The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

== THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW ==
=== By Washington Irving ===
From International Short Stories 1910
=== (FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER) ===
"A pleasing land of
drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay
castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky." --''
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 tranquility.
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 , a State which supplies the 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 white 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[1] 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 , 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
. 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 .
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 ,
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 ,
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 
he could even hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the ; 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
 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,[2] 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.
[1] The whip-poor-will is a bird which is
only heard at night. It receives its name from its note, which is thought to
resemble those words.
[2] .
Category:Irving
Category:International Short Stories