The Legend of Sleepy Hollow| Free Reading Book

Free online reading  Book The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore

of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the

ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently

shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they

crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is

called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the

name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by

the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity

of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that

as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of

being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two

miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is

one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through

it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle

of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever

breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in

a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of the valley. I had

wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was

startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around

and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should

wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions,

and dream quietly away from the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more

promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its

inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this

sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and

its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the

neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the

land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was

bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the

settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his

tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master

Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of

some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people,

causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of

marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see

strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole

the neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight

superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in

any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold,

seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region and seems

to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air is the apparition of a

figure on horseback, without ahead. 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 saw 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 specter, allege that the body of the trooper having been

buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in

nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he

sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his

being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has

furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the

specter is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless

Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

Remarkably, the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not

confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously

imbibed by everyone 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

a 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 their 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, to instruct the children of the vicinity. He was a

a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for

the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of

frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was

not inapplicable to his person. He was tall but exceedingly lank, with

narrow shoulders, long arms, and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his

sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most

loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at the 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 with the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his

clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for

the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped

from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed

of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old

copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe

twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window

shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find

some embarrassment in getting out, – an idea most probably borrowed by

the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The

the schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of

a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree

growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices,

conning over their lessons might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like

the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of

the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the

appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the

flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and

ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel

potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the

contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity;

taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the

strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod,

was passed by with indulgence, but the claims of justice were satisfied by

inflicting a double portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted

Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath

the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never

inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so

consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank

him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of

the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the

smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good

housewives for mothers noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it

behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising

from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to

furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank,

had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he

was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the

houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these, he lived

successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood,

with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons,

who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and

schoolmasters as mere drones he had various ways of rendering himself

both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the

lighter labors of their farms helped to make hay, mended the fences, took

the horses to water drove the cows from pasture and cut wood for the

winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway

with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became

wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the

mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion

bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with

a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours

together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the

neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young

folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to

take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers;

where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the

parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the

congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church,

and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of

the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which is said to be legitimately

descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little

makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by

hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and

was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to

have a wonderfully easy life of it.

A schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female

circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle,

gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to

the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the

parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the

tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes

or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of

letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country

damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between

services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that

overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs

on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the

banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins

hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette, carrying

the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his

the appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover,

esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several

books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s “History

of New England Witchcraft,” in which, by the way, he most firmly and

potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity.

His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally

extraordinary, and both had been increased by his residence in this 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

the brook that whimpered by his school-house, and their con over old Mather’s

direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening, made the printed page a

mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and

stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be

quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited

imagination, – the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding

cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of the storm, the dreary hooting of the

screech owl, to the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds, frightened from

their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest

places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would

stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came

winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give

up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only

resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil

spirits was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as

they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing

his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the

distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings

with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of

apples roasting and spluttering along with the hearth, and listen to their

marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted

brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the

headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes

called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft,

and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which

prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and would frighten them

woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the

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 were, of course, no specter dared to show its face, it was dearly

purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful

shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a

snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light

streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often

was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted

specter beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at

the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to

look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping

close behind him! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by

some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the

Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind

that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many specters in his time,

and 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, despite the Devil and all his works, if

his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to

the 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 Saar dam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and

withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle

in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex, and it is not to

be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes,

more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus

Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted

farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the

boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy

and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it;

and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in

which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in

one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are

so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the

the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a

little well formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the

grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf

willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for

a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with

the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from

morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the

eaves; rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up as if watching the

weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms,

and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were

enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in

the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence, sallied forth, now and

then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of

snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of

ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and

Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their

peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock,

that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his

burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart, –

sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his

ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he

had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise

of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself

every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple

in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and

tucked in with a coverlet of a crust; the geese were swimming in their own

gravy; and the ducks pairing cozily 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 center of the mansion, and the place of usual residence.

Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes.

In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a

quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and

strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls,

mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep

into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables

shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs,

glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conchshells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were

suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the

room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense

treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the

peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the

affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise,

however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a

knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery

dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with and

had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of

adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all

which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the center of a

Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.

Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country

coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever

presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host

of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers,

who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon

each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new

competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of

the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van

Brunt, the hero of the country round which rang with his feats of strength

and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short

curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a

mingled air of fun and arrogance From his Herculean frame and great

powers of limb he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he

was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in

horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was

foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily

strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting

his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that

admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or

a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all

his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor

at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as

their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending

every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was

distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when

the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance,

whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a

squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the

farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don

Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a

moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there

goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a

mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any madcap prank or

rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and

warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for

the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were

something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was

whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his

advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination

to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to

Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was

courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in

despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend,

and, considering, all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from

the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a

happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form

and spirit like a supple-jackayielding, but tough; though he bent, he never

broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment

it was away – jerk! – he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness;

for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that

stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and

gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master,

he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to

apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a

stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy

indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a

reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.

