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 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 everything 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 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 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 fulness 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-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail,
and its little montero cap of feathers; and the bluejay; that noisy
coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes; 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 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 towards 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 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 tenderer oly-koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes
and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family
of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin
pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable
dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not
to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of
milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have
enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor
from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss
this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story.
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but
did ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as
his skin was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating
as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he
might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury
and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old
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 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 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
eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady
of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in
reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with
love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at 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 lines 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 above the great tree where the unfortunate Major
André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was
made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm,
having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories,
however, turned upon the favorite 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 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.
[Illustration: A PROVOKINGLY SHORT PETTICOAT, TO DISPLAY THE PRETTIEST
FOOT IN THE COUNTRY ROAD—page 398
_From the painting by Arthur Rackham_]
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together
their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling
along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels
mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted
laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died
away—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.
Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers,
to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now
on the highroad 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 great
interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen.—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 hen-roost, 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 the 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 Tarrytown, 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 farmhouse away
among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs
of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a
cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a 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 tragical story of the unfortunate André, who
had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name
of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of
respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its
ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and
doleful lamentations told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle: he thought
his whistle was answered—it was but a blast sweeping sharply through
the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw
something white hanging in the midst of the tree—he paused and ceased
whistling, but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place
where the tree had been scathed by lightning; and the white wood laid
bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered and his knees smote
against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon
another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in
safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and
ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood,
a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw
a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial.
It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured,
and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen
concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to
pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up,
however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the
ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of
starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and
ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the
contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but
it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket
of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip
and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward,
snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with
a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the
sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin
of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, 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.