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Rip
Van Winkle
(1819) by Washington Irving (1783-1859) By
Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, CARTWRIGHT. Prologue [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.] 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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-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. 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. |