{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_60976/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_60976","id":"gutenberg_60976","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60976","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Category: Short Stories","Catskill Mountains Region (N.Y.) -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction","Fantasy fiction","Hudson River (N.Y. and N.J.) -- Fiction","New York (State) -- History -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction","Van Winkle, Rip (Fictitious character) -- Fiction"],"text":"RIP VAN WINKLE\n\n\n\n\nARTHUR RACKHAM\u2019S ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n    THE ALLIES\u2019 FAIRY BOOK                             6s. net\n\n    A CHRISTMAS CAROL By CHARLES DICKENS               6s. net\n\n    MOTHER GOOSE, THE OLD NURSERY RHYMES               6s. net\n\n    ARTHUR RACKHAM\u2019S BOOK OF PICTURES                 21s. net\n\n    AESOP\u2019S FABLES\n    A New Translation by V. S. VERNON JONES, with an\n    Introduction by G. K. CHESTERTON                   6s. net\n\n    THE SPRINGTIDE OF LIFE\n    Poems of Childhood by A. C. Swinburne             10s. 6d. net\n\n    CINDERELLA Retold by C. S. EVANS                   7s. 6d. net\n\n    THE RING OF THE NIBLUNG By RICHARD\n    WAGNER. Translated by MARGARET ARMOUR\n       I. THE RHINEGOLD AND THE VALKYRIE\n      II. SIEGFRIED AND THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS      21s. net each\n\n    UNDINE By DE LA MOTTE FOUQU\u00c9 Adapted from\n    the German by W. L. COURTNEY.                     10s. 6d.\n\n    RIP VAN WINKLE\n    By WASHINGTON IRVING. With 24 selected plates.    10s. 6d. net\n\n    A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT\u2019S DREAM\n    By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.                           21s. net\n\n    ALICE\u2019S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND\n    By LEWIS CARROLL. With a Proem by AUSTIN DOBSON.   6s. net\n\n    RIP VAN WINKLE\n    Complete Edition. By WASHINGTON IRVING.           21s. net\n\n    THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS OF MIRTH AND MARVEL\n    By THOMAS INGOLDSBY, Esq.                         21s. net\n\nLONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHe used to console himself by frequenting a kind of\nperpetual club of the sages, philosophers and other idle personages,\nwhich held its sessions before a small inn.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\nRIP VAN WINKLE\n\n    [Illustration]\n\n    BY \u00b7 WASHINGTON\n    IRVING\n    ILLUSTRATED \u00b7 BY\n    ARTHUR \u00b7 RACKHAM\n\n    [Illustration]\n\n    LONDON: WILLIAM \u00b7 HEINEMANN\n    NEW \u00b7 YORK: DOUBLEDAY \u00b7 PAGE \u00b7 & Co.\n\n\n\n\n    _Complete Edition, with 51 Illustrations in Colour. First\n    published (15s. net) September 1905._\n\n    _New Impressions January 1907; August 1908; May 1909; November\n    1910._\n\n    _Cheaper Issue, with 24 Illustrations in Colour and many new\n    Illustrations in the Text October 1916. New Impression 1917,\n    1919._\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nIN COLOUR\n\n                                                        To face page\n\n  \u201cHe used to console himself by frequenting a kind of\n  perpetual club of the sages, philosophers and other idle\n  personages, which held its sessions before a small inn\u201d\n                                             _Frontispiece_\n\n  \u201cCertain biscuit-bakers have gone so far as to imprint his\n  likeness on their New-Year Cakes\u201d                                x\n\n  \u201cThese mountains are regarded by all good wives, far and\n  near, as perfect barometers\u201d                                     x\n\n  \u201cSome of the houses of the original settlers\u201d                    2\n\n  \u201cA curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world\n  for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering\u201d         2\n\n  \u201cTaught them to fly kites\u201d                                       2\n\n  \u201cHis cow would go astray or get among the cabbages\u201d              4\n\n  \u201cHis children were as ragged and wild as if they belonged\n  to nobody\u201d                                                       4\n\n  \u201cEquipped in a pair of his father\u2019s cast-off galligaskins,\n  which he had as much ado to hold up as a fine lady does her\n  train in bad weather\u201d                                            4\n\n  \u201cSo that he was fain to draw off his forces and take to\n  the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth,\n  belongs to a henpecked husband.\u201d                                 6\n\n  \u201cA company of odd-looking persons playing at ninepins\u201d          10\n\n  \u201cThey maintained the gravest faces\u201d                             12\n\n  \u201cThey stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, that\n  his heart turned within him and his knees smote together\u201d       12\n\n  \u201cHe even ventured to taste the beverage, which he found had\n  much of the flavour of excellent Hollands\u201d                      12\n\n  \u201cSurely,\u201d thought he, \u201cI have not slept here all night....\n  Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! what excuse shall I\n  make to Dame Van Winkle?\u201d                                       12\n\n  \u201cThey all stared at him with equal marks of surprise and\n  invariably stroked their chins\u201d                                 14\n\n  \u201cA troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting\n  after him and pointing at his grey beard\u201d                       14\n\n  \u201cThe dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an old\n  acquaintance, barked at him as he passed\u201d                       14\n\n  \u201cHe found the house gone to decay.... \u2018My very dog,\u2019 sighed\n  poor Rip, \u2018has forgotten me\u2019\u201d                                   16\n\n  \u201cThey crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with\n  great curiosity\u201d                                                16\n\n  Rip\u2019s daughter and grandchild                                   20\n\n  \u201cHe preferred making friends among the rising generation,\n  with whom he soon grew into great favour\u201d                       24\n\n  \u201cThe Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a\n  region full of fable\u201d                                           26\n\n  They were ruled by an old squaw spirit                          28\n\n\nIN TEXT\n\n                                                                Page\n\n    These fairy mountains                                          2\n\n    Long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians                   5\n\n    Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village          21\n\n    The Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by\n        strange beings                                            25\n\n    Very subject to marvellous events and appearances             30\n\n    When these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys               33\n\n    With a loud ho! ho!                                           35\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n    By Woden, God of Saxons,\n    From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.\n    Truth is a thing that ever I will keep\n    Unto thylke day in which I creep into\n    My sepulchre----\n                                      CARTWRIGHT.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich\nKnickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in\nthe Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants\nfrom its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did\nnot lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably\nscanty on his favourite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and\nstill more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to\ntrue history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch\nfamily, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading\nsycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter,\nand studied it with the zeal of a book-worm.\n\nThe result of all these researches was a history of the province\nduring the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years\nsince. There have been various opinions as to the literary character\nof his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it\nshould be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed\nwas a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been\ncompletely established; and it is now admitted into all historical\ncollections as a book of unquestionable authority.