The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
(Abridged Version)
by Washington Irving
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. 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.
In this place, the peculiar character of its inhabitants, 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. 
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.  The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions.
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander­in­chief 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 cannon­ball, 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, historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and facts concerning this ghost,  allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, 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  churchyard 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 ghost is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
In this place of nature there stayed, 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.  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 top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose.  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.
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden rule, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 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 behooved 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 eater, and, though lank, had the eating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed.  He lived a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.
In addition he was the singing master of the neighborhood, and was paid many 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.  Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation.
The schoolmaster is generally a man of importance in the female circle of the neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike celebrity, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. From his roaming lifestyle, he was a kind of traveling 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 knowldege, 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.  
His appetite for the supernatural, and his powers of studying 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 large 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 school­house, and there read over old scary tales, until the gathering dusk of evening.  Then, as he made his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be staying, every sound of  nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination, ­­the moan of the whip­poor­will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, to the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost.  The fireflies, 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.
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many ghosts in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in diverse shapes, in his lonely thoughts, 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 instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a rich Dutch farmer.  She was a booming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy­cheeked as one of her  father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast wealth.  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 of her charms.  She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
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. 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. 
The most formidable opponent to Icabod was a burly, roaring, roistering 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 broad­shouldered and double­jointed, with short curly black hair, and a rough but not unpleasant face, 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 dexterous on horseback.  He was foremost at all races and fights and his strength was acquired from the rustic life.  He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill­will 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 good 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 with a fox’s tail.
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 hurry­scurry 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 good­will; 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 mischievous hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his love, and though his advances were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. 
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. 
To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his love.  Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner.  Under cover of his character of singing­master, 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  stumbling­block in the path of lovers. 
Certain it is, this was not the case with the impressive 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 teacher 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 - by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity.  It left Brom no alternative but to draw upon 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. Stopped up the chimney at school, broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings and window stakes, and turned everything topsy­turvy, 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.
Then one day, a boy came clattering up to the school­door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry ­ making or "quilting­frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's.
Ichabod borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was friendly. The animal he bestrode was a broken­down plow­horse, that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness.  The horse was named Gunpowder. 
Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed.  He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a ghost, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings.  A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail. 
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel.  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.
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance.  Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung body in motion, dancing about the room you would have thought him the patron Saint of dance.  He was the admiration of all the people; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining 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.  The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his love; while Brom Bones, sat brooding by himself in a corner.
The night switched to the telling of stories. 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.  The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite ghost 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.
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. This story was immediately matched by a marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrogant jockey.  He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village 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, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash of fire. 
Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a talk 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 know, for in fact I do not know?  Something, however, must have gone wrong, for he certainly appeared quite desolate and chapfallen.  Oh, these women! These women!  Could that girl have been playing off any of her womanly tricks?  Was her encouragement of the poor teacher all a mere sham to secure her conquest of Brom?  Heaven only knows!
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy hearted and crest­fallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection.  The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight.  He had never felt so lonely and dismal.  He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid.  In the center of the road stood an enormous tulip­tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. 
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.
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 alder­bushes.  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 noise by 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 traveler.
The hair of the affrighted teacher 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 cudgeled 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, 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 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 tried to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a sound.  There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this unshakable companion that was mysterious and appalling.  It was soon fearfully accounted for.  On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror­struck on seeing 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 ghost 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 escape.
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  downhill 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 saddle gave way and he felt it slipping under him.  He 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 underfoot by his pursuer. 
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 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 over 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. 
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.
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 millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, 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.