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[Illustration]









[Illustration: “He used to console himself by frequenting a kind of

perpetual club of the sages, philosophers and other idle personages,

which held its sessions before a small inn.”]









RIP VAN WINKLE



    [Illustration]



    BY · WASHINGTON

    IRVING

    ILLUSTRATED · BY

    ARTHUR · RACKHAM



    [Illustration]



    LONDON: WILLIAM · HEINEMANN

    NEW · YORK: DOUBLEDAY · PAGE · & Co.









    _Complete Edition, with 51 Illustrations in Colour. First

    published (15s. net) September 1905._



    _New Impressions January 1907; August 1908; May 1909; November

    1910._



    _Cheaper Issue, with 24 Illustrations in Colour and many new

    Illustrations in the Text October 1916. New Impression 1917,

    1919._









ILLUSTRATIONS





IN COLOUR



                                                        To face page



  “He used to console himself by frequenting a kind of

  perpetual club of the sages, philosophers and other idle

  personages, which held its sessions before a small inn”

                                             _Frontispiece_



  “Certain biscuit-bakers have gone so far as to imprint his

  likeness on their New-Year Cakes”                                x



  “These mountains are regarded by all good wives, far and

  near, as perfect barometers”                                     x



  “Some of the houses of the original settlers”                    2



  “A curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world

  for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering”         2



  “Taught them to fly kites”                                       2



  “His cow would go astray or get among the cabbages”              4



  “His children were as ragged and wild as if they belonged

  to nobody”                                                       4



  “Equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins,

  which he had as much ado to hold up as a fine lady does her

  train in bad weather”                                            4



  “So that he was fain to draw off his forces and take to

  the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth,

  belongs to a henpecked husband.”                                 6



  “A company of odd-looking persons playing at ninepins”          10



  “They maintained the gravest faces”                             12



  “They stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, that

  his heart turned within him and his knees smote together”       12



  “He even ventured to taste the beverage, which he found had

  much of the flavour of excellent Hollands”                      12



  “Surely,” thought he, “I have not slept here all night....

  Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! what excuse shall I

  make to Dame Van Winkle?”                                       12



  “They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise and

  invariably stroked their chins”                                 14



  “A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting

  after him and pointing at his grey beard”                       14



  “The dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an old

  acquaintance, barked at him as he passed”                       14



  “He found the house gone to decay.... ‘My very dog,’ sighed

  poor Rip, ‘has forgotten me’”                                   16



  “They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with

  great curiosity”                                                16



  Rip’s daughter and grandchild                                   20



  “He preferred making friends among the rising generation,

  with whom he soon grew into great favour”                       24



  “The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a

  region full of fable”                                           26



  They were ruled by an old squaw spirit                          28





IN TEXT



                                                                Page



    These fairy mountains                                          2



    Long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians                   5



    Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village          21



    The Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by

        strange beings                                            25



    Very subject to marvellous events and appearances             30



    When these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys               33



    With a loud ho! ho!                                           35



[Illustration]









[Illustration]



    By Woden, God of Saxons,

    From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday.

    Truth is a thing that ever I will keep

    Unto thylke day in which I creep into

    My sepulchre----

                                      CARTWRIGHT.









[Illustration]



INTRODUCTION





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 favourite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and

still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to

true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch

family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading

sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter,

and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm.



The result of all these researches was a history of the province

during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years

since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character

of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it

should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed

was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been

completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical

collections as a book of unquestionable authority.



The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and

now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to

say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier

labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and

though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of

his neighbours, 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 anger,” and it begins to be

suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his

memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many

folks whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain

biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on

their new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality,

almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen

Anne’s farthing.



[Illustration]



[Illustration: “Certain biscuit-bakers have gone so far as to imprint

his likeness on their New-Year Cakes.”]



[Illustration: “These mountains are regarded by all good wives, far and

near, as perfect barometers.”]



[Illustration: _These fairy mountains._]



[Illustration: “Some of the houses of the original settlers.”]



[Illustration: “A curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world

for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering.”]



[Illustration: “Taught them to fly kites.”]









RIP VAN WINKLE





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 grey vapours 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 neighbour, and

an obedient, hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance

might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal

popularity; for those men are 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 favourite 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 neighbourhood.



[Illustration: “His cow would go astray or get among the cabbages.”]



