The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

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

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

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

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander in chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege, that the body of the trooper having been buried in the church yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church yard before day break.

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

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

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

In this by place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather cock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His school house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The school house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices conning over their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied, by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong headed, broad skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holyday 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 feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an Anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burthen, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest, and like the lion bold, which whilome so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot, for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by diverse little make shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind of idle gentleman like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the person. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea table of a farm house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the church yard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

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

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed of an afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his school house, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by, swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill side; the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech owl; or the sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from their roost. The fire flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

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

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!—With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window!—How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted spectre beset his very path!—How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the gallopping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings.

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

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

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those every thing was snug, happy, and well conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong,hold 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 elders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, 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 farm yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it like ill tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

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

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

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farm houses, with high ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low, projecting eaves formed a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar, gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the mantlepiece; strings of various colored birds, eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight errant of yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

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

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

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

To have taken the field openly against his rival, would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing master, he made frequent visits at the farm house; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable little wife too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry, for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoutable 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 at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights errant of yore—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the school house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog, whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way, matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow cloth jacket and trowsers, a round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry making, or “quilting frolick,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's, and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

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

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking glass, that hung up in the school house. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken down plough horse, that had outlived almost every thing but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the cholerick Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal, for, old and broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad day light.

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 sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red tipt wings and yellow tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white under clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Further on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the bee hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappaan 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 grey and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast, and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare, leathern faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames in close crimped caps, long waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets, hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was in fact noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white: but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives. There was the doughty dough nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

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

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

And now the sound of the music from the common room or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old grey headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle, and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous; the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance; and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossipping over former times, and drawling out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and been infested with refugees, cow boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who in the battle of White plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more who had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long settled retreats; but are trampled under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarce 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 of a night to walk the 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 mournful cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church yard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day time; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they gallopped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gallopping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undert one with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many very marvellous events that had taken place in his native state of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels, mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light hearted laughter mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chopfallen—Oh these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?—Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?—Heaven only knows, not I!—Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy hearted and crest fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm house away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of land mark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling, but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he, however, summoned up all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starvelling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

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

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the gallopping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace; Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror struck, on perceiving that he was headless! but his horror was still more increased, on observing, that the head, which should have rested on the shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip—but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight.

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

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chace, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him; he seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears: the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the Church Bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung 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 of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

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

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the Church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the church yard, 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 gallopping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him, the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

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

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

POSTSCRIPT

Found in the Handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker

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

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

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

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state.” The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism; while methought the one in pepper and salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts. “Faith, sir,” replied the story teller, “as to that matter, I don't believe one half of it myself.”

D. K.

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The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night.It receives its name from its note which is thought to resemble those words.

睡谷的传说

——迪德里希·尼克博克的遗作

昏昏欲睡，看得见赏心悦目的情景，

眼睛半睁半闭，面前一场梦境；

华丽宫殿耸立在云层，

千古不变闪耀于夏日的天空。

——《懒散的城堡》

哈德逊河东岸有一些河湾，呈锯齿形排列，其中有一处，水面极其辽阔，荷兰古代航行家称之为塔潘湾。穿过这片水域，他们总会谨慎地收帆，祈求圣尼古拉斯的保佑。此处有个小集镇（或称商埠），有些人把它叫作格林斯柏格，但它还有一个更出名、更合适的名字叫作逗留镇。据说，这个名字是附近的一些村妇给起的，原因是她们的丈夫养成了一种癖性，每逢赶集日就逗留在镇上的酒馆里，流连忘返。随他们怎么说吧，反正我也无法举证，仅仅提一提罢了，说明我讲述的事情是有凭有据的。离这个小镇不远，大约在两英里开外，高山之间有一个小山谷，或者不如说是一块凹地，那儿恐怕是天下最安静的地方了。一条小溪穿谷而过，汩汩的水声如催眠曲使人昏昏欲睡，唯有偶尔一声鹌鹑的轻啼，或者啄木鸟啄木的声音，才会打破弥漫四野的寂静。

记得我少年时，第一次去打松鼠，就是在这个山谷一侧山腰上高大的胡桃树林子里。进林子时，正值中午，四周安静得出奇。我开了一枪，连我自己都被吓了一跳。那枪声打破了遍及四方的沉寂，久久不息，轰隆隆在山谷里回响。假如有一天我想隐居，躲开这纷纷扰扰的尘世，躲开麻烦不断的人生，悠悠然在梦境中度过余生，真不知还有什么地方比这个小山谷更为理想的了。

由于此地安静得令人昏昏欲睡，由于这儿的居民（最初来此处定居的荷兰人的后裔）性情落落寡合，这条与世隔绝的山谷长久以来被称为“睡谷”，此处的村童则被附近一带的人一致称作 “睡谷之子”。仿佛有一种昏沉沉、催梦的力量笼罩着整个山谷，甚至渗透入了那儿的空气中。有人说，殖民初期曾有一个神通广大的德国医生给这个地方施了魔法；还有人说，远在亨德利克·哈德逊船长发现这一带之前，就有一位印第安酋长，一个印第安族的先知或巫师之类的人物，曾给这条山谷施加过巫术。看来果真如此——至今，此地仍在某种魔力的影响之下，使得老百姓大脑受到控制，连走路也晕晕乎乎如在梦中。对于形形色色的奇谈怪论，他们都笃信不疑，整日恍恍惚惚，胡思乱想，经常以为自己看到了异象，以为自己听见空中传来天籁之音和天人的说话声。这儿到处闹鬼，到处盛传鬼怪故事，充斥着神秘的迷信色彩；山谷的上空出现流星雨以及彗星闪过的频率比其他任何一个地方都要多；梦魔和她的九个小鬼似乎把这里当作了最喜爱的游乐场。

这是个神鬼出没的地方，而佼佼者则是一个骑在马背上的无头鬼，他似乎是所有天神天鬼的领袖。据有些人说，他是一个黑森州的骑兵的鬼魂，在革命战争中的一次无名战役里，脑袋给一颗炮弹打飞了。乡民们时常看见他在茫茫的夜色里疾驰而过，快如驾风飞过。他不仅出没于山谷中，有时也会出没于附近的大路小径，特别是离山谷不太远的教堂一带。实际上，本地区的一些可靠的历史学家已经把关于这个无头鬼的传说细心地收集起来，并且核对过了。他们声称，这个骑兵的尸身埋在教堂的墓地里，其阴魂夜夜都要骑马去昔日的战场寻找他的头颅。有时，他飞驰过山谷，速度快得就像一阵风，那是因为他耽搁得太久，急着要在天亮前赶回教堂墓地里去呢。

这个迷信传说的大致内容就是如此，它给这个神鬼出没的地区许多荒诞不经的故事提供了素材。该地区的住户在火炉边讲故事时，将此鬼称为“睡谷的无头骑兵”。

值得一提的是：我刚才说的这种见神见鬼的癖性，并不为山谷里土生土长的居民独有，但凡在此处住过一段时间的人，无不于不知不觉之中受之感染。在步入这个睡意蒙眬的地区之前，不管他们的头脑是多么清醒，只要待很短一段时间，吸几口具有魔力的空气，一定会受到影响，开始胡思乱想，做各种各样的梦，看到各种各样的鬼。

说起这块平静的小天地，我多有的是赞誉之词。在偌大的纽约州，这种带有荷兰风情的僻静的小山谷处处可见。在这个浮躁的国家里，他处移民潮和社会进步的潮流汹涌澎湃，催生了各种各样的变化，而此处的人口、风俗和习惯却始终不变。时代的潮流从旁边悄悄地流过。这些山谷就像隐身于湍流旁的一个个宁静的小水洼，看得见麦秆和泡沫静静地浮在水面，或者慢悠悠徘徊于这个微型港湾里，全然不受旁边匆匆流过的湍流的影响。想当年我曾在睡谷里那令人昏昏欲睡的树荫下散步，而今多年的时光已经逝去。但我相信，那些树木和人家仍在睡谷那隐秘的怀抱里繁衍生息。

在大自然的这个僻静的角落里，美国历史中很久以前的一个时间段里，也就是说在大约三十年前吧，出现过一位可敬的人物，名叫伊卡博德·克莱恩。此人移居于睡谷，或者按他的话说“逗留”于睡谷，为的是教育这一带的孩子们。他的老家是康涅狄格州，彼州为合众国提供了许多开发思想和开发森林的先驱，年年都会派出大批人才去边疆伐木，以及到乡村施教。克莱恩这个姓对于他还是有点贴切的——他身材瘦长瘦长、窄肩膀、长胳膊长腿，两只手荡来荡去，离袖口简直有一英里远，两只脚完全可以当铲子使用，整个躯干松松垮垮，小脑袋，脑袋顶部是平的，两只耳朵大得像扇子，眼睛像两个大大的绿色玻璃球，鼻子长得似鹬嘴。这样的一颗脑袋，安在他那细长的脖子上，看上去像一只可以随时报告风向的风信鸡。刮风天里要是看见他从山腰大步流星走来，衣服鼓起，随风飘荡，你准会以为他是个饿鬼来到了人间，或者会把他错当成稻草人，从田间偷跑了出来。

