Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving

4

RIP VAN WINKLE. 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 sepulchreCARTWRIGHT.

[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 farm-house, 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 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 among many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain

biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes,

and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo

medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must

remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian

family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and

lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather,

indeed, every hour of the day produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these

mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.

When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print

their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape

is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the

last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke

curling up from a Village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue

tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little

village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early

times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant

(may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing

within a few years, built of small yellow bricks, brought from Holland, having latticed

windows and gable fronts, surmounted with 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 henpecked

husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which

gained him such universal popularity; for those men are 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 for 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 in 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; everything about it went 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 every thing 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

housethe only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.

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 going so often astray. True it is, in all

points of spirit befitting in honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured

the woodsbut what courage can withstand the evil-doing 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, 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 which 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 school-master, 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, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke

slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the

pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod

his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip

was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity

of the assemblage, and call the members all to 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.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from the

labor of the farm and the 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 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 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 waistseveral

pairs 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 each other, 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

the 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 ninepins. They were dressed in 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 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.

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 a 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 eyesit 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 the keg of liquorthe mountain

ravinethe wild retreat among the rocksthe woe-begone party at ninepinsthe 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

encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected

that the grave roysterers of the mountains 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 grape vines that twisted their coils

and 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 the 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 new, 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 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 doorsstrange faces at the windowseverything 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 a day before. There

stood the Kaatskill mountainsthere ran the silver Hudson at a distancethere was

every hill and dale precisely as it had always beenRip 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 decaythe roof had 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

fearshe called loudly for his wife and childrenthe 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 innbut 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 nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which

was a singular assemblage of stars and stripesall 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-electionsmembers of CongresslibertyBunker's hillheroes

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 the army of women and children

at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round

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 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 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. "Wellwho 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 churchyard 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-Pointothers say he was

drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't knowhe 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: warCongress-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 myselfI'm somebody elsethat's me yonder-nothat'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!" 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 with 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 Cardenier."

"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 more question 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 pedler.

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 nowDoes 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 Winkleit 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

headupon 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 ninepins in the 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 any thing 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 warthat the country had thrown off the yoke of old Englandand

that, instead of being a subject to 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 waspetticoat 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 thunder-storm 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 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. 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 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 cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story,

therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. "D. K." POSTSCRIPT.

The following are travelling 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 moons 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 kind 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 rock or cliff on the loneliest port 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 dished 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 Kaaterskill.