The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
by Washing Irving
Found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker:
A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing 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
noontime, 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 powwows there before the country was discovered
by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still
continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds
a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them
to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds
of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions,
and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices
in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales,
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot
and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any
other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her
whole ninefold, 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 churchyard, the ghost
rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of
his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes
passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing
to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the
churchyard before daybreak.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition,
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in
that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all
the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman
of Sleepy Hollow.
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 every one 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 woodmen 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 schoolhouse
was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed
of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched
with leaves of old copybooks. 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
Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse
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 beehive; 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 burden
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 millpond, on a still
Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little
makeshifts, 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 teapot. 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 overran 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 millpond; 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 spell-bound 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 schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s
direful tales, until the gathering dusk of 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 hillside, 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 fireflies, 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.
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 its 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 everything 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 babbled
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, from 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 burdened 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 anything 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 ascendancy
which bodily strength always 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 that admitted
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 anything
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
everything. 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 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 to 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 schoolhouse;” 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 schoolhouse
at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe
and window stakes, and turned everything 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 situations of the contending
powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from 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 schoolroom.
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 with that air of importance,
and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display
on petty embassies of the kind, 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 locks 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 plow-horse, that had outlived
almost everything but its 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 burs;
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
horses 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 underclothes, 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 sides 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 in 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-heaven.
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, homespun 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 doughnut, the tender 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-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them,
with the motherly teapot 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 schoolhouse;
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 gray-headed
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 St.
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 eyeballs,
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, cowboys,
and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time
had elapsed to enable each storyteller 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 population 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 wailings heard and
seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was
taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention
was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark
glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter
nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow.
The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the
favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman,
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the
country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among
the graves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. 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. Such was one
of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the
place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale
was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in
ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray
into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him;
how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp,
until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly
turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook,
and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.
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 chapfallen. 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 henroost,
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 crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town,
and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon.
The hour was as 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 watchdog
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 bullfrog
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 grape-vines,
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 plashy 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
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
his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a
shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden
movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre
started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through
thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every
bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the
air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s
head, in the eagerness of his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy
Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon,
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged
headlong downhill 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 schoolmaster. Hans
Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the
fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set
on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon
his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of
horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently
at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which,
on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water
ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate
Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.
The brook
was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not
to be discovered. 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 dog’s-ears; and a broken
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse,
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
scrawl 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 millpond. The schoolhouse
being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to
be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and
the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening,
has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy
psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
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