他的学校是一座只有一个大房间的矮屋，用原木草草搭成，窗户有的镶嵌着玻璃，有的糊着旧习字簿的纸页。学校里无人的时候，自有巧妙的安全措施——用一根柳条缠在门柄上，再用几根木桩顶住窗板；这样，小偷进来容易出去难；此种防范措施，极可能是建筑师尤思特·冯·胡腾想出来的，而这位建筑师的灵感大概来源于捕鳗用的细颈篮那种神秘的结构。学校地点偏僻，但风景还算不错，位于一座林木茂盛的小山脚下，旁边有一条潺潺流淌的小溪，校舍的一端长着一株粗大的桦树。在令人昏昏欲睡的夏日，这里可以听见小学生们喃喃的读书声，声音很低，嗡嗡嗡的，像蜂巢里的蜜蜂在叫。这种声音时不时会被老师严厉的呵斥声打断，口吻有时是威胁，有时则是命令。也可能，打断读书声的是桦树枝条抽打学生的那种噼啪噼啪的骇人声音——这位老师用这种方式督促混日子的差生沿着繁花似锦的求知道路前行。实话实说，这位老师是个认真负责的人，心里时刻铭记着那条黄金格言：“小孩不打不成器。”伊卡博德·克莱恩的学生的确没少挨打。

不过，我可不想让读者以为他是学校里的一个心狠手辣的专制君主，以抽打学生为乐事。事实恰恰相反，他在执法的时候，总是区别对待，而非一味严厉。他常常轻饶弱者，严惩强者。遇到一见教鞭便吓得缩成一团的弱小孩子犯规，他会起宽容之心，放他们一马，而对于那些桀骜不驯、顽固不化、身穿宽松衣的荷兰小顽童，为了维护公理，他就加倍地惩罚。小顽童们绷着脸，硬不低头，越打越顽固，越打越倔强。他将这种惩罚称为“代他们的父母尽职”。每次惩罚完之后，他都要对顽童说几句安慰的话，说这都是为他们好，“他们会永远记住这教训，在以后的人生中，他们会因此而感谢他的”。

放学以后，他甚至成了大一些孩子的伙伴，跟他们一起玩耍。每逢节假日的下午，对于一些年纪较小的孩子，他都会护送其回家——小孩子家中往往有漂亮的姐姐或好客的妈妈，后者会以好酒好菜加以款待。实际上，他很有必要跟学生们搞好关系。教学方面，他收入微薄，恐怕连一日三餐的用项都不够——他虽然瘦，食量却很大，消化力堪比蟒蛇。不过，还是有补救办法的——根据该地区乡下的习惯，他可以到学生家中，吃住于农夫之家。于是，他在每个学生家里住一个星期，一家一家轮流住。每次入住，他都会随身携带一个小包袱，里面包着他的全部财产。

为了避免让农夫东家们花费过大，使得农夫们觉得上学划不来，负担太重，而教书先生都是些混吃混喝的人，于是他便用各种方法效力，表示自己是有用的，是讨人喜欢的。于是，他时常下田帮着干些轻活，帮着晾晒干草、修补篱笆、牵马饮水、赶牛回栏，以及劈柴冬天烧火用。他会放下在学校那个小王国里称王称霸的架子，撇开那种唯我独尊、盛气凌人的神态，变得十分温柔、异常随和。他会哄着孩子玩，尤其是哄那些幼婴，以赢得母亲们的好感，就像一只猛狮宽宏大量地抚育小羊羔，坐在那儿，把孩子抱在膝上，用脚晃动着摇篮，一晃就是数个小时。

除了干这些杂事之外，他还教本地区的居民唱歌，教年轻人们唱赞美诗，因而获得了许多亮晃晃的先令。星期天，他会率领一班精挑细选出来的歌手到教堂去，站在教众面前亮相。此时，他沾沾自喜、不可一世，觉得出尽了风头，地位高出牧师一筹。此言不虚，因为他的歌声嘹亮，声音盖过了在场所有的人，奇怪的是至今教堂里仍余音袅袅。在寂静的星期天的上午，他的歌声半英里开外都可以听得见，声音直达磨坊水塘的对岸。据说，伊卡博德·克莱恩的歌声的确具有这样的力量。这位可敬的学究便是如此度日，处心积虑地（即普通人所说的“绞尽脑汁、不择手段”）寻找一些零碎差事勉强过活。有些人不了解脑力劳动之艰辛，还以为他过的是神仙一般的逍遥日子呢。

在乡下的女人圈里，老师可算是显赫的人物。女人们觉得当老师的是悠闲安逸、绅士一类的人，品位和才艺都远高于粗鲁的乡下小伙子，实际上，论学问只比牧师低一丁点。于是乎，伊卡博德·克莱恩只要出现在农家屋里，势必会在茶桌旁引起一阵忙乱——女人们会额外添上一盘糕饼或者蜜饯，偶尔还会摆上一把银质茶壶撑撑门面。我们的这位知识分子见年轻的农家女们笑脸相迎，不由心里乐开了花。星期天做礼拜中间休息，他陪着娇娘们走到教堂的院落里，见周围的树木上野藤缠绕，便从野藤上采摘葡萄献给她们，或背诵墓碑上的铭文供她们消遣，或在众多娇娘的簇拥下漫步于附近的磨坊水塘边。那些土包子乡下小伙子见他风度翩翩、谈吐高雅，难免嫉妒，急忙含羞躲避一旁。

他过的是一种半游牧式的生活，俨然就是个“流动信息站”，走家串户，把当地的小道消息带往各户人家，所到之处无不受到热情欢迎。此外，女人们敬重他，认为他是个学识渊博的人，因为他通读过许多书，可以说是科顿·马瑟的《新英格兰巫术史》一书的绝对权威（顺便提一句，他本人坚定不移地相信巫术）。

实际上，他是个很复杂的人物，既有一些小智慧，又有点信神信鬼。他对稀奇古怪事物的爱好，以及对这类现象的领悟能力，都是非同寻常的，再加上生活在一个受魔力控制的地区，这种爱好和能力更是加强了不少。无论多么庸俗的故事，无论多么荒唐的传说，他都饶有兴趣地一概接受。他常常喜欢在下午放学之后，走到学校旁边那条潺潺流淌的小溪边，躺在茂盛的苜蓿丛上面，在那儿细细地阅读马瑟写的那些令人毛骨悚然的故事，直至暮色越来越浓，书上的字在眼前变得模糊不清。这时，他便放下书，沿着沼泽、小溪和可怕的森林，一路走到他所寄宿的那户农家。这是一个鬼怪出没的时刻，大自然里每一种响动都会令他心跳，激发他的种种想象。山坡上北美夜鹰的一声啼叫、预告暴风雨来临的树蟾的叫声、猫头鹰凄厉的哀鸣、树丛中鸟儿受惊后逃窜发出的窸窣声，都会使他浮想联翩。萤火虫在最黑的地方发的光最亮——途中，时而会有一只特别亮的萤火虫从他面前飞过，吓他一大跳。如果碰巧有一只笨头笨脑的甲虫瞎飞瞎撞地朝他扑过来，这个可怜的人儿一定会吓得灵魂出窍，会以为是巫婆在施巫术。这种时候，为了驱除恐惧的心理，或者说为了赶走恶鬼，他唯一的办法就是唱赞美诗。他的歌声带着鼻音，拖得长长的，十分悦耳，从远处的山坡上飘来，或者回荡在暮色苍茫的小道上，睡谷的居民们于黄昏时分坐在自家门前听了，敬畏之心常常油然而生。

他还有一种乐趣也挺可怕的。在漫长的冬季的夜晚，他会和那些在火炉旁纺线的荷兰大妈们一道消磨时光——大妈们一边纺线，一边把苹果串在一起放在火上烤，烤得苹果发出刺啦刺啦的响声，一边还讲些神神鬼鬼的奇怪故事，什么鬼田、鬼溪、鬼桥和鬼屋啦，尤其爱讲那个无头的骑兵（她们有时称其为“睡谷的黑森骑兵”）。他也给大妈们讲巫婆的故事，讲早先流传于康涅狄格州的有关于各种凶兆的传说，有关于出现在空中的各种恐怖景象和声音的传说，同样令大妈们听得津津有味；他还会讲关于彗星和流星的种种猜想，告诉她们一个惊人的事实——地球是一直在转动的，地球人一半时间都是头朝下脚朝上生活着，吓得大妈们心惊肉跳。

