University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

Castle of Indolence.

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

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting
was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one
side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 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 the remnant of a
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little
valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character
of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by
the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called
the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country.
A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and
to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was
bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of
the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or
wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country
was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is,
the place still continues under the sway of some witching
power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people,
causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given
to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and
visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and
voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with
local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars
shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any
other part of the country, and the night-mare with her whole
nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers
of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a
head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper,
whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some
nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and who is ever
and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom
of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not
confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great

distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of
those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating
the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body
of the trooper having been buried in the church-yard, the
ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his
head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes
passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his
being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard
before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition,
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that
region of shadows, and the spectre is known at all the country
firesides by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy
Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned
is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley,
but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time,
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow
imaginative—to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is
in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there, embosomed
in the great state of New York, that population, manners,
and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of
migration and improvement, which is making such incessant
changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water
which border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and
bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their
mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not
still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its
sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of

American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a
worthy wight, of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned,
or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the
purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a
native of Connecticut, a state which supplies the Union with
pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth
yearly its legions of frontier 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 weathercock, perched
upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day,
with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might
have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon
the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His school-house was a low building of one large room,
rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed and
partly patched with leaves of old 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 eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather
lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill,
with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his
pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a
drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive, 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 behoved him to
keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising
from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient
to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge
feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda;
but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With
these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied
up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a
grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had

various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable.
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of
their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the
horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity
and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire,
the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating.
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children,
particularly the youngest, and like the lion bold, which
whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit
with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for
whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing master
of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of
no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front
of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where,
in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from
the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the
rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still
to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still
Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little 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.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in
the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a
kind of idle gentleman-like 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 church-yard between services on Sundays,
gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the
surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs
on the tombstones, or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them,
along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more
bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his
superior elegance and address.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house
to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction.
He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man
of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through,
and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New
England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and
potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his
powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both
had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region.
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow.
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering
the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering
dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp, and stream,
and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour,
fluttered his excited imagination; the moan of the whip-poor-will[1]
from the hill side, the boding cry of the tree toad, that
harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or

the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their
roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the
darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon
brightness would stream across his path; and if, by
chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering
flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up
the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown
thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes,
and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their
doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing
his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating
from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering
along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts,
and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and
haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the
headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as
they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally
by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and
portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the
earlier times of Connecticut, and would frighten them wofully
with speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the
alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and
that they were half the time topsy-turvy.

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling
in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy
glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no
spectre dared to show 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 spectre, beset
his very path. How often did he shrink with curdling awe at
the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet,
and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold
some uncouth being tramping close behind him!—and how
often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing
blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the
Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings.

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms
of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had
seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset
by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet
daylight put an end to all these evils, and he would have passed
a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes
more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the
whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in
each week, to receive his instruction in psalmody, was Katrina
Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial
Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen;
plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as
one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely
for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress,
which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most
suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure
yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought
over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time,
and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest
foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex;
and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel
soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after he had
visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel
was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted

farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his
thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within
those 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 foot of which
bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little
well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away
through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled
along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm-house
was a vast barn, that might have served for a church;
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with
the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within
it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed
twittering about the eaves, and rows of pigeons, some with one
eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying
the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers
were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens,
whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as
if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were
riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks;
regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, and
guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives,
with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door
strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior,
and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and
crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes
tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling
his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich
morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this

sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring
mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running
about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth;
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and
tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming
in their own gravy, and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like
snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion
sance. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side
of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld
daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure,
a necklace of savory sausages, and even bright chanticleer
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous
spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled
his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields
of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards
burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm
tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel
who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded
with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash,
and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land and
shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already
realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina,
with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a
wagon, loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles
dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing
mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,
or the Lord knows where.

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high
ridged, but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down
from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming
a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad
weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils
of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river.

Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a
great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other,
showed the various uses to which this important porch might
be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered
the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the
place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter
ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner
stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another a
quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian
corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers,
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where
the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like
mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs,
glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock oranges
and conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece; strings of various
colored birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great
ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner
cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures
of old silver and well mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions
of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter
of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of
yore, who seldom had 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 centre of a Christmas
pie, and then the lady gave him her hand, as a matter of
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the
heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims
and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties
and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful

adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers,
who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful
and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the
common cause against any new competitor.

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering
blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch
abbreviation. Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round,
which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was
broad shouldered and double jointed, with short curly black
hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a
mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame
and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of
Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was
famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as
dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost in all
races and cock fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes,
setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air
and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always
ready for either a fight or a frolic, but had more mischief than
ill-will in his composition, and, with all his overbearing roughness,
there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom.
He had three or four boon companions, who regarded
him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the
country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles
round. In cold weather, he was distinguished by a fur cap,
surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail, and when the folks at a
country gathering described this well-known crest at a distance,
whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood
by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing
along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo,
like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out
of their sleep, would listen for a moment, till the hurry-scurry
had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom
Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with
a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will, and when any

madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always
shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom
of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming
Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and
though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle
caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his
advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt
no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that
when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a
Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or as it
is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in
despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane
had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than
he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man
would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of
pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and
spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent,
he never broke, and though he bowed beneath the slightest
pressure, yet the moment it was away—jerk! he was as erect,
and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have
been madness, for he was not a man to be thwarted in his
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod,
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating
manner. Under cover of his character of singing master, he
made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had 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 meantime, Ichabod would carry on his
suit with the daughter, by the side of the spring, under the
great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable
to the lover's eloquence.

