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 parson,
His appearance therefore is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse,
At the addition of a super-numerary dish of cakes of sweet meats,
Or,
Peradventure,
The parade of a silver teapot.
A man of letters,
Therefore,
Was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels,
How he would figure among them in the churchyard,
Between services of Sundays,
Gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees,
Residing for the amusement all the epitaphs of the tombstones,
Or sauntering with the whole beavy of them,
Along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond,
While the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back,
Envying his superior elegance and attress.
In this half-itinerant life,
Also,
He was kind of a 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 woman as a man of great erudition,
For he had to read several books quite true,
And was a perfect master of cotton-matters 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 piracy of digesting it were equally extraordinary,
And both had been increased by his residence in this Belmont region.
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious wallow.
It was often his delight,
After his school was dismissed,
In the afternoon,
To stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse,
And there conover old martyrs' direful tales,
Until the gathering dusk of the 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 farmhouse where he happened to be quartered,
Every sight of nature at that witching hour fluttered his excited imagination,
The moan of the whip or will from the hillside,
The boding cry of the tree-toad,
The tarbinger of storm,
The dreary hooting of the screech-owl,
Or the sudden rustling in the tinker of birds frightened from their roots.
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 beetle came winging his blundering flight against him,
The poor violet was ready to give up the ghost with the idea that he was struck with the 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 turnout 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 the rove-apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth,
And listened 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 horsemen 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 woefully with speculation upon comets and shooting stars,
And with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn around,
And that they were half the time topsy-turvy.
But if there was a pleasure in all of this,
While snuggly 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 his face,
It was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards.
What fearful shapes and shadows besieged 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 shoulders,
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 galloping Hessian,
All of 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 the pleasant life of it,
In spite 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 battridge,
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 towards the sex,
And it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favour in his eyes,
Why,
Specially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion.
Old Baltus Van Tassel,
As a perfect picture of thriving,
Contended,
Liberal-hearted farmer.
He seldom,
It is true,
Set either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm,
But within those everything was snug,
Happy,
And well-conditioned.
He was satisfied with his wealth,
But not proud of it,
And picked himself upon its hurdy abundance.
Rather than the style in which he lived,
His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson,
In one of those green,
Sheltered fertile nooks,
In which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling,
A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it,
At the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water,
In a little well,
Formed of a barrel,
And then stole sparkling away through the grass to a neighbouring brook that bubbled along among the alders and dwarf willows.
Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a church,
Every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with treasures of the farm.
The flail was busily resounding within it,
From morning to night,
Swallows and mortens skim-twittering about the east,
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 and wildly pokers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens,
Whence gallied 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,
Conveying whole fleets of ducks,
Regiments of turkeys,
Where gobbling through the farmyard 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 the 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 closely in dishes,
Like snug-married couples,
With the descent competency of onion sauce.
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek of pagan and juicy relishing ham,
Not a turkey but he behold daintily thrust up with its gizzard under its wing,
And peradventure a necklace of savoury sausages.
And even bright Santy Clear himself lay sprawling on his back in a side dish with uplifted claws,
As if craving that quarter which his severious spirit disdained to ask while living.
As they naptured Ichabod fancied all this,
And as he rolled his great green eyes o'er the fat meadowlands,
The rich fields of wheat,
Of rye,
Of buckwheat and Indian corn,
And the orchards burgeoned 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 sheen more 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 wagon loaded with household trampery,
With pots and kettles dangling beneath.
And he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare with a coat 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 farmhouses with high-reached but lowly sloping roofs,
Built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers.
Below projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front,
Capable of being closed up in bad weather.
Under this were hung flails,
Harness,
Various utensils of husbandry,
And nets for fishing in the neighboring river.
Benches were built along the sides for summer use,
And a great spinning wheel at one end,
And a churn at the other showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted.
From this piazza the wandering Ichabod entered the hall,
Which formed the center of the mansion and the place of usual residence.
Here rows of repellent pewter,
Wrenched 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 linsy-woolsy,
Chest from the loon,
Ears of Indian corn,
And strings of dried apples and peaches,
Hung in gay festoons along the walls mingled with the gout of red peppers.
And the door left H.
R.
Gave him a peep into the best parlor,
Where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables,
Shown like mirrors,
And the rents,
With their combling shovel and tongs,
Glistened from the cupboard of asparagus tops.
Mug-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece.
Strings of various colored bird's eggs were suspended above it.
A great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the room,
And a corner cupboard,
Gnawingly 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,
Yet more real difficulties than generally,
Felled the lot of a knight-errant of year,
Who seldom had anything 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 center of Christmas pie,
And then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course.
Ichabod,
On the contrary,
Had to wean his way to the heart of a country croquette beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices,
Which were forever 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.
Along these the most formidable was a burly,
Roaring,
Roistering blade,
Of the name of Abraham,
Or according to the Dutch abbreviation,
Brom van Brunt,
The hero of the country round,
Which rang with his feasts of strength and hardyhood.
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 limp,
He had received the nickname of Brom Bones,
By which he was universally known.
He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship,
Being as dexterous on horseback as a tartar.
He was foremost at all races and cockfights,
And with the ascendancy which bodily strength always 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 frolic,
But had more midchief than ill will.
In his composition,
And with all his overbearing roughness,
There was a strong dash of wackish good humour at bottom.
He had three or four boon companions,
Who regarded him as their model,
And at the head of whom he scored the country,
Attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles around.
In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap,
Surmounted with a flaunting fox tail,
And when the folks at a country gathering described this well-known quest,
At a distance,
Whisking about among a squid,
Hard riders,
They always stood by for a squeal.
Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along the pass the farmhouses at midnight,
With hoop and halloo,
Like a troop of Don Cossacks,
And the old dame started out,
Of the sleep would listen for a moment,
Feel the hurry's scary hat clattered by,
And then exclaim,
Ay,
There goes Brom Bones and his gang.
The neighbours looked upon him with a mix of awe,
Admiration,
And goodwill,
And when any mad gap,
Prank,
Or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity,
Always shook their heads and warned Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.
This randipol hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncout calendries,
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 armours.
And so much,
That when his horse was seen tied to Van Dassel'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 mix of pliability and perseverance in his nature.
He was in form and spirit like a supple jack,
Yelding 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 armours 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 farmhouse,
Not that he had anything apprehend interference of parents,
Which is so often a stumbling block in the path of lovers.
But when Tassel was an easy,
Indulgent soul,
He loved his daughter better even than his pipe,
And like a reasonable man,
An excellent father,
Let her have her way in everything.
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 meantime,
Ichabod would carry on his suit,
With the daughter by the side of the spring,
Under the great elm,
Or sauntering along the twilight,
That are so fearful to the lover's eloquence.
