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 tranquility 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 wistfully 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 marveled 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 tranquility. 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 marvelous
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.