I
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Catskill
Mountains. They are a branch of the great [v]Appalachian[9-*] 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 goodwives, far and near, as perfect
[v]barometers.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the traveler may have seen 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
age, 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 [v]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 weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses, 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
[v]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,
henpecked husband.
Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the goodwives of
the village, who 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; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was a strong dislike of all kinds
of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a 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.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip 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
breeches, 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 ear 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 [v]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-enduring 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 sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a [v]rubicund portrait of His Majesty George
III. Here they used to sit in the shade of 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 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 [v]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 anything 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 nod his head in approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
[v]termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of
the assemblage, and call the members all to naught; nor was that august
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of
this terrible virago, who charged him with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
[v]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 [v]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 Catskill
Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the
still solitudes had echoed and reëchoed 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 and
lonely, the bottom filled with fragments from the overhanging 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 [v]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, and several
pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. 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 [v]alacrity, and 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 thundershowers which often take place in mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a
hollow, like a small [v]amphitheater, surrounded by perpendicular
precipices, over the brinks of which 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 marveled 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 amphitheater new objects of wonder presented themselves.
On a level spot in the center was a company of odd-looking personages
playing at ninepins. 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
head, 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
[v]Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, 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 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 repeated 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.