Rip Van Winkle

== RIP VAN WINKLE ==
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
=== By Washinton Irving ===
 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 sepulcher. CARTWRIGHT.
The following tale was found among the
papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of , who was very
curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the
descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however,
did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably
scanty on his favorite topics; whereashe found the old burghers, and still more
their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever,
therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its
low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little
clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. 
The result of these researches was a
history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he
published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary
character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it
should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a
little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely
established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a book
of unquestionable authority. 
The old gentleman died shortly after the
publication of his work; and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much
harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in
weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and,
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest
deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered "more
in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never
intended to injure or offend. But however his memory maybe appreciated by
critics, it is still held dear by many folk whose good opinion is well worth
having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to
imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes; and have thus given him a chance
for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a
Queen Anne's farthing. 
Whoever has made a voyage up the , must remember the
. They are a dismembered
branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away tothe west of the
river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding
country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of
the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these
mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as
perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but
sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood
of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun,
will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 
At the foot of these fairy mountains the
voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village whose
shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland
melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village
of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the
early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the
good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the
houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small
lyellow 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 , a simple, good-natured
fellow, of the name ofRip 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 . He inherited,
however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed
that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and
an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for
those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad who are under
the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant
and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain
lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of
patience and longsuffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects,
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed. 
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite
among all the goodwives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex,
took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked
those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame
Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he
approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and
Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a
troop of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood. 
The great error in Rip's composition was an
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the
want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod
as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a
fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons* He
would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all 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, and would go wrong inspite of him. His
fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or
get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than
anywhere else; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out
of-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away
under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a
mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm
in the neighborhood. 
His children, too, were as ragged and wild
as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own
likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father.
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a
pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up
with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy,
eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble,
and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself,
he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was
bringing on his family* 
Morning, , 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 fain eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a
fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and
take to the outside of the house the only side which, in truth, belongs to a
henpecked husband 
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog
Wolf, who was asmuch henpecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them
as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf withan evil eye as the
cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of
spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever
scoured the woods but what courage can withstand the ever-during and
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house,
his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs,
hesneaked 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 thes ages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small
inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here
they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly
over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it
would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell
into their hands ,from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen
tothe contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Burnmel, the schoolmaster, a
dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word
in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some
months after they had taken place. 
The opinions of this junto were completely
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the
inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning tillnight, just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in thes hade of a large tree; so that
the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun
dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents),perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When
anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his
pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light
and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth and letting the
fragrant vapor curl about his nose would gravely nod his head in token of
perfect approbation. 
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip
was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon
the tranquility of the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was
that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue
of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband
in habits of idleness, 
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to
despair, and his only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm and
clamor of his wife was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods.
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer
in persecution, "Poor Wolf” he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a
dog*s life of it; but nevermind, 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 facej 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 Kaatskil! Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting,
and the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed 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 countryfor many a
mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly , far, far below him, moving on its
silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the
sailof 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 ofthe
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
DameVan 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 solitaryflight
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned
again to descend, when he heard thes ame cry ring through the still evening
air, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle 1" at the same time Wolf
bristled up his back and, giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side,
looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension
stealing over him: 'he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of
something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in
this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the
neighborhood indeed of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it* 
On nearer approach, he was still more
surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short,
square built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress
was of the antique Dutch fashion -a cloth jerkin strapped the waist several
pair of breeches, the outer front 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 oft 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, towards which their ruggedp ath conducted. He paused for
an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient
thunder-shower swhich often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded.
Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater,
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky,
and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had
labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the
object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was
something strange and incomprehensible aboutthe unknown that inspired awe, and
checked familiarity
On entering the amphitheater, new objects
of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of
odd looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed ina 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, broa
dface, and small piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist entirely
of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little
red cock's tail They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was
one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a wheat
herb eaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet* broad belt and hanger,
high-crowned hat and feather* red stockings, and high*heeled shoes, with roses
in them. The whole group reminded 
Rip of the figures in an old Flemish
painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which
had beenb rought over from 
at the time of the settlement. 
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was
that, though these folks where evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained
he 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 ofthe balls, which, whenever they were
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 
As Rip and his companion approached them,
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statuelike
gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart
turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the
contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the
company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound
silence, and then returned to their game. 
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension
subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the
beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent . 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 abright, 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 hefell asleep. The strange man with the keg of
liquor the mountain ravine the wild retreat among the rocks the wobegoneparty
at ninepins the flagon "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought
Rip "what excuse shall I make to Dame VanWinkle?"
He looked round for his gun, but in place
of the clean, well oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire-lock lying by him,
the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.