他舒舒服服地坐在壁炉旁边，壁炉里木柴烧得哔哔剥剥地响，火光映得满室通红，根本不用害怕野鬼光顾。如果说这是一种享受的话，那么，这种享受是要付出高昂代价的，因为回家的路上他会感到非常害怕。在大雪纷飞的夜晚，白光幽幽，阴森可怕，仿佛有孤魂野鬼出现在他的面前！他多么渴望远处人家的窗口能闪出一线灯光，让那颤巍巍的灯光洒在这茫茫的荒野上啊！不知有多少次，路上看见披着白雪的灌木丛，像是裹着尸衣的鬼魂，吓得他屁滚尿流！不知有多少次，踩在冰雪覆盖的地面上，脚下咯吱作响，他被自己弄出的声响吓得魂飞天外，看也不敢朝后看一眼，生怕会瞧到什么狰狞的鬼怪紧随在他身后！不知有多少次，狂风吹过树林，林涛怒吼，吓得他大气不敢出，还以为是那个黑森骑兵疾驰而过，趁着夜色去寻找自己的头颅！

不过，这只是夜间的一些惊悚现象，是摸黑走路心里幻想出来的情景。他一生虽见鬼无数，独自出行时，非止一次遇见撒旦变成各种模样出现在面前，但天一亮，一切妖魔鬼怪都遁去了形影。尽管有妖魔作乱，尽管杂事缠身，他也并不在乎，要不是在人生道路上碰上一个生灵，他会高高兴兴度过一生的。此生灵给他造成的烦恼，比所有的妖魔鬼怪和巫师巫婆加在一起都要多。这生灵是一个女人。

每星期中有一个晚上，一些习乐弟子开班上课，跟他学唱赞美诗，其中有一女弟子名叫卡特丽娜·冯·塔塞尔。她是一个家境殷实的荷兰裔农夫的独生女，年方十八岁，面若桃花、美压群芳，丰满得像只小鹌鹑，那张熟透了的娇滴滴的红脸蛋赛过其父所种的鲜桃。她闻名于十里八乡，不仅因为她貌似天仙，还由于其有望继承大笔家产。同时，她还有点爱卖弄风情，这从她的服饰上可见端倪。她的服饰既有古装的典雅又有现代服装的时尚，极大限度地显现出了她的妖娆。她戴的首饰都是纯金的，黄澄澄的，是她的高祖母从萨阿丹带过来的。她上身穿一件诱人眼目的古色古香的胸衣，下穿一条惹人动心的短裙，露出她那双在本地区最漂亮的脚和脚踝。

伊卡博德·克莱恩对女性素怀柔情和痴心，难怪没多久便盯上了这块令人垂涎三尺的天鹅肉，尤其是到她父母的那幢大宅院里看望过她之后就更加如此了。巴尔图斯·冯·塔塞尔老人是个典型的家业兴旺的农夫，乐天知命、心胸开阔。除了他自己的农庄，对外边的情况他既不看也不想，这固然不错，却将农庄里的万般事务料理得舒舒服服、妥妥当当。他对自己的富有感到满足，却并不因此而盛气凌人。他因有偌大的家业而自豪，却并不追求生活的排场。他的宅院位于哈德逊河沿岸的一个僻静的小天地里，这儿绿茵铺地、土壤肥沃——荷兰裔的农夫一般都喜欢在这种地方安静度日。一株大榆树枝繁叶茂，遮护住他的房屋，树脚下有一个小泉眼，呈桶状，里面汩汩涌出清洌甘甜的泉水，静悄悄流过草地，一路泛着亮光，汇入附近的一条小溪中，溪岸上长满了赤杨和矮柳。农舍跟前有一座极大的谷仓，大得简直可以当教堂用。谷仓里装满了粮食，似乎把每个窗孔和每个缝隙都填实了。这儿，从早到晚都可听到用连枷打谷的声音，一刻也不停。小燕子和雨燕呢喃作声，在屋檐下飞来飞去；一群一群的鸽子在屋顶上晒太阳，有的翻起一只眼像是在看天气，有的将头藏在翅膀下或埋在胸前，有的昂首挺胸，有的咕咕叫着把头一点一点地求偶。一些皮毛光滑、笨乎乎的肥猪哼哼叫着，在猪圈里过着养尊处优的日子；不时会有几只正吃奶的的小猪跑出来，好像是想呼吸呼吸外边的空气。旁边的池塘里有些羽毛雪白的鹅，排成庄严的队列，与成群结队的鸭子一道游水。一群群的火鸡咯咯地叫着在院子里乱跑；院子里还有一些珍珠鸡，它们一个个怒气冲冲，气哼哼、不满地叫着，活像是脾气暴躁的家庭主妇。谷仓门前有只威风凛凛的公鸡，高视阔步，俨然就是个好丈夫、好武士、好绅士，它拍打着羽毛鲜亮的翅膀，发出豪迈和高兴的叫声，有时会用爪子刨土觅食，找到食物后就慷慨地唤来它那总是饥肠辘辘的妻子儿女，让它们大快朵颐。

这位学究看见这许多食物可供冬日饱餐，不禁口水直流。他心里像有只馋虫，不由想入非非，想象着那些跑来跑去的乳猪上了烤架，肚子里塞着布丁，嘴里含着苹果；想象着那些鸽子舒舒服服安眠于一个大馅饼里，身上盖了一层面皮当被子；白鹅们在汤盆里游泳；鸭子成双成对，身上抹了厚厚一层洋葱酱，安详地卧于菜碟上，就像是一对对新婚伉俪。看到猪，他就联想到了香喷喷的培根和鲜嫩可口的火腿；看见火鸡，他则联想到它们被绑起来，脑袋塞在翅膀下面，偶尔脖子上还挂着一串美味的腊肠当项链；甚至连那只雄赳赳的公鸡也直挺挺躺在了加餐盘上，爪子朝天，仿佛在讨饶——活着的时候，就凭它那威武的武士风度，是绝不会如此低三下四的。

伊卡博德·克莱恩发挥着自己的想象，想得都入了迷。他那绿色的大眼睛滴溜溜转，望着冯·塔塞尔家四周那丰茂的草地，望着那种植着小麦、黑麦、荞麦和玉米的肥田，望着那果实累累的果园，心里思慕着将要继承这一切财产的姑娘，想象力进一步膨胀，想到他将会把这些财产转手变为现金，投资购买下无边无际的野地，在那儿盖起一幢幢的房屋。他心里翻江倒海，幻想着自己的愿望已经实现，已经将如花似玉的卡特丽娜娶到了手，并且生儿育女。卡特丽娜带着儿女坐上马车，车上装着家里的杂物，车下挂着水壶和煎锅，而那些水壶和煎锅随车一摇一晃的，他则骑一匹母马护卫，后面跟着一匹小马，全家取道前往肯塔基或田纳西——或者是只有老天才知道的地方！

走进冯·塔塞尔家的家门，他的心就完全被征服了。这是一幢宽敞的农舍，屋脊高，屋顶呈斜坡状，垂得很低，这是第一代荷兰移民传下来的建筑风格——那低垂的屋檐在房前遮出一道走廊，走廊有门，雨雪天可以关闭。屋檐下挂着连枷、马具、各种耕作用具以及到附近河里捕鱼用的渔网。走廊两侧有几条长凳，供夏天纳凉时坐，而两端各放着一架大纺车和一台搅乳器，由此可见这条走廊十分重要，有着各种各样的用途。沿着这条走廊，心里遐想不已的伊卡博德步入了大厅，此处是整幢宅子的中心，是家里人经常聚会的地方。大厅里有一个长长的食具柜，上面摆着几排亮晃晃的锡镴制器皿，照得他眼花。一个角落里放着一只大口袋，里面装着待纺的羊毛；另一个角落堆着一匹匹刚从织机上取下来的棉毛制品；墙上挂着一串串的玉米和用绳子穿缀起来的干苹果、干桃子，犹如花饰一般，其中还夹杂着许多色彩艳丽的红辣椒；一扇门半开半掩，通向那间最讲究的起居室，他探首望去，只见那儿有爪足椅和深色红木桌子，件件亮得如明镜一样；铁制柴架和火铲、火钳都闪闪发着亮光，而柴架上挂着一些芦笋尖；几个工艺品橘子和海螺壳摆在壁炉架上作为装饰；壁炉架的上方挂着一串串各种颜色的鸟蛋；房间的正中央挂着一枚巨型鸵鸟蛋；墙拐角有一个碗橱，故意开着，露出许多珍贵的古代银器以及精心修补的古瓷器。

