THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.
(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 pays, For ever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence
IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the easternshore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominatedby the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they alwaysprudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholaswhen they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port whichby some is called Greensburg, but which is more generally and properlyknown by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, informer days by the good housewives of the adjacent country from theinveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the villagetavern 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 littlevalley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of thequietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasionalwhistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only soundthat ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
I recollect that when a stripling my first exploit in squirrel-shootingwas 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 Sabbathstillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes.If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the worldand its distractions and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubledlife, I know of none more promising than this little valley.
From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar character of itsinhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, thissequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, andits rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all theneighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over theland and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the placewas bewitched by a High German doctor during the early days of thesettlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard ofhis tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered byMaster Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues underthe sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of thegood people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are givento all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions,and frequently see strange sights and hear music and voices in the air.The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, andtwilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across thevalley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, withher whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, andseems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is theapparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by someto be the ghost of a Hessian trooper whose head had been carried away bya cannonball in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, andwho is ever and anon seen by the country-folk hurrying along in thegloom of night as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are notconfined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, andespecially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed,certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have beencareful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning thisspectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried inthe churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightlyquest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimespasses along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his beingbelated and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which hasfurnished 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 theHeadless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is notconfined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciouslyimbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awakethey may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are surein a little time to inhale the witching influence of the air and beginto grow imaginative--to dream dreams and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in suchlittle retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in thegreat State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remainfixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which ismaking such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country,sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of stillwater which border a rapid stream where we may see the straw and bubbleriding quietly at anchor or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor,undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years haveelapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I questionwhether I should not still find the same trees and the same familiesvegetating in its sheltered bosom.
In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of Americanhistory--that is to say, some thirty years since--a worthy wight of thename of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried,"in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the children of thevicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies theUnion with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sendsforth 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, handsthat dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served forshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head wassmall, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and along snip nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon hisspindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding alongthe profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging andfluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the geniusof Famine descending upon the earth or some scarecrow eloped from acornfield.
His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudelyconstructed of logs, the windows partly glazed and partly patched withleaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hoursby a withe twisted in the handle of the door and stakes set against thewindow-shutters, so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease,he would find some embarrassment in getting out---an idea most probablyborrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery ofan eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasantsituation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running closeby and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence thelow murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might beheard in a drowsy summer's day like the hum of a bee-hive, interruptednow and then by the authoritative voice of the master in the tone ofmenace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birchas he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge.Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind thegolden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane'sscholars certainly were not spoiled.
I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruelpotentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; onthe contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather thanseverity, taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying it onthose of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the leastflourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims ofjustice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some littletough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted
Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelledand grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called "doinghis duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisementwithout following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smartingurchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest dayhe had to live."
When school-hours were over he was even the companion and playmate ofthe larger boys, and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of thesmaller ones home who happened to have pretty sisters or good housewivesfor mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behoovedhim to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from hisschool was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish himwith daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had thedilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance he was,according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at thehouses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he livedsuccessively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhoodwith all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.
That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rusticpatrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievousburden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways ofrendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmersoccasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to makehay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows frompasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all thedominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his littleempire, 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 somagnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one kneeand rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.
In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of theneighborhood and picked up many bright shillings by instructing theyoung folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him onSundays to take his station in front of the church-gallery with a bandof chosen singers, where, in his own mind, he completely carried awaythe palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far aboveall the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers stillto 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 IchabodCrane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way which iscommonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got ontolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of thelabor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.
The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the femalecircle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind of idle,gentleman-like personage of vastly superior taste and accomplishments tothe rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to theparson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stirat the tea-table of a farmhouse and the addition of a supernumerarydish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silvertea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in thesmiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in thechurchyard between services on Sundays, gathering grapes for them fromthe wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for theiramusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with awhole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond, while themore bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superiorelegance and address.
From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette,carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so thathis appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover,esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had readseveral books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather'sHistory of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmlyand potently believed.