He now suspected that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a trick upon
him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too,
had disappeared,but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge.He
whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain;the echoes repeated
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 
He determined to revisit the scene of the
last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party to demand his dog
and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting
in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me/ 5
thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with DameVan Winkle!" With some
difficulty he got down into the glen; he found the gully up which he and his
companions had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a
mountains tream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with babbling murmurs* He, however, madeshift to scramble up its
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and
witch-hazel; and sometime s'tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network
in his path. 
At length he reached to where the ravine
had opened throught he cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such
opening remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad, deep
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip
was brought to a stand, He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only
answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a
dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in heir elevation*
seemed to look 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
fire-lock, 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. heir dress,
too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all
stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes
upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this
gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment,
he found his beard had grown a foot long! 
He had now entered the skirts of the
village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and
pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognizedf or
an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The veryv illage was altered: it
was larger and more populous, There were rows of houses which he had never seen
before, and those w hich had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names
were over the doors strange faces at the windows everything was strange. His
mind now mis-gave 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 there ran the
silver 
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 mypoor head sadly!" 
It was with some difficulty that he found
the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment
to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He foundt he house gone to decay
the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A
half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him
byname, 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 VanWinkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and
apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears he
called loudly to his wife and children the lonely chambers rang for a moment
with his voice, and then allagain was silence. 
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his
old resort, the village inn but it too was gone. A large- rickety wooden
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken,
and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted,
"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle."Instead of the great tree
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a
tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap,
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars
and stripes all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the
sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many
a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter,
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 aboutit, instead
of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility. 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 citizenselection members of Congress liberty Bunker
Hillheroes of '76 and other words which were a perfect Babylonishjargon 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, eying him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The
orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on
which side he voted ."Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his
ear "whether he was Federal or Democrat/ 3 Rip was equally at aloss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with
one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat
penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone,
"what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at
his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" 
"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip,
somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a
loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" 
Here a general shout burst from the
bystanders "A Tory!a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!"
It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in thecocked hat restored order; and having assumed a
tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he
camethere for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he
meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who
used to keep about the tavern. 
"Well who are they? Name them." 
Rip bethought himself a moment, and
inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 
There was a silence for a little while,
when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voic, "Nicholas Vedder? Why, he
is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church
yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten andgone 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 Anthony's Nose.I don't
know he never came back again/ 3 
" 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 askafter 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
wits' end; "I'm not my self 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 asleepon
the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, orwhal 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
with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a
fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his
looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little
fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a trainof recollections in his
mind. 
"What is your name, my good woman?'
asked he. 
"Judith Gardenier." 
"And your father's name?" 
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his
name; but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and
never has been heard of since his dog came home without him; butwhether 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 an altering voice: 
"Where's your mother?" 
Oh, she too had died but a short time
since: she broke a bloodvessel in a fit of passion at a peddler. 
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in
this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught
his daughter and her child in his arms. "I 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 RipVan Winkle
it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these
twenty long years?" 
Rip's story was soon told, for the whole
twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they
heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tonguesin their
cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was
over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and
shook his head upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout
the assemblage. 
It was determined, however, to take the
opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was
a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest
accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village,
and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood.
He re collected 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 
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. Thathis father had once
seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the
mountain; and that he himselfhad heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of
their balls, likedistant peals of thunder. 
To make a long story short, the company
broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election.
Rip'sdaughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well furnished
house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one
of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who
was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to
work on the farm, but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else
but his business. 
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits;
he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear
and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation,
with whom he soon grew into great favor. 
Having nothing to do at home, and being
arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place
once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the
war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place
during his torpor. How that there had been a Revolutionary War that the country
had thrown off the yoke of old England and that, instead of being a subject of
His Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States.
Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but
little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he
had long groaned, and that was petticoat government. Happily, that was at an
end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out
whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever
her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and
cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to
his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 
He used to tell his story to every stranger
that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on
some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so
recently awakened. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have
related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by
heart. Some always pretended todoubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip
had been out of hi shead, 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 nine pins: and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the
neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 
NOTE. The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been
suggested to Mr.Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor
Frederickder Rothbart and the Kypphauser Mountain; the subjoined note,
however,which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact,
narratedwith his usual fidelity: ''
"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible
to many, but neverthelessI give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of
our old Dutch settlements tohave been very subject to marvelous events and
appearances. Indeed, I haveheard many stranger stories than this, in the
villages along the ,
all ofwhich were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even
talkedwith Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very
venerable oldman, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other
point, that I thinkno conscientious person could refuse to take this into the
bargain; nay, I haveseen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice,
and signed witha cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore,
is beyond thepossibility of a doubt. D. K." ''
==
Category:Irving