บทที่ บทที่ 1 · 第1章

Chapter 1. 睡谷的传说

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

by Washington Irving

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky.

CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern

shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated

by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always

prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas

when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which

by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly

known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in

former days, by the good 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 noontime, when all nature

is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it

broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated

by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might

steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the

remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this

little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its

inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this

sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and

its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the

neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the

land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place

was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the

settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of

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 nightmare,

with her whole ninefold, 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

churchyard, 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 churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has

furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and

the 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 schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed

of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of

old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a

withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the

window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease,

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 schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation,

just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and

a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low

murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard

in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and

then by the authoritative voice of the 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 burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on

those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least

flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of

justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little

tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled

and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this 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 holiday 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.