自打看见了这些令人赏心悦目的景象那一刻起，伊卡博德的心就再也平静不下来了。他现在唯一的念头，就是设法去赢得冯·塔塞尔的那个美艳女儿的爱情。然而，此举困难重重，其艰难程度远超过那些追求爱情的游侠骑士的命运。那些骑士要对付的只是些巨人、巫士、喷火的龙，以及诸如此类容易战胜的对手。他们只要打开一条路， 穿过铁门或铜门，翻越坚固的城墙，闯入囚禁着意中人的城堡就行了，容易得就跟切圣诞节的蛋糕一样，一下就可以切到中心。进了城堡，便能够获得美人心了。伊卡博德则不然，他得一路闯关去获得一个乡村女子的心，这颗心任性，反复无常，叫人难以捉摸，总是给你制造困难和障碍。同时，他还得对付一大批有血有肉的可怕的对手——无数爱慕她的乡下少年。那些少年把守着通到她心里去的每一扇门，彼此争风吃醋，相互怒目而视、虎视眈眈，可是一见新敌手出现，便会组成联合阵线，合力迎敌。少年中，有一个身材魁梧、吼声如雷、性如烈火的家伙最可怕。此人名叫亚伯拉罕，荷兰语的称呼叫布鲁姆·冯·布隆特。他是本地区的勇士，素以膂力过人和好勇斗狠著称。他膀大腰圆、肌肉强健，一头鬈发又黑又短，一张脸带着野性，但并不惹人讨厌，挂着愉快的表情，气势凌人。这么一个彪形大汉，再加上其力大无穷，因此获得“布鲁姆勇士”这一绰号，成了个闻名遐迩的人物。在骑马方面，他既精通理论又精通技巧，在马背上灵巧自如，和鞑靼人无异。若论赛马和斗鸡，他每次都能夺魁。在乡下，有力气就有威信。于是，邻里之间出现争端，就由他裁断。这时，他会歪戴着帽子，做出决断，语气坚定，不容置辩。他总是喜欢跟人打架或者恶作剧，这倒不是说他生就一副邪恶肚肠，而是因为性格顽皮。尽管看上去顽劣不堪，他其实却有着侠义风骨。他身边有三四个哥们，把他视为学习的榜样。他领着这几个哥们闯荡江湖，方圆几英里内有人打架或者出现热闹的场景，他们必到现场。冷天，他总是戴一顶皮帽子，帽子上缀一根夺人眼球的狐狸尾巴，叫人一看就知道是他。乡下凡有集会，就凭着这个标记，人们老远就能认出他来，随即闪至一旁，看着这几位勇猛的骑手呼啸而过。有时候，半夜三更也能听见他们一小队人马咋咋呼呼地从农舍旁飞驰而过，就像一队冲锋陷阵的顿河流域的哥萨克骑兵。熟睡的老妪从梦中惊醒，竖起耳朵听一听，直至那嗒嗒嗒的急促的马蹄声渐行渐远，这才长叹一声说：“唉，又是‘布鲁姆勇士’他们那一帮子人！”乡亲们看待他，心情十分复杂，既有畏惧，又有佩服和无奈。只要该地有人搞恶作剧，或者出现打架斗殴的事情，乡亲们总会摇摇头，断定又是“布鲁姆勇士”在兴风作浪了。

这个粗野撒泼的英雄不知何时相中了如花似玉的卡特丽娜，以粗野的方式对她大献殷勤，虽然他的爱情和表达爱情的手段有点像一只熊的温存和爱抚，但有人暗地里说，她没有完全叫他失望。有一点是肯定的：他的进攻就等于是一种信号，使得情敌们知难而退，因为谁都不愿意招惹一头正在发情的雄狮。于是乎，星期日晚上，只要一见他的马拴在冯·塔塞尔家门外的拴马桩上，便可以断定马的主人在里面求爱，或者用术语说正在“迸发火花”，其他的追求者便会绝望地走开，将战火燃烧到别的战场上去。

伊卡博德·克莱恩就是要跟这么一个令人生畏的情敌一决雌雄。综合考虑各种因素，比他更强壮的人恐怕也会退出竞争的，比他更聪慧的人也会以绝望告终。不过，他的性格却有着刚柔并济的特点，其肉体和精神就像一根藤手杖，易弯曲，但坚韧，有时会弯下腰身，却绝不会折断——哪怕受到一丁点压力他也会低头，然而压力一消退，他又会挺起胸膛，把头昂得跟以前一样高。

要说公开对抗“布鲁姆勇士”这样的情敌，那纯粹是发疯。这位情敌正在发情，绝不会认输的，其爱情的热度不次于那个疯狂恋人阿喀琉斯(10)。因而，伊卡博德的进攻采取的是静悄悄的迂回战术。他以音乐教师的身份作为掩护，经常到她家里去访问；不过，他这样做，并不是怕受到她父母的干涉（对恋人们而言，父母经常是爱情路上的拦路虎）。巴尔图斯·冯·塔塞尔平易近人，有着深厚的舐犊之情，爱自己的女儿甚至胜过爱他的烟斗。像所有通情达理、心胸开阔的慈父一样，他由着女儿按自己的性子做事。至于他的贤妻，手头的事都忙不过来呢，既要料理家务，又要看管鸡鸭。这位贤妻自有高见，认为家禽缺乏头脑，需要人照料，而女孩子是能够照顾好自己的。于是便出现了这样的情况：这位贤妻忙得在屋里跑来跑去，或者坐在走廊的一端纺纱，而老实巴交的巴尔图斯则坐在走廊的另一端，于暮色中吸着烟斗望着谷仓顶上那个木刻的小武士手持双剑跟屋顶上的风英勇作战。与此同时，伊卡博德却在大榆树下的泉水旁向这家的千金调情求爱，或者陪着这位千金踏着暮色散步。在暮色里，恋人说出的话最为动听。

我得声明：我本人对如何打动和赢得一个女人的心一窍不通。我觉得情场上的事如谜团一般扑朔迷离，让人佩服。有些女人似乎只有一个弱点，或者说只有一扇门可通达她们的心，有的则有千百条途径，可用千百种方法一举将她们的芳心俘获。要想俘获前一种女人，必须技艺高超，而俘获后一种女人就得有更大的本事，必须像将军一样懂得运筹帷幄，因为进攻者必须从各扇门、各扇窗户同时进攻才能攻克堡垒。赢得成千个普通女人的心固然值得称道，但只有能够把风骚女的心牢牢控制住的男人，才能称得上是真正的英雄。那个恶煞星一样的“布鲁姆勇士”当然不属于后一类情况；自从伊卡博德开始进攻，他的热情很明显在走下坡路了。星期天的晚上，再也看不见他的马拴在冯·塔塞尔家门外的拴马桩上了。渐渐地，他和睡谷的这位教师之间便产生了不共戴天的敌意。

若按布鲁姆好斗逞勇的天性，乐得光明正大地打一场，一了百了地解决这件争风吃醋的事情，方法简单合理，即按照古代游侠的风格以决斗见胜负。而伊卡博德深知这位情敌膂力超人，哪敢单一对决。他听说这位“布鲁姆勇士”放过狠话，说是要把 “这个教书先生对折起来，放在他自己学校里的书架上”。他好汉不吃眼前亏，决不能叫布鲁姆的狠话落到实处。他坚持以和平的方式解决争端，气得布鲁姆无计可施，不由将顽劣的天性暴露了出来，搞出一些野蛮的恶作剧作弄自己的情敌。“布鲁姆勇士”率领着他的那班顽徒千方百计地捉弄起伊卡博德来。他们不断侵扰他那平静的小王国，堵死唱歌学校的烟囱，把师生们熏出教室；尽管学校夜间关门闭户，窗户上装着铁栅栏，防范措施严密，他们照样会攻入校门，把里面翻个底朝天，搅得伊卡博德慌了神，以为是全地区的巫婆都跑了来施展巫术。但更叫人气恼的是，布鲁姆一有机会就当着卡特丽娜的面取笑他，让他出乖露丑。布鲁姆养了一条恶狗，教会它用一种荒唐可笑的声音发出哀嚎，声称它的声音能和伊卡博德的声音媲美，可以教卡特丽娜唱赞美诗。

这种状况持续了一段时间，敌对双方的情况没有发生实质性的变化。在一个风和日丽的秋日的下午，伊卡博德怀着满腹的心事，正襟危坐于教室里的高凳上，像往常一样看管着他的这个知识小王国里的一切事务。他晃动着手中的戒尺（戒尺乃象征着他专制权力的权杖），而执法用的桦树条安居在他宝座后边的三颗钉子上，这些对喜欢捣乱的学生起着威慑作用。他面前的书桌上，可以看到各种偷偷带进学校的小玩意儿以及严厉禁止的武器，这些都是从不学无术的顽童身上搜出来的，其中有吃了一半的苹果、气枪、陀螺、苍蝇笼子，还有许多纸折的气势汹汹的小斗鸡。显而易见，教室里刚刚出现过严厉的执法事件，因为学生们都在认真看书，但也有的人用一只眼盯着老师，拿书本挡住脸在悄悄说话，一片寂静中可以听见嗡嗡嗡的声音。突然，这种气氛被一个黑人的出现打破了。黑人穿一身粗麻布衣服和长裤，戴着一种圆顶的破帽子（帽子的形状与墨丘利(11)的帽子一样），骑一匹脏兮兮、野性未驯的小马，用一根麻绳当作马缰。他啪嗒啪嗒来到学校门前，送来了一份请柬，邀请伊卡博德当晚去冯·塔塞尔家参加联欢会——或称联谊会。他显示出很有身份的样子，说话文质彬彬、咬文嚼字——黑人办这类小事，总喜欢讲讲排场。完成了这项使命之后，他转身离去，纵马越过小溪，在山谷里飞奔，表现出有重任在身、刻不容缓的派头。

