THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
By WASHINGTON IRVING
"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 Tappaan
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 it, 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 three
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 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 marvelous 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 that is 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 specter, 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 specter 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 weathercock
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 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 case, he
would find some embarrassment in getting out—an
idea most probably borrowed by the architect,
Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an ellpot.
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 of 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, that 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 holyday 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 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 head-work, 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
gentleman-like 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 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 traveling 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
marvelous, 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 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.
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 sputtering
along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous
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 wofully 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 specter dared to show its face, it was
dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent
walk homeward. What fearful shapes and shadows
beset his path, amid 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
specter, 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 specters
in his time, and had 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
toward 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 these, 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 its belly and an apple in
its 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 wonderful Ichabod entered the hall,
which formed the center 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 mantel-piece; strings of various colored
birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great
ostrich egg was hung from the center 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 center
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, roistering blade, of the name of
Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation,
Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round,
which rung 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
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;
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
of his own stamp, 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 the 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 meantime, 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
a man must battle for his fortress at every
door and window. He that 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 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 the boast of Bones, that
he would "double the schoolmaster up, and
put him on a shelf"; 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 scepter 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 game-cocks.
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 trousers,
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 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 plow-horse
that had outlived almost everything 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 his name, which was 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 scepter, and as the 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-tipped
wings and yellow-tipped 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.
Further 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 slap-jacks,
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 into the west. The wide bosom of
the Tappaan 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
gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors
and pin-cushions, 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 innovations. 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 eelskin 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 away 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 fiber 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 drawling 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 kind 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 defense, 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 traveled 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 specter
of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who
had been heard several times of late, patrolling
the country, and, it is 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 treetops
with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice
marvelous 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, sunk
deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them
in kind with large extracts from his invaluable
author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous
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
tete-a-tete 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 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 crestfallen, pursued
his travel homeward, 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 Tappaan 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 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 center
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 a 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, black and towering. It stirred
not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom,
like some gigantic monster ready to spring
upon the traveler.
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 cudgeled 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-traveler 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 specter 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
unskillful 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 (unskillful 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 sprung
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, by
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 mill-pond.
The schoolhouse being deserted, soon fell
to decay, and was reported to be haunted by
the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and
the plow-boy, 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 upon 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 a-kimbo, 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:
"That 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 the 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.