\n\nThe old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and\nnow that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to\nsay that his time might have been much better employed in weightier\nlabours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and\nthough it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of\nhis neighbours, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he\nfelt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies\nare remembered \u201cmore in sorrow than anger,\u201d and it begins to be\nsuspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his\nmemory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many\nfolks whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain\nbiscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on\ntheir new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality,\nalmost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen\nAnne\u2019s farthing.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cCertain biscuit-bakers have gone so far as to imprint\nhis likeness on their New-Year Cakes.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThese mountains are regarded by all good wives, far and\nnear, as perfect barometers.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: _These fairy mountains._]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cSome of the houses of the original settlers.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cA curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world\nfor teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cTaught them to fly kites.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\nRIP VAN WINKLE\n\n\nWhoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill\nmountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian\nfamily, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a\nnoble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change\nof season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day,\nproduces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains,\nand they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect\nbarometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in\nblue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening\nsky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they\nwill gather a hood of grey vapours about their summits, which, in the\nlast rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of\nglory.\n\nAt the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried\nthe light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam\namong the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away\ninto the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village,\nof great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists\nin the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the\ngovernment of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and\nthere were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within\na few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having\nlatticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.\n\nIn that same village and in one of these very houses (which, to tell\nthe precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there\nlived, many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great\nBritain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.\nHe was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in\nthe chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the\nsiege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the\nmartial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a\nsimple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbour, and\nan obedient, hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance\nmight be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal\npopularity; for those men are apt to be obsequious and conciliating\nabroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers,\ndoubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of\ndomestic tribulation; and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons\nin the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering.\nA termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a\ntolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.\n\nCertain it is that he was a great favourite among all the good wives of\nthe village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all\nfamily squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters\nover in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van\nWinkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever\nhe approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings,\ntaught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories\nof ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the\nvillage, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts,\nclambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with\nimpunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHis cow would go astray or get among the cabbages.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHis children were as ragged and wild as if they\nbelonged to nobody.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cEquipped in a pair of his father\u2019s cast-off\ngalligaskins, which he had as much ado to hold up as a fine lady does\nher train in bad weather.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: _Long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians._]\n\nThe great error in Rip\u2019s composition was an insuperable aversion to\nall kinds of profitable labour. It could not be for want of assiduity\nor perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long\nand heavy as a Tartar\u2019s lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even\nthough he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry\na fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through\nwoods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels\nor wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbour even\nin the roughest toil, and was a foremost man in all country frolics\nfor husking Indian corn, or building stone fences; the women of the\nvillage, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such\nlittle odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them.\nIn a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody\u2019s business but his own;\nbut as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it\nimpossible.\n\nIn fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the\nmost pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; everything\nabout it went wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually\nfalling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the\ncabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere\nelse; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some\noutdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled\naway under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more\nleft than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the\nworst-conditioned farm in the neighbourhood.\n\nHis children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to\nnobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised\nto inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was\ngenerally seen trooping like a colt at his mother\u2019s heels, equipped in\na pair of his father\u2019s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to\nhold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.\n\nRip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,\nwell-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or\nbrown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would\nrather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he\nwould have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept\ncontinually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness,\nand the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night,\nher tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was\nsure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way\nof replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use,\nhad grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head,\ncast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a\nfresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces,\nand take to the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth,\nbelongs to a hen-pecked husband.