sungradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of theTappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there agentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distantmountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of airto move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing graduallyinto a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of themid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of theprecipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depthto the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loiteringin the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanginguselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamedalong the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in theair.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the HeerVan Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of theadjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespuncoats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewterbuckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps,long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors andpincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxomlasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a strawhat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of cityinnovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows ofstupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashionof the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for thepurpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisherand strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to thegathering 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 allkinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, forhe 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 uponthe enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of VanTassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with theirluxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuineDutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped upplatters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known onlyto experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, thetender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes andshort cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family ofcakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies;besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishesof preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mentionbroiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk andcream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumeratedthem, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from themidst--Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss thisbanquet 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, butdid ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportionas his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose witheating, as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling hislarge eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility thathe might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxuryand splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the oldschoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and everyother niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doorsthat should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilatedwith content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. Hishospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to ashake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressinginvitation to "fall to, and help themselves."
And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summonedto the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who hadbeen the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half acentury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greaterpart of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying everymovement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to theground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were tostart.
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocalpowers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen hisloosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, youwould have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance,was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all thenegroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farmand the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces atevery door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling theirwhite eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. Howcould the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? Thelady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciouslyin reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smittenwith love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of thesager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of thepiazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories aboutthe war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of thosehighly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. TheBritish and American line had run near it during the war; it had,therefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees,cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time hadelapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a littlebecoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, tomake himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman,who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounderfrom a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge.And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too richa mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains,being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a smallsword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, andglance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time toshow the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several morethat had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but waspersuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happytermination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions thatsucceeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of thekind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered,long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shiftingthrong that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides,there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for theyhave scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves intheir graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away fromthe neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk theirrounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps thereason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-establishedDutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural storiesin these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow.There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that hauntedregion; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infectingall the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present atVan Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderfullegends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourningcries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where theunfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood.Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted thedark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter
nightsbefore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of thestories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, theHeadless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrollingthe country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among thegraves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it afavorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded bylocust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashedwalls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through theshades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheetof water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught atthe blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, wherethe sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there atleast the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends awide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks andtrunks of