 | ICHABOD CRANE AND THE GALLOPING
HESSIAN. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. |  |
ICHABOD CRANE AND THE GALLOPING
HESSIAN.
From the Sketch-Book.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod,
heavy-hearted, and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards,
along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above
Tarry-Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself.
Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and
indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall
mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land.
In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the
barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the
Hudson! but it was so vague and faint as only to give
an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of
man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a
cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off,
from some farm-house away among the hills—but it was
like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of
a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog,
from a neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably,
and turning suddenly in his bed.
All the storeis 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
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 neighbourhood, and formed a kind
of land-mark. 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 banches.
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 branch 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 chesnuts, 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 chesnuts
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
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 and misshapen, black
and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in
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 inflexible
sides of old Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes,
broke forth with involuntary fervour into a psalm tune.
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put himself 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 flight 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,
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the
other did the same. His heart began to sink
within him; he endeavoured to resume his psalm tune,
but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth,
and he could not utter a stave. There was something
in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious
companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was
soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow traveller
in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled
in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that
he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased,
on observing that the head, which should have rested
on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel
of the saddle; his terror rose to desperation; he rained a
shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by
a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip—but
the spectre started full jump with him. Away then
they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and
sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments
fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank
body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his
flight.
They had now reached the road which turns off to
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed
with a demon, instead of keeping up to it, made an opposite
turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for
about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous
in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful
rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him.
He seized it by the pommel, and endeavoured to hold it
firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot
by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van
Ripper's wrath passed across his mind—for it was his
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the
goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider
that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat;
and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's
back bone, with a violence that he verily feared would
cleave him asunder.
An opening of 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
sprung 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 endeavoured
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 on 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,
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 Witch-craft,
a New-England Almanack, 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 honour of the heiress of Van
Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were
forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper;
who from that time forward determined to send his children
no more to school; observing, that he never knew
any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever
money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received
his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must
have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and
gossips were collected in the church-yard, at the bridge,
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole
budget of others were called to mind; and when they
had diligently considered them all, and compared them
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their
heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been
carried off by the galoping Hessian. As he was a bachelor,
and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any
more about him; the school was removed to a different
quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his
stead.
It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New-York
on a visit several years after, and from whom this
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive;
that he had left the neighbourhood 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,
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.
| ICHABOD CRANE AND THE GALLOPING
HESSIAN. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. | |