刚才还安安静静的教室这下子乱成了一锅粥。学生们被催得读课文的速度加快，即便念错了也一带而过；那些滑头的学生甚至将课文跳过去一半不读也不受罚；那些读得慢的，则响亮地挨上一教鞭，以此让他们加速，或者说是帮助他们跳过某个难读的字。之后，课本被随便扔在一边，懒得放到书架上去；墨水瓶被打翻；凳子被推倒；全校比平时提前一个小时放了学。学生们冲到外边的草地上，大声喊叫和笑闹，因这么早便获得解放而欢欣鼓舞，就像一群小精灵。

接下来，情意缠绵的伊卡博德开始梳妆打扮，在这上面比平时起码多花了半个小时的时间。他拿出自己最好的衣服（其实只是件褪了色的黑外套），又是刷又是擦的。然后，他对着校舍里挂着的一块破镜子把头发拨拉来拨拉去的。为了能够像一个真正的骑士那样出现在恋人面前，他还从自己借宿的那户农家借了一匹马（这户农家的主人是个脾气暴躁的荷兰裔老头，名叫汉斯·冯·里普尔），随即英武地跨上马，前去赴约，那派头活像是一个前去冒险的骑士。我觉得，讲浪漫故事就应该讲讲故事中真正的精彩之处，所以有必要形容一下这位英雄骑士的仪表、穿戴和坐骑。他骑的这匹马是拉犁的老马，精气神已消失殆尽，顽劣的性子却没有随之消失。这畜生骨瘦如柴、皮毛零乱，脖子细得像羊脖子，脑袋的形状似榔头，肮脏的马鬃和马尾乱糟糟的，沾满了麦秸；它的一只眼没有瞳仁，恶狠狠地冒着凶光，另一只眼则幽光闪闪，仿佛里面藏着恶鬼。想当年它一定性子暴烈如火，你光从它的名字“火药”就能看得出来。其实，这畜生曾经是主人心爱的坐骑——汉斯·冯·里普尔脾气暴躁，是个烈性子骑手，很可能把自己的脾性传导给了这畜生。如今它已入晚景，风光不再，但脾气比本地区任何一匹年轻的马都暴烈。

伊卡博德和这匹马很是搭配，相得益彰。他用的是一副短镫，骑到马上，膝盖高抬，几乎能抵到前鞍，瘦削的肘部像蚱蜢腿似的伸出去；他将马鞭笔直地执在手里，像执着权杖。马儿蹒跚行进，他的两只胳膊一晃一晃，就好像鸟儿在拍打翅膀。一顶羊毛小帽扣在他的鼻梁上端（他的前额太窄了，权且称为鼻梁上端吧），那件黑上衣的下摆飘荡起来，几乎碰到了马尾。伊卡博德骑着马走出汉斯·冯·里普尔家的院门时，就是这么一种模样，简直像是光天化日之下难得一遇的幽灵。

这一天正如我方才所说，是个风和日丽的秋日，天空清澈而静谧，大自然披着富丽的金黄色盛装，使人很容易联想到丰收的景象。层林尽染秋色，呈现出素雅的棕黄两色，而一些小树蒙上秋霜，显得色彩斑斓——橘黄、暗紫同猩红混杂一处。高高的天空中飞来一行一行的野鸭；山毛榉和山胡桃树丛里传来松鼠唧唧的叫声；周围一带刚割完麦子，麦茬地里不时响起一两声鹌鹑的啼鸣，声声惹人哀思。

小鸟们正在享受这最后的盛宴。它们欢情一片，扑闪着翅膀，叽叽喳喳地叫喊，忽东忽西嬉戏于灌木丛中和大树的枝头间，在这丰富多彩的天地里游玩。这里边有老实的雄知更鸟，它们是童子猎人最喜欢的猎物，叫声高亢，似吵架一般；有黑鹂，它们叫声一片，飞起来如乌云遮空；有金翅啄木鸟，它们顶着红冠，宽宽的黑肩膀，披一身华丽的羽毛；有黄连雀，它们长着红边的翅膀和黄尾巴梢，头上有一顶小羽冠；还有蓝松鸦，它们是些吵吵闹闹的花花公子，穿着鲜艳的淡蓝色外衣和白衬衫，叫不停、唱不停，又是点头致意，又是弓腰示好，那副神气就好像跟林中的鸟儿个个都处得相当融洽。

伊卡博德骑着马缓缓而行，沿途观望各种可以化为美食的果实和鸟禽，满心喜悦地欣赏着欢快、丰实的秋色。四面八方尽可见满世界的苹果，或挂在树上，压弯了枝头，或装入篮里、桶中，准备运到市场上出售，或堆积如山，准备榨汁用。放眼望去，远处可见大片的玉米田，金黄色的穗子从绿叶下探出头来，叫他联想到了玉米大饼和玉米布丁。黄澄澄的南瓜躺在玉米的穗下，朝着太阳挺起它们那漂亮的圆肚子——这样的丰收情景预示着将会有许多香喷喷的馅饼。再往前走一会儿，便到了香气扑鼻的荞麦田，这儿有一股蜂房的气味。他不由浮想联翩，想到了美味的荞麦薄煎饼，想到卡特丽娜·冯·塔塞尔用她那小小的、肉肉的纤手把黄油涂在煎饼上，再涂一层蜂蜜或糖浆，此情此景叫他心里顿生柔情蜜意。

就这样，他心里美好的念头和“甜蜜的假设”层出不穷，在连绵起伏的群山中沿着山坡前行，远远望去，可以将雄伟壮观的哈德逊河的几处旖旎的风光尽收眼底。太阳如滚动着的巨轮，渐渐向西方下沉。在辽阔的塔潘湾里，水面平稳如镜，但这儿或那儿偶尔会泛起几片微波，轻轻地摇晃，把碧蓝的远山倒影拉得长长的。几朵琥珀色云彩浮在天空，由于无风而纹丝不动。地平线抹上了一片绚丽的黄金色彩，那色彩渐渐变成了纯净的苹果绿，后来又换成了天空中部的那种蔚蓝色。夕阳的一道余晖倾斜着洒在河岸边巍巍矗立的悬崖那树木葱茏的顶端，徘徊不去，让深灰、泛紫的崖壁显得愈加幽暗。一只小帆船漂浮在远处的水面，随波逐流，船帆毫无用处地吊在桅杆上；天空的倒影映在平静的水中，使得那只船看上去像悬在半空。

伊卡博德抵达冯·塔塞尔家的宅院时，天色已近黄昏。他发现那儿济济一堂，都是当地的体面人物和花季少女。宾客中也有年纪大的农夫，瘦削的脸上皱巴巴的，穿着自家缝制的外套、长裤、蓝袜子、大皮鞋，外套上配着闪闪发亮的锡扣。他们的老伴一个个皱脸枯皮，但手脚利落，头戴缝着细密褶子的帽子，身穿长腰身的短上衣和自制的衬裙，随身带着剪刀、针线包和鲜艳的印花布口袋。健美的少女们，穿着方面差不多和她们的母亲一样老派，只是多了一顶草帽和一根漂亮的丝带，也许还多了件白罩裙什么的，于是就有了几分城里人的时髦风度。小伙子们则穿着短上衣，衣服的下摆方方正正的，上缀几排巨大的铜扣，一般都梳着当时流行的发型——能够搞到鳗鱼皮发膏者尤为青睐这种发型。当地人推崇鳗鱼皮发膏，认为它能够滋润头发，对头发有定型作用。

若论此时此刻的风云人物，便非“布鲁姆勇士”莫属了。他来参加聚会，骑的是他那匹心爱的马“冒失鬼”。 这个畜牲和它的主人一样，也是野里野气、调皮捣蛋，除了主人，别人谁都驾驭不了它。其实，“布鲁姆勇士”就喜欢骑心术不正的马，喜欢那些爱使坏心眼，巴不得叫骑手摔死的马，因为在他看来，容易驾驭的驯良的马不配给勇敢无畏的小伙子当坐骑。

说到此，我想再讲讲本故事男主角的情况——他一走进冯·塔塞尔家那辉煌壮丽的大厅，看见眼前种种诱人的景象，不由高兴得睁大了眼睛。真正吸引他眼球的并非那些丰满漂亮的少女和她们红红白白的服饰，而是在这果实累累的秋天里，那地道的、令人垂涎欲滴的荷兰乡村茶桌。只见那儿摆着一盘一盘各种各样的糕饼，有些种类简直叫不出名来，恐怕只有经验丰富的荷兰主妇才知道！其中有可口的炸面卷，有又软又糯的猪油煎饼，有又松又脆的炸糖糕，还有甜饼、松饼、姜饼、蜜饼和形形色色说不清的饼。另外还有苹果馅饼、桃肉馅饼和南瓜馅饼；有火腿片和熏牛肉；有一大盘一大盘的李子干、桃脯、梨脯和温柏果干；当然也有烤鲥鱼、烧仔鸡以及大碗大碗的牛奶和奶油，盘碗交织，摆了一大桌，情况大致如我所列。桌子的中央有一把古香古色的茶壶，壶嘴里冒出氤氲的热气……那气派的场面真是叫人叹为观止！真该多费些口舌把这些美食细细描述描述，可惜我已说得气喘吁吁，再加上时间有限，只好急匆匆讲下文了。幸亏伊卡博德·克莱恩没有像我这个记录者这般赶时间，而是不慌不忙地品尝每一种美食。

