|
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 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.
***
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-1- |
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.
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.
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.
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.
The great error in Rip's composition was an
insuperable aversion to all kinds of
profitable labor. It could not be from the
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-2- |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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-3- |
flourish of a broom-stick or ladle, he would
fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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-4- |
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.
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.
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.
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.
|
-5- |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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
|
-6- |
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.
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.
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.
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!
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
|
-7- |
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 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!"
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.
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.
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.
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
|
-8- |
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!"
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.
"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 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."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"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."
| "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great
militia general, and is now in congress."
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?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or
three, "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle
yonder, leaning against the tree."
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?
"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!"
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-
|
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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.
"Judith Gardenier."
"And your father's name?"
"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."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but
he put it with a faltering voice:
"Where's your mother?"
"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."
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?"
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?"
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.
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.
|
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Kypphauser
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
|
-11- |
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." |
-12- |