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cSo that he was fain to draw off his forces and take to\nthe outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongs to a\nhenpecked husband.\u201d]\n\nRip\u2019s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much\nhen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as\ncompanions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as\nthe cause of his master\u2019s going so often astray. True it is, in all\npoints of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as courageous an\nanimal as ever scoured the woods--but what courage can withstand the\nevil-doing and all-besetting terrors of a woman\u2019s tongue? The moment\nWolf entered the house his chest fell, his tail drooped to the ground\nor curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air,\ncasting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least\nflourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping\nprecipitation.\n\nTimes grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony\nrolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is\nthe only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long\nwhile he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting\na kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers and other idle\npersonages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a\nsmall inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the\nThird. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer\u2019s\nday, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless, sleepy\nstories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman\u2019s\nmoney to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took\nplace, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some\npassing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as\ndrawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned\nlittle man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the\ndictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events\nsome months after they had taken place.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas\nVedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the\ndoor of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving\nsufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so\nthat the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as accurately\nas by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked\nhis pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has\nhis adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his\nopinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he\nwas observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,\nfrequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke\nslowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and\nsometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant\nvapour curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of\nperfect approbation.\n\nFrom even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his\ntermagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of\nthe assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor was that august\npersonage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of\nthis terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her\nhusband in habits of idleness.\n\nPoor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only\nalternative, to escape from the labour of the farm and clamour of\nhis wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods.\nHere he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share\nthe contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathised as\na fellow-sufferer in persecution. \u201cPoor Wolf,\u201d he would say, \u201cthy\nmistress leads thee a dog\u2019s life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst\nI live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!\u201d Wolf would wag\nhis tail, look wistfully in his master\u2019s face; and, if dogs can feel\npity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.\n\nIn a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had\nunconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill\nMountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and\nthe still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his\ngun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on\na green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow\nof a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook\nall the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a\ndistance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent\nbut majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail\nof a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at\nlast losing itself in the blue highlands.\n\nOn the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,\nlonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the\nimpending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the\nsetting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was\ngradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue\nshadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he\ncould reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of\nencountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.\n\nAs he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,\nhallooing: \u201cRip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!\u201d He looked round, but\ncould see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the\nmountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again\nto descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening\nair: \u201cRip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!\u201d At the same time Wolf bristled\nup his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master\u2019s side,\nlooking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension\nstealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and\nperceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending\nunder the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised\nto see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but\nsupposing it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his\nassistance, he hastened down to yield it.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cA company of odd-looking persons playing at\nninepins.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOn nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of\nthe stranger\u2019s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow,\nwith thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the\nantique Dutch fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist--several\npair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows\nof buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his\nshoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for\nRip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and\ndistrustful of his new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual\nalacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a\nnarrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they\nascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like\ndistant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather\ncleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their ragged path conducted.\nHe paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of\none of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in\nmountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came\nto a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular\nprecipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their\nbranches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the\nbright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had\nlaboured on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what\ncould be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain,\nyet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown,\nthat inspired awe and checked familiarity.