The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
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 everything but his
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 choleric 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 his 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
daylight.
It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and
serene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always
associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober
brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped
by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.
Streaming files of wild-ducks began to make their appearance high in the
air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech
and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from
the neighboring stubble-field.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness 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,
bobbing and nodding 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.
Farther 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 beehive, and as he beheld
them soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, 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 Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there
a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant
mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air
to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually
into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the
mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the
precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth
to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering
in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, 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 shortgowns, 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 ribbon, 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 metal 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 doughnut, the
tenderer oily 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 teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the
midst. Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story.
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as 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 gray-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 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 gossiping over former times and drawing out long stories about
the war.
This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those
highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men.
The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had
therefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees,
cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had
elapsed to enable each storyteller 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 Whiteplains,
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
that 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