{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_41/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_41","id":"gutenberg_41","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Children's Literature","Ghosts -- Fiction","Harvard Classics","New York (State) -- History -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction"],"text":"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow\n\nby Washington Irving\n\n\n\n\nFOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.\n\n\n        A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,\n          Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;\n        And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,\n          Forever flushing round a summer sky.\n                                         CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.\n\n\nIn the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern\nshore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated\nby the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always\nprudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas\nwhen they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which\nby some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly\nknown by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in\nformer days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the\ninveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village\ntavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact,\nbut merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic.\nNot far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little\nvalley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the\nquietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,\nwith just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional\nwhistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound\nthat ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.\n\nI recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in\nsquirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one\nside of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature\nis peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it\nbroke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated\nby the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might\nsteal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the\nremnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this\nlittle valley.\n\nFrom the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its\ninhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this\nsequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and\nits rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the\nneighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the\nland, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place\nwas bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the\nsettlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of\nhis tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by\nMaster Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under\nthe sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of\nthe good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are\ngiven to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and\nvisions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in\nthe air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots,\nand twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across\nthe valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare,\nwith her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her\ngambols.\n\nThe dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and\nseems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the\napparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some\nto be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away\nby a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War,\nand who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in\nthe gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not\nconfined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and\nespecially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed,\ncertain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been\ncareful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this\nspectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the\nchurchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly\nquest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes\npasses along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being\nbelated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.\n\nSuch is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has\nfurnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and\nthe spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the\nHeadless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.\n\nIt is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not\nconfined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously\nimbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake\nthey may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are\nsure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and\nbegin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.\n\nI mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such\nlittle retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the\ngreat State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain\nfixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is\nmaking such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country,\nsweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still\nwater, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and\nbubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic\nharbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many\nyears have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet\nI question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same\nfamilies vegetating in its sheltered bosom.\n\nIn this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American\nhistory, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the\nname of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, \u201ctarried,\u201d\n in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the\nvicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the\nUnion with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends\nforth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters.\nThe cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall,\nbut exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands\nthat dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for\nshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was\nsmall, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a\nlong snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his\nspindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along\nthe profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and\nfluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of\nfamine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a\ncornfield.\n\nHis schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed\nof logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of\nold copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a\nwithe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the\nwindow shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease,\nhe would find some embarrassment in getting out,--an idea most probably\nborrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an\neelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation,\njust at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and\na formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low\nmurmur of his pupils\u2019 voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard\nin a drowsy summer\u2019s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and\nthen by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or\ncommand, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he\nurged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to\nsay, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim,\n\u201cSpare the rod and spoil the child.\u201d Ichabod Crane\u2019s scholars certainly\nwere not spoiled.\n\nI would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel\npotentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on\nthe contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than\nseverity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on\nthose of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least\nflourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of\njustice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little\ntough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled\nand grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called \u201cdoing\nhis duty by their parents;\u201d and he never inflicted a chastisement\nwithout following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting\nurchin, that \u201che would remember it and thank him for it the longest day\nhe had to live.\u201d\n\nWhen school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate\nof the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of\nthe smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good\nhousewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed,\nit behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue\narising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely\nsufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder,\nand, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help\nout his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those\nparts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children\nhe instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus\ngoing the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied\nup in a cotton handkerchief.\n\nThat all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic\npatrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous\nburden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of\nrendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers\noccasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make\nhay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from\npasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the\ndominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little\nempire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating.\nHe found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children,\nparticularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so\nmagnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee,\nand rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.\n\nIn addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the\nneighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the\nyoung folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on\nSundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band\nof chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away\nthe palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above\nall the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still\nto be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off,\nquite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning,\nwhich are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod\nCrane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is\ncommonly denominated \u201cby hook and by crook,\u201d the worthy pedagogue got on\ntolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the\nlabor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.\n\nThe schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female\ncircle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle,\ngentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to\nthe rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the\nparson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir\nat the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary\ndish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver\nteapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the\nsmiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the\nchurchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from\nthe wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their\namusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a\nwhole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the\nmore bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior\nelegance and address.\n\nFrom his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette,\ncarrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that\nhis appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover,\nesteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read\nseveral books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather\u2019s\n\u201cHistory of New England Witchcraft,\u201d in which, by the way, he most\nfirmly and potently believed.