[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 lay so much among books, as among
men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite
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 farm house, under a spreading
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of
black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.

The result of 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;

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

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 labours.
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 neighbours, 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,”[2] 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 among many folk,
whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly
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 being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen
Anne's farthing.]

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

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 some times, when the rest of the landscape
is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours
about their summits, which, in the last
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up
like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the
voyager may have descried the light smoke
curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints
of the upland melt away into the fresh green of
the nearer landscape. It is a little village of
great antiquity, having been founded by some
of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of
the province, just about the beginning of the
government of the good Peter Stuyvesant,
(may he rest in peace!) and there were some
of the houses of the original settlers standing
within a few years, with lattice windows, gable
fronts surmounted with weathercocks, and

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland.

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 neighbour, and an obedient, henpecked
husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance
might be owing that meekness of spirit which
gained him such universal popularity; for those
men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating
abroad, who are under the discipline of
shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

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 favourite
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 gossippings, 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

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood.

The great error in Rip's composition was an
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable
labour. It could not be for 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 squirrles or
wild pigeons. He would never even refuse to
assist a neighbour in the roughest toil, and was
a foremost man at all country frolicks 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 any body's business but his own; but

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm
in order, it was impossible.

In fact, he declared it was 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 any where
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 neighbourhood.

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

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

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, which ever 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 carelesness, and the ruin he was bringing
on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her
tougue 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

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

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
so often going astray. True it is, in all points
of spirit befitting an honourable 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, 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

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener
by 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, that held its sessions on a bench
before a small inn, designated by a rubicund
portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here
they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy
summer's day, talk listlessly over village gossip,
or tell 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.

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

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 neighbours 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 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 vapour curl
about his nose, would gravely nod his head in
token of perfect approbation.

From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

was at length routed by his termagant wife,
who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity
of the assemblage, call the members all
to nought, 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 labour of the farm and the clamour 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 sympathised as a fellow sufferer in persecution.
“Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress
leads thee a digs' life of it; but never mind,
my lad, while 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.

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

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 favourite 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,
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

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

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 around, 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

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

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
neighbourhood 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
each other, 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,

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

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 laboured
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

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion: some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in their belts, and most had enormous
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's.
Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a
large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes;
the face of another seemed to consist entirely of
nose, and was surmounted by a white sugarloaf
hat, set off with a little red cockstail. They all
had beards, of various shapes and colours.
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 parlour of Dominie Van Schaick,
the village person, 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

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

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 flavour of excellent
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

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 awaking, he found himself on the green
knoll from 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 the keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—
the wild retreat among the rocks—the
wo-begone 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

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

old firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted
with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave
roysters 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,
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 arose 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 frolick 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,

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

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 hazle,
and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the
wild grape vines that twisted their coils and
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

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities.
What was to be done? the morning was
passing away, and Rip felt famished for 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 that 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 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.

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

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 his old acquaintances, barked at
him as he passed. The very village seemed 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 began to
misgive him, that both he and the world around
him were 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 he found the way
to his own house, which he approached with
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

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 rung for a
moment with his voice, and then all again was
silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old
resort, the little village inn—but it too was gone.
A large ricketty 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

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

great tree that used to shelter the quiet little
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall
naked pole, with something on 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 recognised 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 stuck 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

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

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—election—
members of congress—liberty—Bunker's hill—
heroes of seventy-six—and other words, that
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 the army of women and children that
had gathered 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 “which
side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity.
Another short but busy little fellow pulled him
by the arm, and raising on tiptoe, inquired in
his ear, “whether he was Federal or Democrat.”
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

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 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

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

poor man humbly assured them that he meant
no harm; but merely came there in search of
some of his neighbours, 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 rotted 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
battle of Stoney-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.”

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

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—Stoney-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—

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

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 likely woman pressed through the throng
to get a peep at the graybearded 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
wont 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.

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

“What is your name, my good woman?” asked
he.

“Judith Gardenier.”

“And your father's name?”

“Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van
Winkle; 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 pedlar.

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

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

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 neighbour—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 neighbours 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

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

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 neighbourhood. 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
enterprize, 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 long peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company
broke up, and returned to the more important

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

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 favour.

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived
at that happy age when a man can do nothing
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

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

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 neighbourhood,
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 nine pins; and it is a common wish of
all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood,
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they
might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van
Winkle's flagon.

eaf214v1.n2

[2] Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplanck, Esq. before the
New-York Historical Society.