THE TENTATIVE PERIOD
WASHINGTON IRVING
1783–1859
For a discussion of Irving in general, and of _Rip Van Winkle_ in
particular, see pages 6–9 of the Introduction. The pseudo-documentary
notes before and after the tale show incidentally the strong
contemporary influence of Scott. The text is that of the first edition
(1819).
(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 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 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
labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in 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,[36]” 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 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.)
RIP VAN WINKLE
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER
[_From the “Sketch Book,” 1819–1820_]
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.
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 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
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 timeworn and weather-beaten,) there
lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great
Britain, a simple goodnatured 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 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 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 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 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 anybody’s business but his
own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, it was
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; everything
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 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 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 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 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 tongue
is the only edged 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, 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, 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 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 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 anything 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 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 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 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 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, 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.
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 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 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
shoulders 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
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 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 sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s tail. 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
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, lacklustre 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 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
a keg of liquor--the mountain ravine--the wild retreat among the
rocks--the woe-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 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 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 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 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, none of which he recognized for his old
acquaintances, 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--everything was strange. His mind now began to
misgive him; he doubted 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 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 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 great tree
which 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 nightcap, 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 whom
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 hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens--election--members of Congress--liberty--Bunker’s Hill--heroes
of ’76--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, eying 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 raising 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 tenfold 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 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 churchyard 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.”
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--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 everything’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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 anything 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 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 III., 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 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.
NOTE
The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr.
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor
Frederick and the Kypphauser 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 a doubt.
“D. K.”
POSTSCRIPT[37]
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 moon 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, woe 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 the
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 Kaaterskill.
WILLIAM AUSTIN
1778–1841
William Austin was a Boston lawyer of literary tastes. He saw something
of the world in his cruises (1799–1800) on the “Constitution” as
chaplain, and of society during his eighteen months at Lincoln’s
Inn. An account of his life and works is prefixed to the collective
edition, now out of print, edited by his son, John Walker Austin (_The
Literary Papers of William Austin_, Boston, 1890). This also reprints
a large part of Col. T. W. Higginson’s “A Precursor of Hawthorne”
(_Independent_, 29th March, 1888. A reference will also be found at
pages 64 and 68 of Col. Higginson’s _Longfellow_). Of his few tales
only _Peter Rugg_ has had any currency. Indeed, the significance of
Austin’s narrative art is mainly negative. Even _Peter Rugg_ shows
wherein what might have been a short story failed of its form. For
all its undoubted quality, it is a short story _manqué_; and in this
it is quite typical of its time. If artistic sense is apparent in the
cumulation of foreshadowings, crudity of mechanism is equally apparent
in the management of each through a different interlocutor. It is
artistically right that Rugg should at last be brought home; it is
artistically wrong that the conclusion should be so like a moralising
summary. A conception much like Hawthorne’s is developed as it were by
mere accumulation instead of being focused in a unified progression.
(See also pages 10 and 12 of the Introduction.)
PETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN
[_First part printed in Buckingham’s “New England Galaxy,” 10th
September, 1824; several times reprinted entire, e. g., in the
“Boston Book” for 1841; reprinted here from the standard collection
noted above_]
_From_ JONATHAN DUNWELL _of_ NEW YORK _to_ MR. HERMAN KRAUFF
Sir,--Agreeably to my promise, I now relate to you all the particulars
of the lost man and child which I have been able to collect. It is
entirely owing to the humane interest you seemed to take in the report,
that I have pursued the inquiry to the following result.
You may remember that business called me to Boston in the summer of
1820. I sailed in the packet to Providence, and when I arrived there I
learned that every seat in the stage was engaged. I was thus obliged
either to wait a few hours or accept a seat with the driver, who
civilly offered me that accommodation. Accordingly, I took my seat by
his side, and soon found him intelligent and communicative. When we
had travelled about ten miles, the horses suddenly threw their ears on
their necks, as flat as a hare’s. Said the driver, “Have you a surtout
with you?”
“No,” said I; “why do you ask?”
“You will want one soon,” said he. “Do you observe the ears of all the
horses?”
“Yes; and was just about to ask the reason.”
“They see the storm-breeder, and we shall see him soon.”
At this moment there was not a cloud visible in the firmament. Soon
after, a small speck appeared in the road.
“There,” said my companion, “comes the storm-breeder. He always leaves
a Scotch mist behind him. By many a wet jacket do I remember him. I
suppose the poor fellow suffers much himself,--much more than is known
to the world.”
Presently a man with a child beside him, with a large black horse, and
a weather-beaten chair, once built for a chaise-body, passed in great
haste, apparently at the rate of twelve miles an hour. He seemed to
grasp the reins of his horse with firmness, and appeared to anticipate
his speed. He seemed dejected, and looked anxiously at the passengers,
particularly at the stage-driver and myself. In a moment after he
passed us, the horses’ ears were up, and bent themselves forward so
that they nearly met.