\n\nHe was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple\ncredulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting\nit, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his\nresidence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous\nfor his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school\nwas dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of\nclover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and\nthere con over old Mather\u2019s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of\nevening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he\nwended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse\nwhere he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that\nwitching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,--the moan of the\nwhip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that\nharbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the\nsudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The\nfireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now\nand then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across\nhis path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging\nhis blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up\nthe ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch\u2019s token. His\nonly resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away\nevil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy\nHollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with\nawe at hearing his nasal melody, \u201cin linked sweetness long drawn out,\u201d\n floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.\n\nAnother of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter\nevenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire,\nwith a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and\nlisten to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted\nfields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses,\nand particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the\nHollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by\nhis anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous\nsights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of\nConnecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon\ncomets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did\nabsolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!\n\nBut if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in\nthe chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the\ncrackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show\nits face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk\nhomewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the\ndim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he\neye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from\nsome distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered\nwith snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often\ndid he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the\nfrosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest\nhe should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how\noften was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling\namong the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of\nhis nightly scourings!\n\nAll these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind\nthat walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time,\nand been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely\nperambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would\nhave passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his\nworks, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more\nperplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of\nwitches put together, and that was--a woman.\n\nAmong the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week,\nto receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel,\nthe daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a\nblooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting\nand rosy-cheeked as one of her father\u2019s peaches, and universally famed,\nnot merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a\nlittle of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was\na mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off\nher charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her\ngreat-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting\nstomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat,\nto display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.\n\nIchabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is\nnot to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his\neyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion.\nOld Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented,\nliberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or\nhis thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those\neverything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with\nhis wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty\nabundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was\nsituated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered,\nfertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A\ngreat elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which\nbubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well\nformed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to\na neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows.\nHard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a\nchurch; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the\ntreasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from\nmorning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the\neaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching\nthe weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their\nbosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames,\nwere enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were\ngrunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied\nforth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air.\nA stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond,\nconvoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling\nthrough the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like\nill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before\nthe barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a\nwarrior and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing\nin the pride and gladness of his heart,--sometimes tearing up the earth\nwith his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of\nwives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.\n\nThe pedagogue\u2019s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise\nof luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind\u2019s eye, he pictured to\nhimself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly,\nand an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a\ncomfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were\nswimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes,\nlike snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In\nthe porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy\nrelishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with\nits gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory\nsausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back,\nin a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which\nhis chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.\n\nAs the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great\ngreen eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye,\nof buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy\nfruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart\nyearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his\nimagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned\ninto cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and\nshingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized\nhis hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole\nfamily of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household\ntrumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself\nbestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for\nKentucky, Tennessee,--or the Lord knows where!\n\nWhen he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It\nwas one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping\nroofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the\nlow projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being\nclosed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various\nutensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring\nriver. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great\nspinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various\nuses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza\nthe wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the\nmansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent\npewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner\nstood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of\nlinsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of\ndried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled\nwith the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into\nthe best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables\nshone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and\ntongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and\nconch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds\neggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from\nthe centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open,\ndisplayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.\n\nFrom the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the\npeace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the\naffections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise,\nhowever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of\na knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters,\nfiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend\nwith and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass,\nand walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was\nconfined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way\nto the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as\na matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to\nthe heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims\nand caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and\nimpediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of\nreal flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every\nportal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other,\nbut ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.\n\nAmong these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade,\nof the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom\nVan Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of\nstrength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed,\nwith short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance,\nhaving a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame\nand great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM BONES,\nby which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and\nskill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar.\nHe was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy\nwhich bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in\nall disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with\nan air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always\nready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than\nill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness,\nthere was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or\nfour boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the\nhead of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or\nmerriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a\nfur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox\u2019s tail; and when the folks at a\ncountry gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking\nabout among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall.\nSometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at\nmidnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the\nold dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till\nthe hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, \u201cAy, there goes\nBrom Bones and his gang!\u201d The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture\nof awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any madcap prank or rustic\nbrawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted\nBrom Bones was at the bottom of it.