The Tale of Sleepy Hollow: Difference between revisions
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It is markworþy þat þe leaning to swefens ice haf nemmened is not bund to þe inborn leeds of þe deen, but is unwittingly drunk in by efery man hoo dwells þare for a time. Huwefer wide awake hie may haf been before hie infared þat sleepy land, hie ar witted, in a littel time, to breaþe in þe wicing sway of þe lift, and begin to grow faþomsum, to dream dreams, and to see dwimmers.
Ice nemmen þiss friþful stow wiþ all mitely lofe, for it is in suce littel sweþered Duce deens, fund here and þare inbosomed in þe grate Rice of New York, þat leeds, sids, and wons ar steddy, while þe grate flood of fare and bisiness, whice is making unending wends in oþer deals of þiss restless land, sweeps hem by unhowed. Hie ar like þose littel nooks of still wotter, whice hem a swift stream, whare we may see þe straw and bubbel riding stilly at anker, or slowly wharfing in hir littel harbor, unscaken by þe rusce of þe nearby farþ. Þaw many years haf gon by sinse ice trod þe drusy scades of Sleepy Hollow, ice wunder yet wheþer ice scood not still find þe
In þiss bystow of kind þare abode, in a farlen eld of Americkisce yore, þat is to say, sum þirty years sinse, a worþy wite of þe name of Ickabod Crane, hoo abided, or, as he sed it, “taried,” in Sleepy Hollow, on þe grunds of teacing þe cildren of þe naywist. He was an inlander of Conneticket, a Rice whice yares þe Woning wiþ grundbrakers for þe mind as well as for þe wold, and sends forþ yearly its wereds of edgeland woodsmen and upland teacers. Þe toname of Crane was not unfitting to his ansen. He was tall, but full lank, wiþ narow scolders, long arms and scanks, hands þat swung a mile ute of his slefes, feet þat mite haf werked as scufels, and his hole frame most limply hung togeþer. His hed was small, and flat at top, wiþ ettinisce ears, grate green glassy iyes, and a long snipe nose, so þat it looked like a weþercock sat upon his spindel neck to tell whice way þe wind blew. To see him striding along þe ridge of a hill on a windy day, wiþ his cloþes swelling and fluttering abute him, man mite haf misnimmen him for derþ itself aliting upon þe erþ, or sum scewel atwinded from a cornfeeld.
But iff þare was a cweem in all þiss, while softly cuddeling in þe flew halk of a room þat was all of a ruddy glow from þe crackeling wood fire, and whare, suttelly, no scade dared to scow its ansen, it was dearly nimmen away by þe brows of his following walk homewards. What fearful scapes and scaddows beset his paþ, amidst þe dim and gastly glare of a snowy nite! Wiþ what wistful look did he iye efery cwifering beam of lite streaming þwares þe weast feelds from sum farlen iydore! Huw often was he breed by sum scrub scruded wiþ snow, whice, like a sceeted goast, beset his paþ! Huw often did he scrink wiþ kirdeling iye at þe lude of his own steps on þe frosty rind beneaþ his feet; and dred to look ofer his scolder, lest he scood behold sum uncooþ wite walking nie behind him! And huw often was he þrown into full brow by sum ruscing blast, huling amung þe trees, in þe þawt þat it was þe Riding Hessman on won of his nitely seecings!
All þese, huwefer, wer but brows of þe nite, scades of þe mind þat walk in darkness; and þaw he had seen many dwimmers in his time, and been more þan
Amung þe conners of singing hoo gaþered, won efening in eace weke, to fang his teacings in salms, was Katrina Van Tassel, þe dawter and only cild of a rice Duce bure. Sce was a blossoming maid of fresce ateteen; full as a feeldhen; ripe and melting and rosicheked as won of her faþers persocks, and namecooþ, not only for her lite, but her grate hopes. Sce was wiþall a littel of a flirt, as mite be ayetted efen in her cloþing, whice was a mix of fern and anward trends, as most fit to set off her spell. Sce wore wreats of lutter yellow gold, whice her grate grate eldmoþer had brawt ofer from Saardam; þe costening foredeal of þe olden time, and wiþall a heddily scort undergore, to scow þe prettiest foot and ankel in þe scire umb.
