Free Public Domain Audio Book: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

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The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving
Found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker.
A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky.
From 'Castle of Indolence'.
In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson,
at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan
Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas
when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called
Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town.
This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village
tavern on market days.
Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake
of being precise and authentic.
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather
lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world.
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the
occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove
of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley.
I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled
by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged
and reverberated by the angry echoes.
If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions,
and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this
little valley.
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants,
who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been
known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys
throughout all the neighboring country.
A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere.
Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days
of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe,
held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds
a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie.
They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions,
and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.
The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions;
stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country,
and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her
gambols.
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief
of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head.
It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away
by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever
and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the
wings of the wind.
His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads,
and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance.
Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting
and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the
trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle
in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes
along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry
to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials
for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country
firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native
inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for
a time.
However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are
sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative,
to dream dreams, and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch
valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population,
manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement,
which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps
by them unobserved.
They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where
we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic
harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I
question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating
in its sheltered bosom.
In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that
is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned,
or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the
children of the vicinity.
He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind
as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and
country schoolmasters.
The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person.
He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that
dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole
frame most loosely hung together.
His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a
long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck
to tell which way the wind blew.
To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging
and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon
the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.
His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the
windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks.
It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of
the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,—an idea most probably borrowed
by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot.
The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a
woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one
end of it.
From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard
in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the
authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure,
by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery
path of knowledge.
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare
the rod and spoil the child."
Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.
I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the
school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with
discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and
laying it on those of the strong.
Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with
indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on
some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew
dogged and sullen beneath the birch.
All this he called "doing his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement
without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that "he
would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live."
When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys;
and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to
have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard.
Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils.
The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to
furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating
powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country
custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children
he instructed.
With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood,
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.
That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are
apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones,
he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable.
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make
hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut
wood for the winter fire.
He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it
in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating.
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the
youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would
sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.
In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and
picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody.
It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of
the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely
carried away the palm from the parson.
Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there
are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which
are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane.
Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated
"by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought,
by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life
of it.
The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural
neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior
taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning
only to the parson.
His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse,
and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the
parade of a silver teapot.
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels.
How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes
for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their
amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them,
along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung
sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.
From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the
whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted
with satisfaction.
He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read
several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's "History of New
England Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.
He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity.
His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary;
and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region.
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow.
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch
himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse,
and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the
printed page a mere mist before his eyes.
Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where
he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his
excited imagination,—the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree
toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden
rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost.
The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled
him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge
blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready
to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token.
His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits,
was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors
of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness
long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.
Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the
old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering
along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields,
and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless
horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him.
He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and
portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut;
and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the
alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time
topsy-turvy!
But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a
chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course,
no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent
walk homewards.
What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of
a snowy night!
With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields
from some distant window!
How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre,
beset his very path!
How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty
crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some
uncouth being tramping close behind him!
And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among
the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness;
and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan
in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils;
and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works,
if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man
than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.
Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions
in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer.
She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and
rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her
beauty, but her vast expectations.
She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which
was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms.
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought
over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly
short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered
at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had
visited her in her paternal mansion.
Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted
farmer.
He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his
own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned.
He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty
abundance, rather than the style in which he lived.
His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered,
fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling.
A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a
spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among
alders and dwarf willows.
Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window
and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail
was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering
about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the
weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof.
Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence
sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air.
A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets
of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting
about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry.
Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior
and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness
of his heart,—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling
his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.
The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter
fare.
In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with
a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed
in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming
in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples,
with a decent competency of onion sauce.
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham;
not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and,
peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling
on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.
As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over
the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and
the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel,
his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination
expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested
in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness.
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina,
with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery,
with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare,
with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or the Lord knows where!
When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete.
It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built
in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming
a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather.
Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing
in the neighboring river.
Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end,
and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be
devoted.
From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion,
and the place of usual residence.
Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes.
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey
just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung
in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar
gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables
shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert
of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored
birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver
and well-mended china.
From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his
mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless
daughter of Van Tassel.
In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot
of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons,
and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with and had to make his way merely
through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady
of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to
the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset
with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and
impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood,
the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and
angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.
Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of
Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round,
which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood.
He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but
not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance.
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM
BONES, by which he was universally known.
He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback
as a Tartar.
He was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength
always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side,
and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal.
He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will
in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish
good humor at bottom.
He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head
of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles
round.
In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's
tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance,
whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall.
Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with
whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep,
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there
goes Brom Bones and his gang!"
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when
any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads,
and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.
This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of
his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses
and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his
hopes.
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination
to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's
paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed,
"sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other
quarters.
Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all
things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would
have despaired.
He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in
form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke;
and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he
was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was
not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles.
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner.
Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse;
not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which
is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers.
Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his
pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.
His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage
her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must
be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves.
Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one
end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most
valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn.
In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable
to the lover's eloquence.
I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won.
To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration.
Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand
avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways.
It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship
to maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle for his fortress at every
door and window.
He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero.
Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment
Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse
was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually
arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters
to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those
most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,—by single combat; but Ichabod was
too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him;
he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up, and lay
him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity.
There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom
no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and
to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.
Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders.
They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school by stopping
up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings
of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster
began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there.
But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule
in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous
manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody.
In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the
relative situations of the contending powers.
On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool
from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm.
In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed
on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before
him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the
persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and
whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks.
Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars
were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye
kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom.
It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers,
a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of
a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter.
He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making
or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered
his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is
apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering
away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom.
The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were
nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application
now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word.
Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned,
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green
in joy at their early emancipation.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and
furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by
a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse.
That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier,
he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman
of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant
in quest of adventures.
But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the
looks and equipments of my hero and his steed.
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its
viciousness.
He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and
tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and
spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it.
Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he
bore of Gunpowder.
He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who
was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the
animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him
than in any young filly in the country.
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed.
He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle;
his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his
hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike
the flapping of a pair of wings.
A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead
might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail.
Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of
Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with
in broad daylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore
that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance.
The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind
had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.
Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark
of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive
whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets.
In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush,
and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them.
There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud
querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged
woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the
cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers;
and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes,
screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms
with every songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance,
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn.
On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the
trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles
for the cider-press.
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their
leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat
fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations
stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle,
by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along
the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty
Hudson.
The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west.
The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there
a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain.
A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them.
The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from
that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven.
A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts
of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.
A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging
uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water,
it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which
he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country.
Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings,
huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles.
Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats,
with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside.
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine
ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation.
The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their
hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an
eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher
and strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite
steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no
one but himself could manage.
He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which
kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse
as unworthy of a lad of spirit.
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze
of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion.
Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white;
but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn.
Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only
to experienced Dutch housewives!
There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller;
sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.
And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of
ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and
pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls
of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with
the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the
mark!
I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on
with my story.
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice
to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was
filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink.
He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with
the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury
and splendor.
Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers
in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant
pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and
good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon.
His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the
hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and
help themselves."
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance.
The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the
neighborhood for more than half a century.
His instrument was as old and battered as himself.
The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement
of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his
foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers.
Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in
full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself,
that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person.
He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes,
from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at
every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs,
and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.
How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous?
The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to
all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat
brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who,
with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times,
and drawing out long stories about the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored
places which abound with chronicle and great men.
The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been
the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry.
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with
a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero
of every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly
taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst
at the sixth discharge.
And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly
mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried
a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the
blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show
the sword, with the hilt a little bent.
There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was
persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded.
The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind.
Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats;
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of
our country places.
Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely
had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving
friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk
their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon.
This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established
Dutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.
There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed
forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land.
Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling
out their wild and wonderful legends.
Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard
and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in
the neighborhood.
Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there
in the snow.
The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow,
the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country;
and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of
troubled spirits.
It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent,
whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades
of retirement.
A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between
which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson.
To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would
think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.
On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among
broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees.
Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a
wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by
overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a
fearful darkness at night.
Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he
was most frequently encountered.
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how
they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge;
when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang
away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made
light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey.
He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had
been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl
of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow,
but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash
of fire.
All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances
of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank
deep in the mind of Ichabod.
He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather,
and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut,
and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up.
The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time
rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills.
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted
laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding
fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away,—and the late scene of noise and
frolic was all silent and deserted.
Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête
with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success.
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know.
Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after
no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen.
Oh, these women!
these women!
Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?
Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of
his rival?
Heaven only knows, not I!
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a
henroost, rather than a fair lady's heart.
Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had
so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and
kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he
was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy
and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued
his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town,
and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon.
The hour was as dismal as himself.
Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land.
In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the
opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of
his distance from this faithful companion of man.
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound
far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound
in his ear.
No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps
the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning
suddenly in his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding
upon his recollection.
The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight.
He had never felt so lonely and dismal.
He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories
had been laid.
In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above
all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark.
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees,
twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air.
It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken
prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André's tree.
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of
sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights,
and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was
answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches.
As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst
of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that
it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare.
Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it
was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the
breeze.
He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy
and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp.
A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream.
On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted
thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it.
To pass this bridge was the severest trial.
It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert
of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him.
This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the
schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his
resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly
across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral
movement, and ran broadside against the fence.
Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked
lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but
it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and
alder bushes.
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder,
who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with
a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear
of Ichabod.
In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen
and towering.
It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready
to spring upon the traveller.
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror.
What was to be done?
To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind?
Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, "Who are
you?"
He received no reply.
He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice.
Still there was no answer.
Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth
with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune.
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and
a bound stood at once in the middle of the road.
Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some
degree be ascertained.
He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame.
He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging
along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself
of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes
of leaving him behind.
The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace.
Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,—the other did the same.
His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave.
There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that
was mysterious and appalling.
It was soon fearfully accounted for.
On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving
that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased on observing that the
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his
saddle!
His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder,
hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump
with him.
Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at
every bound.
Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away
over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed
possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged
headlong downhill to the left.
This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where
it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on
which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the
chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave
way, and he felt it slipping from under him.
He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just
time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind,—for it was
his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches;
and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping
on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's backbone,
with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand.
The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was
not mistaken.
He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond.
He recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared.
"If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe."
Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied
that he felt his hot breath.
Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered
over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and
brimstone.
Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his
head at him.
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late.
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash,—he was tumbled headlong into the
dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his
feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate.
Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod.
The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook;
but no schoolmaster.
Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle.
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces.
In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt;
the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed,
were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where
the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close
beside it a shattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.
Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his
worldly effects.
They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted
stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full
of dog's-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe.
As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting
Cotton Mather's "History of Witchcraft," a "New England Almanac," and a book of dreams
and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in
several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel.
These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans
Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to school, observing
that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing.
Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but
a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday.
Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the
spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found.
The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and
when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the
present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been
carried off by the Galloping Hessian.
As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him;
the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned
in his stead.
It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after,
and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence
that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear
of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed
by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept
school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician;
electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of the
Ten Pound Court.
Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina
in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of
Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin;
which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to
this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story
often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire.
The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the
border of the millpond.
The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer
evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune
among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
And so ends The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving.