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, to shew them, that though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious, as I have seen a turtle fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful and pronouncing it “excellent food for the poor.”

  When the service was at an end I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters as the day was fine preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs and the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind.

  THE WIDOW AND HER SON

  Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires

  Honour and reverence ever more have raign’d.

  MARLOWE’S TAMBURLAINE.

  Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have noticed the pensive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail; the din of the blacksmith’s hammer; the whistling of the plowman; the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very farm dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.

  Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.

  Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For my part there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven.

  During my recent residence in the country I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles; its mouldering monuments; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true christian, was a poor, decrepid old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect too had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning her prayer book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ or the chaunting of the choir.

  I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning watching two labourers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the church yard, where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased—the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running, hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity on the grief of the mourner.

  As the funeral train approached the grave the parson issued from the church porch arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door—his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave, and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words.

  I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased. “George Somers, aged 26 Years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last reliques of her son with the yearnings of a mother’s heart.

  Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection—directions given in the cold tones of business—the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and loo
ked about, with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth and to whisper something like consolation—“Nay now—nay now—don’t take it so sorely to heart—” She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.

  As they lowered the body into the earth the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him, who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.

  I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat—my eyes filled with tears—I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church yard where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.

  When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her—What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich!—they have friends to soothe; pleasures to beguile; a world to divert and dissipate their griefs—What are the sorrows of the young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound—their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure—their green and ductile affections soon twine around new objects—But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe—the sorrows of the aged with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no aftergrowth of joy—the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son the last solace of her years-these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation.

  It was some time before I left the church yard—on my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter: she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.

  The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age—“Oh sir!” said the good woman, “he was such a likely lad; so sweet tempered; so kind to every one round him; so dutiful to his parents! It did one’s heart good to see him of a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery—supporting his old mother to church—for she was always fonder of leaning on George’s arm than on her good man’s—and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad, there was not in the country round.”

  Unfortunately the son was tempted during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press gang and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy and sunk into his grave. The widow left lonely in her age and feebleness could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling towards her throughout the village and a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless—The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbours would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman’s clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her and hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering—he sank on his knees before her and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wondering eye—“Oh my dear-dear mother! don’t you know your son!—your poor boy George!” It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward to repose among the scenes of his childhood.

  I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended—Still he was alive!—he was come home!-he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age!—Nature, however, was exhausted in him, and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again.

  The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk—he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand.

  There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood; that softens the heart and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency—who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land—but has thought on the mother “that looked on his childhood,” that smoothed his pillow and administered to his helplessness.—Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness—nor daunted by danger—nor weakened by worthlessness—nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience—she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment—she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity. And if misfortune overtake him he will be the dearer to her from misfortune—and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace—and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him—

  Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness and none to soothe, lonely and in prison and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight—if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom and fall asleep with the tranquility of a child—In this way he died.

  My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible comfort. I found, however, on enquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted: and as the poor know best how to console each other’s sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.

  The next Sunday I was at the village church; when to my surprize, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.

  She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty—A black ribband, or so—a faded black handkerchief—and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes shew—When I looked round upon the storied monuments—the stately hatchments—the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride; and turned to this poor widow bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her god, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all.

  I related her story to some of the wealthy members o
f the congregation and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood I heard with a feeling of satisfaction that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted.

  A SUNDAY IN LONDON14

  In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the country and its tranquilizing effect upon the landscape; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished; and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care; they have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person.