[Illustration: “His children were as ragged and wild as if they

belonged to nobody.”]



[Illustration: “Equipped in a pair of his father’s cast-off

galligaskins, which he had as much ado to hold up as a fine lady does

her train in bad weather.”]



[Illustration: _Long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians._]



The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to

all kinds of profitable labour. 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 neighbour 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

outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled

away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more

left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the

worst-conditioned farm in the neighbourhood.



His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to

nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised

to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He was

generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in

a pair of his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to

hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.



Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,

well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or

brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would

rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he

would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept

continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness,

and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night,

her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was

sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way

of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use,

had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head,

cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a

fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces,

and take to the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth,

belongs to a hen-pecked husband.



[Illustration: “So that he was fain to draw off his forces and take to

the outside of the house--the only side which, in truth, belongs to a

henpecked husband.”]



Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much

hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as

companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as

the cause of his master’s going so often astray. True it is, in all

points of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as courageous an

animal as ever scoured the woods--but what courage can withstand the

evil-doing and all-besetting terrors of a woman’s tongue? The moment

Wolf entered the house his chest 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 that sometimes took

place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some

passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as

drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned

little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the

dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events

some months after they had taken place.



[Illustration]



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 neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as accurately

as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked

his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has

his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his

opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he

was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short,

frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke

slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and

sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant

vapour 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 naught; nor was that august

personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of

this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her

husband in habits of idleness.



Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only

alternative, to escape from the labour of the farm and clamour 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 sympathised 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 favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and

the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his

gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on

a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow

of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook

all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a

distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent

but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail

of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at

last losing itself in the blue highlands.



On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,

lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the

impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the

setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was

gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue

shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he

could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of

encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.



As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,

hallooing: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked round, but

could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the

mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again

to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening

air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” At the same time Wolf bristled

up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master’s side,

looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension

stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and

perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending

under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised

to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but

supposing it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his

assistance, he hastened down to yield it.



[Illustration: “A company of odd-looking persons playing at

ninepins.”]



[Illustration]



On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of

the stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow,

with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the

antique Dutch fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist--several

pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows

of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his

shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for

Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and

distrustful of his new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual

alacrity; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a

narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they

ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like

distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather

cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their ragged path conducted.

He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of

one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in

mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came

to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular

precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their

branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the

bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had

laboured 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.



[Illustration]



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 a quaint,

outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with

long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches,

of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages, too, were

peculiar; one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes;

the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was

surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s

tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colours. 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 parlour of Dominie Van Shaick, the

village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the

time of the settlement.



What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 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.



[Illustration: “They maintained the gravest faces.”]



[Illustration: “They stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze,

that his heart turned within him and his knees smote together.”]



[Illustration: “He even ventured to taste the beverage, which he found

had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands.”]



[Illustration: “Surely,” thought he, “I have not slept here all

night.... Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! what excuse shall I make

to Dame Van Winkle?”]



[Illustration]



[Illustration]



As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from

their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and

such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned

within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the

contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait

upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the

liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.



By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when

no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had

much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty

soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked

another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at

length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head

gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.



On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen

the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes--it was a bright sunny

morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and

the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze.

“Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled

the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of

liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the rocks--the

woebegone party at ninepins--the flagon--“Oh! that flagon! that wicked

flagon!” thought Rip,--“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”



He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled

fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel

incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.

He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the 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.



[Illustration: “They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise and

invariably stroked their chins.”]



[Illustration: “A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting

after him and pointing at his grey beard.”]



[Illustration: “The dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an

old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed.”]



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 or tendrils from tree to

tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.



At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs

to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks

presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came

tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin,

black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip

was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he

was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high

in 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 knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself

acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was

of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all

stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast

their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant

recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same,

when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!



He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange

children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his

grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of whom he recognised for an old

acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered;

it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had

never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had

disappeared. Strange names were over the doors--strange faces at the

windows--everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began

to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.

Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day

before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains--there ran the silver

Hudson at a distance--there was every hill and dale precisely as it

had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. “That flagon last night,”

thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”



[Illustration: “He found the house gone to decay.... ‘My very dog,’

sighed poor Rip, ‘has forgotten me.’”]