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or
door of access, while others have a thousand avenues, and may
be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph
of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship
to maintain possession of the latter, for a 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 knight-errants of
yore—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of
the superior might of his adversary, to enter the lists against
him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would
“double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his
own school-house,” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity.

There was something extremely provoking in this
obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to
draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and
to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod
became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his
gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains;
smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the
chimney; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its
formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned
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 situation of the contending
powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his
hand he swayed a 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 a 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 slily whispering behind
them, with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of
buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was
suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth
jacket and trowsers, a round crowned fragment of a hat,
like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged,
wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope, by way

of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation
to Ichabod to attend a merry making, or “quilting frolic,”
to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's, and having delivered
his message with that air of importance, and effort at
fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies
of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen
scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and
hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room.
The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without
stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped over
half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart
application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed,
or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without
being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned,
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose
an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of
young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at
their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at
his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only
suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken
looking-glass, that hung up in the school house. That he
might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style
of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom
he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of
Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth,
like a knight errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I
should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account
of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The
animal he bestrode was a broken down plough horse, that had
outlived almost 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 grass-hoppers';
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 seanty 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-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 under
clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and
bowing, 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. Further
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
dise 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 grcy 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
shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions,
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom
lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where
a straw hat, a fine riband, 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 lesses, 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

dough-nut, 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 tea-pot
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless
the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as
it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story.
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his
historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in
proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and whose
spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could
not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of
all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor.
Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old
school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper,
and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant
pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with
a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly
as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but
expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the
shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to,
and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or
hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old
grey-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the
neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument
was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the
time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every

movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing
almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a
fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle;
and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and
clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before
you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes;
who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and
the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black
faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the
scene, rolling their white 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, 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 Duffue Martling, a large blue-bearded
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with
an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his
gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman
who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be

lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an
excellent master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small
sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade,
and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he was ready at
any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There
were several more that had been equally great in the field, not
one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable
hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

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

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural
stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the
very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth
an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land.
Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van
Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful
legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral
trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about
the great tree where the unfortunate Major 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
church-yard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on
a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among
which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like
Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered
by high trees, between which peeps may be caught at
the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would
think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one
side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which
raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen
trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the
church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that
led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the
daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. 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 into 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 chopfallen—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 his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable

quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of
mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and
clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted
and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The
hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan
Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even
hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of
the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an
idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock,
accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some
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 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,
black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in
the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the
traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with
terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too
late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the
wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he
demanded in stammering accents—“Who are you?” He
received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he
cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting
his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune.
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and,
with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of
the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the
form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained.
He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and
mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no
offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of
the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder,
who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion,
and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones
with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his

horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a
walk, thinking to lag behind—the other did the same. His
heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his
psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his
mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something
in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion,
that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon
fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which
brought the figure of his fellow traveller in relief against the sky,
gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was
horror struck, on perceiving that he was headless!—but his
horror was still more increased, on observing that the head,
which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before
him on the pommel of the saddle: his terror rose to desperation;
he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder,
hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip
—but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they
dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks
flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered
in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight.

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

As yet the panic of the steed had given his 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 endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time
to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck,
when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled

under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans
Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind—for it was his
Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin
was hard on his haunches; and (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 back bone, with a violence that he
verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a
silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom
Bones' 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 stirrup, and in the very act of hurling his head at him.
Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late.
It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was
tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black
steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle,
and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the
grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance
at breakfast—dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The
boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly about the
banks of the brook, but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper
now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor
Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after
diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part

of the road leading to the church was found the saddle
trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented
in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the
brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered
pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly
effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half, two stocks
for the neck, a pair or two of worsted stockings, an old pair
of corduroy small-clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm
tunes, full of dog's ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the
books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the
community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft,
a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling,
in which last was a sheet of foolscap, much scribbled
and blotted, in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the
flames by Hans Van Ripper, who, from that time forward, determined
to send his children no more to school, observing,
that he never knew any good come of this same reading and
writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he
had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must
have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips
were collected in the 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 that Ichabod
has been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a

bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any
more about him; the school was removed to a different quarter
of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his
stead.

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

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

POSTSCRIPT.
FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding Tale is given almost in the precise words in
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its
sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a
pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt
clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and one whom I strongly
suspected of being poor—he made such efforts to be entertaining.
When his story was concluded, there was much
laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three
deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the
time. There was, however, one tall, dry looking old gentleman,
with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and
rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms,
inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning
a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men,
who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have
reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of
the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other
a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage motion
of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the
moral of the story, and what it went to prove?

The story teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering
the glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was
intended most logically to prove—

“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and
pleasures—provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is
likely to have rough riding of it.

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand
of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the
state.”

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination
of the syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt
eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he
observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the
story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points
on which he had his doubts.

“Faith, sir,” replied the story teller, “as to that matter, I
don't believe one half of it myself.”

D. K.