He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simplecredulity. His appetite for the marvellous and his powers of digestingit were equally extraordinary, and both had been increased by hisresidence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrousfor his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his schoolwas dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed ofclover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house,and there con over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering duskof the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then,as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland to thefarmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of Nature atthat witching hour fluttered his excited imagination--the moan of thewhip-poor-will* from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, thatharbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or thesudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. Thefire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, nowand then startled him as one of uncommon brightness would stream acrosshis path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winginghis blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give upthe ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. Hisonly resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive awayevil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; and the good people of SleepyHollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled withawe at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out,"floating from the distant hill or along the dusky road.
* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words.
Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winterevenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat spinning by the fire, witha row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listento their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields,and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, andparticularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of theHollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equallyby his anecdotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and portentoussights and sounds in the air which prevailed in the earlier times ofConnecticut, and would frighten them woefully with speculations uponcomets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world didabsolutely turn round and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.
But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling in thechimney-corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from thecrackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to showits face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walkhomewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dimand ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did be eyeevery trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from somedistant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered withsnow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often didhe shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frostycrust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, lest heshould behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And howoften was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast howlingamong the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one ofhis nightly scourings!
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mindthat 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 lonelyperambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he wouldhave passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all hisworks, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes moreperplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race ofwitches put together, and that was--a woman.
Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in each weekto receive his instructions in psalmody was Katrina Van Tassel, thedaughter
and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was ablooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and meltingand rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed,not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal alittle of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which wasa mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set offher charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which hergreat-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam, the temptingstomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat todisplay the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex, and it isnot to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in hiseyes, 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 orhis thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm, but within thoseeverything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfiedwith his wealth but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the heartyabundance, rather than the style, in which he lived. His stronghold wassituated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered,fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. Agreat elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of whichbubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water in a little wellformed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the grass toa neighboring brook that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows.Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for achurch, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with thetreasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it frommorning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about theeaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watchingthe weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in theirbosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames,were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers weregrunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, whence salliedforth, 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 gobblingthrough the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it, likeill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Beforethe barn-door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, awarrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowingin the pride and gladness of his heart--sometimes tearing up the earthwith his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family ofwives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.
The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promiseof luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pictured tohimself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his bellyand an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in acomfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese wereswimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes,like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. Inthe porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon and juicyrelishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, withits gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savorysausages; and even bright Chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his backin a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter whichhis chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.
As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his greatgreen eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye,of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddyfruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heartyearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and hisimagination expanded with the idea how they might be readily turned intocash and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land and shinglepalaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized hishopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family ofchildren, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery,with pots and kettles dangling beneath, and he beheld himself bestridinga 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. Itwas one of those spacious farmhouses with high-ridged but lowly-slopingroofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers, thelow projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front capable of beingclosed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, variousutensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboringriver. Benches were built along the sides for summer use, and a greatspinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed the varioususes to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazzathe wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre ofthe mansion and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendentpewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one cornerstood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity oflinsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn and strings ofdried apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingledwith the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep intothe best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tablesshone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel andtongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-orangesand conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-coloredbirds' eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung fromthe 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 thepeace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain theaffections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise,however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot ofa knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters,fiery dragons, and such-like easily-conquered adversaries to contendwith, and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brassand walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart wasconfined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his wayto the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand asa matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way tothe heart of a country coquette beset with a labyrinth of whimsand caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties andimpediments, and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversariesof real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers who beset everyportal 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, roisteringblade of the name of Abraham--or, according to the Dutch abbreviation,Brom--Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang withhis feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered anddouble-jointed, with short curly black hair and a bluff but notunpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance.From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received thenickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famedfor great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous onhorseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cockfights, and,with the ascendancy which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, wasthe umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side and giving hisdecisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He wasalways ready for either a fight or a frolic, but had more mischief thanill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughnessthere was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three orfour boon companions who regarded him as their model, and at the head ofwhom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merrimentfor miles around. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur capsurmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a countrygathering d
escried this well-known crest at a distance, whiskingabout among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall.Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm-houses atmidnight with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and theold dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment tillthe hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goesBrom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixtureof awe, admiration, and good-will, and when any madcap prank or rusticbrawl occurred in the vicinity always shook their heads and warrantedBrom Bones was at the bottom of it.
This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrinafor the object of his uncouth gallantries, and, though his amoroustoyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of abear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage hishopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates toretire who felt no inclination to cross a line in his amours; insomuch,that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sundaynight, a sure sign that his master was courting--or, as it is termed,"sparking"--within, all other suitors passed by in despair and carriedthe 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 shrunkfrom 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 although;though he bent, he never broke and though he bowed beneath the slightestpressure, yet the moment it was away, jerk! he was as erect and carriedhis head as high as ever.
