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Sleepy Hollow (and its Legend)

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Aw, tomorrow is Halloween. I mean, it's exciting, but it's simultaneously sad. I'm like those people who get the post-wedding blues "“ you know, you've been planning and planning and planning and then the event is over, and you're left with a void.

I didn't actually get the post-wedding blues, but I do get the post-Halloween blues. Yes, I'm weird. Anyway, since tomorrow is the last day I can do Halloween posts for another 11 months or so, it's time to regale you guys with tales of my September trip to Sleepy Hollow. I've been holding on to it for over a month! Bear with me; I might be a little long-winded.

1. Sleepy Hollow was made famous by Washington Irving, the author of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Actually, he may have named the town—his term "Sleepy Hollow" is the first recorded use of the name. The town was originally called North Tarrytown, but voted to legally change its name to Sleepy Hollow in 1997 (their school athletics teams are called the Horsemen. Love it.). Nearby Irvingtown is named after him—in fact, it took its name while he was still alive, which is a little unusual. Usually those types of things are posthumous. It just goes to show what a beloved character he was in the area. Oh, one other quick Irving fact: in 1807, he coined the term "Gotham" for New York City—it's an Anglo-Saxon word meaning "Goat's town."

2. The cemetery looks like one cemetery, but it's actually two and is owned and maintained as two separate entities. There's the Old Dutch Burying Ground, which is on the grounds of the Old Dutch Church; and there's Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, which surrounds the Old Dutch property. The people Irving used as his inspiration are located in the Old Dutch Burying Grounds; Irving himself and lots of other illustrious people are located in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. The two cemeteries put together are huge—about 88 acres. Most of that is Sleepy Hollow Cemetery "“ the Old Dutch Property is only about three acres.

3. Washington Irving wasn't really one to reveal the true identity of the people behind his stories, but he wasn't too difficult to decipher.

Most historians think Eleanor Van Tassel Brush was probably the real-life Katrina Van Tassel. Catriena Ecker Van Tessel (Eleanor's aunt) was the inspiration for the name, obviously, but Eleanor's life story and demeanor more closely mirrors that of the fictional Katrina.

4. Likewise, Brom Bones was a real guy. He's thought to be modeled after Abraham Martling, the blacksmith in the village at the time Irving lived there. "Brom" is a nickname for Abraham, or at least was at the time. He was a big guy and rode a gigantic black horse similar to the horse in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

5. The Headless Horseman. This one—well, Irving was a fiction writer, right? So you can bet that he took some poetic license with this one. But it's conceivable that this could have happened, so who knows? The story: The farm of Cornelius and Elizabeth Van Tassel was raided by British and Hessian soldiers in November, 1777. When the Van Tassels tried to fight, the soldiers responded by burning down their farmhouse. First, however, they took the inhabitants of the house hostage. While they watched their house burn, Elizabeth noticed that her baby, Leah, was nowhere to be found. She tried to run back into the burning house to find her, but couldn't. That's when a Hessian soldier led her to a shed where someone had wrapped the baby up in a blanket and left her, safe and sound. The Van Tassels were so grateful, that when a Hessian soldier missing his head was found in Sleepy Hollow, they insisted on burying him properly in case it was the soldier who had been kind to them. So, if the tale is true, you can see where Washington Irving got his inspiration"¦ even though the "real" Headless Horseman appeared to be at least a partially decent guy.

6. There's a real Ichabod Crane, to be sure, but you won't find him in Sleepy Hollow. Ichabod was a Captain in the Army at the same time Irving served. When he needed a name for his arrogant schoolteacher, he thought of Captain Crane. Supposedly, the real Ichabod Crane was less than flattered.