他这个人心地好、知道感恩，吃了别人家的东西，心里便高兴，脸上便欢笑——爱喝酒的人几杯酒落肚也是这种情形。他一边吃，一边禁不住溜溜转动着大眼睛观察四周，望着那奢华、辉煌得简直让人无法想象的场面，想到有朝一日自己有可能成为这儿的主人，便哑然失笑。他心想，用不了多久，他便会永远地离开那座破旧的校舍；他会冲着汉斯·冯·里普尔以及其他所有吝啬的东家轻蔑地打个响指，叫那些巡回借宿的胆敢称他为同行的教师统统滚蛋！

巴尔图斯·冯·塔塞尔在客人中间走来走去，面带满足和欢快的神情，一张圆脸、喜气洋洋，宛若中秋的满月。他表达热情的方式很简单，但效果很好——对待客人们，他仅仅是握握手、拍拍肩膀、哈哈大声笑笑，说一声“别客气，请随便哟”。

这时候，从休息室（或称会客大厅）里传来奏乐声，召唤宾客们前去跳舞。乐手是个头发灰白的老黑人，此人在该地区沿街卖艺已有半个多世纪。他的乐器和他本人一样衰老、破旧，大部分时间仅靠两三根琴弦奏乐。只见他拉一下弓点一下头；每当有新舞伴进入舞池，他便鞠一躬，几乎一躬到地，而且还跺一下脚。

伊卡博德对于自己的舞姿和歌喉颇感自豪。跳舞时，他手舞足蹈，浑身上下每一块肌肉都在舞动。看见他那松松垮垮的身子骨左摆右晃，踢踢踏踏满屋子跑，你准会以为那是受上天祝福的舞蹈家圣·维塔斯(12)转世现身了。他简直成了全体黑人崇拜的偶像；黑人们老老少少、高高矮矮，从农场和各户人家赶来看热闹，挤在门前，拥在窗口，一张张黑亮黑亮的脸聚在一起形成了金字塔状，目光中充满了喜悦，白白的眼球骨碌碌乱转，龇出一口白牙咧嘴大笑。我们的这位喜欢用教鞭抽打顽童的教师见状愈加起劲，愈加欢快。他的舞伴不是别人，正是他的心上人——这位舞伴见他脉脉含情、频抛媚眼，便淡雅地嫣然一笑。“布鲁姆勇士”看在眼里，恨在心头，嫉妒得不得了，坐在墙角独自生闷气。

跳舞结束之后，伊卡博德被一群比较有智慧的人吸引了过去——那些人和冯·塔塞尔老头坐在走廊的一端谈天说地，又是回忆往事，又是大讲特讲战争的故事。在我所说的那个时代，这个地区可以说是块灵地，满是历史典故，是个英才辈出的地方。战争期间，英军和美军曾在附近对垒；因而，此处匪患滋生，难民、牛仔以及各种边境的游骑将这儿搅得鸡犬不宁。时光流逝，每一个讲述历史故事的人都会凭着想象添油加醋，在记得不大清楚的时候，索性把自己说成是种种功业中的英雄。

这里可以听到道夫·马特林讲的故事。此人是个荷兰佬，身材高大，胡须发蓝，据说曾在战壕里开炮，用一门铁炮发射九磅重的炮弹，差点炸沉一艘英国战舰，只可惜他的那门炮开到第六炮时就报销了。还有位老先生也讲了段故事，此处就不提他的姓名了，他是个非常有钱的老爷，不能随便加以议论。他说他参加过白色平原战役，在那次防御战中作战出色，用一把短剑挡飞了一颗毛瑟枪的子弹；当时，他觉得子弹嗖的一声贴着剑锋飞过，击在剑柄上弹了出去。为了证明自己所言不虚，他随时都愿意出示那把剑，让大家看看被子弹打得有点歪的剑柄。另外还有几个人也说自己曾在战场上出生入死，建立了赫赫战功，几乎全都认为自己发挥过相当大的作用，才使得战争最终能圆满地结束。

不过，比起接下来讲的鬼怪传奇和幽灵故事，这类战争故事就是小巫见大巫了。该地区广为流传神鬼故事，这成为当地的一种瑰宝。此处比较封闭，历史悠久，成为各种传说和封建迷信的肥沃土壤。然而，流动人口在乡下的大多数地方无处不在，他们对这类传说不屑一顾。讲神鬼故事，在大多数村子里是没有市场的。不等坟墓里的鬼魂睡上一觉、伸个懒腰，活着的人早已走掉，到别的地方去了。于是乎，待鬼魂夜间出来走动时，想找个熟悉的人都找不到了。我们之所以只能在历史悠久的荷兰裔居住区听到神鬼故事，而在他处少有所闻，这恐怕便是其中的原因了。

不过，这一带流行神鬼故事，最直接的原因，无疑还是由于与睡谷紧邻。睡谷是个闹鬼的地方，那儿吹来的风都带有传染性，把梦境和幻想的气息带往四面八方。当时在冯·塔塞尔家里，正好有几位睡谷里的人也在场，他们照例又传播了一通千奇百怪的故事。有些故事耸人听闻，讲的是附近的一棵参天大树，而倒霉的安德烈少校(13)就是在那棵树下被抓住的，据说有人夜里看见了鬼出殡，听见了鬼哭丧。有的故事讲的是一身素白的女鬼，她经常出没于乌鸦山的幽暗山谷里，冬夜暴风雪来临之前常听见她那凄厉的叫喊——据说，她就是死在那儿的雪地里。这类故事的压轴戏仍是人们所喜欢的睡谷幽灵——无头骑兵，有人最近听见他经常在这一带巡逻，据说每天夜里都把马拴在教堂墓地里的坟茔之间。

这座教堂地处荒郊野外，似乎怨鬼最喜欢在这样的地方作祟。它矗立在一个小山岗之上，周围郁郁葱葱全是刺槐和高耸的榆树，它那洁白的粉墙在幽暗的林荫里羞答答地闪着微光，仿佛是纯洁的基督徒少女在含羞微笑。山坡的坡度比较缓和，一直通向一片由参天大树环绕的银光闪闪的水面，透过大树间的缝隙可以窥见哈德逊河岸上的巍巍青山。望一眼那长满青草的墓地，看见那儿阳光静谧，你会油然想到亡魂至少在那个地方可以得到安静的休息。在教堂的一侧，有一条宽宽的林木葱茏的山谷，谷中有一道奔腾咆哮的山涧，涧水中满都是乱石和倒下来的树干。距离教堂不远的这一段水流又深又黑，从前上面架着一座木桥。一条路通到桥跟前，而路和桥都被浓荫遮盖，掩没在林木之中，即便在大白天也阴森森的，夜间更是漆黑一团、狰狞可怕了。无头骑兵最喜欢这种地方，于是这儿就成了他常来常往之地。布鲁威尔老头是不信邪，不信鬼的；据他讲述，有一次路遇无头骑兵从睡谷里跑出来，他便跟在后边穷追不舍，飞马越过荆棘和矮树，爬过山坡，穿过沼泽，最后来到了木桥跟前。此时，无头骑兵摇身一变成了一具骷髅，抓住布鲁威尔老头，一把将他抛进山涧，随后轰隆一声响，腾空而起，消失在了树林的上空。

这个故事立刻就被“布鲁姆勇士”的故事超越了，后者讲述了一段自己的亲身经历，比这个故事要惊险三倍。他把那个黑森骑兵根本不放在眼里，觉得对方只不过是个徒有虚名的骑手罢了。他口气坚定地说：一天夜里，他从邻近的辛辛村回家，这个黑森骑兵从后面赶了上来。他提出要跟对方赛马，赌一碗酒喝。他本来是可以赢的，因为“冒失鬼”可以轻而易举击败那匹幽灵马。可是，刚到教堂旁的木桥跟前，黑森骑兵便打了退堂鼓，化作一道火光不见了。

这些故事是在黑暗中讲述的，讲述人声音含糊、低沉，时不时会有人抽上一口烟袋，而烟袋的火光会将听者的脸照亮。这些故事深深地印在了伊卡博德的心上。他投桃报李，引用了自己珍视的作家科顿·马瑟书里的几大段故事讲给大家听，中间还添加了许多他的故乡康涅狄格州的灵异事件，以及他在睡谷里走夜路时看到的各种恐怖现象。