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madnessfor he was not man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than thatstormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in aquiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character ofsinging-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house; not that hehad anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt VanTassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better eventhan his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, lether have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enoughto do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry for, as shesagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be lookedafter, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy damebustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of thepiazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with asword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacleof the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with thedaughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or saunteringalong 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 theyhave always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have butone vulnerable point, or door of access, while otheres have a thousandavenues and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is agreat triumph of skill to gain the former, but still greater proofof generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man mustbattle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousandcommon hearts is therefore entitled to some renown, but he who keepsundisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certainit is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and fromthe moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the formerevidently declined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palingson Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and thepreceptor of Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain havecarried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensionsto the lady according to the mode of those most concise and simplereasoners, the knights-errant of yore--by single combat; but Ichabod wastoo conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the listsagainst him: he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "doublethe schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;"and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was somethingextremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Bromno alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in hisdisposition and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gangof rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smokedout his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into theschoolhouse at night in spite of its formidable fastenings of witheand window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the poorschoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held theirmeetings there. But, what was still more annoying, Brom took allopportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress,and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrousmanner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her inpsalmody.
In this way, matters went on for some time without producing anymaterial effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. Ona fine autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned onthe lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his littleliterary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despoticpower; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, aconstant terror to evildoers; while on the desk before him might beseen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons detected uponthe persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns,whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little papergamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justicerecently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon theirbooks or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master,and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room.It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-clothjacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat like the cap ofMercury, 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 tothe school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-makingor "quilting frolic" to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's;and, having delivered his message with that air of importance and effortat fine language which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies ofthe kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up thehollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. Thescholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles;those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those whowere tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear to quickentheir speed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung asidewithout being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned,benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hourbefore the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of youngimps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their earlyemancipation.
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 rustyblack, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass thathung up in the school-house. That he might make his appearance beforehis mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse fromthe farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of thename of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth likea knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, inthe true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looksand equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was abroken-down plough-horse that had outlived almost everything but hisviciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like ahammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; oneeye had lost its pupil and was glaring and spectral, but the other hadthe gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still, he mu
st have had fire andmettle 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 VanRipper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some ofhis 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 inthe country.
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with shortstirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle;his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whipperpendicularly in his hand like a sceptre; and as his horse jogged onthe motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. Asmall wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip offorehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered outalmost to his horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and hissteed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it wasaltogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broaddaylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear andserene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery which we alwaysassociate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their soberbrown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nippedby the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their appearance high in theair; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beechand hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals fromthe neighboring stubble-field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness oftheir revelry they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bushand tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety aroundthem. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of striplingsportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds,flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with hiscrimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and thecedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its littlemonteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in hisgay light-blue coat and white under-clothes, screaming and chattering,bobbing and nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms withevery songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his eye, ever open to every symptomof culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jollyAutumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples--some hanging inoppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into baskets and barrelsfor the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press.Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden earspeeping from their leafy coverts and holding out the promise of cakesand hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turningup their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospectsof the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrantbuckwheat-fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheldthem soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, wellbuttered and garnished with honey or treacle by the delicate littledimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugaredsuppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills whichlook out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sungradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom ofthe Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and therea gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distantmountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of airto move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing graduallyinto a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of themid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of theprecipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depthto the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loiteringin the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanginguselessly against the mast, and as the reflection of the sky gleamedalong the still water it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in theair.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the HeerVan Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of theadjacent country--old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespuncoats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewterbuckles; their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps,long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors andpincushions and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; buxom lasses,almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, afine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation;the sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous brassbuttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times,especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it beingesteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthenerof the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to thegathering on his favorite steed Daredevil--a creature, like himself fullof metal and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. Hewas, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kindsof tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for heheld 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 uponthe enraptured gaze of my hero as he entered the state parlor of VanTassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses with theirluxurious display of red and white, but the ample charms of a genuineDutch country tea-table in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-upplatters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known onlyto experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, thetenderer oily koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakesand short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family ofcakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies;besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishesof preserved plums and peaches and pears and quinces; not to mentionbroiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk andcream,--all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumeratedthem, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from themidst. Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss thisbanquet 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, butdid ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportionas his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose witheating as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling hislarge eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility thathe might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxuryand splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the oldschool-house, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper and everyother niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doorsthat should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilatedwith content and good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. Hishospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to ashake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressinginvitation to "fall to and help themselves."
