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Rip Van Winkle
Rip Van
Winkle
Washington
Irving
A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a
dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the
west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording
it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of
weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical
hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good
wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and
settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on
the clear evening sky; but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which,
in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of
glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried[1]
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[2],
(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[3]
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured
man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen-pecked[4]
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[5]
and conciliating[6]
abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers,
doubtless, are rendered pliant and
malleable[7] in the fiery
furnace of domestic tribulation[8];
and a curtain lecture[9] is worth all the
sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A
termagant[10]
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and
if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good
wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his part in all
family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on
Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy
whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings,
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them
long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts,
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and
not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable[11] aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity[12] 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[13] on his shoulder
for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up
hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would
never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost
man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences;
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to
do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them.
In a word Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to
doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was
the most pestilent[14] little piece of
ground in the whole country; every thing about it
went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually
falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages;
weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain
always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so
that though his patrimonial[15]
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[16]
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[17],
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[18], 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[19]. Rip had but one
way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his
eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his
wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of
the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much
hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in
idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his
master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting
an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods; but
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a
woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail
dropped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows
air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least
flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would run to the door with yelping
precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of
matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue
is the only edged tool that grows keener[20]
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[21]
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[22]
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[23]
were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch[24]
of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in
the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his
movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to
speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was
observed to smoke his pipe vehemently[25];
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[26].
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[27],
who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was
to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with
Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but
never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by
thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and
if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated[28]
the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of
his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a
green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a
distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but
majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a
lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing
itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,
lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some
time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the
mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that
it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy
sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance,
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but
could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain.
He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when
he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle!
Rip Van Winkle!"—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a
low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen.
Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and
bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised
to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it
to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down
to yield it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity
of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with
thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch
fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—several pair of breeches, the
outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg,
that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and
assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new
acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity[29];
and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully,
apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now
and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue
out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the
muttering of one of those transient[30]
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[31],
over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only
caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole
time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence;
for though the former marvelled greatly what could be
the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was
something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and
checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new
objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at
nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had
enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages,
too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes:
the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had
beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance[32];
he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather,
red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village
parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was,
that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained
the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most
melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the
stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted[33]
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[34];
and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and
trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to
their game.
By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured,
when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much
of the flavor of excellent Hollands[35].
He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught.
One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often
that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head
gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first
seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning.
The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was
wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely,"
thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurances before he fell asleep. The strange man with a
keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at ninepins—the flagon—"Oh! that flagon! that wicked
flagon!" thought Rip,—"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van
Winkle!"
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with
rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the
grave roisters[36]
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[37],
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[38],
I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he
got down into the glen: he found the gully up which he and his companion had
ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was
now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his
toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their
coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the
cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such
opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall over which the
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and
fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest.
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after
his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting
high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure
in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities.
What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and
Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and
gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the
mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart
full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none
whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself
acquainted with every one in the country round. Their
dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed.
They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of
this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his
astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard.
The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more
populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those
which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange
names were over the doors—strange faces at the windows—every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began
to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely
this was his native village which he had left but the day before. There stood
the Kaatskill mountains—there
ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill and dale precisely as
it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. "That flagon last
night," thought he, "has addled[39]
my poor head sadly!"
It was with some difficulty that he found his way to his own
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the
shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay—the roof
fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved
dog that looked like Wolf was sulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the
cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed.
"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has
forgotten me!"
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle
had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn[40],
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[41]
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[42],
and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet
little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with
something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes;—all
this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the
ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red
coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead
of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked
hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that
Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a
busy, bustling, disputatious[43]
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[44]
fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing[45]
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[46]
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his
heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded
around him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator
bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "On which side
he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little
fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear,
"Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to
comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and
left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with
one arm akimbo[47],
the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it
were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere[48]
tone, "What brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"—"Alas! gentlemen," cried
Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and
a loyal subject of the King, God bless him!"
Here a general shout burst from the by-standers—"A tory! a tory! a spy! a
refugee! hustle him! away
with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the
cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow,
demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was
seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came
there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well—who are
they—name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's
Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied,
in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a
wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's
rotten and gone too."
"Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war;
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony
Point[49]—others say he was drowned
in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose[50].
I don't know—he never came back again."
"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"
"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general,
and is now in congress."
Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home
and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled
him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he
could not understand: war—congress—Stony Point;—he had no courage to ask after
any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van
Winkle?"
"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "oh,
to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning
against the tree."
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he
went up to the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor
fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm
not myself—I'm somebody else—that's me yonder—no—that's somebody else got into
my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell
what's my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing
mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked
hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely[51]
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had
a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry.
"Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man
won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of
her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is
your name, my good woman?" asked he.
"Judith
Gardenier."
"And your
father's name?"
"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun,
and never has been heard of since,—his dog came home without him; but whether
he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was
then but a little girl."
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a
faltering voice:
"Where's your
mother?"
Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler.
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The
honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her
child in his arms. "I'm your father!" cried he—"Young Rip Van
Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now!—Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?"
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the
crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment,
exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle—it
is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these
twenty long years?"
Rip's
story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one
night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the
cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed
down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head—upon which there was a
general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest
accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village,
and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood.
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his
ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it
was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson[52],
the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every
twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to
revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river,
and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in
their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a
hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon,
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to
the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to
live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb
upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen
leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced[53]
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[54],
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[55].
How that there had been a revolutionary war,—that the country had thrown off
the yoke of old England,—and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty
George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact,
was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression
on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned,
and that was—petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his
neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased,
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was
mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his
eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or
joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time
he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman,
or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and
that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it
full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins;
and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when
life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of
Rip Van Winkle's flagon.
Copyright thiesmeyer.net 2014
[1]
Descried: v. To catch sight of something usually hard to make out
[2]
Peter Stuyvesant: Last Director-General of the Dutch colony New Netherland (New
York), proponent of early education, and introduced tea to the colonies
[3] Martial:
adj. Soldierly; Warlike
[4]
Hen-pecked: adj. To dominate or harass one’s husband with persistent nagging
[5]
Obsequious: adj. To be compliant
[6]
Conciliating: v. To appease or placate; to make friendly
[7]
Pliant/Malleable: adj. Easily worked; yields to force
[8]
Tribulation: n. Great affliction, trial, or distress; suffering
[9]
Curtain lecture: n. A private reprimand (scolding) given to a husband by his
wife
[10]
Termagant: adj. A quarrelsome, scolding woman
[11]
Insuperable: adj. incapable of being overcome
[12] Assiduity:
n. Persistent application or diligence
[13]
Fowling-piece: n. Light shotgun used for shooting birds
[14]
Pestilent: adj. Diseased; sickly
[15]
Patrimonial: adj. Ancestral; handed down through generations (from father to
son)
[16]
Urchin: n. Street child; Homeless/ragged youth
[17]
Galligaskins: n. Loose trousers (pants)
[18]
Disposition: n. Temperament; character
[19]
Eloquence: n. Persuasive, powerful discourse
[20]
Keener: adv. Sharper
[21]
Rubicund: adj. A healthy rosiness (redness)
[22]
Dapper: adj. Stylish in dress
[23]
Junto: n. A small, usually secret group united for a common interest
[24]
Patriarch: n. Founding father
[25]
Vehemently: adv.Forcefull
[26]
Approbation: n. Official approval; praise
[27]
Virago: n. A scolding or domineering woman; a shrew
[28]
Reciprocated: v. Returned
[29]
Alacrity: n. Eagerness
[30]
Transient: adj. Wandering; remaining in place for only a brief period of time
[31]
Precipice: n. An overhanging mass of rock
[32]
Countenance: n. Facial expression
[33]
Desisted: v. Stopped
[34]
Flagon: n. A large, handled vessel used for holding wine or liquor
[35]
Hollands: n. Gin – liquor made from rye and flavored with juniper berries and
anise
[36]
Roisters: n. Revelers; party-goers
[37]
Gambol: n. Frolicking; a playful antic/activity
[38]
Rheumatism: n. A form of arthritis; chronic stiffening of the joints
[39]
Addle: v. To become confused
[40]
Forlorn: adj. Appearing sad or lonely because deserted or abandoned
[41]
Hasten: v. To hurry; speed up; accelerate
[42]
Petticoat: n. A woman’s slip or underskirt
[43]
Disputatious; adj. showing an inclination to dispute/argue
[44]
Bilious: adj. Relating to, characterized by, or experiencing gastric distress
caused by a disorder of the liver or
gallbladder; Resembling bile, especially in color
[45]
Haranguing: v. Speaking with strong feelings or expression
[46] Babylonish: adj. Confused; Babel-like
[47]
Akimbo: adj. Placed in such a way as to have the hands on the hips and the
elbows bowed outward
[48]
Austere: adj. Severe or stern in disposition or appearance; somber and grave
[49]
Stony Point: Battlefield in southern New York where Continental troops engaged
in a surprise attack on the British – July 16, 1779
[50]
Antony’s Nose: a peak along the Hudson River at the
north end of Westchester
County, New York, well-known
since Colonial times
[51]
Comely: adj. Pleasing and wholesome in appearance; attractive
[52] Hendrick (Henry) Hudson: explored the region around modern New York City while
looking for a western route to Asia under the auspices of the Dutch East India
Company.
Hudson Bay, the Hudson River, and the Hudson River Valley were named in
honor of him. Was set adrift (with his
son), where he presumably died, by his mutinous crew after his ship was trapped
by ice in the Hudson Bay.
[53]
Evinced: v. To show or demonstrate clearly
[54]
Impunity: n. Exemption or immunity from punishment or recrimination
[55]
Torpor: n. A state of mental or physical inactivity or insensibility