Rip Van Winkle
by
(1819)
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 sepulcher ——
CARTWRIGHT.
Prologue
[The
following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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
“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.
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
D.K."
Postscript
The
following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book
of Mr. Knickerbocker:
The Kaatsberg, or
In old times,
say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept
about the wildest recesses of the
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.