RIP VAN WINKLE.
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.
By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre-- CARTWRIGHT.
[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late DiedrichKnickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in theDutch History of the province and the manners of the descendants fromits primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lieso much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scantyon his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and stillmore, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to truehistory. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family,snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading sycamore,he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, andstudied it with the zeal of a bookworm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province, duringthe reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since.There have been various opinions as to the literary character of hiswork, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be.Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a littlequestioned on its first appearance, but has since been completelyestablished; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, asa book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; andnow that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory tosay that his time might have been much better employed in weightierlabors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and thoughit did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of hisneighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he feltthe truest deference and affection, yet his errors and folliesare remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to besuspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however hismemory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among manyfolks, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certainbiscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on theirnew-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality,almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne'sfarthing.]
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskillmountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachianfamily, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to anoble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every changeof season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the dayproduces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains;and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfectbarometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed inblue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky;but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they willgather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the lastrays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried thelight smoke curling up from a Village, whose shingle roofs gleam amongthe trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into thefresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of greatantiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in theearly times of the province, just about the beginning of the governmentof the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there weresome of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years,built of small yellow bricks, brought from Holland, having latticedwindows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tellthe precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived,many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain,a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was adescendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrousdays of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of FortChristina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character ofhis ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man;he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient henpecked husband.Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness ofspirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are aptto be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disciplineof shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliantand malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and acurtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching thevirtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore,in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip VanWinkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives ofthe village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in allfamily squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those mattersover in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame VanWinkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy wheneverhe approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings,taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long storiesof ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about thevillage, he was surrounded by a troop of them hanging on his skirts,clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him withimpunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion toall kinds of profitable labor. It could not be for want of assiduityor perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as longand heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, eventhough he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carrya fowling-piece on his shoulder, for hours together, trudging throughwoods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrelsor wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in theroughest toil, and was a foremost man in all country frolics for huskingIndian corn, or building stone fences; the women of the village, too,used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobsas their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, Ripwas ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doingfamily duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was themost pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everythingabout it went wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continuallyfalling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among thecabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhereelse; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had someout-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindledaway under his management, acre by acre, until there was little moreleft than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was theworst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged tonobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promisedto inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He wasgenerally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped ina pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado tohold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread orbrown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and wouldrather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, hewould have whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but his wife keptcontinually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness,and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night,her tongue was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did wassure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one wayof replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, hadgrown into a habit. He
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, castup his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a freshvolley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, andtake to the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongsto a henpecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpeckedas his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions inidleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause ofhis master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spiritbefitting in honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as everscoured the woods--but what courage can withstand the evil-doing andall-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered thehouse, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled betweenhis legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelongglance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick orladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimonyrolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongueis the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a longwhile he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequentinga kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idlepersonages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before asmall inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George theThird. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer'sday, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless, sleepystories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman'smoney to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took place,when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passingtraveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawledout by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper learned littleman, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in thedictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events somemonths after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by NicholasVedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at thedoor of which he took his seat from morning till night, just movingsufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; sothat the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately asby a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked hispipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man hashis adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather hisopinions. When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he wasobserved to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth, frequent,and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowlyand tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes,taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vaporcurl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfectapprobation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by histermagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity ofthe assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that augustpersonage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue ofthis terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging herhusband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his onlyalternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and the clamor of hiswife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods. Herehe would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and sharethe contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as afellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistressleads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I livethou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag histail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, Iverily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip hadunconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskillmountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and thestill solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun.Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on agreen knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of aprecipice. From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all thelower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distancethe lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majesticcourse, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a laggingbark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom and at last losingitself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impendingcliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the settingsun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was graduallyadvancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows overthe valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach thevillage; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering theterrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance hallooing:"Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked around, but could seenothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. Hethought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend,when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, "Rip VanWinkle! Rip Van Winkle!"--at the same time Wolf bristled up his back,and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfullydown into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing overhim; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strangefigure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight ofsomething he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any humanbeing in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be someone of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down toyield it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity ofthe stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, withthick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antiqueDutch fashion--a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist--several pairs ofbreeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttonsdown the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shouldersa stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip toapproach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustfulof this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; andmutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully,apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Ripevery now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, thatseemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between loftyrocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for aninstant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transientthunder-showers which often take place in the mountain heights, heproceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like asmall amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over thebrinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you onlycaught glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. Duringthe whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; forthough the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carryinga keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strangeand incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe, and checkedfamiliarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presentedthemselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-lookingpersonages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in quaint outlandishfashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives intheir belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar stylewith that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one hada large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of anotherseemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a whitesugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all hadbeards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to bethe commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beatencountenan
ce; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger,high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, withroses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an oldFlemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the villageparson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of thesettlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks wereevidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, themost mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party ofpleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness ofthe scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted fromtheir play, and stared at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, andsuch strange uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turnedwithin him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied thecontents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to waitupon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed theliquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.
By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, whenno eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage which he found had muchof the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul,and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another;and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length hissenses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head graduallydeclined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had firstseen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright sunnymorning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, andthe eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze."Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalledthe occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with the kegof liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--thewoe-begone party at ninepins--the flagon--"Oh! that flagon! that wickedflagon!" thought Rip--"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiledfowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrelencrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. Henow suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountains had put a trickupon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of hisgun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after asquirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, butall in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog wasto be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and ifhe met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose towalk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usualactivity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "andif this frolic, should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shallhave a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he gotdown into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companionhad ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountainstream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and fillingthe glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scrambleup its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,sassafras, and witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped up or entangled bythe wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree totree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffsto the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rockspresented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumblingin a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, blackfrom the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip wasbrought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he wasonly answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting highin the air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who,secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poorman's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away,and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give uphis dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do tostarve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rustyfirelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned hissteps homeward.
