A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye,
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages,
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste.
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon,
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse,
To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse.
(The story introduces Rip Van Winkle, a simple, good-natured fellow who lives in a small village at the foot of New York’s Catskill Mountains before the American Revolution. Rip is well-liked by everyone—everyone except his nagging wife, Dame Van Winkle, who scolds him for his idle and easygoing ways.)
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment, but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked 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 which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Nicholas Vedder, their patriarch, and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.
In this sage and amusing company Rip gradually found his aversion to useful labor grow upon him. However, one autumn day, to escape the labor of har-vesting and his wife’s reproaches, he wandered up into the high mountains with his dog Wolf. He climbed and climbed among the high hills, along rugged paths and through silent woods, until at last he reached one of the highest peaks, where he could see the whole Hudson River far below and the distant blue outline of the Catskills. Feeling tired, he laid down under a tree to rest, and as evening approached he thought about returning home.
As Rip was about to descend, he heard a voice calling his name. He looked around but could see nothing. In the gloom of the mountain, he saw a strange figure carrying a keg up the rocks. The stranger was short and square-built, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. He wore antique Dutch clothing, with knickerbockers, and bore on his back a stout keg that seemed full of liquor. Rip felt a strange compulsion and moved to help the figure. They climbed a narrow gully, Rip carrying the keg by turns, until they reached a hollow like a small amphitheater, surrounded by high cliffs, which was filled with odd-looking personages playing at ninepins.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that these folk were dressed in old Dutch fashion, with high-crowned hats, waistcoats, and breeches like the portrait of the King at the inn. They maintained a grave silence, and their game of ninepins was played with solemnity, the balls sounding like thunder in the mountains. Rip found the scene uncanny, but as no one spoke, he held his peace. The silent company waved for him to help serve the contents of the keg. Rip poured out their flagons of foaming drink, and as he did so, he couldn’t help tasting a little. It was excellent Hollands (Dutch gin). He sneaked a few more sips, then draughts. Before he knew it, overcome with weariness and the strong liquor, Rip Van Winkle fell into a deep sleep.
(Rip Van Winkle sleeps for a very, very long time on the mountain.)
When Rip awoke, he found himself at the spot where he first met the stranger. “Surely,” he thought, “I have had a long and heavy sleep.” He recalled the events before he slept: the keg, the game of ninepins, the strange silent Dutchmen, and the potent liquor. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. Wolf was gone. Rip whistled and shouted for his dog, but the faithful animal had vanished. The gully up which he had ascended was gone—he was on an open plateau. The little amphitheater was silent and empty. The stream was dry. His joints were stiff. He groped to stand up, feeling something was odd.
Rip discovered his beard had grown a foot long overnight, grey and grizzled. He looked around, scratching his chin. “Surely I have not slept here all night,” he said aloud. He began scrambling down the mountain. Along the way, he felt strangely stiff and rheumatic. He kept calling for Wolf, but no bark or sign of the dog.
Finally, Rip reached the edge of his village. Everything seemed changed. The houses were unfamiliar, some with new paint, others decayed and gone. Strange names were over the doors he remembered. New faces peered at him—none seemed to recognize him, nor he them. Children he didn’t know ran by, and he didn’t see any of his old friends.
When he reached his own house, he found it empty and dilapidated, the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, the door off its hinges. No sign of his wife or children. Rip’s heart sank. He hurried to the inn where old Nicholas Vedder had presided. But the inn was gone; in its place stood a large building with a strange new sign—instead of King George’s portrait, it showed General Washington.
A throng of people milled about, and Rip, with his long grey beard and ragged clothes, was viewed as a curiosity. He heard talk of elections, of Congress, of liberty—things he never knew in King George’s time. An old man, no one recognized, stood bewildered among them.
Rip asked about his friends. “Nicholas Vedder?” he inquired. “Gone these eighteen years,” a townsman said. “He died shortly after the war broke out.” Rip’s mind swirled. War? What war? “Brom Dutcher?” “Off at the war—never came back.” “Van Brummel?” “He went off to Kentucky.”
When he timidly asked, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?” One lively woman piped up: “Rip Van Winkle? Why, that’s him yonder, leaning against the tree!” Rip turned to see a young man, his very image in features, though not in raggedness or age. The crowd told him that was Rip Van Winkle’s son, grown to manhood.
Rip was utterly confounded. “I am Rip Van Winkle!” he cried. “I fell asleep on the mountain twenty years ago, and now I’m home again!” The villagers all looked at him, some laughing, some pitying. They concluded the poor old man was crazy.
Just then, through the crowd came a stout woman with a child in her arms, and a toddler clinging to her skirt. Rip recognized her face—it had to be his daughter, grown up. “I am your father!” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t you remember old Rip?”
After initial astonishment and doubt, they confirmed his identity. Rip Van Winkle had indeed gone missing twenty years ago, just before the Revolutionary War. His wife, Dame Van Winkle, it turned out, had passed away a short time since, after breaking a blood vessel in a fit of anger at a peddler.
Rip’s story gradually came out, and the villagers marveled. The old men shook their heads at his tale about odd silent Dutchmen in the mountains, knowing it must have been the ghosts of Hendrick Hudson’s crew playing ninepins, as legend often told. Rip settled in with his daughter and her kindly farmer husband. He resumed his old walks and habits; he found many of his former friends, though all older and grayer like himself, and he preferred making friends among the rising generation, who soon grew into great favor with him.
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, 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 there had been a Revolutionary War, that the colonies threw off the yoke of old England, and instead of being subjects of King 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 thunder–storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all 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.
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