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Showing results for tags 'Sleepy Hollow'.
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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. . . . From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 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 women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's 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 powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. 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 school-house, and there con over old Mather's 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 sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. 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 a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 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 drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Dusty black wool, tea with cream, black pepper, muguet, and beeswax candle drippings. In bottle: Deliciously insencey. The pepper lends edge. The wool, tea, cream combination is very pleasant. The label is insanely cute, BTW. Wet: Edgier with a bit more muget. I am thinking it’s actually the lily of the valley that was coming off as incense in the bottle when mixed with the beeswax. This stunning, really in a quiet sneak up on you sort of way. It is more floral than I was expecting, but the whole is so well blended, I don’t particularly mind. Dry: heartbreakingly beautiful floral that simply won’t suit me. This is very sad indeed as it’s that yummy.
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KATRINA VAN TASSEL … and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite 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 partridge; 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. White rose and honeyed cream. Oh, I am so excited that Beth made a another blend that showcases white roses (Ouija is my current fave in this category)! Katrina's white rose is fresh but light, distictly "white", with the honeyed cream note making adding depth and sweetness. There is not a trace of sourness that sometimes happens with milky notes on me. It sits very close to my skin and becomes one with it, as if I became young, innocent and lovely. She's like Alice's pale, shy little sister. It reminds me, also, of Brambleberry's Basmati Rice scent, which does not smell at all like the name suggests... For being such a light skin scent it has suprisingly long wearlength (and I really eat up scent). The absolute drydown is really my favorite...soft, slightly sweet, and lush, like a virgin O.
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GUNPOWDER That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from 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 every thing 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. Carrot peelings, hay, chaff, molasses, maple oats, red apples, stable wood, and musk. I love the label, but, I am still horse crazy to some extent. In the bottle, grains, maybe the carrots. On me, wet, I smell the molasses and maple oats, and then the apples. These are nice apples; they smell crunchy, and I don't know how that is managed with just a scent. Drying, the scent is all wholesome grain mash. I imagine it would be even more foody to a horse. There's still a whisp of sweetness from the carrots, apples, and molasses. Of all of those, the apples fade first. After a couple hours, the foodyness of it fades and I am left with mostly the hay, chaff and stable wood. The chaff and wood, though, last for hours on my skin.
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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 a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen 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 horseman, 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 speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! Dried orange peels floating in simmering cider, roasted apples, smoldering firewood, chimney smoke, sassafras beer, warm hawthorn wood, and oakmoss. In bottle: This smells of apple cider with some evergreen type trees in the background. Immediately on skin: This is the spiced cider scent I’ve been waiting for. It isn’t pure cider, but that’s what the heart of this scent is. Floating on top are cinnamon sticks and orange peels. In the background floats dry, warm woods and a hint of smoke. After a little while: This doesn’t change much as I wear it. I think it just becomes a bit more blended and the wood doesn’t stick out as much any more. This is a wonderfully warm, spicy apple cider scent with a lightly smoky, woody background. It mostly still smells of cider with orange peels and spices (primarily cinnamon). The wood adds a bit of dryness in the background, and I sense the oakmoss as well but that blends completely in with everything else. Overall Impressions: I have wished and hoped for a bpal cider scent, and this is it: warm, spiced cider with hints of oranges and cinnamon and the other autumn notes lingering secretly in the background. It’s a toasty, cooked apple that doesn’t turn to perfume on me like the other bpal apple notes seem to. It’s very well blended and perfect for autumn lovers like myself. A total winner!!
