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| "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW" |
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| by Washington Irving |
|
| (FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER) |
| "A
pleasing land of drowsy mind it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of happy castles in the clouds that pass, Forever sailing 'round a summer sky..." CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. |
| 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 St. Nicholas
when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly
known by the name of 'Tarry Town'. |
| (This
name was given, we are told, in former days, by the Good Housewives of
the adjacent country -- from the inveterate propensity of their Husbands
to linger about the Village Tavern on market days. Be that as
it may; I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the
sake of being precise and authentic.) |
| 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 tranquillity. |
| I
recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting
was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley.
I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet...,
and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath
stillness around -- and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes...
If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world
and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled
life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. |
| 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 pow-wows 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..., and The Nightmare,
with her whole Nine-fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of
her gambols... |
| 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 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 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
Spectre, allege that the body of 'The Trooper', having been buried
in the church-yard, 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
church-yard 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". |
| 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'... |
| I
mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such little
retired Dutch valleys -- found here and there embosomed in the great State
of New York -- that population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while
the great torrent of migration and improvement (which is making such incessant
changes in other parts of this restless country) sweeps by them unobserved.
They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid
stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor,
or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of
the passing current... Though many years have elapsed since I trod the
drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still
find the same trees, and the same families, vegetating in its sheltered
bosom. |
| In
this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of American History
(that is to say, some thirty 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 weather-cock, 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. |
| His
school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed
of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of
old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a
withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window
shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease,
he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most
probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houton, from the mystery
of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant
situation just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close
by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. 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 bee-hive;
interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in
the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound
of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of
knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in
mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”—Ichabod
Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled. |
| I
would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates
of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary,
he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking
the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong.
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod,
was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied
by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted
Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath
the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;”
and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance,
so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember
it, and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.” |
| When
school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the
larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller
ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for
mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him
to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school
was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with
daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating
powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was,
according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived
successively a week at a time; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood,
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. |
| That
all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons,
who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and
schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself
both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the
lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences;
took the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut wood for
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became
wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the
mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like
the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would
sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole
hours together. |
| In
addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood,
and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in
psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take
his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers;
where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson.
Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation;
and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church,
and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side
of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane... Thus, by divers little make-shifts
in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook
and by crook,” the Worthy Pedagogue got on tolerably enough,
and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork,
to have a wonderfully easy life of it. |
| 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. 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 sweetmeats,
or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man-of-letters,
therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels.
How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on
Sundays! Gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the
surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the
tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks
of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung
sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. |
| From
his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling 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. |
| He
was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity.
His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were
equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence
in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his
capacious swallow. 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 school-house, and there con over
old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening
made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended
his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where
he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour,
fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will
(*) from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger
of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling
in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too,
which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled
him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if,
by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight
against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the
idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource
on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits,
was to sing psalm tunes;—and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at
hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,”
floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. |
| (
* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives
its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. ) |
| Another
of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with
the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples
roasting and spluttering along the hearth, 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. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of
witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds
in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would
frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars;
and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn
'round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! |
| 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 his 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!—How often was he appalled by some shrub
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted Spectre, beset his very
path!—How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound
of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and
dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some Uncouth
Being tramping close behind him!—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 spectres in his time, and
been more than once beset by Satan in divers 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 eighteen; 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 Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time;
and withal a provokingly-short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot
and ankle in the country round... |
| 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 every thing was snug,
happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not
proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than
the style in which he lived. 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
bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was
a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice
of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail
was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins
skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one
eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under
their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing,
and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof.
Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their
pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if
to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an
adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys
were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it,
like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before
the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a
warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing
in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes tearing up the
earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. |
| The
Pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise
of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured
to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly,
and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable
pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in
their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw
carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not
a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its
wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright
chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained
to ask while living... |
| As
the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green
eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat,
and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded
the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who
was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the
idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the
money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in
the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented
to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted
on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles
dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with
a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the-Lord-knows-where. |
| When
he entered the house the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one
of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs,
built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of
being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness,
various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring
river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great
spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various
uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza
the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the
mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter,
ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge
bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey
just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and
peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of
red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor,
where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors;
andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their
covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the
mantelpiece; strings of various colored birds’ eggs were suspended
above it: a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and
a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of
old silver and well-mended china. |
| 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, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons,
and such like easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to
make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant,
to the Castle Keep, where The Lady of his Heart was confined; all which
he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a
Christmas pie; and then The Lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.