Brom, hoo had a bit of ruff hendness in him, wood fain haf born þings to open guþecraft and haf setteled hir rites to þe lady, by way of þose most piþy and afold reckoners, þe wandering knites of yore,—by fite of stand; but Ickabod was too wary of þe grater mite of his fow to infare into a fite ayenst him; he had oferherd a beet of Bones, þat he wood “bend þe teacer in two, and lay him on a scelf of his own lorehuse;” and he was too wary to yeafe him a bire. Þare was sumþing full irsing in þe doggedly friþful setup; it left Brom no sidecir but to draw upon þe stock of upland waggisceness in his being, and to play off uncooþ prats upon his fow. Ickabod became þe markel of playful ite to Bones and his gang of ruff riders. Hie haried his hiþerto friþful abodes; smoked ute his singing teacings by stopping up þe flew; broke into þe lorehuse at nite, dredful fastenings of wiþe and iydore stakes notwiþstanding, and went eferyþing upside dune, so þat þe arm teacer began to þink all þe wices in þe land held hir meetings þare. But what was still more þorny, Brom num all bires to make him a laffingstock in þe naywist of his maid, and had a lorel dog hoom he tawt to whine in þe most moonstruck way, and brawt in as a wiþerwin of Ickabods, to teace her þe salms.
In þiss way þings went on for sum time, wiþute bringing abute any trew wend on þe barings of þe kneating waremen. On a good harfest afternoon, Ickabod, in a þawtful mood, sat hie upon þe lifty stool from whense he waced ofer all þe þings in his littel kingdom of books. In his hand he swayed a twig, þat kinyard of full mite; þe birce of ritewiseness rested on þree nails behind þe seld, an unyeelding brow to efeldoers, while on þe board before him mite be seen sundry runnings and forbidden weppons, fund upon þe boddies of idel knafes, suce as halfeaten appels, popguns, whirligigs, flypens, and hole wereds of wild littel bookfell gamecocks. Seemingly þare had been sum iyful deed of ritewiseness lately don, for his conners wer all bisily ernest upon hir books, or slily whispering behind hem wiþ won iye kept upon þe master; and a kind of droning stillness rixt þroute þe room. It was broken at
All was nuw bustel and upstir in þe late still loreroom. Þe conners wer hirried þro hir readings wiþute stopping at þe small þings; þose hoo wer nimmel hopt ofer half wiþ freedom, and þose hoo wer latred had a smart hit nuw and þen in þe rear, to cwicken hir speed or help hem ofer a tall werd. Books wer flung aside wiþute being put away on þe scelfes, bleckerns wer oferwalted, bences þrown dune, and þe hole lorehuse was let ute a stund before þe wonly time, bersting forþ like a wered of yung imps, yelping and running abute þe green winfast at hir erly leesing.
Þe wiþdrawn sted of þiss circe seems always to haf made it a darling abode of moodsick goasts. It stands on a knoll, beclipt by codtrees and lifty elms, from amung whice its good, whitewasced walls scine meeþfully forþ, like Cristen lutterness beaming þro þe scades of sweþering. A slite slope alites from it to a silfer sceet of wotter, bunded by hie trees, between whice, peeps may be fanged at þe hewn hills of þe Hudson. To look upon its grassgrown yard, whare þe sunbeams seem to sleep so stilly, man wood þink þat þare at least þe ded mite rest in friþ. On won side of þe circe streces a wide woody dell, along whice winds a great brook amung broken rocks and stocks of fallen trees. Ofer a deep black deal of þe stream, not far from þe circe, was formerly þrown a wooden bridge; þe road þat led to it, and þe bridge itself, wer þickly scaded by oferhanging trees, whice þrew a gloom abute it, efen in þe daytime; but brawt abute a fearful darkness at nite. Suce was won of þe darling abodes of þe Hedless Horseman, and þe sted whare he was most often yained. Þe tale was told of old Brouwer, a most dwildy unbelefer in goasts, huw he met þe Horseman eftcumming from his inroad into Sleepy Hollow, and was bund to yet up behind him; huw hie rode ofer busce and brake, ofer hill and sluw, hent hie reaced þe bridge; when þe Horseman went swiftly into a boneframe, þrew old Brouwer into þe brook, and sprang away ofer þe treetops wiþ a clap of þunder.