7. Hulda the Witch is a Sleepy Hollow character you won't find in Legend. Hulda was a real person, an immigrant from Bohemia. She displayed suspicious witch-like behavior by living alone in a cabin in the woods and gathering herbs to make remedies. But she seemed like a perfectly nice lady: when people in town fell ill, she would leave them baskets of her potions and pastes to try to help the healing. People were scared of her anyway, though. However, she became something of a town hero when the British invaded. A group of British soldiers were marching on Albany Post Road, so she and some fellow citizens stopped in their tracks to discourage them from coming any closer. She was a crack shot, I guess, and was able to kill several soldiers before they took her down. People weren't sure if they should bury her in the Christian Old Dutch Burying Ground, since she was a "witch" and all. When they visited her cabin, they found a will that left all of her assets to women who were war widows. This may have been the deciding factor in the great burial dilemma "“ the townspeople declared that she was a patriot who died fighting for her community and buried her in the cemetery. Her grave is unmarked, however.

8. As I mentioned before, there are lots of other people buried at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Its most recent famous residents are socialite Brooke Astor and Queen of Mean Leona Helmsley. But you'll also find Elizabeth Arden, Walter Chrysler, Andrew Carnegie, William Rockefeller and Samuel Gompers (among others). For one of the richest men in history, Carnegie's stone is surprisingly simple. That's his pictured. Rockefeller's, however, is definitely not.

9. The Disney version "“ The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, (two separate features, billed as one) came out on October 5, 1949, with Bing Crosby narrating and providing the voice for Brom Bones. The Tim Burton/Johnny Depp version came out on November 19, 1999. This version pays tribute to the Disney version in a couple of spots, if you pay close attention "“ namely in the scene where Ichabod is crossing the bridge and freaking himself out by misinterpreting all of the forest noises. Although Christopher Walken is the (fabulous) Headless Horseman, he has no lines in the movie"¦ just some noises and grunts and the like.

10. The infamous bridge is no longer there - they've built a small bridge in its honor in the cemetery, but at the real spot, this sign is the only thing that remains of the original.

A completely un-Legend-related bit of trivia: Triple H and Stephanie McMahon got married in Sleepy Hollow.

Here's an added bonus for you: The complete text of Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow from Gutenberg. Perfect way to bide a little time and spook yourself a little bit.

And here are a few more pictures I thought were creepy or interesting but couldn't fit into the post:

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old

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History
Assault, Robbery, and Murder: The Dark History of "Bedsheet Ghosts"
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Wearing his finest black outfit, Francis Smith stared nervously at the three judges in London’s main criminal courthouse. A mild-mannered excise tax collector, Smith had no known criminal history and certainly no intention to become the centerpiece of one of 19th century England’s most unusual murder trials. But a week earlier, Smith had made a criminally foolish mistake: He had shot and killed what he believed to be a ghost.

The spectators inside the courthouse sat hushed as the prosecutor and a cross-examiner questioned about half a dozen eyewitnesses. Each person had seen Smith in the village of Hammersmith (now a part of London) the night of the crime, or they had previously seen the ghost that Smith was zealously hunting. One such eyewitness, William Girdler, the village night-watchman and Smith’s ghost-hunting partner, had not only seen the white-sheeted specter lurking across the street—he had chased it.

“When you pursued it,” the cross-examiner asked, “how did it escape?”

“Slipped the sheet or table-cloth off, and then got it over his head,” Girdler responded. “It was just as if his head was in a bag.”

“How long had the neighborhood been alarmed with its appearance?”

“About six weeks or two months.”

“Was the alarm great and general?”

“Yes, very great.”

“Had considerable mischief happened from it?”

“Many people were very much frightened.”

Girdler was telling the truth. The people of Hammersmith had reported seeing a ghost for weeks now, and they were terrified: The specter was verifiably violent. It assaulted men and women, and during its two month campaign of harassment and intimidation, it had successfully evaded capture. Rumors swirled that it could manifest from graves in an instant, and sink back into the mud just as quickly. At the time, the magazine Kirby’s Wonderful and Scientific Museum reported that the ghost was “so clever and nimble in its retreats, that they could never be traced.”

When Ann Millwood took the stand, the cross-examiner asked if she was familiar with these reports.

The Hammersmith Ghost.
The Hammersmith ghost

“Yes, I heard great talk of it,” Millwood explained, “that sometimes it appeared in a white sheet, and sometimes in a calf-skin dress, with horns on its head, and glass eyes.” That wasn’t all. The ghost also reportedly took the shape of Napoleon Bonaparte; other accounts said that its eyes radiated like glow-worms and that it breathed fire.