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOn entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented\nthemselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking\npersonages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint,\noutlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with\nlong knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches,\nof similar style with that of the guide\u2019s. Their visages, too, were\npeculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes;\nthe face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was\nsurmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock\u2019s\ntail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colours. There was\none who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with\na weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and\nhanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled\nshoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures\nin an old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Dominie Van Shaick, the\nvillage parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the\ntime of the settlement.\n\nWhat seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that these folks were\nevidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces,\nthe most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy\nparty of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the\nstillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they\nwere rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThey maintained the gravest faces.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThey stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze,\nthat his heart turned within him and his knees smote together.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHe even ventured to taste the beverage, which he found\nhad much of the flavour of excellent Hollands.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cSurely,\u201d thought he, \u201cI have not slept here all\nnight.... Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! what excuse shall I make\nto Dame Van Winkle?\u201d]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from\ntheir play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and\nsuch strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned\nwithin him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the\ncontents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait\nupon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the\nliquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.\n\nBy degrees Rip\u2019s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when\nno eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had\nmuch of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty\nsoul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked\nanother; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at\nlength his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head\ngradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.\n\nOn waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen\nthe old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright sunny\nmorning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and\nthe eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.\n\u201cSurely,\u201d thought Rip, \u201cI have not slept here all night.\u201d He recalled\nthe occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of\nliquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the\nwoebegone party at ninepins--the flagon--\u201cOh! that flagon! that wicked\nflagon!\u201d thought Rip,--\u201cwhat excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?\u201d\n\nHe looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled\nfowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel\nincrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.\nHe now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountains had put a\ntrick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of\nhis gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away\nafter a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his\nname, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but\nno dog was to be seen.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThey all stared at him with equal marks of surprise and\ninvariably stroked their chins.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cA troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting\nafter him and pointing at his grey beard.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThe dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an\nold acquaintance, barked at him as he passed.\u201d]\n\nHe determined to revisit the scene of the last evening\u2019s gambol, and if\nhe met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to\nwalk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual\nactivity. \u201cThese mountain beds do not agree with me,\u201d thought Rip, \u201cand\nif this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall\nhave a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle.\u201d With some difficulty he got\ndown into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion\nhad ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain\nstream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling\nthe glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble\nup its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch,\nsassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by\nthe wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to\ntree, and spread a kind of network in his path.\n\nAt length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs\nto the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks\npresented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came\ntumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin,\nblack from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip\nwas brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he\nwas only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high\nin the air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who,\nsecure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor\nman\u2019s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away,\nand Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up\nhis dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to\nstarve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty\nfirelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his\nsteps homeward.\n\nAs he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom\nhe knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself\nacquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was\nof a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all\nstared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast\ntheir eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant\nrecurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same,\nwhen, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!\n\nHe had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange\nchildren ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his\ngrey beard. The dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an old\nacquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered;\nit was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had\nnever seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had\ndisappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the\nwindows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began\nto doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.\nSurely this was his native village, which he had left but the day\nbefore. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran the silver\nHudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it\nhad always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. \u201cThat flagon last night,\u201d\nthought he, \u201chas addled my poor head sadly!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHe found the house gone to decay.... \u2018My very dog,\u2019\nsighed poor Rip, \u2018has forgotten me.\u2019\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThey crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot\nwith great curiosity.\u201d]\n\nIt was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,\nwhich he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the\nshrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the\nroof had fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the\nhinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about\nit. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and\npassed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. \u201cMy very dog,\u201d sighed poor\nRip, \u201chas forgotten me!\u201d\n\nHe entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had\nalways kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently\nabandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears--he\ncalled loudly for his wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a\nmoment with his voice, and then all again was silence.