To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness;for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles.Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner.Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse;not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents,which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers.Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and,like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything.His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry;for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after,but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house,or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza,honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other,watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand,was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time,Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm,or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.
I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won.To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration.Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access;while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways.It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former,but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter,for man must battle for his fortress at every door and window.He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown;but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is,this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones;and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances,the interests of the former evidently declined:his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights,and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature,would fain have carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady,according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,--by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him;he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up,and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity.There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system;it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition,and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival.Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders.They harried his hitherto peaceful domains;smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night,in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes,and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there.But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress,and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner,and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody.
In this way matters went on for some time,without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers.On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood,sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm.In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power;the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers,while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons,detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs,fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks.Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted,for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books,or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master;and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom.It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers,a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged,wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter.He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s;and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language,which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook,and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom.The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles;those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity,and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear,to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word.Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned,benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time,bursting forth like a legion of young imps,yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet,brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black,and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse.That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier,he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated,a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted,issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should,in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed.The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse,that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck,and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs;one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral,but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it.Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day,if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact,been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider,and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for,old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups,which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle;his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand,like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on,the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings.A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose,for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called,and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail.Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper,and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene,and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance.The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow,while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange,purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air;the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts,and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry,they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree,capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin,the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note;and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds;and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget,and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird,with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers;and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes,screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing,and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance,ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn.On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees;some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market;others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press.Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn,with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts,and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them,turning up their fair round bellies to the sun,and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies;and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive,and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered,and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson.The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west.The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy,excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain.A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them.The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green,and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven.A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river,giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides.A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide,her sail hanging uselessly against the mast;and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water,it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel,which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers,a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes,and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps,long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions,and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers,excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock,gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats,with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times,especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose,it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene,having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself,full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact,noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck,for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero,as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses,with their luxurious display of red and white;but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn.Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds,known only to experienced Dutch housewives!There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller;sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies;besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums,and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens;together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy,pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst--Heaven bless the mark!I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves,and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily,Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer,and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too,rolling his large eyes round him as he ate,and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor.Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse;snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron,and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor,round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive,being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh,and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance.The musician was an old gray-headed negro,who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century.His instrument was as old and battered as himself.The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings,accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground,and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb,not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion,and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself,that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person.He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes,from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window,gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs,and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous?The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance,and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones,sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who,with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times,and drawing out long stories about the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking,was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men.The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore,been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry.Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction,and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork,only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge.And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless,being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains,being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small sword,insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt;in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent.There were several more that had been equally great in the field,not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded.The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind.Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats;but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places.Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages,for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves,before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood;so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds,they have no acquaintance left to call upon.This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts,was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region;it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land.Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual,were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains,and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken,and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white,that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock,and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow.The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow,the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and,it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits.It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent,whitewashed walls shine modestly forth,like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement.A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which,peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard,where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly,one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell,along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees.Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge;the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees,which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night.Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman,and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer,a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts,how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow,and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp,until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton,threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones,who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey.He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing,he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper;that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too,for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge,the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.
All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark,the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe,sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author,Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut,and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons,and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills.Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains,and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs,echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away,--and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind,according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress;fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success.What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something,however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth,after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women!these women!Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?Heaven only knows, not I!Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost,rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth,on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable,and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping,dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen,pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town,and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself.Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters,with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land.In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson;but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far,far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills--but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear.No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket,or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh,as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection.The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky,and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal.He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid.In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree,which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood,and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic,large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth,and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André,who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree.The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition,partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake,and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered;it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer,he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree:he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly,perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning,and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth chattered,and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another,as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road,and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp.A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream.On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts,matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it.To pass this bridge was the severest trial.It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured,and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him.This has ever since been considered a haunted stream,and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution,gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge;but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement,and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay,jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain;his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes.The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder,who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge,with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod.In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge,misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom,like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.