It must have been incredibly difficult for Millwood to describe the ghost’s appearance, especially in front of a public audience. The ghoul she characterized looked nothing like her late brother Thomas, the young man whom Francis Smith had mistakenly murdered.

 
 

In 19th century Britain, seeing a ghost—at least, a person dressed up as one—was not uncommon. Ghost impersonating was something of a fad, with churchyards and cobblestoned alleyways regularly plagued by pranksters, louts, and other sheet-wearing hoaxsters who were up to no good.

Historian Owen Davies tracks the origin of ghost impersonators in his wide-ranging book, The Haunted: A Social History of Ghosts, tracing the first reports of fake ghosts to the Reformation, when critics of Catholicism accused the Church of impersonating the dead to convert doubters. (According to one account by the reformer Erasmus, a priest once fastened candles to a cast of crabs and released them in a dark graveyard in hopes of imitating the lost, wandering souls of purgatory.)

But for most ghost impersonators, candle-strapped crustaceans were unnecessary; all you needed was a white sheet. Up until the 19th century, the bodies of the poor weren’t buried in coffins but simply wrapped in fabric—sometimes the sheet of the deathbed—which would be knotted at the head and feet. Ghost impersonators adopted the white sheet as their de facto wardrobe as early as 1584, when Reginald Scott, a member of parliament and witchcraft aficionado, wrote that, “one knave in a white sheet hath cozened [that is, deceived] and abused many thousands that way.” It’s from this practice that the trope of a white-sheeted ghost originated.

Seventeenth and 18th century Britain are sprinkled with accounts of phony phantoms. Take Thomas Wilmot, a famed crook and highwayman who once disguised himself as a spirit to steal money. (His appearance—chalked-up skin and a sheet-bound head—sent a table of gamblers scrambling for an exit. Wilmot pocketed the cash they left on the table.) And by the 1760s, so many white-sheeted pranksters were prowling in cemeteries that annoyed citizens were paying bounties to get rid of them. According to the Annual Register, one ghost in southern Westminster “struck such terror into the credulous inhabitants thereabouts, that those who could not be brought to believe it a ghost, entered into a subscription, to give five guineas to the person, who would seize him.”

These pranks had consequences. In 1792, a ghost impersonator in Essex spooked a farm-worker steering a wagon; the horses jumped, the driver tumbled, and his leg was crushed by one of the wagon’s wheels. He died from his injuries. Twelve years later, soldiers in London’s St. James’s Park spotted the specter of a headless woman, an event that authorities took very seriously, if only because it was distracting—and reportedly harming—its security guards. In the 1830s, a ghost impersonator was tried for manslaughter because he literally frightened an 81-year-old woman to death.

It was dangerous for the so-called ghosts, too. In 1844, six men chased a ghost impersonator and beat him so badly that he had to visit the hospital. In 1888, a mob of 50 villagers—all armed with sticks—surrounded a “ghost” and only released him after he agreed to donate money to a local infirmary. (Some ghost-busts startled investigators for other reasons: Davies writes that, in 1834, an investigation of an unoccupied haunted house revealed “nothing more than some boisterous love-makers.”)

Like many other pastimes in 19th century Britain, ghost impersonating was a gendered activity: Women, especially young female servants, were often restricted to mimicking poltergeist activity indoors—rapping on doors, moving furniture, throwing rocks at windows—while the sheet-wearing hijinks were reserved for young men who, far too often, had scuzzy intentions.

Most accounts of ghost impersonating, both modern and historical, gloss over the fact that men often used their ghostly cover to intimidate, harass, sexually assault, and even rape women. In his precise and critical account of ghost impersonators, Spirits of an Industrial Age, the historian Jacob Middleton argues that ghost impersonating was not only the domain of juvenile pranksters, but also that of sexual predators. This was made most painfully clear during the 1830s, the height of hauntings by “Spring-Heeled Jack.”