\n\nHe now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village\ninn--but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in\nits place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended\nwith old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, \u201cThe\nUnion Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.\u201d Instead of the great tree that\nused to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was\nreared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like\na red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a\nsingular assemblage of stars and stripes;--all this was strange and\nincomprehensible. He recognised on the sign, however, the ruby face\nof King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe;\nbut even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed\nfor one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a\nsceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was\npainted in large characters, \u201cGENERAL WASHINGTON.\u201d\n\nThere was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that\nRip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed.\nThere was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of\nthe accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for\nthe sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair\nlong pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches;\nor Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an\nancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow,\nwith his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about\nrights of citizens--elections--members of congress--liberty--Bunker\u2019s\nHill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect\nBabylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.\n\nThe appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty\nfowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at\nhis heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They\ncrowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.\nThe orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired\n\u201cOn which side he voted?\u201d Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another\nshort but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on\ntiptoe, inquired in his ear, \u201cWhether he was Federal or Democrat?\u201d\nRip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,\nself-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way\nthrough the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows\nas he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm\nakimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat\npenetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere\ntone, \u201cWhat brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder,\nand a mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the\nvillage?\u201d \u201cAlas! gentlemen,\u201d cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, \u201cI am a poor\nquiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God\nbless him!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: Rip\u2019s daughter and grandchild.]\n\nHere a general shout burst from the bystanders--\u201cA tory! a tory! a spy!\na refugee! hustle him! away with him!\u201d It was with great difficulty\nthat the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and,\nhaving assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the\nunknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The\npoor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came\nthere in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the\ntavern.\n\n\u201cWell--who are they?--name them.\u201d\n\nRip bethought himself a moment, and inquired: \u201cWhere\u2019s Nicholas Vedder?\u201d\n\nThere was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a\nthin, piping voice, \u201cNicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these\neighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that\nused to tell all about him, but that\u2019s rotten and gone too.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Brom Dutcher?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he\nwas killed at the storming of Stony Point--others say he was drowned in\na squall at the foot of Antony\u2019s Nose. I don\u2019t know--he never came back\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now\nin congress.\u201d\n\nRip\u2019s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and\nfriends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer\npuzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of\nmatters which he could not understand: war--congress--Stony Point;--he\nhad no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair:\n\u201cDoes nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Rip Van Winkle!\u201d exclaimed two or three, \u201coh, to be sure! that\u2019s\nRip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.\u201d\n\nRip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up\nthe mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor\nfellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity,\nand whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his\nbewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what\nwas his name.\n\n\u201cGod knows!\u201d exclaimed he, at his wit\u2019s end; \u201cI\u2019m not myself--I\u2019m\nsomebody else--that\u2019s me yonder--no--that\u2019s somebody else got into my\nshoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and\nthey\u2019ve changed my gun, and everything\u2019s changed, and I can\u2019t tell\nwhat\u2019s my name, or who I am!\u201d\n\nThe bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink\nsignificantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was\na whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow\nfrom doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important\nman in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical\nmoment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep\nat the grey-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,\nfrightened at his looks, began to cry. \u201cHush, Rip,\u201d cried she, \u201chush,\nyou little fool; the old man won\u2019t hurt you.\u201d The name of the child,\nthe air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of\nrecollections in his mind. \u201cWhat is your name, my good woman?\u201d asked\nhe.\n\n[Illustration: _Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village\n(p. 24)._]\n\n\u201cJudith Gardenier.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd your father\u2019s name?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it\u2019s twenty years\nsince he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of\nsince,--his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself,\nor was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a\nlittle girl.\u201d\n\nRip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering\nvoice:\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s your mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel\nin a fit of passion at a New-England pedler.\u201d\n\nThere was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest\nman could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her\nchild in his arms. \u201cI am your father!\u201d cried he--\u201cYoung Rip Van Winkle\nonce--old Rip Van Winkle now!--Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?\u201d\n\nAll stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the\ncrowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a\nmoment, exclaimed: \u201cSure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself!\nWelcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been these\ntwenty long years?\u201d\n\nRip\u2019s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had seemed to\nhim as but one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it; some\nwere seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks;\nand the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was\nover, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth,\nand shook his head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head\nthroughout the assemblage.