His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping

and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are

foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of

themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her

spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his

evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden

warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting

the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry

on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm,

or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s

eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they

have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but

one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand

avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great

triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to

maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle for his fortress at

every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is

therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over

the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case

with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane

made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse

was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud

gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have

carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the

lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the

knights-errant of yore, – by single combat; but lchabod was too conscious

of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had

overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and

lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give

him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking, in this

obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the

funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical

jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to

Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful

domains, smoked out his singing-school by stopping up the chimney, broke

into the schoolhouse at night, despite its formidable fastenings of withe

and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor

schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their

meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all

Opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and

had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous

manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material

effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine

autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty

stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary

realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the

birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to

evil doers, while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband

articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins,

such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole

legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some

appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily

intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept

upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the

schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in

tow-cloth jacket and trowsers. a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the

cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken

colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up

to the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making

or “quilting-frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and

having, delivered his message with that air of importance and effort at fine

language which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he

dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering, away up the Hollow, full

of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars

were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who

were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had

a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help

them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on

the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the

whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth

like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at

their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet,

brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and

arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the

schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the

true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he

was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper,

and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of

adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give

some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The

animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost

everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck,

and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted

with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the

other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and

mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He

had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper,

who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own

spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was

more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups,

which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp

elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in

his hand, like a scepter, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms

was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on

the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and

the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail. Such was

the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of

Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to

be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene,

and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with

the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow,

while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into

brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks

began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel

might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive

whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their

revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree

to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There

was the honest cockrobin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its

loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds,

and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black

gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its red tipt wings and

yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that

noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes,

screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending

to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom

of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly

autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples: some hanging in

oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for

the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he

beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their

leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and

the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies

to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and

anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the

beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of

dainty slap-jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the

delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared

suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look

out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun

gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the

Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a

gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shallow of the distant

mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to

move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a

pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A

slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung

some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of

their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly

down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the

reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel

was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van

Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent

country old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and

breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles.

Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted

short-gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin-cushions, and gay

calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated

as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a

white frock gave symptoms of city 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 eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the

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 at 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 olykoek,

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 higgledypiggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot

sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst – Heaven bless the mark! I

want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too

eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a

hurry as his historian but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as

his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as

some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes

round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one

day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor.

Then, he thought, how soon he‘d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse;

snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly

patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to

call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated

with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His

hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake

of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to

“fall to, and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall,

summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who

had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a

century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part

of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every

movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the

ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple was to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers.

Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely

hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have

thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring

before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having

gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood

forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window; gazing

with delight at the scene; rolling their white 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

the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,

who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a

mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there

was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to

be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent

master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a small-sword, insomuch that

he absolutely felt it whiz around 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 its kind.

Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled

retreats; but are trampled underfoot by the shifting throng that forms the

population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no

encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely

had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves before

their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood; so that

when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance

left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of

ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in

these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There

was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it

breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land.

Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as

usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales

were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and

seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 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

specter of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard

several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his

horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a

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 fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the

favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most

frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical

a 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 marvelous adventure of

Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey.

He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of

Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had

offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too,

for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the

church bridge, the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the

dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual

the 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 marvelous 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 travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills

which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the

afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan

Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the

the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush

of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the

the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give

an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then,

too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound

far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills – but it was like a

dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but

occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural

the twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping

uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now

came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the

stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid

them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was,

moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the

ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous

tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the

neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and

fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down

almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the

tragic 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 as 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 plashy tramp by the side of

the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the

grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen

and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some

gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What

was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance

was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon

the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he

demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He

repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still, there was no

answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and,

shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just

then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble

and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was

dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be

ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions and

mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of

molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging

along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright

and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange 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 ffellow travelerin relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and

muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was

headless! but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head,

which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the

pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of

kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give

his companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with him. Away,

then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing

at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he

stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of

his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but

Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it,

made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This

the road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a

mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond

swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent

the advantage in the chase, but just as he had got halfway 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 underfoot by his

pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across

his mind, – for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty

fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he

was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one

side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his

horse’s backbone, with a violence, that he verily feared would leave 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’ ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,”

thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and

blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath.

Another convulsive kick in the ribs and old Gunpowder sprang upon the

bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite

side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should

vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw

the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at

him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It

encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash, – he was tumbled

headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin

rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the

bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate.

Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no

Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse and strolled idly about the

banks of the brook, but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to

feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An

inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation, they came upon his

traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle

trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road,

and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on

the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black,

was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered

pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be

discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate examined the bundle

which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a

half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair

of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of

dog’s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the

schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s

History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and

fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and

blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the

heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were

forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time

forward, determined to send his children no more to school; observing that

he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever

the money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay

but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of

his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the

following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the

churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had

been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others

were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and

compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their

heads, and came to the conclusion chat 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

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 around 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,

to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The

the schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay and was reported to be

haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plow-boy,

loitering homeward of a still summer evening has often fancied his voice at

a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes

of Sleepy Hollow.