FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky.

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 househusbands of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their wives 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 tranquility.

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 ladies are called the Sleepy Hollow Girls 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 her tribe, held her powwows there before the country was discovered by Mistress Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some warlock 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 marvelous 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 nightmare, with his whole nine-fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of his 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. Her 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 specter, 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 her head, and that the rushing speed with which she sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to her 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 specter is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horsewoman 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 everyone 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 waif of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as she expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. She 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 woods women and country schoolmistresses. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to her person. She was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of her sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and her whole frame most loosely hung together. Her head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon her spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see her striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with her clothes bagging and fluttering about her, one might have mistaken her for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

Her schoolhouse 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, she 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 schoolhouse 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 her pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the mistress, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as she urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, she was a conscientious woman, 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 she was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, she 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 she called “doing her duty by their parents;” and she never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “she would remember it and thank her for it the longest day she had to live.”

When school hours were over, she was even the companion and playmate of the larger girls; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty brothers, or good househusbands for fathers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved her to keep on good terms with her pupils. The revenue arising from her school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish her with daily bread, for she was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out her maintenance, she was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children she instructed. With these she lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all her worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of her rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmistresses as mere drones, she had various ways of rendering herself both useful and agreeable. She 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. She laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which she lorded it in her little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. She found favor in the eyes of the fathers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, she would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with her foot for whole hours together.

In addition to her other vocations, she 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 her on Sundays, to take her station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in her own mind, she completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, her 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 millpond, 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 schoolmistress is generally a woman of some importance in the male circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlewoman-like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country admirers, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. Her 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 woman of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country swains. How she would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran 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 millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying her superior elegance and address.

From her half-itinerant life, also, she was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that her appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. She was, moreover, esteemed by the men as a woman of great erudition, for she 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, she most firmly and potently believed.

She was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. Her appetite for the marvelous, and her powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by her residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for her capacious swallow. It was often her delight, after her school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch herself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by her schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before her eyes. Then, as she wended her way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where she happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered her excited imagination, --the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, 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 fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled her, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across her path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging her blundering flight against her, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that she was struck with a witch’s token. Her 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 her nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of her sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch husbands, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horsewoman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called her. She would delight them equally by her 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 woefully 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 specter dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of her subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset her path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did she eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was she appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset her very path! How often did she shrink with curdling awe at the sound of her own steps on the frosty crust beneath her feet; and dread to look over her shoulder, lest she should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind her! And how often was she thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of her nightly scourings!

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

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive her instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the son and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. He was a blooming lad of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of his mother’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for his beauty, but his vast expectations. He was withal a little of a flirt, as might be perceived even in his dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off his charms. He wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which his great-great-grandfather 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 her eyes, more especially after she had visited him in his maternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. She seldom, it is true, sent either her eyes or her thoughts beyond the boundaries of her own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned.  She was satisfied with her wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued herself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which she lived. Her 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 babbled along among alders and dwarf willows.

Hard by the farmhouse 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 cocks, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from 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 farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered househusbands, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant hen, that pattern of a wife, a warrior and a fine gentlewoman, clapping her burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of her heart,--sometimes tearing up the earth with her feet, and then generously calling her ever-hungry family of husbands and children to enjoy the rich morsel which she had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered as she looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In her devouring mind’s eye, she pictured to herself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in her belly, and an apple in her 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 cozily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers she saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but she beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer herself lay sprawling on her back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which her chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as she rolled her 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, her heart yearned after the bachelor who was to inherit these domains, and her 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, her busy fancy already realized her hopes, and presented to her 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 she beheld herself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, --or the Lord knows where!

When she entered the house, the conquest of her 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 center of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled her 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 her 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 mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center 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 her eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of her mind was at an end, and her only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless son of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, she 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 her way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lord of her heart was confined; all which she achieved as easily as a woman would carve her way to the center of a Christmas pie; and then the lord gave her his hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win her way to the heart of a country flirt, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and she had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to his 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, 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 her feats of strength and hardihood. She 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 her Herculean frame and great powers of limb she had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which she was universally known. She was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar.  She was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting her hat on one side, and giving her decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. She was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in her composition; and with all her overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. She had three or four boon companions, who regarded her as their model, and at the head of whom she scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather she was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes her crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old men, 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 her gang!” The neighbors looked upon her 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 her uncouth gallantries, and though her amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that he did not altogether discourage her hopes. Certain it is, her advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in her amours; insomuch, that when her horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that her mistress 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 woman than she would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser woman would have despaired. She had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in her nature; she was in form and spirit like a supple-jack--yielding, but tough; though she bent, she never broke; and though she bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away--jerk!--she was as erect, and carried her head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against her rival would have been madness; for she was not a woman to be thwarted in her amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made her advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of her character of singing-mistress, she made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that she 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; she loved her son better even than her pipe, and, like a reasonable woman and an excellent mother, let him have his way in everything. Her notable little husband, too, had enough to do to attend to his housekeeping and manage his poultry; for, as he sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but boys can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy lord bustled at the house, or plied his spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking her 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 her suit with the son 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 men’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 woman must battle for her fortress at every door and window. She who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but she who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a flirt is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made her advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: her horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between her and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in her nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lord, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore, --by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of her adversary to enter the lists against her; she had overheard a boast of Bones, that she would “double the schoolmistress up, and lay her on a shelf of her own schoolhouse;” and she was too wary to give her 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 her disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon her rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and her gang of rough riders. They harried her hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out her singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of with and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmistress began to think all the warlocks in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning her into ridicule in presence of her master, and had a scoundrel dog whom she taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct him in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence she usually watched all the concerns of her little literary realm. In her hand she swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before her 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 gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for her scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the mistress; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a person in tow-cloth jacket and trousers, 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 she managed with a rope by way of halter.  She 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 her message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a person is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, she dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of her mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. 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 her toilet, brushing and furbishing up her best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging her locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That she might make her appearance before her master in the true style of a cavalier, she borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom she 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 equipment of my hero and her mare. The animal she bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. She was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; her rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still she must have had fire and mettle in her day, if we may judge from the name she bore of Gunpowder. She had, in fact, been a favorite mare of her mistress’, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of her own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as she looked, there was more of the lurking devil in her than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a mare. She rode with short stirrups, which brought her knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; her sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; she carried her whip perpendicularly in her hand, like a scepter, and as her horse jogged on, the motion of her arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of her nose, for so her scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of her black coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and her mare 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 fullness 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 sportswomen, 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-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail and its little Monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on her way, her eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides she 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. Farther on she 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 she passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as she beheld them, soft anticipations stole over her mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus, feeding her mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” she 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 her broad disk down in 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 gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, his 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 toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Dame Van Tassel, which she found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers were in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little lords, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Barrel-chested lads, almost as antiquated as their fathers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The daughters, 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 her favorite mare Daredevil, a creature, like herself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but herself could manage. She was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of her neck, for she held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a girl of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as she entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of barrel-chested lads, 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 househusbands! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender 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 fatherly teapot 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 her historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