\n\nIt was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter\nVanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a\ndescendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest\naccounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the\nvillage, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of\nthe neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his\nstory in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that\nit was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the\nKaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it\nwas affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of\nthe river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years,\nwith his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit\nthe scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river\nand the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen\nthem in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the\nmountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the\nsound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.\n\nTo make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the\nmore important concerns of the election. Rip\u2019s daughter took him home\nto live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout,\ncheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the\nurchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip\u2019s son and heir,\nwho was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was\nemployed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to\nattend to anything else but his business.\n\nRip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his\nformer cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of\ntime; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with\nwhom he soon grew into great favour.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cHe preferred making friends among the rising\ngeneration, with whom he soon grew into great favour.\u201d]\n\n[Illustration: _The Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by\nstrange beings._]\n\n[Illustration: \u201cThe Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a\nregion full of fable.\u201d]\n\nHaving nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when\na man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the\nbench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of\nthe village, and a chronicle of the old times \u201cbefore the war.\u201d It was\nsome time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or\ncould be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place\nduring his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war,--that\nthe country had thrown off the yoke of old England,--and that, instead\nof being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free\ncitizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the\nchanges of states and empires made but little impression on him; but\nthere was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned,\nand that was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had\ngot his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out\nwhenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle.\nWhenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged\nhis shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an\nexpression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.\n\nHe used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.\nDoolittle\u2019s hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points\nevery time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so\nrecently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have\nrelated, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood but knew\nit by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and\ninsisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one\npoint on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants,\nhowever, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they\nnever hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill,\nbut they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of\nninepins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the\nneighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might\nhave a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle\u2019s flagon.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: They were ruled by an old squaw spirit.]\n\n[Illustration: _Very subject to marvellous events and appearances._]\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nThe foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr.\nKnickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor\nFrederick _der Rothbart_, and the Kypph\u00e4user mountain; the subjoined\nnote, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an\nabsolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity.\n\n\u201cThe story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but\nnevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of\nour old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous\nevents and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories\nthan this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too\nwell authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip\nVan Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old\nman, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point,\nthat I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into\nthe bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken\nbefore a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice\u2019s own\nhandwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.\n\n                                                             \u201cD. K.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT\n\n\nThe following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr.\nKnickerbocker.\n\nThe Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full of\nfable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced\nthe weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and\nsending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw\nspirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the\nCatskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and\nshut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies,\nand cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly\npropitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and\nmorning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake\nafter flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air, until,\ndissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers,\ncausing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow\nan inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black\nas ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in\nthe midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the\nvalleys!\n\n[Illustration: _When these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!_]\n\nIn old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or\nSpirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains,\nand took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and\nvexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a\nbear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase\nthrough tangled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off\nwith a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling\nprecipice or raging torrent.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe favourite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great\nrock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the\nflowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which\nabound in its neighbourhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock.\nNear the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern,\nwith water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies\nwhich lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the\nIndians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game\nwithin its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had\nlost his way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number\nof gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and\nmade off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among\nthe rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away\nand swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the\nstream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present\nday, being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n    PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY\n    RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,\n    BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E. 1,\n    AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Note:\n\nAttempts have been made to retain hyphenation, punctuation and spelling\nas published in the original publication.","title":"Rip Van Winkle","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":8405}