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 a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the
name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van
Brunt, the hero of the country 'round, which rang with his feats
of strength and hardihood. 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. |
| He
was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendency which
bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes,
setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and
tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either
a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition;
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish
good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded
him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending
every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was
distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail;
and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest
at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along
past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like
a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep,
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and
then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!”
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good
will; 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. |
| This
rantipole hero had for some time singled-out the blooming 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. Certain
it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt
no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his
horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a
sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed “sparking,”
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into
other quarters. |
| 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. |
| To
have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness;
for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that
stormy lover, Achilles. 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; not that
he had any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel
was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his
pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have
her way in every thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do
to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after,
but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled
about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza,
honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching
the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in
each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the
barn... In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter
by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in
the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence. |
| I
profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me
they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have
but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have
a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different
ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater
proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man
must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand
common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who
keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed
a hero. 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 at
the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between
him and the Preceptor of Sleepy Hollow... |
| Brom,
who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried
matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady,
according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the
knights-errant of yore—by single combat; but Ichabod was
too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists
against him: he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double
the Schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;”
and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely
provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative
but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to
play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object
of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They
harried his hitherto-peaceful domains; smoked-out his singing school by
stopping up the chimney; broke into the school-house at night, in spite
of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every
thing topsy-turvy: so that the poor Schoolmaster began to think
all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was
still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him
into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom
he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced
as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody. |
| In
this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material
effect on the relative situation of the contending powers... On a fine
autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty
stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary
realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic
power; the Birch-of-Justice reposed on three nails, behind the
throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him
might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected
upon the persons of idle urchins; such as half-munched apples, popguns,
whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks.
Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted,
for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering
behind them with one eye kept upon the Master; and a kind of buzzing stillness
reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the
appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned
fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of
a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way
of halter. He 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; and having
delivered his message, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering
away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. |
| All
was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were
hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles; those who
were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy,
had a smart application now and then in the rear, to
quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside
without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches
thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the
usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing
about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. |
| The
gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing
and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging
his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the schoolhouse.
That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style
of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom
he was domiciliated (a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans
Van Ripper) and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant
in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of
romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero
and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse,
that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt
and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane
and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil,
and was glaring and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we
may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact,
been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper,
who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own
spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was
more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. |
| 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 sceptre, 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. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his
steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was
altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. |
| It
was, as I have said, 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. The forests had put on their sober brown and
yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts
into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of
wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of
the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts,
and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring
stubble-field. |
| The
small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their
revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and
tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them.
There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen,
with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in
sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest,
his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with
its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of
feathers; and the blue-jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue
coat and white under-clothes; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing
and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of
the grove. |
| As
Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom
of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly
Autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive
opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the
market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on
he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from
their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding;
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of
pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the
odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over
his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey
or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel... |
| Thus
feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,”
he journeyed along the side of a range of hills which look out upon some
of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled
his broad disk down into the West. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay
motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation
waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber
clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon
was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green,
and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heavens. A slanting ray lingered
on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the
river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky
sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with
the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection
of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was
suspended in the air. |
| 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. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun
coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter
buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted
short-gowns, home-spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and
gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated
as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps
a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted
coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally
queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an
eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as
a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. |
| 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 mettle and mischief, and 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. |
| Fain
would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured
gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s
mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display
of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table,
in the sumptuous time of Autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives!
There was the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the
crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes
and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple
pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked
beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches,
and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens;
together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledly,
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending
up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark!
I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am
too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every
dainty... |
| He
was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as
his skin was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating
as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his
large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that
he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury
and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon
the old school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper,
and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out
of doors that should dare to call him comrade! |
| 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. The musician was an old grayheaded Negro, who had been the
itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century.