\n\nThis rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina\nfor the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous\ntoyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a\nbear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his\nhopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to\nretire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch,\nthat when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel\u2019s paling, on a Sunday\nnight, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed,\n\u201csparking,\u201d within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried\nthe war into other quarters.\n\nSuch was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend,\nand, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk\nfrom the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had,\nhowever, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature;\nhe was in form and spirit like a supple-jack--yielding, but tough;\nthough he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the\nslightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away--jerk!--he was as erect,\nand carried his head as high as ever.\n\nTo have taken the field openly against his rival would have been\nmadness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more\nthan that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances\nin a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character\nof singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he\nhad anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,\nwhich is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van\nTassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even\nthan his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let\nher have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough\nto do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she\nsagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked\nafter, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame\nbustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the\npiazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,\nwatching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a\nsword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle\nof the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the\ndaughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering\nalong in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover\u2019s eloquence.\n\nI profess not to know how women\u2019s hearts are wooed and won. To me they\nhave always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but\none vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand\navenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a\ngreat triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of\ngeneralship to maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle\nfor his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common\nhearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed\nsway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this\nwas not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment\nIchabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently\ndeclined: his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday\nnights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor\nof Sleepy Hollow.\n\nBrom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have\ncarried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions\nto the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple\nreasoners, the knights-errant of yore,--by single combat; but Ichabod\nwas too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the\nlists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would\n\u201cdouble the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own\nschoolhouse;\u201d and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was\nsomething extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it\nleft Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in\nhis disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.\nIchabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang\nof rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked\nout his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the\nschoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe\nand window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor\nschoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held\ntheir meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all\nopportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress,\nand had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous\nmanner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod\u2019s, to instruct her in\npsalmody.\n\nIn this way matters went on for some time, without producing any\nmaterial effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On\na fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on\nthe lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his\nlittle literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of\ndespotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the\nthrone, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before\nhim might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons,\ndetected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples,\npopguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little\npaper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice\nrecently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their\nbooks, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the\nmaster; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the\nschoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in\ntow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat,\nlike the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild,\nhalf-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came\nclattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend\na merry-making or \u201cquilting frolic,\u201d to be held that evening at\nMynheer Van Tassel\u2019s; and having delivered his message with that air of\nimportance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display\non petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen\nscampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his\nmission.\n\nAll was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars\nwere hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those\nwho were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were\ntardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their\nspeed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without\nbeing put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown\ndown, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual\ntime, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing\nabout the green in joy at their early emancipation.\n\nThe gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet,\nbrushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty\nblack, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that\nhung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his\nmistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the\nfarmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the\nname of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like\na knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in\nthe true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks\nand equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was\na broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its\nviciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like\na hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs;\none eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other\nhad the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and\nmettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder.\nHe had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master\u2019s, the choleric Van\nRipper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of\nhis own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked,\nthere was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in\nthe country.\n\nIchabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short\nstirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle;\nhis sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers\u2019; he carried his whip\nperpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on,\nthe motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A\nsmall wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of\nforehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out\nalmost to the horses tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his\nsteed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was\naltogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad\ndaylight.\n\nIt was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and\nserene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always\nassociate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober\nbrown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped\nby the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.\nStreaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the\nair; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech\nand hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from\nthe neighboring stubble field.\n\nThe small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness\nof their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to\nbush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety\naround them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of\nstripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering\nblackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with\nhis crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the\ncedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little\nmonteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his\ngay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering,\nnodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with\nevery songster of the grove.\n\nAs Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom\nof culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly\nautumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in\noppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels\nfor the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press.\nFarther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears\npeeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes\nand hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning\nup their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of\nthe most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat\nfields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft\nanticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered,\nand garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand\nof Katrina Van Tassel.\n\nThus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and \u201csugared\nsuppositions,\u201d he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which\nlook out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun\ngradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the\nTappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a\ngentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant\nmountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air\nto move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually\ninto a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the\nmid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the\nprecipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth\nto the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering\nin the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging\nuselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed\nalong the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the\nair.\n\nIt was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer\nVan Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the\nadjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun\ncoats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter\nbuckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps,\nlong-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and\npincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom\nlasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw\nhat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city\ninnovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of\nstupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion\nof the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the\npurpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher\nand strengthener of the hair.\n\nBrom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the\ngathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself,\nfull of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage.\nHe was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all\nkinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for\nhe held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.