As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but nonewhom he new, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himselfacquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, wasof a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They allstared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyesupon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence ofthis gesture, induced Rip, involuntarily, to do, the same, when, to hisastonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strangechildren ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at hisgray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an oldacquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered:it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which hehad never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts haddisappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at thewindows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he beganto doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.Surely this was his native village, which he had left but a day before.There stood the Kaatskill mountains--there ran the silver Hudson ata distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it had alwaysbeen--Rip was sorely perplexed--"That flagon last night," thought he,"has addled my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear theshrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--theroof had fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges.A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Ripcalled him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passedon. This was an unkind cut indeed.--"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "hasforgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle hadalways kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparentlyabandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--he calledloudly for his wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a momentwith his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the villageinn--but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in itsplace, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended withold hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The UnionHotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used toshelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tallnaked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap,and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblageof stars and stripes--all this was strange and incomprehensible. Herecognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George,under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this wassingularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue andbuff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the headwas decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in largecharacters, "GENERAL WASHINGTON."
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Riprecollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There wasa busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomedphlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage NicholasVedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, utteringclouds of tobacco-smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, theschoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. Inplace of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets fullof handbills, was haranguing, vehemently about rights ofcitizens-elections--members of Congress--liberty--Bunker's hill--heroeso
f seventy-six-and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargonto the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rustyfowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children athis heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. Theycrowded round him, eying him from head to foot, with great curiosity.The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired,"on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another shortbut busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe,inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat." Ripwas equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his waythrough the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows ashe passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo,the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating,as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "Whatbrought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at hisheels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quietman, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God blesshim!"
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders-"a tory! a tory! a spy!a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficultythat the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and havingassumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknownculprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poorman humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there insearch of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, Where's Nicholas Vedder?
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in athin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone theseeighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that usedto tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say hewas killed at the storming of Stony-Point--others say he was drowned ina squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know--he never came backagain."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is nowin Congress."
Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his homeand friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answerpuzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and ofmatters which he could not understand: war--Congress-Stony-Point;--hehad no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair,"Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! that'sRip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went upthe mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poorfellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, andwhether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment,the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows!" exclaimed he at his wit's end; "I'm not myself--I'msomebody else--that's me yonder-no--that's somebody else, got into myshoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, andthey've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and Ican't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, winksignificantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There wasa whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow fromdoing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important manwith the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this criticalmoment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peepat the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush,you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child,the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train ofrecollections in his mind.
"What is your name, my good woman?" asked he.
"Judith Cardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty yearssince he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard ofsince,--his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself,or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but alittle girl."
Rip had but one more question to ask; but he put it with a falteringvoice:
"Where's your mother?"
Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel ina fit of passion at a New-England pedler.
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honestman could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and herchild in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he-"Young Rip Van Winkleonce-old Rip Van Winkle now--Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among thecrowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face fora moment exclaimed, "sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself.Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twentylong years?"
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to himbut as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some wereseen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; andthe self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over,had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, andshook his head--upon which there was a general shaking of the headthroughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk,who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of thehistorian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of theprovince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and wellversed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood.He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the mostsatisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handeddown from his ancestor, the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains hadalways been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that thegreat Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country,kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of theHalf-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of hisenterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great citycalled by his name. That his father had once seen them in their oldDutch dresses playing at ninepins in the hollow of the mountain; andthat he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of theirballs, like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to themore important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home tolive with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheeryfarmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins thatused to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the dittoof himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work onthe farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thingelse but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of hisformer cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear oftime; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, withwhom he soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when aman can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench,at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of thevillage, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was sometime before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could bemade to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during historpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war--that the countryhad thrown off the yoke of old England--and that,
instead of being asubject to his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizenof the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes ofstates and empires made but little impression on him; but there wasone species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and thatwas--petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end; he had got hisneck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever hepleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever hername was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders,and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression ofresignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some pointsevery time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having sorecently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I haverelated, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew itby heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insistedthat Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on whichhe always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almostuniversally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear athunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they sayHendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it isa common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when lifehangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught outof Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
NOTE.
The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr.Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the EmperorFrederick der Rothbart and the Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note,however, which had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolutefact, narrated with his usual fidelity.
"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, butnevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of ourold Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events andappearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, inthe villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticatedto admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself,who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and soperfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think noconscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, Ihave seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice,and signed with cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story,therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.
"D. K."
POSTSCRIPT.
The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr.Knickerbocker:
The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full offable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influencedthe weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, andsending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squawspirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of theCatskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shutthem at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, andcut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properlypropitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs andmorning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flakeafter flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until,dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers,causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to growan inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds blackas ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in themidst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!
In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou orSpirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains,and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kind of evils andvexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of abear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chasethrough tangled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off witha loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipiceor raging torrent.
The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a rock or cliffon the loneliest port of the mountains, and, from the flowering vineswhich clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in itsneighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot ofit is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakesbasking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on thesurface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch thatthe boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. Onceupon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to theGarden Rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotchesof trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurryof his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great streamgushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, wherehe was dished to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, andcontinues to flow to the present day, being the identical stream knownby the name of the Kaaterskill.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 7