His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of
the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement
of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and
stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. |
| Ichabod
prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not
a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung
frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought
Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring
before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having
gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing
with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing
grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the-flogger-of-urchins
be otherwise than animated and joyous? 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. |
| 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 the war. |
| This
neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly-favored
places which abound with Chronicle and Great Men. The British and American
line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene
of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border
chivalry. Just-sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller
to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness
of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. |
| There
was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,
who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from
a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And
there was an old gentleman (who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer
to be lightly mentioned) who, in the battle of White-plains, being an
excellent master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword,
insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off
at the hilt: in proof of which, he was ready at any time to show the sword,
with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally
great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable
hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. |
| But
all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions
that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the
kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled
retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms
the populations of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement
for ghosts in most of our villages, for, they have scarcely had time to
finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their
surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when
they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance
left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of
ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. |
| The
immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in
these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There
was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land.
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 wailing
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 church-yard...
|
| The
sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite
haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees
and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly
forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement.
A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by
high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the
Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to
sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead
might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell,
along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen
trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church,
was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the
bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a
gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness
at night. This 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! |
| This
story was immediately matched by a thrice-marvellous adventure of Brom
Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He
affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring village of
Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that
he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won
it too, for Daredevil beat the Goblin Horse all-hollow, but,
just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished
in a flash of fire... |
| 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.
He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author,
Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken
place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he
had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. |
| 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. Some of the damsels mounted
on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter,
mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands,
sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away — and
the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod
only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have
a tête-à-tête 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 chop-fallen. —
Oh these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing-off
any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor Pedagogue
all a mere sham — to secure her conquest of his rival?
— Heaven only knows, not I! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod
stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather
than a fair lady’s heart. 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, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole
valleys of timothy and clover. |
| It
was the very Witching-Time-of-Night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen,
pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which
rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon.
The hour was dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast
of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush
of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the
opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to
give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now
and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened,
would sound far, far off from some farmhouse away among the hills —
but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear... No signs of life occurred
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps
the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping
uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. |
| 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 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. 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 André,
who had been taken prisoner hard-by; and was universally known by the
name of 'Major André’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
two hundred 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’s
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood,
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted-thick with wild grapevines, threw
a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial.
It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André
was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the
sturdy Yeomen 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
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half-a-score
of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge;
but 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 starveling 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 splashy 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, black
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, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning
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 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,
who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself
of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, 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-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 the 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 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 down hill 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 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. 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 (unskilful 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 his 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
Bones’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 school-master. 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 school-master was not to be discovered.
Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which
contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a
half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an
old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes,
full of dogs’ ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and
furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting
Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac,
and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of
foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make
a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books
and the poetic scrawls were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans
Van Ripper; who from that time forward determined to send his children
no more to school; observing, that he never knew any good come of this
same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and
he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must
have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. |
| 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. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody
troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different
quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. |
| It
is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several
years after, and from whom This Account of the ghostly adventure was received,
brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive;
that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the Goblin and
Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed
by The Heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of
the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been
admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the
newspapers, and finally had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court.
Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival’s disappearance
conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to
look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which
led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he
chose to tell. |
| The
old Country Wives, however, 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 mill-pond.
The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported
to be haunted by the ghost of the Unfortunate Pedagogue; and
the ploughboy, 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. |
| ~ POSTSCRIPT ~ |
| Found in the Handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. |
| The
preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard
it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient City of the Manhattoes,
at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious Burghers.
The Narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt
clothes, with a sadly-humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected
of being poor, -- he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story
was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from
two or three Deputy Aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of
the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking Old Gentleman,
with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face
throughout; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking
down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one
of your wary men, who never laugh, but on good grounds -- when they have
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company
had subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow
of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but
exceedingly-sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what
was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove? |
| The
Story-Teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment
after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air
of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed
that the story was intended most logically to prove: |
| "There
is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures -- provided
we will but take a joke as we find it; |
| "That,
therefore, he that runs races with Goblin Troopers is likely to have rough
riding of it. |
| "Ergo,
for a country Schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch Heiress,
is a certain step to high preferment in The State." |
| The
cautious Old Gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this
explanation, being sorely puzzled by ratiocination of the syllogism; while,
methought, The-One-in-Pepper-and-Salt eyed him with something of a triumphant
leer... At length he observed that all this was very well, but still he
thought the story a little on the extravagant -- there were one
or two points on which he had his doubts. |
| "Faith,
sir," replied the Story-Teller, "as to that matter
-- I don't believe one half of it myself!" |
 |
| D.K. |
|
| From
The Sketch Book |
| To Return to the Crumpkin's Pumpkins Gift Shop use the link immediately below ~ |
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| "SLEEPY HOLLOW" |
| Web Transcription by Johnny Curtis |
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