Name: ワシントン・アーヴィング｜スリーピー・ホロウの伝説 オーディオブック (Washington Irving | The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Audiobook )
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THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW By WASHINGTON IRVING

関係詞節（制限と非制限）

"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."

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 it, 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 three

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 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 marvelous 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 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 that is 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 specter, 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 specter 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 weathercock

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 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 case, he would find some embarrassment in getting out—an

idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an ellpot.

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 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, that 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;

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ワシントン・アーヴィング｜スリーピー・ホロウの伝説オーディオブック (Washington Irving | The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Audiobook )

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ワシントン・アーヴィング｜スリーピー・ホロウの伝説 オーディオブック (Washington Irving | The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Audiobook )

scene

gradually

vicinity

path

ワシントン・アーヴィング｜スリーピー・ホロウの伝説オーディオブック (Washington Irving | The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Audiobook )