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summonedto the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro who had been theitinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century.His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part ofthe time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movementof the bow with a motion of the head, bowing almost to the ground andstamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocalpowers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seenhis loosely hung frame in full motion and clattering about the roomyou would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of thedance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of
allthe negroes, who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farmand the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces atevery door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling theirwhite eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. Howcould the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? Thelady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciouslyin reply to all his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smittenwith love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end Ichabod was attracted to a knot of thesager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of thepiazza gossiping over former times and drawing out long stories aboutthe war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of thosehighly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men.The British and American line had run near it during the war; it hadtherefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees,cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time hadelapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a littlebecoming fiction, and in the indistinctness of his recollection to makehimself 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-pounderfrom a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge.And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too richa mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains,being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a smallsword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade andglance off at the hilt: in proof of which he was ready at any time toshow the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several morethat had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but waspersuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happytermination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions thatsucceeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of thekind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered,long-settled retreats but are trampled under foot by the shifting throngthat forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, thereis no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they havescarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves intheir graves before their surviving friends have travelled away from theneighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their roundsthey have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reasonwhy we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutchcommunities.
The immediate causes however, of the prevalence of supernatural storiesin these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that hauntedregion; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infectingall the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present atVan Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderfullegends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains and mourningcries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where theunfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood.Some mention was made also of the woman in white that haunted the darkglen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nightsbefore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of thestories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, theheadless horseman, who had been heard several times of late patrollingthe country, and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among thegraves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it afavorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll surrounded bylocust trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashedwalls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through theshades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheetof water bordered by high trees, between which peeps may be caught atthe blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, wherethe sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there atleast the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends awide woody dell, along, which raves a large brook among broken rocks andtrunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not farfrom the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that ledto it and the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees,which cast a gloom about it even in the daytime, but occasioned afearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts ofthe headless horseman, and the place where he was most frequentlyencountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most hereticaldisbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his forayinto Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how theygalloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reachedthe bridge, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw oldBrouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clapof thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice-marvellous adventure ofBrom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey.He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village ofSing-Sing he had been over taken by this midnight trooper; that he hadoffered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won ittoo, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as theycame to the church bridge the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash offire.
All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk inthe dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receivinga casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind ofIchabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluableauthor, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had takenplace in his native state of Connecticut and fearful sights which he hadseen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered togethertheir families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattlingalong the hollow roads and over the distant hills. Some of thedamsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and theirlight-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed alongthe silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they graduallydied away, and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent anddeserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom ofcountry lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convincedthat he was now on the high road to success. What passed at thisinterview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know.Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainlysallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolateand chop-fallen. Oh these women! these women! Could that girl have beenplaying off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of thepoor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forthwith the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fairlady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the sceneof rural wealth on which he had so often gloated, he went straight tothe stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steedmost uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundlysleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats and whole valleys oftimothy and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted andcrestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the sides of thelofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed socheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far belowhim the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, withhere and there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor underthe land. In the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the barking ofthe watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vagueand faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithfulcompanion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock,accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm-houseaway among the hills; but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. Nosi
gns of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirpof a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from aneighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly inhis bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoonnow came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker anddarker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving cloudsoccasionally had them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely anddismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of thescenes of the ghost-stories had been laid. In the centre of the roadstood an enormous tulip tree which towered like a giant above all theother trees of the neighborhood and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbswere gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinarytrees, twisting down almost to the earth and rising again into the air.It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, whohad been taken prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the nameof Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture ofrespect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of itsill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights anddoleful lamentations told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to whistle: he thoughthis whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply throughthe dry branches. As he approached a little nearer he thought he sawsomething white hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceasedwhistling, but on looking more narrowly perceived that it was a placewhere the tree had been scathed by lightning and the white wood laidbare. Suddenly he heard a groan: his teeth chattered and his kneessmote against the saddle; it was but the rubbing of one huge bough uponanother as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree insafety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road andran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen known by the name of Wiley'sSwamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge overthis stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood agroup of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw acavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. Itwas at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, andunder the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomenconcealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered ahaunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has