[Illustration: “They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot

with great curiosity.”]



It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house,

which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the

shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay--the

roof 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 fears--he

called loudly for his wife and children--the lonely chambers rang for a

moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.



He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village

inn--but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in

its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended

with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The

Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree that

used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was

reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like

a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a

singular assemblage of stars and stripes;--all this was strange and

incomprehensible. He recognised on the sign, however, the ruby face

of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe;

but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed

for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a

sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was

painted in large characters, “GENERAL WASHINGTON.”



There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that

Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed.

There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of

the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for

the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair

long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches;

or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an

ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow,

with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about

rights of citizens--elections--members of congress--liberty--Bunker’s

Hill--heroes of seventy-six--and other words, which were a perfect

Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.



The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty

fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at

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

crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.

The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired

“On which side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another

short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on

tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “Whether he was Federal or Democrat?”

Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing,

self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way

through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows

as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm

akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat

penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere

tone, “What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder,

and a mob at his heels; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the

village?” “Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor

quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God

bless him!”



[Illustration: Rip’s daughter and grandchild.]



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 neighbours, who used to keep about the

tavern.



“Well--who are they?--name them.”



Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired: “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”



There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a

thin, piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these

eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the 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 Point--others say he was drowned in

a squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t know--he never came back

again.”



“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”



“He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now

in congress.”



Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and

friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer

puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of

matters which he could not understand: war--congress--Stony Point;--he

had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair:

“Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”



“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “oh, to be sure! that’s

Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.”



Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up

the mountain; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor

fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity,

and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his

bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what

was his name.



“God knows!” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; “I’m not myself--I’m

somebody else--that’s me yonder--no--that’s somebody else got into my

shoes--I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and

they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I can’t tell

what’s my name, or who I am!”



The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink

significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was

a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow

from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important

man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical

moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep

at the grey-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.



[Illustration: _Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village

(p. 24)._]



“Judith Gardenier.”



“And your father’s name?”



“Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s twenty years

since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of

since,--his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself,

or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a

little girl.”



Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering

voice:



“Where’s your mother?”



“Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel

in a fit of passion at a New-England 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 now!--Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?”



All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the

crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a

moment, exclaimed: “Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle--it is himself!

Welcome home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been these

twenty long years?”



Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had seemed to

him as but one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it; some

were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks;

and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was

over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth,

and shook his head--upon which there was a general shaking of the head

throughout the assemblage.



It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter

Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a

descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest

accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the

village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of

the neighbourhood. 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 a hollow of the

mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the

sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.



To make a long story short, the company broke up and returned to the

more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took him home

to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout,

cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the

urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir,

who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was

employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to

attend to anything else but his business.



Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his

former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of

time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with

whom he soon grew into great favour.



[Illustration: “He preferred making friends among the rising

generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour.”]



[Illustration: _The Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by

strange beings._]



[Illustration: “The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a

region full of fable.”]



Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when

a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the

bench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of

the village, and a chronicle of the old times “before the war.” It was

some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or

could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place

during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war,--that

the country had thrown off the yoke of old England,--and that, instead

of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free

citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the

changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but

there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned,

and that was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had

got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out

whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle.

Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged

his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an

expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.



He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.

Doolittle’s hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points

every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so

recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have

related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood 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 hen-pecked husbands in the

neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might

have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon.



[Illustration]



[Illustration: They were ruled by an old squaw spirit.]



[Illustration: _Very subject to marvellous events and appearances._]









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 Kypphäuser mountain; the subjoined

note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an

absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity.



“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but

nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of

our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous

events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories

than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too

well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip

Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old

man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point,

that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into

the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken

before a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice’s own

handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.



                                                             “D. K.”









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!



[Illustration: _When these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!_]



In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or

Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains,

and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and

vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a

bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase

through tangled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off

with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling

precipice or raging torrent.



[Illustration]



The favourite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great

rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the

flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which

abound in its neighbourhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock.

Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern,

with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies

which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the

Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game

within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had

lost his way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number

of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and

made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among

the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away

and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the

stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present

day, being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.



[Illustration]









    PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

    RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,

    BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E. 1,

    AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.









Transcriber’s Note:



Attempts have been made to retain hyphenation, punctuation and spelling

as published in the original publication.