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By Woden, God of Saxons, |
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From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, |
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Truth is a thing that ever I will keep |
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Unto thylke day in which I creep into |
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My sepulchre—— |
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CARTWRIGHT. | |
1 |
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[The following Tale was found among the papers of
the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who
was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the
manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His
historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as
among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite
topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their
wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history.
Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly
shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he
looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and
studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. |
|
The result of all these researches was a history of
the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he
published some years since. There have been various opinions as to
the literary character of his work, 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 little questioned on its
first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it
is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of
unquestionable authority. |
|
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication
of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much
harm to his memory to say that his time might have been better
employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby
his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a
little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some
friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection; yet
his errors and follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in
anger,” and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by
critics, it is still held dear by many folks, whose good opinion is
well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have
gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-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’s
Farthing.] | |
2 |
| WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must
remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the
great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river,
swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding
country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every
hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of
these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and
near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they
are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear
evening sky, but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless,
they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the
last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of
glory. |
3 |
| At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away
into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of
great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in
the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the
government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) and there
were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few
years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. |
4 |
| In that same village, and in one of these very houses
(which, to tell the 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 a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him
to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the
martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient
hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that
meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under
the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered
pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and a
curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the
virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore,
in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van
Winkle was thrice blessed. |
5 |
| Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the
good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his
part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those
matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he
approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught
them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts,
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was
surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his
back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. |
6 |
| The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want
of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod
as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and fish all day without a murmur,
even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry
a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods
and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild
pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest
toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian
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 jobs as their
less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to
attend to anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. |
7 |
| In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm;
it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country;
every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His
fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray,
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields
than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he
had some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little
more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the
worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. |
8 |
| His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness,
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was
generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a
pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold
up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. |
9 |
| Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals,
of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white
bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and
would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself,
he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually 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 everything he said or did was sure to
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying
to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but
said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife;
so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the
house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. |
10 |
| Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as
much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the
cause of his master’s going so often astray. True it is, in all points of
spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever
scoured the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and
all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? The moment Wolf entered the
house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between
his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong
glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom-stick or
ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. |
11 |
| Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of
matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp
tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a
long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by
frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other
idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before
a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer’s
day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman’s money
to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by
chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller.
How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick
Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to
be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely
they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken
place. |
12 |
| The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at
the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as
by a sundial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions.
When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to
smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry
puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly,
and emit it in light and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe
from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would
gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. |
13 |
| From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the
tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was
that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging
her husband in habits of idleness. |
14 |
| Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents
of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in
persecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s
life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a
friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfuly in his
master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated
the sentiment with all his heart. |
15 |
| In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green
knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a
precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue highlands. |
16 |
| On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain
glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the
impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the
setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows
over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach
the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering
the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. |
17 |
| As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a
distance, hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked round,
but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the
mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to
descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air:
“Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking
fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing
over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight
of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human
being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some
one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to
yield it. |
18 |
| On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the
singularity of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short square-built old
fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the
antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—several pair
of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons
down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout
keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new
acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a
mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep
ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged
path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the
muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place
in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came
to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches,
so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening
cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in
silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object
of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and
checked familiarity. |
19 |
| On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of
odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint
outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar
style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had
a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes: the face of another
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white
sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards,
of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten
countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned
hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them.
The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in
the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been
brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. |
20 |
| What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy
party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness
of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled,
echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. |
21 |
| As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like
gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart
turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied
the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait
upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. |
22 |
| By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he
found had much of 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 his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. |
23 |
| On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright
sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and
the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.
“Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of
liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone
party at ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!”
thought Rip—“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!” |
24 |
| He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had
put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of
his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after
a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but
all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to
be seen. |
25 |
| He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As
he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his
usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought Rip;
“and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got
down into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion had
ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream
was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen
with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides,
working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and
witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines
that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind
of network in his path. |
26 |
| At length he reached to where the ravine had opened
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening
remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall over which the
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad
deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then,
poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his
dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting
high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who,
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man’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 up his dog and
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the
mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a
heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. |
27 |
| As he approached the village he met a number of people,
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought
himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too,
was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their
eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of
this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! |
28 |
| He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his
gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it
was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never
seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared.
Strange names were over the doors—strange faces at the windows—every thing
was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he
and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native
village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill
mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill
and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip was sorely perplexed—“That
flagon last night,” thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!” |
29 |
| 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 the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to
decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the
hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it.
Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed
on. This was an unkind cut indeed—“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has
forgotten me!” |
30 |
| He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and
apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial
fears—he called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely chambers rang
for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. |
31 |
| He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the
village inn—but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in
its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with
old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “the Union Hotel,
by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole,
with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it
was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and
stripes—all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the
sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so
many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red
coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand
instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and
underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL
WASHINGTON. |
32 |
| There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but
none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead
of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long
pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van
Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient
newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens—elections—members of congress—liberty—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of
seventy-six—and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the
bewildered Van Winkle. |
33 |
| The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children
at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round him, eyeing 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 short but
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired
in his ear, “Whether he was Federal or Democrat?” Rip was equally at a
loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting
them to the right and left with his elbows as he 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, “what brought him to the election with
a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to
breed a riot in the village?”—“Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat
dismayed, “I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal
subject of the king, God bless him!” |
34 |
| Here a general shout burst from the by-standers—“A tory! a
tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!” It was with great
difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order;
and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor
man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in
search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. |
35 |
| “Well—who are they?—name them.” |
36 |
| Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Where’s
Nicholas Vedder?” |
37 |
| There was a silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and
gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard
that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.” |
38 |
| “Where’s Brom Dutcher?” |
39 |
| “Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war;
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point—others say he was
drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t know—he never
came back again.” |
40 |
| “Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?” |
41 |
| “He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general,
and is now in congress.” |
42 |
| Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in
his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every
answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and
of matters which he could not understand: war—congress—Stony Point;—he had
no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does
nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?” |
43 |
| “Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be
sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.” |
44 |
| Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself,
as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged.
The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own
identity, and whether 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? |
45 |
| “God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; “I’m not
myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s somebody else got into
my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and
they’ve changed my gun, and every thing’s changed, and I’m changed, and I
can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!” |
46 |
| The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a
whisper also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a
fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at 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 of recollections in his mind.
“What is your name, my good woman?” asked he. |
47 |
| “Judith Gardenier.” |
48 |
| “And your father’s name?” |
49 |
| “Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been
heard of since—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 a
little girl.” |
50 |
| Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice: |
51 |
| “Where’s your mother?” |
52 |
| “Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler.” |
53 |
| There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this
intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught
his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your father!” cried
he—“Young Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now!—Does nobody know
poor Rip Van Winkle?” |
54 |
| All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his
face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle—it is
himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor—Why, where have you been these
twenty long years?” |
55 |
| Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it;
some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their
cheeks: and the 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, and shook his head—upon which there was a general shaking of the
head throughout the assemblage. |
56 |
| 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 the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest
accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the
neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in
the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact,
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains
had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the
great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept
a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon;
being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and
keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name.
That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at
nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of
thunder. |
57 |
| To make a long story short, the company broke up, and
returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter
took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and
a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the
urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed
to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to
anything else but his business. |
58 |
| Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and
tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation,
with whom he soon grew into great favor. |
59 |
| Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that
happy age when a man 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 the village, and a chronicle of the old times “before the
war.” It was some time before he could get into the regular track of
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken
place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war—that
the country had thrown off the yoke of old England—and that, instead of
being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen
of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that
was—petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck
out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up
his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his
fate, or joy at his deliverance. |
60 |
| 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
points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so
recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have
related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it
by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he
always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a
thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say
Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a
common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life
hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of
Rip Van Winkle’s flagon. |
61 |
| |
NOTE. |
|
The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr.
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor
Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhäuser mountain: the
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows
that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: |
|
“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to
many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the
vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to
marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many
stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of
which were too well authenticated to 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 so perfectly rational and consistent on
every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse
to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the
subject taken before a country justice and signed with a cross, in
the justice’s own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the
possibility of doubt. |
|
D. K.” | |
62 |
| |
POSTSCRIPT. |
|
The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr.
Knickerbocker: |
|
The Kaatsberg, or Catskill mountains, have always
been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode
of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds
over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They
were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She
dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the
doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She
hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into
stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin
light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them
off from the crest of the mountain, flake after 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 grow an inch an hour.
If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink,
sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the
midst 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 or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of
the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he
would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the
bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among
ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him
aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. |
|
The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown.
It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains,
and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of
the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of
the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the
leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was
held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter
would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time,
however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden
rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of
trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry
of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream
gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices,
where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the
Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being the
identical stream known by the name of the
Kaaters-kill. | |
63 |
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