A Posthumous
Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker
By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My
sepulchre—
—CARTWRIGHT |
The following Tale was found among the
papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was
very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the
descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did
not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on
his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their
wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever,
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its
low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little
clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign
of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been
various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the
truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its
scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first
appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted
into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The
old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is
dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might
have been much 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 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.
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must
remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a
noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of
season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some
change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded
by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is
fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold
outlines on the clear evening sky; but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape
is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which,
in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of
glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried
the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the
trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of
the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been
founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just
about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest
in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing
within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having
latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. In that
same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth,
was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many years since, while the
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the
name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the
siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured
man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen-pecked husband.
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious
and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their
tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of
domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife
may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so,
Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great
favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable
sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on
Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever
he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop
of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand
tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the
neighborhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of
assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he
should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on
his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill
and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to
assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all
country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences; the women of
the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little
odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was
ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty,
and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared
it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of
ground in the whole country; every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong,
in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would
either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in
his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as
he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had
dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more
left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst
conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and
wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own
likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair
of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one
hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was
one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or
trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife
kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and
the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was
incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent
of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the
kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his
shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however,
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his
forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth,
belongs to a hen-pecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog
Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them
as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the
cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit
befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the
woods; but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of
a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail
dropped 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, he would run 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 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 any thing 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 Hudson,
far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection
of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other
side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the
bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by
the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this
scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long
blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could
reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the
terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from
a distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but
could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van
Winkle!"—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl,
skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt
a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same
direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and
bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to
see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be
some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield
it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the
stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy
hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth
jerkin strapped round the waist—several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees.
He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs
for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and
distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and
mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the
dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard
long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep
ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one
of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he
proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the
azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his
companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what
could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there
was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe
and checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish
fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their
belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the
guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face,
and small piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose,
and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed
to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten
countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat
and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of
Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from
Holland at the time of the settlement. What seemed particularly odd to Rip
was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the
most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the
stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and
his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared
at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons; and made signs
to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed
the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees
Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon
him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the
draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon
so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head,
his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he
found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the
glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping
and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting
the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not slept here all
night." He recalled the occurances 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 roisters 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 his 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 sulking 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 around him, eyeing him from head to foot
with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly
aside, inquired "On which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another
short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe,
inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a
loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in
a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with
one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "What
brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels,
and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"—"Alas! gentlemen," cried
Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a
loyal subject of the King, God bless him!" Here a general shout burst from
the by-standers—"A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!"
It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat
restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again
of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor
man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of
some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well—who are
they—name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's
Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man
replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell
all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed
at the storming of Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot
of Antony's Nose. I don't know—he never came back again." "Where's Van
Bummel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars too, was a great militia
general, and is now in congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these
sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world.
Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of
matters which he could not understand: war—congress—Stony Point;—he had no
courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody
here know Rip Van Winkle?" "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "oh,
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip
looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up to 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'm 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
ninepins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood,
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out
of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
NOTE
The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been
suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor
Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphauser mountain: the subjoined note, however,
which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated
with his usual fidelity: "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to
many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our
old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the
villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a
doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him,
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every
other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into
the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country
justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story,
therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.
D.K."
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