Þiss tale was at
All þese tales, told in þat drusy way wiþ whice waremen talk in þe dark, þe ansens of þe listeners only nuw and þen fanging a littel gleam from þe glare of a pipe, sank deep in þe mind of Ickabod. He foryeelded hem in kind wiþ grate cwids from his dear bookwrite, Cotton Maþer, and eked many wunderful þings þat had befallen in his inborn Rice of Conneticket, and fearful sites whice he had seen in his nitely walks abute Sleepy Hollow.
All þe tales of goasts and pucks þat he had herd in þe afternoon nuw came cruding upon his min. Þe nite grew darker and darker; þe stars seemed to sink deeper in þe hefens, and drifing cludes from time to time hid hem from his site. He had nefer felt so lonely and lorn. He was, moreofer, nearing þe sted itself þat had been þe setting of many of þose goast tales. In þe middel of þe road stood a grate saddeltree, whice kiþed like an ettin abufe all þe oþer trees of þe nayborhood, and made a kind of landmark. Its buws wer gnarled and ferly, grate enuff to be as stocks for mean trees, twisting dune almost to þe erþ, and rising ayen into þe lift. It was lenced wiþ þe sarrowful tale of þe wreced André, hoo had been hafted hard by; and was known by all by þe name of Hieward Andrés tree. Þe cerlfolk held it wiþ a mix of werþ and offgalþ, in deal ute of rewþ for its illstarred namesake, and in deal from þe tales of ferly sites, and dreary woops, told abute it.
As Ickabod nied þiss fearful tree, he began to whistel; he þawt his whistel was ansered; it was but a blast sweeping scarply þro þe dry buws. As he drew a littel nearer, he þawt he saw sumþing white, hanging in þe midst of þe tree; he stalled and stopt whisteling but, on looking more narowly, saw þat it was a sted whare þe tree had been rined by litening, and þe white wood laid bare. At
Abute two hundred yards from þe tree, a small brook flowed þwares þe road, and ran into a marscy and þickly wooded glen, known by þe name of Wileys Sluw. A few ruff timbers, laid side by side, made up þe bridge ofer þiss stream. On þat side of þe road whare þe brook infared þe wood, a cluster of oaks and cistels, matted þick wiþ wild winetrees, þrew a widegale gloom ofer it. To fare þiss bridge was þe sternest fand. It was at þiss sted itself þat þe wreced André was fanged, and under þe scelter of þose cistels and winetrees wer þe yomen hidden hoo seated hem. Þiss has efer sinse been þawt a dwimmered stream, and fearful ar þe feelings of þe knafe hoo has to fare it alone after dark.
As he nied þe stream, his hart began to þump; he cied up, huwefer, all his will, yafe his horse ten kicks in þe ribs, and fanded to rusce cwickly þwares þe bridge; but insted of starting forward, þe þwire old dere made a sideways swing, and ran brodside ayenst þe edder. Ickabod, hoos fears waxt wiþ þe fristing, firked þe lines on þe oþer side, and kicked lustily wiþ þe wiþer foot: it was all for nawt; his steed started, it is trew, but it was only to dife to þe wiþer side of þe road into a þicket of brambels and alder busces. Þe teacer nuw bestowed boþe whip and heel upon þe starfeling ribs of old Gundust, hoo rusced forward, sniffeling and snorting, but came to a stand rite by þe bridge, wiþ a cwickness þat had nearly sent his rider sprawling ofer his hed. Rite at þiss britom a plascy tramp by þe side of þe bridge fanged þe keen ear of Ickabod. In þe dark scaddow of þe grofe, on þe edge of þe brook, he beheld sumþing ettinische, misscapen and kiþing. It stirred not, but seemed gaþered up in þe gloom, like sum grate fifel reddy to spring upon þe wayfarer.
Þe hair of þe afrited teacer rose upon his hed wiþ brow. What was to be don? To wend and fly was nuw too late; and besides, what likelihood was þare of atwinding goast or puck, iff suce it was, whice cood ride upon þe fiþers of þe wind? Cying up, þarefore, a scow of dute, asked it a stammering tungfall, “Hoo art þuw?” He yat no anser. He eftledged his ask in a still more upset stefen. Still þare was no anser.