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In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents-"Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind-the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless!-but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle; his terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder; hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip-but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lanky body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. The scent of fear, and terrifying pursuit: wind-whipped, chilly night air, oppressive black pine, globs of dark opopponax, and bleak cedar, and distant, unreachable church incense. I've never done a first review before. Review: The label on this is all dark and blue-y artwork. It's definitely gorgeous. So far I am really into these Sleepy Hollow bottles' artwork! In the Bottle: High, cold, forests. I'm not getting much incense in the bottle. It's definitely dark and sleek, absolutely reminiscent of fear itself. Wet: Hello ozone! This smells WONDERFUL wet, it's got a ton of throw and the woods are really coming together. The church incense is barely lurking, it's probably feeling a little swallowed by the opopponax. For the record? I love opopponax. This scent is heavy, almost like it's bearing down on you with the ferocity of its chill. Drydown: Frankincense? Is that frankincense? It smells a bit like mass, with which I am much more than down. On the drydown it seems like that distant incense is coming a little closer, but it's remaining high, cold, and shrouded in forests. I am in love with this. Throw: Good-to-strong. It starts off with this awesome POW and on the drydown it's still strong, but it's not slapping my surroundings with its might. Overall: FAN-BLOODY-TASTIC. This is everything I had hoped for and more. Keep or Swap?: I'm keeping this so hard I might buy a second bottle.
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His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old 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 ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houton, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house 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 bee-hive; 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. Dandelion, white clover, balsam fir logs, and birchwood switches. Am I first here too? ........ Review: I pictured this scent, in my mind, as very "green". Well, it's definitely green! But it's a light, white-veined green. I'm definitely getting a mental image of birch trees. Label is also light greens and a cute little school house. In the Bottle: Very green and planty; it smells of cut grass. Wet: Is that the dandelion note? This is lightening up, and a floral is coming through that's almost... buttery? It's a very pretty scent, much cleaner and prettier than I thought it would be. There's the clover under everything, barely peeping out. Drydown: Clover comes up top, hopping over the dandelion, which is in the background now. I still don't get much fir or birch from this, and I'm disappointed about that. I wanted more wood in here. It seems like a bare peep of wood as the lowest bottom note. eta: about two and a half hours later, the only scent left on my wrist is the softness of dandelion, backed by whispers of birch next to my skin. Throw: I can just smell it from my wrist when I'm typing, like an afterthought. I think this one is going to be a pretty "personal" scent, one that keeps close. Overall: This is not what I was expecting. I like it, I really like it a lot -- but I'm not certain if I should've sprung for a bottle before getting a decant. It's much more a green floral than a wood scent, and I think I was hoping for more wood. C'est la vie! Keep or Swap?: I think I should've stuck with a decant on this one. I like it, but I don't LOVE it. A little more wear and I'll be sure about it.
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The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman; and the place where he was most frequently encountered. Overgrown dark green bullrush, midnight roses, dwarf St. John's Wort, frankincense, blackberry leaf, and moss-covered, half-buried tree bark. No thread in sight that I could click my mouse on, so I guess I'm going first! I must first say that I've been obsessed with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow since I was a wee one (I remember gleefully tormenting my friends when I was maybe 7ish by telling the story over and over again at sleepovers, complete with voices and frequent pauses to build dramatic suspense - and they say goth is a phase ), so this is hands-down my most favorite Halloween sub-theme (or probably any special series set) yet. I had to be frugal, though, and could only nab up a few to try initially. With the squee-ing out of the way (for now), let me set the stage for our tale... Do I sense movement in the trees? {Wet}: kinda herbal and sweet with a hint of nuttiness. Maybe that's the bark. Was that neighing or someone screaming? {First applied}: I can smell it on my arm as I type, so it definitely has decent throw. It's bright and clean. Not necessarily soapy, but much cheerier than I'd expected. The Hessian approaches {Drying (Dying?)}: The blend starts to mellow substantially. Something arises which almost smells like apple to my nose. But I'm guessing it's the roses mingling with the blackberry (naughty things). Nothing stands out as particularly sharp or potent, though. If you've heard the swish of the blade, I'm afraid it's too late {Final Thoughts}: After it dries, I'm left with moss and slight sweetness (the blackberry is goooooood) and fallen leaves and a faint memory of incense and everything that makes this season perfection. The scent is nicely unisex. Not too heavy either. It starts to cling much more closely to the skin and is merely wafting around pleasantly at this point instead of jumping out in surprise as before. A fitting fragrance for dusky Autumn tale-telling by firelight... punctuated by the slightest underscore of heavy horses' hooves echoing through the distant woods.
