THE
LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
by Washington Irving
Found among the papers of the late Diedrech
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
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
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 considered 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 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 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 school-house, 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, to 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 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 booming 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 of her charms. She wore
the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had
brought over from Saar dam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and
withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle
in the country round.
Ichahod 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 burstingforth 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; an 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 ofa 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 lchabod 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 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 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 cockrobin, 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 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 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 shallow 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
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 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 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, wellbroken 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 olykoek, 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-pigglely, 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 goodhumor, 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 eye-balls, and
showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.
How could the flogger of urchins be
otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in
the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while
Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in
one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the
sager folks, who, with Old V an Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza,
gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I
am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle
and great men. The British and American
line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore], been the scene of
marauding and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border
chivalry. Just sufficient time had
elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming
fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the
hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,
who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud
breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be
nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle
of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball
with a small-sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade,
and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show
the sword, with the hilt a little bent.
There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not
one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the
war to a happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that
succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in
legendary treasures of the kind. Local
tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long settled retreats;
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the 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 Andre
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 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 tosecure 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 crest-fallen, 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 bull-frog
from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in
his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon
now came crowding upon his recollection.
The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the
sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place
where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous
tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood,
and formed a kind of landmark. Its
limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary
trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of
the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally
known by the name of Major Andre'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 Andre 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 school-boy 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 down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge
famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands
the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent
advantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the
girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored
to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old
Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled
under foot by his pursuer. For a moment
the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, --for it was his
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his
haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his
seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he
verily feared would cleave him asunder.
An opening, in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church
bridge was at hand. The wavering
reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not
mistaken. He saw the walls of the
church dimly glaring under the trees beyond.
He recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had
disappeard. "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, andbook 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 chat 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 plough-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.