\n\nFain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon\nthe enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van\nTassel\u2019s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their\nluxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine\nDutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up\nplatters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only\nto experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the\ntender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and\nshort cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of\ncakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies;\nbesides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes\nof preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention\nbroiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and\ncream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated\nthem, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the\nmidst--Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this\nbanquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story.\nHappily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but\ndid ample justice to every dainty.\n\nHe was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion\nas his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with\neating, as some men\u2019s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his\nlarge eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that\nhe might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury\nand splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he\u2019d turn his back upon the old\nschoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every\nother niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors\nthat should dare to call him comrade!\n\nOld Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated\nwith content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His\nhospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a\nshake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing\ninvitation to \u201cfall to, and help themselves.\u201d\n\nAnd now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned\nto the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had\nbeen the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a\ncentury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater\npart of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every\nmovement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the\nground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to\nstart.\n\nIchabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal\npowers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his\nloosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you\nwould have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance,\nwas figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the\nnegroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm\nand the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at\nevery door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their\nwhite eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How\ncould the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The\nlady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously\nin reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten\nwith love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.\n\nWhen the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the\nsager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the\npiazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about\nthe war.\n\nThis neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those\nhighly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The\nBritish and American line had run near it during the war; it had,\ntherefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees,\ncowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had\nelapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little\nbecoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to\nmake himself the hero of every exploit.\n\nThere was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,\nwho had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder\nfrom a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge.\nAnd there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich\na mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains,\nbeing an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small\nsword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and\nglance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to\nshow the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more\nthat had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was\npersuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy\ntermination.\n\nBut all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that\nsucceeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the\nkind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered,\nlong-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting\nthrong that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides,\nthere is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they\nhave scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in\ntheir graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from\nthe neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their\nrounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the\nreason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established\nDutch communities.\n\nThe immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories\nin these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.\nThere was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted\nregion; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting\nall the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at\nVan Tassel\u2019s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful\nlegends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning\ncries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the\nunfortunate Major Andr\u00e9 was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood.\nSome mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the\ndark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights\nbefore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the\nstories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the\nHeadless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling\nthe country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the\ngraves in the churchyard.\n\nThe sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a\nfavorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by\nlocust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed\nwalls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the\nshades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet\nof water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at\nthe blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where\nthe sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at\nleast the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a\nwide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and\ntrunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far\nfrom the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led\nto it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees,\nwhich cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a\nfearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of\nthe Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently\nencountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical\ndisbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray\ninto Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they\ngalloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached\nthe bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old\nBrouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap\nof thunder.\n\nThis story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of\nBrom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey.\nHe affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of\nSing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had\noffered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it\ntoo, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they\ncame to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash\nof fire.\n\nAll these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in\nthe dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving\na casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of\nIchabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable\nauthor, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken\nplace in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he\nhad seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.\n\nThe revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together\ntheir families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling\nalong the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the\ndamsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their\nlight-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along\nthe silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually\ndied away,--and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and\ndeserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of\ncountry lovers, to have a t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate with the heiress; fully convinced\nthat he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this\ninterview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know.\nSomething, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly\nsallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate\nand chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have been\nplaying off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the\npoor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?\nHeaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth\nwith the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair\nlady\u2019s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene\nof rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to\nthe stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed\nmost uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly\nsleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of\ntimothy and clover.\n\nIt was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and\ncrestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the\nlofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so\ncheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below\nhim the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with\nhere and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under\nthe land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking\nof the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was\nso vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this\nfaithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing\nof a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some\nfarmhouse away among the hills--but it was like a dreaming sound in his\near. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy\nchirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a\nneighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in\nhis bed.\n\nAll the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon\nnow came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and\ndarker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds\noccasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and\ndismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the\nscenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road\nstood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the\nother trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its\nlimbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for\nordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into\nthe air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate\nAndr\u00e9, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known\nby the name of Major Andr\u00e9\u2019s tree. The common people regarded it with a\nmixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the\nfate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange\nsights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.\n\nAs Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought\nhis whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through\nthe dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw\nsomething white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased\nwhistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place\nwhere the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid\nbare. Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth chattered, and his knees\nsmote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon\nanother, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in\nsafety, but new perils lay before him.