                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                                 RIP VAN WINKLE

                 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

                              by Washington 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 sepulchre-

                                                 CARTWRIGHT.

  [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late
Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very
curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the
descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches,
however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the
former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas he
found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that
legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he
happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed
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
labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though
it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his
neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the
truest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies are
remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be
suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his
memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear 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 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 fair 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 weather-cocks.

  In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to
tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there
lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of
Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however,
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have
observed that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a
kind neighbor, and an obedient 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 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 long-suffering. A termagant wife may,
therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and
if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

  Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives
of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his part
in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked
those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with
joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their
playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went
dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them,
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at
him throughout the neighborhood.

  The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion
to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be 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 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;
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 estate had dwindled away under his
management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned
farm in the neighborhood.

  His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness,
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels,
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in
bad weather.

  Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,
well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or
brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would
rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife
kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his
carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning,
noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and every thing
he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence.
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that,
by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders,
shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however,
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to
draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the 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 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.

  The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the
door of which he took his seat from morning till night just moving
sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree;
so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as
accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to
speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for
every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew
how to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or related
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to
send forth 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
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 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 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; 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 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 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; 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
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 flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a
thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste
provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so
often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his
head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

  On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first
seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his 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 wobegone party at nine-pins- 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 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," 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 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 my poor head sadly!"

  It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment
to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone
to 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 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 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 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!"

  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 ten-fold 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- 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 every thing's changed, and
I'm 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 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 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 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,
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 an hereditary disposition to
attend to any thing else but his business.

  Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of
his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and
tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising
generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor.

  Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age
when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on
the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs
of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war."
It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip,
or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place
during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary 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 nine-pins; 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.

                          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 Kyffhauser 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, wo 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.

  The favorite 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 neighborhood, is known by the name of 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.

                        THE END
.