Ickabod, hoo had no list for þiss ferly midnite siþer, and beþawt himself of þe rose of Brom Bones wiþ þe Riding Hessman, nuw cwickened his steed in hopes of leafing him behind. Þe fremmedling, huwefer, cwickened his horse to an efen step. Ickabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, þinking to slip behind,—þe oþer
Hie had nuw reaced þe road whice bends off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gundust, hoo seemed indwelt by a puck, insted of keeping up it, made a wiþer wend, and dofe hedlong dunehill to þe left. þiss road leads þro a sandy hollow scaded by trees for abute a forþ of a mile, whare it reaces þe bridge mear in þe goast tale; and rite beyond swells þe green knoll on whice stands þe whitewasced circe.
Þe next morning þe old horse was fund wiþute his saddel, and wiþ þe bridel under his feet, coolly cropping þe grass at his masters gate. Ickabod did not atew at breckfast; efening stund came, but no Ickabod. Þe knafes forgaþered at þe lorehuse, and walked idelly abute þe banks of þe brook; but no teacer. Hans Van Ripper nuw began to feel sum uneaþ abute þe orlay of arm Ickabod, and his saddel. A fraining was set on foot, and after ernest seecing hie came upon his spores. In won deal of þe road leading to þe circe was fund þe saddel trampeled in þe erþ; þe loasts of horses hoofes deeply þruced in þe road, and suttelly at reeþ speed, wer followed to þe bridge, beyond whice, on þe bank of a brod deal of þe brook, whare þe water ran deep and black, was fund þe hat of þe wreced Ickabod, and nie beside it a broken peapon.
Þe brook was seeced, but þe boddy of þe teacer was not to be fund. Hans Van Ripper as fulfiller of his eþel, smayed þe bundel whice held all his werldawt. Hie wer made up of two scirts and a half; two stocks for þe neck; a twosum or two of wirsted stockings; and old set of ruff smallcloþes; a rusty scearsax; a book of salms full of dogears; and a broken picepipe. As to þe books and idisce of þe lorehuse, hie belonged to þe tune, but for Cotton Maþers “Stear of Wicecraft,” a “New England Yearbook,” and a book of dreams and halsing; in whice last was a leaf muce written and smeared in many bleadless fands to make a clofe of ferses for þe dawter of Van Tassel. Þese books of drycraft and þe leeþs wer forþwiþ sent to þe fire by Hans Van Ripper; hoo, from þat time forward, cose to send his cildren no more to lern, saying þat he nefer knew any good to cum of þiss
Þe runy befalling brawt muce weening at þe circe on þe following Sunday. Knots of wacers and bisiboddies wer gaþered in þe circeyard, at þe bridge, and at þe sted whare þe hat and peapon had been fund. Þe tales of Brouwer, of Bones, and a hole stock of oþers wer cied to mind; and when hie had keenly looked ofer hem all, and likened hem wiþ þe marks of þe fall at hand, hie scook hir heds, and came to þe end þat Ickabod had been born off by þe Riding Hessman. As he was unwed, and in noboddies scild, noboddy wirried hir hed any more abute him; þe lorehuse was scriþen to a sundry deal of þe hollow, and anoþer teacer rixt in his sted.
It is trew, an old bure, hoo had been dune to New York many years after, and from hoom þiss rake of þe goastly rose was fanged, brawt home þe knowledge þat Ickabod Crane was still alife; þat he had left þe nayborhood in deal þro fear of þe puck and Hans Van Ripper, and in deal in scame at hafing been swiftly spirned by þe maiden; þat he had scifted his steddings to a farlen deal of þe rice; had tawt and conned ea at
Þe old upland wifes, huwefer, hoo ar þe best deemers of þese þings, hold to þiss day þat Ickabod was born away by eldrice means; and it is a darling tale often told abute þe nayborhood umb þe winter efening fire. Þe bridge became more þan efer a þing of fearful iye; and þat may be þe grunds on whice þe road has been scriþen of late years, so as to nie þe circe by þe edge of þe millpond. Þe lorehuse being forsaken soon fell to rot, and was sed to be inerded by þe goast of þe wreced teacer and þe pluwknafe, tarying homeward on a still summer efening, has often faþomed his stefen at a farl, singing a sarrowful salm amung þe hoder stillness of Sleepy Hollow.