RIP VAN WINKLE
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKERby Washington IrvingBy 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 lateDiedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was verycurious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of thedescendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches,however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for theformer are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; whereas hefound the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in thatlegendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, hehappened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofedfarmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a littleclasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of abook-worm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the provinceduring the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some yearssince. There have been various opinions as to the literary characterof his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than itshould be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeedwas a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since beencompletely established; and it is now admitted into all historicalcollections, 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 memoryto say that his time might have been much better employed in weightierlabors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and thoughit did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of hisneighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt thetruest deference and affection; yet his errors and follies areremembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to besuspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however hismemory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by manyfolk, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certainbiscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness ontheir new-year cakes; and have thus given him a chance forimmortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, ora Queen Anne's Farthing.]
WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember theKaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the greatAppalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river,swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surroundingcountry. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed,every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues andshapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the goodwives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fairand settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their boldoutlines on the clear evening sky; but, sometimes, when the rest ofthe landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vaporsabout 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 descriedthe light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleamamong the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt awayinto the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a littlevillage, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of theDutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about thebeginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he restin peace!) and there were some of the houses of the originalsettlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricksbrought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,surmounted with weather-cocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, totell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), therelived many years since, while the country was yet a province ofGreat Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip VanWinkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured sogallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, andaccompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however,but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I haveobserved that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, akind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to thelatter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit whichgained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to beobsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline ofshrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant andmalleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and acurtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching thevirtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may,therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; andif so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wivesof the village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his partin all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talkedthose matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blameon Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout withjoy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made theirplaythings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and toldthem long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he wentdodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them,hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing athousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark athim throughout the neighborhood.