Spring-Heeled Jack.
Spring-Heeled Jack
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Every day, London’s women had to contend not only with the persistent threat of cads and street harassers, but also with men the press dubbed “Monsters,” menaces who stalked, grabbed, groped, slashed, and stabbed women in the breasts and buttocks. These criminals were piquerists, people who took sexual pleasure in piercing the skin of women, and a spate of attacks in the 1780s put all of London at unease. In the early 1800s, these boors started to take cover by dressing as ghosts. Spring-Heeled Jack, called a “monster in human form,” was among them: Hiding in alleyways after sunset, he would seek lone women, knock on their doors, and attempt to tear away their clothes with hooks. Thanks to London’s sensationalist press, tales of Spring-Heeled Jack would bloat into urban legend.

But even before Spring-Heeled Jack, on a normal evening, the women of Hammersmith were justified in feeling worried about stepping outside after dark. Organized police forces were a relatively new idea in Great Britain, and solitary neighborhoods such as Hammersmith were protected by little more than a roving constable or watchman. Reports of the Hammersmith ghost intensified that anxiety. (The community's men weren’t much help. As the Morning Post reported, “[The ghost] was seen on Monday evening last pursuing a woman, who shrieked dreadfully. Although there were four male passengers in the stage coach, which passed at the time, not one durst venture to the rescue of the distressed female.”) It wasn’t until weeks of attacks that bands of locals, their bellies sloshing with ale supplied by the nearest public house, began taking to the streets to stop the menace.

It was at the intersection of these two sad facts that the tragedy at Hammersmith unfolded: Francis Smith went out on January 3, 1804 to catch a ghost, while Thomas Millwood went out to ensure that his wife, who was walking home alone in the dark, did not meet one.

 
 

Thomas Millwood was told he resembled the Hammersmith ghost. A bricklayer, Millwood wore a white jacket, white trousers, and a white apron, an ensemble that scared a carriage-riding couple one dark Saturday night. When the passerby exclaimed to his wife, “There goes the ghost!” Millwood turned and uncorked a few colorful and unprintable words, asking if the man wanted “a punch in the head.”

After the incident, a family member named Phoebe Fullbrooke implored Millwood to change his wardrobe at night. “Your clothes look white,” she said. “Pray do put on your great coat, that you may not run any danger.” Millwood mumbled something about how he hoped the town’s vigilantes would catch the ghost, but he neglected the advice and continued walking home in his white work clothes.

A few nights later, Francis Smith and William Girdler went ghost hunting.

Compelled by reports of the ghost’s violence, the men carried firearms. Hammersmith’s spirit had choked a man and the village swirled with rumors that it had even attacked a pregnant woman who later died of shock. According to one report, the apparition caused “so much alarm, that every superstitious person in that neighborhood had been filled with the most powerful apprehensions.” But superstitions mattered little. Ghost or not, there was undoubtedly a public menace in Hammersmith, and people wanted it gone. A bounty of 10 pounds would be awarded to anybody who caught it.

A depiction of Francis Smith hunting the Hammersmith ghost in 'The Newgate Calendar.'
A depiction of Francis Smith hunting the Hammersmith ghost in The Newgate Calendar.
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

That same night, Thomas Millwood stopped at his father’s house and began chatting with his sister Ann. Sometime between 10 and 11 p.m., she suggested he leave and escort his wife, who was still in town, back home. “You had better go,” Ann said. “It is dangerous for your wife to come home by herself.” Millwood agreed and stepped outside, wearing his white bricklayer’s clothes. He didn’t know that he was walking down the same unlit lane as Francis Smith, shotgun in tow.

When Smith spotted the white figure gliding in his direction, he lifted his fowling piece to his shoulder and yelled, “Damn you, who are you? Stand, else I’ll shoot you.” The air stood silent. He yelled a second time and stared down the barrel. Not hearing any response, Smith fired.

Millwood’s sister heard the gunshot and screamed for Thomas, but, like Smith, she heard no response. She later found her brother lying face up on the dirt lane, his face stained black with gunpowder, his white clothes stained red.

 
 

The Caledonian Mercury reported the sad news later that week: “We have to announce to the public an event, in some of its circumstances so ludicrous, but in its result so dreadful, that we fear if the reader should even laugh with one side of his mouth, he must of necessity cry with the other.”