这时，前来聚会寻欢的人群渐渐散了。老农夫们呼儿唤女，让全家人坐上马车踏上归程，辘辘的马车声久久回荡在空旷的路上和远处的山间。姑娘们骑到马上，坐在意中人身后的马鞍上，开心地笑着，她们的莺声燕语和嗒嗒嗒的马蹄声混杂在一起，荡漾于宁静的山林里，渐行渐弱，乃至最后彻底消失。大厅里刚才还人声鼎沸，一片热闹的景象，一下子就人去屋空，变得静悄悄的了。伊卡博德逗留未去，因为根据本地乡村的风俗习惯，情郎临别时得和女方说几句贴心的话。此时的他已胸有成竹，觉得自己已经登上了成功的大道。至于二人之间谈得怎么样，我就不便乱说了——其实我对当时的情况一无所知。不过，从某种迹象看来情况不妙。事实上，他没过多大一会儿就跑了出来，灰溜溜的，神情沮丧。唉，女人呀，女人！女人真是叫人难以捉摸！莫非那个小女子又玩什么鬼花样啦？难道她挑逗这个可怜的学究仅仅是个激将法，实则是为了套牢他的那个情敌？这只有天知地知，我却不知！我只能说：伊卡博德垂头丧气地溜了出来，全然不像一个前来俘虏美人心的勇士，倒像是个偷鸡贼。平时他来美人家，对她家的财富垂涎欲滴，总是左看右看的，此时已没有了这份心情，而是径直走到马厩，拳打脚踢地狠狠给了他那匹马几下子，毫不体贴地把它惊醒过来，哪管它在舒适的马厩里睡得正香，哪管它正在做美梦，梦见玉米和燕麦堆成了山，山谷里遍地都是猫尾草和苜蓿。

此时已是深夜，是鬼魂出没的时间。伊卡博德心情沉重、垂头丧气地打道回府，沿着逗留镇旁高山的山腰一路走去。下午时分，他曾沿着同一条路兴冲冲而来，现在却败兴而归。茫茫的夜色和他的心情一样，也是那般凄凉。塔潘湾在山下很远的地方，水面昏暗而朦胧，一片荒凉的景象；在岸边的几处地方停泊着小船，可以看见它们那高高的桅杆。在这死沉沉的深夜里，甚至连哈德逊河对岸的狗吠声他也能听得见。不过，那声音极其模糊、微弱，让他觉得自己跟那位人类的忠实伙伴相隔甚远。偶尔会有一只公鸡从睡梦中醒来，拖长声音喔喔喔乱叫一通——那声音非常遥远，像是来自大山里的某户农家，可在他听来像是来自梦乡。偶尔还可以听见蟋蟀的一两声悲鸣，或者听见附近沼泽地那儿传来带着喉音的呱呱的蛙鸣——那青蛙像是在辗转反侧，睡得不踏实。

下午听到的那些关于妖魔鬼怪的故事，此时一下子涌进了他的脑海。夜色愈来愈黑暗，天上的星星似乎愈加遥远，偶尔飞来几朵乌云会将星星遮盖得完全看不见。他从来没有感到过如此孤单，如此凄惨。此外，他正在走近一个传说中经常闹鬼的地方。路中央有一棵巨无霸郁金香树，像一个巨灵，鹤立鸡群般站在一片树木当间，仿佛一座分界碑。这棵树的树枝扭曲多瘤、奇形怪状，每根树枝都又粗又大，相当于普通树的树干，有的弯下来几乎触着地面，有的高高伸到空中去。此树跟倒霉的安德烈那悲惨的遭遇有诸多联系，因此，乡亲们一致称它为“安德烈少校之树”。老百姓见到它，有着复杂的心绪，既敬畏又迷信，一方面同情那个与大树同名的人不幸的命运，另一方面则是受到了相关的鬼怪故事的影响——那些故事讲的是些灵异现象，凄凄惨惨，叫人伤感。

伊卡博德走近这棵可怕的大树时，便吹口哨壮胆。他觉得有人也在吹口哨作为回应——其实，那只不过是一阵风扫过干枝枯叶发出的声响。又走近一些，他觉得好像看见一样白乎乎的东西倒挂在树干那儿，吓得他不禁勒住马缰，停止了吹口哨。但定睛仔细一看，才发现那是树身遭了雷击，树皮被剥掉，露出了树皮下白白的木头。突然，他听到了一声悲叹，吓得他上下牙直打架，膝盖抖得直磕碰马鞍。其实，那只不过是在微风中，两根巨大的树枝相互摩擦产生的声音罢了。最后，他总算有惊无险地从大树旁走了过去。但是，前边还会有更多的险情出现。

离这棵树大约两百码的地方，有一条小溪横过路面，流进一个被称为“威利沼泽谷”的幽谷里，那儿是一片湿地，树木茂密。溪水上架了几根粗大的原木，作为渡水之桥。道路的另一边，在小溪流到树林里去的地方，有一丛橡树和栗树，树身上布满了密密匝匝的野葡萄藤，把那儿遮得像一个深洞，阴森森的。走过这座桥，那可是极为严峻的考验。倒霉的安德烈就是在那个地方被抓住的。想当年，那些身强力壮的义勇骑兵，就是埋伏在这些栗树和藤葛的掩蔽之下，出其不意地擒获了他。自此，这儿就被人们认作是鬼怪作祟之地，学童孤身一人走夜路经过此处，无不胆战心惊。

伊卡博德朝着溪水靠近时，一颗心像打鼓般通通乱跳。不过，他还是鼓足了全部勇气，一连对他那匹马的肋骨踢了十几下，打算飞快地冲过这座桥。可是，这个畜生耍起了犟脾气，没有听命朝前冲，而是来了一个横向动作，斜刺里冲向了树篱。这一耽搁，叫伊卡博德心里更害怕了。他将另一侧的缰绳猛地一勒，用另一只脚狠踢马肚。他再怎么样都无济于事。那匹马固然改了方向，然而却是蹿到路的另一侧，冲进一片树莓和赤杨木混为一处的杂树丛。这位教书先生又是用鞭子抽，又是用脚后跟猛磕“火药”那瘦骨嶙峋的肚皮，使得它喘着粗气、打着响鼻冲向前去，然而到了桥头却来了个猛刹车，让背上的骑手差点没一头倒栽下去。而就在此时此刻，伊卡博德灵敏的耳朵听见桥旁边的烂泥地传来踢踏踢踏的脚步声。他发现在那儿的溪水旁边，在黑魆魆的树影里有样庞然大物，奇形怪状的，赫然矗立在那边。它一动也不动，就像一个巨大的怪物，似乎在暗影里积聚力量，准备一下子扑过来袭击这个路人。

这位学究吓得魂飞魄散、毛发倒立。这该如何是好？掉头跑吧，已为时过晚。再说，要真是妖怪，它可会腾云驾雾，难道能逃出它的手心吗？于是乎，这位学究壮起胆子、鼓足勇气，结巴着问了一声：“你是何人？”对方没有回答。他又问了一声，这次的声音更为忐忑。对方仍没有回答。他见状，又一次猛踢顽固的“火药”的肚皮，一面闭上眼睛，带着一种并非自愿的热情，高唱起赞美诗。这时，那个骇人的影影绰绰的东西倏然采取了行动，一跳便跳到了路当间。虽然夜色茫茫，周围一片漆黑，那个不知来历的东西的形状基本还是可以辨得清的。那东西好像是个骑兵，身躯庞大，骑在一匹身子骨强健的黑马上。这位骑兵既没有表示恶意也没有表示善意，只是淡然地沿着道路的一侧前行，慢悠悠走在“火药”瞎眼的那一面——此时，“火药”受了惊后胡来的那股劲儿已经过去。

伊卡博德对这位半夜三更突然出现的陌生旅伴并无好感，心里想到“布鲁姆勇士”和黑森骑兵赛马的那段经历，于是便催动坐骑，打算把这位旅伴甩在后面。然而，这个陌生人也催马前行，和他保持同样的步调。伊卡博德勒一勒缰绳，让马慢下来，想让陌生人头前走，而对方也依样照搬。伊卡博德的心沉到了谷底，鼓一鼓劲，想再次高唱赞美诗，可这次嘴发干，舌头像粘在了上颚上，一句歌词也唱不出来。这个旅伴纠缠不去，阴森、固执、沉默不语，显得神秘而可怕。过了没多大一会儿，叫人毛骨悚然的谜底就揭开了。在登上一块隆起的高地时，在天空的映衬下，那个旅伴的身形趋于明朗——只见他又高又大，身披斗篷。伊卡博德发现对方竟然没有头颅，这一吓差点没被吓死！接下来的发现更叫他惊魂难定——对方那颗本应该安在肩膀上的头颅，却被他放在了身前的马鞍上！他恐惧到了极点，对“火药”脚踢和鞭抽并举，一下下雨点般落在它身上，希望一举将这位旅伴甩在身后。可是，那个妖怪也全身发力，风驰电掣地紧随其后。双方一前一后一路狂奔，哪管山高林密，所到之处只见马蹄下碎石乱飞、火星四溅。伊卡博德没命地逃窜，瘦长的身子俯下去，贴在马头上，又轻又薄的衣服迎风飞舞。

转眼，双骑已来到了转向睡谷的那条路。可是，“火药”却像中了邪，没有走这条路，却冲向相反的方向，顺山势而下，一路向左。此路穿过一条遍地黄沙的空谷，大约有四分之一英里的路处于大树的浓荫遮盖之下，在那儿要过一架小桥（此桥因出现在鬼怪故事里而闻名于世）。过了桥，是一片起伏不平的绿油油的山坡，坡顶上就是那座墙壁粉白的教堂了。

