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 Andre was taken, and which stood in the
neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white,
that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to
shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in
the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the
favorite 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 tete-a-tete with the heiress; fully convinced
that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this
interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know.
Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he
certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an
air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women!
Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?
Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to
secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I!
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of
one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady's
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene
of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went
straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks
roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters
in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn
and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy
hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travels homewards, along
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was
as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the
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 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 Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and
was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and
superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights,
and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to
whistle; he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast
sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a
little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the
midst of the tree: he paused, and ceased whistling but, on
looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the
tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare.
Suddenly he heard a groan--his teeth chattered, and his knees
smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He
passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed
the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by
the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side,
served 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 Andre was captured, and under
the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen
concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered
a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the school-boy
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.
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 his saddle! His terror rose
to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon
Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the
slip; but the 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 unskillful 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 backbone,
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 disappeard. "If I can but reach that bridge,"
thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed
panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he
felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old
Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the
resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod
cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according
to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the
goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his
head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile,
but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous
crash, --he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder,
the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle,
and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at
his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at
breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled
at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the
brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel
some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle.
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they
came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of
horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious
speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a
broad part oœ the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was
found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a
shattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was
not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate,
examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They
consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a
pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-
clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog's-ears;
and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the
schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton
Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and
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 had been carried off by the
Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt,
nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was
removed to a 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
schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported
to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and
the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening,
has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy
psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
Postscript
Found in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker
The preceding tale is given, almost in the precise words which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narraotr 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 a 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 of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds - when they have reason and the 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 akimbo, 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 storyteller, 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 his 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 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 gentlemen 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 storyteller, "as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself."
D.K.