textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/IRVING/irving-legend-588.txt

                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                          THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

            FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

                              by Washington Irving

           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,

             For ever flushing round a summer sky.

                                        Castle of Indolence.

   IN THE bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the
eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river
denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and
where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the
protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small
market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but
which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry
Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good
housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity
of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days.
Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to
it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this
village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or
rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest
places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with
just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle
of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound
that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

   I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades
one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, 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 nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

   The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region,
and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is
the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said
by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been
carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the
revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen by the country
folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of
the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at
times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a
church 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 church-yard, 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 church-yard 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 woodsmen 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 school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely
constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched
with leaves of old copy-books. 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 eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely
but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook
running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of
it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over
their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum
of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of
the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the
appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along
the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious
man, 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
mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers
little make-shifts 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 tea-pot. Our man of letters,
therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country
damsels. How he would figure among them in the church-yard, between
services on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines
that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all
the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of
them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more
bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior
elegance and address.

   From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 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 spellbound region. No tale was
too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his
delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch
himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that
whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful
tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a
mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and
stream and awful woodland, to 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 fire-flies, too,
which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then
startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his
path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his
blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up
the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token.
His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive
away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes;- and the good people of
Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often
filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness
long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky
road.

   * The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It
receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those
words.

   Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 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 his 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 every thing 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 bubbled along among alders and dwarf
willows. Hard by the farm-house 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; 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 farm-yard, 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 mantel-piece; 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
any thing 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 for ever 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 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 admitting 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 any thing 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 meantime,
Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the
spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight,
that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.

   I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me
they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to
have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have
a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different
ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still
greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for
the 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 at the palings on Sunday nights, and a
deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy
Hollow.

   Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would
fain have carried matters to open warfare, and 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 school-house;" 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 school-house at night, in
spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and
turned every thing 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 situation of the contending powers. On
a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned
on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his
little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferrule, 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 school-room. 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 school-room. The
scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at
trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and
those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the
rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books
were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were
overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose
an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young
imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early
emancipation.

   The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his
toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of
rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass,
that hung up in the school-house. 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 plough-horse, that had outlived almost
every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a
ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were
tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was
glaring and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil
in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may
judge from 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 horse's tail. Such was the
appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as
is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

   It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear
and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we
always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on
their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind
had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple,
and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their
appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard
from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle
of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

   The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the
fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking,
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very
profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin,
the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous
note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the
golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black
gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-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 stores 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 bee-hive, 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 into 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
Herr 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 shortgowns, 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 tea-pot 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 school-house; 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 Saint Vitus himself, that blessed
patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the
admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and
sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid
of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight
at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows
of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be
otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his
partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his
amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and
jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

   When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of
the sager folks, who, with old 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, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just
sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up
his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of
his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

   There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron
nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the
sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless,
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle
of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket
ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz
round the blade, and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he was
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent.
There were several more that had been equally great in the field,
not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in
bringing the war to a happy termination.

   But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions
that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the
kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered
long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting
throng that forms the population of most of our country places.
Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages,
for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn
themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have
travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at
night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call
upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts
except in our long-established Dutch communities.

   The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural
stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of
Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from
that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and
fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their
wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about
funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about
the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and
which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the
woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was
often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished
there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon
the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who
had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and,
it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the
church-yard.

   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. This was one of the favorite haunts of
the headless horseman; and the place where he was most frequently
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical
disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how
they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they
reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton,
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops
with a clap of thunder.

   This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure
of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant
jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the
neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this
midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of
punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse
all hollow, but, just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian
bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

   All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men
talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and
then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in
the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from
his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events
that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful
sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

   The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together
their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time
rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of
the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and
their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs,
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter
until they gradually died away- and the late scene of noise and frolic
was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according
to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the
heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to
success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say,
for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have
gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great
interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen.- Oh these
women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her
coquettish tricks?- Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all
a mere sham 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 crest-fallen, pursued his travel 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 watch dog 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 farm-house 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 dismayed. He was, moreover, approaching the very place
where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the
centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like
a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a
kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to
the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the
tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner
hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's
tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred
namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful
lamentations told concerning it.

   As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle: he
thought his whistle was answered- it was but a blast sweeping
sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he
thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree- he
paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived
that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning,
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan- his teeth
chattered and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the
rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by
the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before
him.

   About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the
road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name
of Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a
bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook
entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with
wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those
chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised
him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful
are the feelings of the 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
splashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the
brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It
stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic
monster ready to spring upon the 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 the saddle: his terror rose to
desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder,
hoping by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip- but the
spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through
thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound.
Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his
long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his
flight.

   They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but
Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up
it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left.
This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a
quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story,
and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed
church.

   As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an
apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half way
through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt
it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored
to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the
earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a
moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind-
for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears;
the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskillful rider that he
was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on
one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge
of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would
cleave him asunder.

   An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the
church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in
the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the
walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He
recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor had
disappeared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I
am safe." Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close
behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 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
school-house 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 dogs' ears; and a broken
pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they
belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of
Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and
fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet 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
church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and
pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a
whole budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had
diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of
the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion
that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he
was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any
more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the
hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

   It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit
several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly
adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod
Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly
through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in
mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that
he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept
school and studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar,
turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and
finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones
too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the
blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look
exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin;
which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he
chose to tell.

   The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these
matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by
supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the
neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more
than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason
why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the
church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house being
deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, 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.

                            THE END
.