topass 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 theribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead ofstarting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement andran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with thedelay, jerked the reins on the other side and kicked lustily with thecontrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, butit was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket ofbrambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip andheel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward,snuffing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with asuddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught thesensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove on the marginof the brook he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering.It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some giganticmonster 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, whichcould ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, ashow of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, "Who are you?"He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitatedvoice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sidesof the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth withinvoluntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object ofalarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood atonce 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 blackhorse 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 sideof old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, andbethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the GallopingHessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. Thestranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulledup, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did thesame. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume hispsalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth andhe could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody anddogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious andappalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a risingground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in reliefagainst the sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod washorror-struck on perceiving that he was headless! but his horror wasstill more increased on observing that the head, which should haverested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of thesaddle. His terror rose to desperation, he rained a shower of kicks andblows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companionthe slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, theydashed through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing atevery bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air as hestretched his long lank body away over his horse's head in the eagernessof his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; butGunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,made an opposite turn and plunged headlong down hill to the left. Thisroad leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarterof a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and justbeyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an apparentadvantage in the chase; but just as he had got halfway through thehollow the girths of the saddle gave away and he felt it slipping fromunder 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 Gunpowderround the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard ittrampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans VanRipper's wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; butthis was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches,and (unskilled rider that he was) he had much ado to maintain his seat,sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimesjolted on the high ridge of his horse's back-bone with a violence thathe verily feared would cleave him asunder.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the churchbridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in thebosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the wallsof the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected theplace where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I canbut reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he heardthe black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fanciedthat he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, andold Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resoundingplanks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behindto see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash offire 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 tododge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his craniumwith a tremendous crash; he was tumbled headlong into the dust, andGunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed by like awhirlwind.
The ne
xt morning the old horse was found, without his saddle and withthe bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master'sgate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hourcame, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house andstrolled idly about the banks of the brook but no schoolmaster. Hans VanRipper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poorIchabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligentinvestigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leadingto the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks ofhorses' 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 ofthe brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of theunfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a spattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to bediscovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined thebundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of twoshirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or two of worstedstockings, an old pair of corduroy small-clothes, a rusty razor, a bookof psalm tunes full of dog's ears, and a broken pitch-pipe. As to thebooks and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community,excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac,and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet offoolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts tomake a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magicbooks and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flamesby Hans Van Ripper, who from that time forward determined to send hischildren no more to school, observing that he never knew any goodcome of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmasterpossessed--and he had received his quarter's pay but a day ortwo before--he must have had about his person at the time of hisdisappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on thefollowing Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in thechurchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkinhad been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget ofothers were called to mind, and when they had diligently considered themall, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shooktheir heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carriedoff 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 toa different quarter of the hollow and another pedagogue reigned in hisstead.
It is true an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visitseveral years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventurewas received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was stillalive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of thegoblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having beensuddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to adistant part of the country, had kept school and studied law at the sametime, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered,written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice ofthe Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival'sdisappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar,was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabodwas related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of thepumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matterthan he chose to tell.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of thesematters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away bysupernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about theneighborhood round the intervening fire. The bridge became more thanever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why theroad has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by theborder of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell todecay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunatepedagogue; and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summerevening, has often fancied his voice at a distance chanting a melancholypsalm 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 heardit related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Manhattoes,at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers.The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow inpepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and one whomI strongly suspected of being poor, he made such efforts to beentertaining. When his story was concluded there was much laughter andapprobation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen who hadbeen asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall,dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained agrave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms,inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning adoubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh butupon 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 wasrestored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking theother akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of thehead and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story andwhat it went to prove.
The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips as arefreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirerwith an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to thetable, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove--
"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages andpleasures--provided we will but take a joke as we find it;
"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely tohave rough riding of it.
"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutchheiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state."
The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after thisexplanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism,while methought the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of atriumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, butstill he thought the story a little on the extravagant--there were oneor two points on which he had his doubts.
"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don'tbelieve one-half of it myself."
D. K.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 35