Rip Van Winkle
(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
bookworm.
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
how 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 much better
employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his
hobby in 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 among many folk
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.)
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre—
CARTWRIGHT.
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the
Catskill 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,
with lattice windows, gable fronts surmounted with weathercocks,
and built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.
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, henpecked 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. 7
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 even refuse to assist a neighbor 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, it was impossible. 8
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; everything 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 outdoor
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. 9
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. 10
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 henpecked husband. 11
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much
henpecked 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 so often going 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 broomstick or ladle 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 by
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, of 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 which sometimes took place, when by chance an old
newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveler. 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. 13
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 sun-dial. 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 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. 14
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
nought; 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. 15
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, while 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. 16
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the
Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed 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, 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. 17
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. 18
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,
hallooing, “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around,
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 assistance, he hastened down to yield
it. 19
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 around 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 shoulders 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 amphitheater, 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. 20
On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented
themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of
odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in
a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others
jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most had enormous
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their
visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, 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
Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over
from Holland at the time of the settlement. 21
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. 22
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-luster 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. 23
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. 24
On awaking, he found himself on the green knoll from 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?” 25
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 roysters 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, shouted his name, but all in vain; the
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be
seen. 26
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 grape vines that twisted their coils and
tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his
path. 27
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the
cliffs to the amphitheater; 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. 28
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! 29
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, none of which he recognized for
his old acquaintances, 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—everything was
strange. His mind now began to misgive him; he doubted 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 Catskill 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!” 30
It was with some difficulty 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!” 31
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 rung for a moment with his voice, and then all
again was silence. 32
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the little
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 which 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 nightcap, 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 stuck in the hand instead of a
scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and
underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
33
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none
whom 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—election—members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s
Hill—heroes of ’76—and other words, that were a perfect
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 34
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty
fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and
children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded around him,
eying 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 raising
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!” 35
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—“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. 36
“Well—who are they?—name them.” 37
Rip bethought himself a moment, and then inquired, “Where’s
Nicholas Vedder?” 38
There was 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
churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotted
and gone, too.” 39
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?” 40
“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some
say he was killed at the battle 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.” 41
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?” 42
“He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and
is now in Congress.” 43
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?” 44
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be sure!
that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.” 45
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? 46
“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 everything’s changed,
and I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
47
The bystanders 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, likely
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. 48
“Judith Gardenier.” 49
“And your father’s name?” 50
“Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; 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.” 51
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice:— 52
“Where’s your mother?” 53
“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.” 54
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!” 55
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?” 56
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 where 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. 57
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 Catskill 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
ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had
heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like long
peals of thunder. 58
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. 59
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. 60
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy
age when a man can do nothing 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 III., 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. 61
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Dr.
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 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
thunder-storm of a summer afternoon, about the Catskills, but
they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of
ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked 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. 62
NOTE.—The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested
to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the
Emperor Frederick and the Kypphauser Mountain; the subjoined
note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it
is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. 63
“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 Hudson;
all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I
have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I
saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational
and consistent on every other point, that I think no
conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain;
nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a
country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice’s own
handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of
a doubt.
“D. K.”
POSTSCRIPT 1 .—The following are traveling notes from a
memorandum book of Mr. Knickerbocker:—
The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits,
who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over
the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They
were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She
dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of
the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper
hour. She hung up the new moon in the skies, and cut up the old
ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated,
she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning
dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake
after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air;
until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in
gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to
ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased,
however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the
midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its
web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!
In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he
would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the
bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and
among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho!
leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or
raging torrent.
The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from
the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers
which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the
Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of
the solitary bittern, with water snakes basking in the sun on
the leaves of the pond lilies which lie on the surface. This
place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the
boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts.
Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way,
penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number of
gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized,
and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it
fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which
washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was
dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and
continues to flow to the present day; being the identical stream
known by the name of Kaaterskill. 68