“Who is that man?” said I; “he seems in great trouble.”
“Nobody knows who he is, but his person and the child are familiar to
me. I have met him more than a hundred times, and have been so often
asked the way to Boston by that man, even when he was travelling
directly from that town, that of late I have refused any communication
with him; and that is the reason he gave me such a fixed look.”
“But does he never stop anywhere?”
“I have never known him to stop anywhere longer than to inquire the way
to Boston; and let him be where he may, he will tell you he cannot stay
a moment, for he must reach Boston that night.”
We were now ascending a high hill in Walpole; and as we had a fair view
of the heavens, I was rather disposed to jeer the driver for thinking
of his surtout, as not a cloud as big as a marble could be discerned.
“Do you look,” said he, “in the direction whence the man came; that is
the place to look. The storm never meets him; it follows him.”
We presently approached another hill; and when at the height, the
driver pointed out in an eastern direction a little black speck about
as big as a hat. “There,” said he, “is the seed-storm. We may possibly
reach Polley’s before it reaches us, but the wanderer and his child
will go to Providence through rain, thunder, and lightning.”
And now the horses, as though taught by instinct, hastened with
increased speed. The little black cloud came on rolling over the
turnpike, and doubled and trebled itself in all directions. The
appearance of this cloud attracted the notice of all the passengers,
for after it had spread itself to a great bulk it suddenly became more
limited in circumference, grew more compact, dark, and consolidated.
And now the successive flashes of chain lightning caused the whole
cloud to appear like a sort of irregular net-work, and displayed
a thousand fantastic images. The driver bespoke my attention to a
remarkable configuration in the cloud. He said every flash of lightning
near its centre discovered to him, distinctly, the form of a man
sitting in an open carriage drawn by a black horse. But in truth I saw
no such thing; the man’s fancy was doubtless at fault. It is a very
common thing for the imagination to paint for the senses, both in the
visible and invisible world.
In the mean time the distant thunder gave notice of a shower at
hand; and just as we reached Polley’s tavern the rain poured down
in torrents. It was soon over, the cloud passing in the direction
of the turnpike toward Providence. In a few moments after, a
respectable-looking man in a chaise stopped at the door. The man and
child in the chair having excited some little sympathy among the
passengers, the gentleman was asked if he had observed them. He said he
had met them; that the man seemed bewildered, and inquired the way to
Boston; that he was driving at great speed, as though he expected to
outstrip the tempest; that the moment he had passed him, a thunder-clap
broke directly over the man’s head, and seemed to envelop both man and
child, horse and carriage. “I stopped,” said the gentleman, “supposing
the lightning had struck him, but the horse only seemed to loom up and
increase his speed; and as well as I could judge, he travelled just as
fast as the thunder-cloud.”
While this man was speaking, a pedler with a cart of tin merchandise
came up, all dripping; and on being questioned, he said he had met that
man and carriage, within a fortnight, in four different States; that at
each time he had inquired the way to Boston; and that a thunder-shower
like the present had each time deluged his wagon and his wares, setting
his tin pots, etc. afloat, so that he had determined to get a marine
insurance for the future. But that which excited his surprise most was
the strange conduct of his horse, for long before he could distinguish
the man in the chair, his own horse stood still in the road, and flung
back his ears. “In short,” said the pedler, “I wish never to see that
man and horse again; they do not look to me as though they belonged to
this world.”
This was all I could learn at that time; and the occurrence soon
after would have become with me, “like one of those things which had
never happened,” had I not, as I stood recently on the door-step of
Bennett’s hotel in Hartford, heard a man say, “There goes Peter Rugg
and his child! he looks wet and weary, and farther from Boston than
ever.” I was satisfied it was the same man I had seen more than three
years before; for whoever has once seen Peter Rugg can never after be
deceived as to his identity.
“Peter Rugg!” said I; “and who is Peter Rugg?”
“That,” said the stranger, “is more than any one can tell exactly. He
is a famous traveller, held in light esteem by all innholders, for he
never stops to eat, drink, or sleep. I wonder why the government does
not employ him to carry the mail.”
“Ay,” said a by-stander, “that is a thought bright only on one side;
how long would it take in that case to send a letter to Boston, for
Peter has already, to my knowledge, been more than twenty years
travelling to that place.”
“But,” said I, “does the man never stop anywhere; does he never
converse with any one? I saw the same man more than three years since,
near Providence, and I heard a strange story about him. Pray, sir, give
me some account of this man.”
“Sir,” said the stranger, “those who know the most respecting that man,
say the least. I have heard it asserted that Heaven sometimes sets a
mark on a man, either for judgment or a trial. Under which Peter Rugg
now labors, I cannot say; therefore I am rather inclined to pity than
to judge.”