The moment the smell of spent gunpowder hit his nose, Smith knew he’d made a mistake. Millwood had been killed instantly; the shot entered his lower left jaw and exited through the back of his neck. Smith barged into the White Hart pub in visible distress, possibly in shock, and waited to be arrested. One week later, he stood trial at London’s Old Bailey courthouse. The jury deliberated for 45 minutes before returning with a conviction of manslaughter.

The three judges rejected the sentence.

“The Court have no hesitation whatever with regard to the law,” Justice Rooke exclaimed, “and therefore the verdict must be—‘Guilty of Murder’ or ‘a total acquittal from want to evidence.’” In other words, the jury could not be wishy-washy. Smith was either guilty of murder, or not guilty of murder—the jury needed to decide.

Within minutes, Smith was convicted of murder. He was sentenced to hang the next Monday; his body would be dissected in the name of science.

Reports of Smith’s trial were lurid. As the Newgate Calendar tells it, “When the dreadful word ‘Guilty!’ was pronounced [Smith] sank into a state of stupefaction exceeding despair.” His feelings were likely intensified by the admission of John Graham, a Hammersmith shoemaker who days earlier admitted to starting the Hammersmith ghost hoax. (Graham began impersonating the specter to scare his apprentices, who he complained were filling his children’s heads with nonsense about ghosts. Unfortunately, his prank appears to have inspired violent copycats to engage in what the Caledonian Mercury called “weak, perhaps wicked frolic.”)

In the end, Smith would be lucky. His sentence was sent to His Majesty King George III, who not only delayed the execution but eventually granted Smith a full pardon.

The Hammersmith ghost trial, however, would haunt England’s legal system for almost another two centuries. Smith’s case would remain a philosophical head-scratcher: If somebody commits an act of violence in an effort to stop a crime from occurring—only to realize later that they were mistaken and that no crime was being committed—is that person still justified in using violence? Or are they the criminal? British law would not be make room for this gray area until the 1980s.

Meanwhile, the tragedy in Hammersmith failed to deter England’s many ghost impersonators. Pranksters and creeps alike continued wearing bedsheets in dark cemeteries and alleyways for almost another century. In fact, the ghost of 1803 and 1804 would not be the last specter to haunt the village of Hammersmith. Two decades later, a ghost would return. But this time, villagers whispered rumors that this haunting was real, caused by the angry soul of a white-clad bricklayer named Thomas Millwood.

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Food
The Little-Known History of Fruit Roll-Ups
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David Kessler, Flickr // CC BY-SA 2.0

The thin sheets of “fruit treats” known as Fruit Roll-Ups have been a staple of supermarkets since 1983, when General Mills introduced the snack to satisfy the sweet tooth of kids everywhere. But as Thrillist writer Gabriella Gershenson recently discovered, the Fruit Roll-Up has an origin that goes much further back—all the way to the turn of the 20th century.

The small community of Syrian immigrants in New York City in the early 1900s didn’t have the packaging or marketing power of General Mills, but they had the novel idea of offering an apricot-sourced “fruit leather” they called amardeen. A grocery proprietor named George Shalhoub would import an apricot paste from Syria that came in massive sheets. At the request of customers, employees would snip off a slice and offer the floppy treat that was named after cowhide because it was so hard to chew.

Although Shalhoub’s business relocated to Brooklyn in the 1940s, the embryonic fruit sheet continued to thrive. George’s grandson, Louis, decided to sell crushed, dried apricots in individually packaged servings. The business later became known as Joray, which sold the first commercial fruit roll-up in 1960. When a trade publication detailed the family’s process in the early 1970s, it opened the floodgates for other companies to begin making the distinctive treat. Sunkist was an early player, but when General Mills put their considerable advertising power behind their Fruit Roll-Ups, they became synonymous with the sticky snack.

Joray is still in business, offering kosher roll-ups that rely more heavily on fruit than the more processed commercial version. But the companies have one important thing in common: They both have the sense not to refer to their product as “fruit leather.”

[h/t Thrillist]

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