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It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off from some farmhouse away among the hills-but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. Moonflower, night-blooming cereus, white hellebore, English ivy, monkshood, angel's trumpet, oleander, and eastern hemlock. I'm not familiar with all the notes but I'll do my best to review. Witching Time starts off moonflower, a sharp floral, and lots of greenery underneath. Thankfully whatever the sharp floral is fades or settles and its now moonflower over lush greenery, of which I can pick out the hemlock and a little ivy. The drydown so far reminds me a bit of The Gibbous Moon but this is a bit more potent, greener, darker and more mysterious. I'm really enjoying this so far and hope the rest of the Halloweenies are as good!
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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 church-yard, 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 church-yard 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. Grave moss and bone-white sandalwood, with vetiver, gunpowder, artillery shrapnel, and blood. Few things are more lovely to me, in autumn or any time, than vetiver and sandalwood. The slightly burnt, sweetly earthy quality of vetiver and the dry, fragrant sandalwood are a perfect match. They are also the most prominent notes in this blend, which initially reminds me of the smoky wood qualities of last year's Death of Autumn. A few tufts of powdery, dry moss make this a blend you might want to nuzzle, on the right person. Smoky burnt earthen vetiver with layers of dry moss and wood, and perhaps just the slightest metallic hint lilting over these earthy-brown notes of blasted earth and ominous smoke. I worried that there would be much more prominent, cologne-like metallic notes, but nope, it's all lovely earthy burntness! Add another to the magnificent vetiver ensemble. Distinctly autumnal in the family of Death of Autumn and Samhainophobia.
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Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering 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 feats of strength and hardihood. 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 limb, 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 cock-fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength 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 mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. The butchest, manliest of musks covered in well-worn leather. In bottle: sweet dusky leather On skin: woo, there's a blast of swarthy musk, but it's tempered by the dry slightly-sweet leather Half-hour later: pretty much the same, the smutty musk anchoring the dry leather In conclusion: the simple ingredients of dark musk and sweet dusty leather make an awesome combination. The musk isn't too masculine on me either; it's deep and dreamy. This ends up as an acceptable dupe of Dead Man's Hand, one of my favorite uniquely-BPAL blends. I knew I'd love this one!
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The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast-dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no school-master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. Soil-covered crushed pumpkin, water-weeds, saddle-leather, and pine pitch. The Shattered Pumpkin - I don't like dirt scents at all, and pumpkin is an iffy scent on me, so I had the lowest of low expectations for this scent. I'm kind of surprised I went ahead and tested it, but I'm glad I did. It's truly amazing what Beth has done with this blend! The dirt and pumpkin notes are the dominant scents when sniffing in the bottle and when I apply it to my skin. They are in perfect balance and I can't get over how the pumpkin picks up the sweetness of the earth scent but the part of the earth scent that I don't like is pushed into the background. The longer it's on my skin, it takes on an almost effervescent sweetness, and then it starts to smell like cinnamon red hots. I double-check the scent description and am surprised that there's no cinnamon in it. After it's been on my skin for an hour, the dirt scent is completely gone, the pumpkin is present, and there's also a hint of leather and the faintest hint of green plants. This is a spectacular fragrance and I can't believe that I like it and I'm so glad I decided not to skip over this one! Edited to insert the Halloweenie subtitle
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A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. Water-logged and rotting wood, fallen chestnuts, oak leaf, bog laurel, and Virginia creeper. the sweet stench of rotting wet things and a fizzy hint of what smells like lime. A surprisingly bright scent. the woods in this are very smooth, not in your face at all. Maybe a touch of violets in the background. The most cheerful swamp it has ever been my pleasure to sniff.