在这场追逐之中，“火药”受惊狂奔，反而叫它那骑术不佳的骑手受益匪浅。不过，在空谷里跑到半路，马鞍的肚带突然断了，伊卡博德觉得马鞍在身下慢慢溜走。他一把抓住鞍头，想将马鞍固定住，却徒劳无益。幸亏他眼明手快，抱住了“火药”的脖子，才保住了一条小命，而马鞍落地，只听咔嚓一声，被追兵踩在了马蹄下。就在这一瞬间，他的脑海里闪过了汉斯·冯·里普尔雷霆大怒的镜头——那可是汉斯星期天去做礼拜时用的马鞍呀！不过，眼下可不是为这点小事担心的时候——那个妖怪跟在后面，追得正紧呢！再说，他骑术欠佳，不知费了多少气力才没有摔下马去，时而滑向一侧，时而又滑向另一侧，有时在马背的骨峰上猛烈地颠上颠下，他真怕会把自己颠得散了架。

这时候，林中出现了一片空地，让他高兴起来，他希望教堂的那座桥就在眼前不远的地方。但见溪水里闪烁着银星的映影，微微晃动着，由此判断他没有猜错。他看到教堂的粉墙在前方的树丛里朦朦胧胧地忽隐忽现。他想起“布鲁姆勇士”跟这个妖怪赛马，就是到了这个地方，妖怪突然销声匿迹了，于是心想：“只要能跑到桥头那儿，就平安无事了。”就在这时，他听见那匹黑马赶到了身后，气喘吁吁，鼻中喷着热气——他甚至觉得那热气都喷到了自己身上。他对着“火药”的肚皮又是一阵乱踢，踢得“火药”冲到桥上，踏得桥板咚咚响，再一跃便抵达了对岸。这时候，他回过头来查看情况——按说，那个追兵会化为一团鬼火消失不见的。谁料，他却看见那个妖怪踏着马镫立起身子，提起他的头颅要朝他扔过来。

伊卡博德急忙躲闪，要躲开那可怕的抛物，但已经来不及了。那玩意儿砰的一声巨响砸在了他的脑壳上，砸得他一个倒栽葱落在了尘埃里。“火药”、黑马以及那个妖怪骑兵旋风似的从他旁边一扫而过。

次日早晨，人们发现那匹老马没有了马鞍，缰绳拖在蹄子下，在主人家的大门外悠闲地啃青草。早饭时，伊卡博德没有露面，午饭时仍不见其人。学生们来到学校里没人管，便跑到溪水旁，悠闲自在地玩耍起来，而那位教书先生迟迟不见来。汉斯·冯·里普尔这下子有点慌了神，开始为可怜的伊卡博德感到担心，也在担心他的那副马鞍。大家伙儿出发去寻找他的下落，经过艰辛的努力，终于发现了他的踪迹。在通往教堂的一段路上，他们找到了那副马鞍，发现它被踩在了烂泥里。有几行马蹄印通向桥头，在路面上陷得很深，显然是疯狂的奔跑所留下的蹄印。过了桥，有一段溪水水面较宽，此处的水又深又黑，人们在岸上找到了不幸的伊卡博德的帽子，近旁还有一个摔得稀巴烂的南瓜。

大家开始在溪水里打捞，但那位教书先生却死不见尸。汉斯·冯·里普尔以他的遗产处理人的身份，检查了他的那个包袱，里面包着他的所有财物——两件半衬衫、两条围巾、一两双羊毛袜子、一条旧的灯芯绒裤子、一把锈剃刀、一本卷边折角的赞美诗集和一只旧音笛。至于学校里的书籍和家具，那些全都是公家的，只有科顿·马瑟的那本《巫术史》、一本《新英格兰年鉴》和一本圆梦算命的书是属于伊卡博德的。列在最后的那本书里夹着一张大大的纸，纸上有几句诗，原打算是献给冯·塔塞尔家的那个女继承人的，不知抄自何处，字迹歪斜、墨迹斑斑。这些巫术书和歪诗被汉斯·冯·里普尔一把火给烧掉了。他铁下心，从今往后再也不送自己的孩子去上学了，觉得学读这样的书、写这样的诗，真不知会有什么好结果。至于说那位教书先生的钱囊，他前一两天才拿到了季薪，不管有多少，反正他失踪的时候，那些钱就在他身上。

到了星期天，人们来教堂做礼拜，对这桩神秘的事件进行了种种猜测，有的聚集于墓地里，有的到小桥边，有的则围在发现帽子和南瓜的地方，睁大眼睛细看，你一言我一语地议论纷纷。大伙儿想起布鲁威尔的遭遇，想起“布鲁姆勇士”的经历，想起种种诸如此类的事件，绞尽脑汁地进行了通盘考虑，又把它们跟这桩案子的各种迹象做了比较，最后无奈地摇摇头，断定伊卡博德是被那个黑森骑兵掳走了。鉴于伊卡博德是个单身汉，又不欠谁的钱，他的事也就没人再操心了。学校迁到了睡谷的另一个地方，另一位学究取代了他的位置。

几年之后，一个年老的农夫去纽约参观（以上所讲的鬼怪故事就是出自此人之口），返家后，带来了一个消息，说伊卡博德·克莱恩仍活着，还说伊卡博德·克莱恩当初之所以要离开这一带，一是因为他害怕那个妖怪和汉斯·冯·里普尔，二是由于突遭那位女继承人的拒绝，让他无地自容；而今，他住在一个遥远的地方，一边教学，一边学习法律，步入了律师界，从事政治，参加竞选，为报社撰稿，最终当上了十英镑法庭(14)的法官。在自己的情敌销声匿迹之后不久，“布鲁姆勇士”便得意扬扬地跟如花似玉的卡特丽娜步入了婚姻的殿堂。每当有人讲起伊卡博德的神秘失踪，他的样子就像个知情人似的，一提到那个南瓜，他便笑得肚子疼。于是，一些人便怀疑他了解内情，而他硬是不肯说出来。

然而，对于这种事情，年老的村妇们是最有发言权的，她们坚称伊卡博德是被鬼掳走了。冬天的傍晚，当地人围火而坐，这件事成了大家津津乐道的谈资。那座桥也更加引人注意，使得迷信妖怪的人敬而远之，这恐怕就是近几年让那条路改道的原因了——现在去教堂可走磨坊水塘边。那座学校没有了人气，很快就破败了，据说那个不幸的学究已化为鬼魂，经常在那儿出没。宁静的夏日傍晚时分，农夫从田中归来，常常会产生幻觉，仿佛听见远处传来他的声音，听见他用凄凉的调子在唱赞美诗，其声其调回荡在沉寂而静谧的睡谷里。

附笔

在尼克博克先生的遗稿里发现的材料

以上的故事是我到曼哈托斯古城参加一个社团会议，在会场上听人讲述的，几乎一字不差。当时与会的有许多德高望重、地位显赫的市民。讲述者是一个生性快活、样子寒酸但具有绅士风度的老头，他穿一身椒盐色衣服，脸上有一种悲凉的幽默神情（我猜度他一定是个穷人）——他讲得绘声绘色，以博众人一笑。故事讲完后，大家哈哈大笑，颇为欣赏，其中最喜欢这个故事的是两三个副市议员（这几个人开会时一直在睡觉）。不过，有个高个子老人却声色不动。此人紧锁剑眉，自始至终表情严肃，不苟言笑，时而双臂交叉，时而歪着脑袋凝视，时而低头沉思，似乎在心里思考着一个个疑点。他属于有心计的那种人，从不随便发笑捧场，除非对方有响当当的理由让他笑——该理由必须合情理、合逻辑。待全场的人笑声消退，人们都静下来的时候，只见他把一个胳膊肘架在椅子扶手上，另一只手叉腰，脑袋很有分寸地微微一斜，发出了疑问：这个故事有何意义？想说明什么问题？

讲述者刚把酒杯举到嘴边，想喝口酒润润焦渴的喉咙，一听问话便停了下来，用充满敬意的目光看了一眼提问者，然后将酒杯又慢慢地放回到了桌子上，解释说本故事是想以严密的逻辑性证明——

“人生并非处处有笑声，处处有欢乐——我们只需讲个笑话，就会有笑声，就会有欢乐；

“因此，故事的主人公跟鬼骑兵赛马，那就叫他遭遇许多波折和磨难。

“于是，乡村教师被荷兰裔女继承人拒绝，象征了向国家的高度发展迈出了一步。”

那位不苟言笑的老先生听得一头雾水，被这种三段论的推理法搞得完全糊涂了，于是便将眉头皱得更紧了。身穿椒盐色衣服的讲述者用眼睛盯着他，露出几分得意的神情。末了，老先生说故事倒是挺好的，只是他觉得有点夸张，而且他心里仍有一两处疑点。

“实不相瞒，先生，”讲述者说道，“对于这个故事的真实性，我自己也是不太相信的。”

——迪德里克·尼克博克

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