\n\nAbout two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road,\nand ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of\nWiley\u2019s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge\nover this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the\nwood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines,\nthrew a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest\ntrial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andr\u00e9 was\ncaptured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the\nsturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been\nconsidered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the\nschoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.\n\nAs he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up,\nhowever, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the\nribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of\nstarting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and\nran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the\ndelay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the\ncontrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but\nit was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of\nbrambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and\nheel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward,\nsnuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a\nsuddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.\nJust at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the\nsensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin\nof the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It\nstirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic\nmonster ready to spring upon the traveller.\n\nThe hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror.\nWhat was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides,\nwhat chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which\ncould ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a\nshow of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, \u201cWho are you?\u201d\n He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated\nvoice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides\nof the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with\ninvoluntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of\nalarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at\nonce in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal,\nyet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He\nappeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black\nhorse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability,\nbut kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side\nof old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.\n\nIchabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and\nbethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping\nHessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The\nstranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled\nup, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,--the other did the\nsame. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his\npsalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and\nhe could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and\ndogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and\nappalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising\nground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief\nagainst the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was\nhorror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!--but his horror was\nstill more increased on observing that the head, which should have\nrested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his\nsaddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and\nblows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion\nthe slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they\ndashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at\nevery bound. Ichabod\u2019s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as\nhe stretched his long lank body away over his horse\u2019s head, in the\neagerness of his flight.\n\nThey had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but\nGunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,\nmade an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This\nroad leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter\nof a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just\nbeyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.\n\nAs yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent\nadvantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the\nhollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from\nunder him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm,\nbut in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder\nround the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it\ntrampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van\nRipper\u2019s wrath passed across his mind,--for it was his Sunday saddle;\nbut this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his\nhaunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain\nhis seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and\nsometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse\u2019s backbone, with a\nviolence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.\n\nAn opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church\nbridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the\nbosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls\nof the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the\nplace where Brom Bones\u2019s ghostly competitor had disappeared. \u201cIf I can\nbut reach that bridge,\u201d thought Ichabod, \u201cI am safe.\u201d Just then he heard\nthe black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied\nthat he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and\nold Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding\nplanks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind\nto see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of\nfire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups,\nand in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to\ndodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium\nwith a tremendous crash,--he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and\nGunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a\nwhirlwind.\n\nThe next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with\nthe bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master\u2019s\ngate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour\ncame, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and\nstrolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans\nVan Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor\nIchabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent\ninvestigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading\nto the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of\nhorses\u2019 hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed,\nwere traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of\nthe brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the\nunfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.\n\nThe brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to\nbe discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the\nbundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two\nshirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted\nstockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book\nof psalm tunes full of dog\u2019s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the\nbooks and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community,\nexcepting Cotton Mather\u2019s \u201cHistory of Witchcraft,\u201d a \u201cNew England\nAlmanac,\u201d and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was\na sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless\nattempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel.\nThese magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the\nflames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to\nsend his children no more to school, observing that he never knew\nany good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the\nschoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter\u2019s pay but a\nday or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his\ndisappearance.\n\nThe mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the\nfollowing Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the\nchurchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin\nhad been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of\nothers were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them\nall, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook\ntheir heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried\noff by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody\u2019s\ndebt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was\nremoved to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue\nreigned in his stead.\n\nIt is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit\nseveral years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure\nwas received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still\nalive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the\ngoblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been\nsuddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a\ndistant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same\ntime; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered;\nwritten for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of\nthe Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival\u2019s\ndisappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar,\nwas observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod\nwas related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the\npumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter\nthan he chose to tell.\n\nThe old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these\nmatters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by\nsupernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the\nneighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than\never an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the\nroad has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by\nthe border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to\ndecay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate\npedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening,\nhas often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm\ntune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.\n\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT.\n\nFOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.\n\nThe preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I\nheard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of\nManhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most\nillustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly\nold fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humourous face,\nand one whom I strongly suspected of being poor--he made such efforts\nto be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much\nlaughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy\naldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was,\nhowever, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows,\nwho maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then\nfolding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor,\nas if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men,\nwho never laugh but upon good grounds--when they have reason and law on\ntheir side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and\nsilence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and\nsticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly\nsage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the\nmoral of the story, and what it went to prove?\n\nThe story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as\na refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his\ninquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass\nslowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most\nlogically to prove--\n\n\u201cThat there is no situation in life but has its advantages and\npleasures--provided we will but take a joke as we find it:\n\n\u201cThat, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to\nhave rough riding of it.\n\n\u201cErgo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch\nheiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state.\u201d\n\nThe cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this\nexplanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the\nsyllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with\nsomething of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was\nvery well, but still he thought the story a little on the\nextravagant--there were one or two points on which he had his doubts.\n\n\u201cFaith, sir,\u201d replied the story-teller, \u201cas to that matter, I don\u2019t\nbelieve one-half of it myself.\u201d  D. K.\n\nTHE END.","title":"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":12214}