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

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among her guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. Her 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 gray-headed man, 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 herself upon her dancing as much as upon her vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about her was idle; and to have seen her loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus herself, that blessed patroness of the dance, was figuring before you in person. She was the admiration of all the farmers; 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 eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lord of her heart was her partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all her amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by herself 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 women. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowgirls, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up her tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of her recollection, to make herself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-haired Dutchwoman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that her gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentlewoman 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 defense, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that she absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which she 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 she 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 underfoot 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 man 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 specter of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horsewoman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered her 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 Horsewoman, and the place where she was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how she met the Horsewoman returning from her foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind her; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horsewoman 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 marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an errant jockey. She affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, she had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that she had offered to race with her 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 women 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. She repaid them in kind with large extracts from her invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken place in her native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which she had seen in her 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 lads 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 heir; fully convinced that she 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 she certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these men! these men! Could that boy have been playing off any of his flirtish tricks? Was his encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure his conquest of her rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a rooster roost, rather than a fair lord’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which she had so often gloated, she went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused her mare most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which she 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 crestfallen, pursued her travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which she had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as herself. Far below her 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, she 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 her distance from this faithful companion of woman. 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 her ear. No signs of life occurred near her, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in her bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that she had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon her recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from her sight. She had never felt so lonely and dismal. She 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 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, she began to whistle; she thought her whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As she approached a little nearer, she thought she saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: she 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 she heard a groan -- her teeth chattered, and her knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. She passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before her.

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 yeowomen concealed who surprised her. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolgirl who has to pass it alone after dark.

As she approached the stream, her heart began to thump; she summoned up, however, all her resolution, gave her 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; her mare 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 schoolmistress 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 her rider sprawling over her head. Just at this moment a splashy 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, she 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 pedagogue rose upon her 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, she demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” She received no reply. She repeated her demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more she cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting her 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. She appeared to be a horsewoman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. She 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 her fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought herself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened her mare in hopes of leaving her behind. The stranger, however, quickened her horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind, --the other did the same. Her heart began to sink within her; she endeavored to resume her psalm tune, but her parched tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and she 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 her fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that she was headless!--but her horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on her shoulders, was carried before her on the pommel of her saddle! Her terror rose to desperation; she rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give her companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with her. 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 she stretched her long lank body away over her horse’s head, in the eagerness of her 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 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 mare had given her unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as she had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and she felt it slipping from under her. She seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save herself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and she heard it trampled underfoot by her pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across her mind, --for it was her Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on her haunches; and (unskillful rider that she was!) she had much ado to maintain her seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of her horse’s backbone, with a violence that she verily feared would cleave her asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered her with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told her that she was not mistaken.  She saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. She recollected the place where Brom Bones’ ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then she heard the black mare panting and blowing close behind her; she even fancied that she felt her hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; she thundered over the resounding planks; she gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if her pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then she saw the goblin rising in her stirrups, and in the very act of hurling her head at her. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered her cranium with a tremendous crash, --she was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black mare, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without her saddle, and with the bridle under her feet, soberly cropping the grass at her mistress’ gate. Ichabod did not make her appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys and girls assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmistress. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and her saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon her 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 schoolmistress was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of her estate, examined the bundle which contained all her 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 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 heir 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 her children no more to school, observing that she never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmistress possessed, and she had received her quarter’s pay but a day or two before, she must have had about her person at the time of her 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 she was unmarried, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled her head any more about her; the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in her 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 she 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 heir; that she had changed her 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 her 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 she knew more about the matter than she chose to tell.

The old country husbands, 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 plowgirl, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied her voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MRS. 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, gentlewomanly old dame, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor -- she made such efforts to be entertaining. When her story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy alderwomen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentlewoman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding her arms, inclining her head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in her mind.  She was one of your wary women, 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, she leaned one arm on the elbow of her 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 story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to her lips, as a refreshment after her toils, paused for a moment, looked at her 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, she that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.

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

The cautious old gentlewoman knit her 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 she observed that all this was very well, but still she thought the story a little on the extravagant --there were one or two points on which she had her doubts.

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

THE END.