“You speak like a humane man,” said I; “and if you have known him so
long, I pray you will give me some account of him. Has his appearance
much altered in that time?”
“Why, yes. He looks as though he never ate, drank, or slept; and his
child looks older than himself, and he looks like time broken off from
eternity, and anxious to gain a resting-place.”
“And how does his horse look?” said I.
“As for his horse, he looks fatter and gayer, and shows more animation
and courage than he did twenty years ago. The last time Rugg spoke to
me he inquired how far it was to Boston. I told him just one hundred
miles.”
“‘Why,’ said he, ‘how can you deceive me so? It is cruel to mislead
a traveller. I have lost my way; pray direct me the nearest way to
Boston.’
“I repeated, it was one hundred miles.
“‘How can you say so?’ said he; ‘I was told last evening it was but
fifty, and I have travelled all night.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘you are now travelling from Boston. You must turn
back.’
“‘Alas,’ said he, ‘it is all turn back! Boston shifts with the wind,
and plays all around the compass. One man tells me it is to the east,
another to the west; and the guide-posts too, they all point the wrong
way.’
“‘But will you not stop and rest?’ said I; ‘you seem wet and weary.’
“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘it has been foul weather since I left home.’
“‘Stop, then, and refresh yourself.’
“‘I must not stop; I must reach home to-night, if possible: though I
think you must be mistaken in the distance to Boston.’
“He then gave the reins to his horse, which he restrained with
difficulty, and disappeared in a moment. A few days afterward I met the
man a little this side of Claremont,[38] winding around the hills in
Unity, at the rate, I believe, of twelve miles an hour.”
“Is Peter Rugg his real name, or has he accidentally gained that name?”
“I know not, but presume he will not deny his name; you can ask
him,--for see, he has turned his horse, and is passing this way.”
In a moment a dark-colored, high-spirited horse approached, and would
have passed without stopping, but I had resolved to speak to Peter
Rugg, or whoever the man might be. Accordingly I stepped into the
street; and as the horse approached, I made a feint of stopping him.
The man immediately reined in his horse. “Sir,” said I, “may I be so
bold as to inquire if you are not Mr. Rugg? for I think I have seen you
before.”
“My name is Peter Rugg,” said he. “I have unfortunately lost my way;
I am wet and weary, and will take it kindly of you to direct me to
Boston.”
“You live in Boston, do you; and in what street?”
“In Middle Street.”
“When did you leave Boston?”
“I cannot tell precisely; it seems a considerable time.”
“But how did you and your child become so wet? It has not rained here
to-day.”
“It has just rained a heavy shower up the river. But I shall not reach
Boston to-night if I tarry. Would you advise me to take the old road or
the turnpike?”
“Why, the old road is one hundred and seventeen miles, and the turnpike
is ninety-seven.”
“How can you say so? You impose on me; it is wrong to trifle with a
traveller; you know it is but forty miles from Newburyport to Boston.”
“But this is not Newburyport; this is Hartford.”
“Do not deceive me, sir. Is not this town Newburyport, and the river
that I have been following the Merrimack?”
“No, sir; this is Hartford, and the river the Connecticut.”
He wrung his hands and looked incredulous. “Have the rivers, too,
changed their courses, as the cities have changed places? But see! the
clouds are gathering in the south, and we shall have a rainy night. Ah,
that fatal oath!”
He would tarry no longer; his impatient horse leaped off, his hind
flanks rising like wings; he seemed to devour all before him, and to
scorn all behind.
I had now, as I thought, discovered a clew to the history of Peter
Rugg; and I determined, the next time my business called me to Boston,
to make a further inquiry. Soon after, I was enabled to collect the
following particulars from Mrs. Croft, an aged lady in Middle Street,
who has resided in Boston during the last twenty years. Her narration
is this:
Just at twilight last summer a person stopped at the door of the late
Mrs. Rugg. Mrs. Croft on coming to the door perceived a stranger, with
a child by his side, in an old weather-beaten carriage, with a black
horse. The stranger asked for Mrs. Rugg, and was informed that Mrs.
Rugg had died at a good old age, more than twenty years before that
time.
The stranger replied, “How can you deceive me so? Do ask Mrs. Rugg to
step to the door.”
“Sir, I assure you Mrs. Rugg has not lived here these twenty years; no
one lives here but myself, and my name is Betsy Croft.”
The stranger paused, looked up and down the street, and said, “Though
the paint is rather faded, this looks like my house.”
“Yes,” said the child, “that is the stone before the door that I used
to sit on to eat my bread and milk.”
“But,” said the stranger, “it seems to be on the wrong side of the
street. Indeed, everything here seems to be misplaced. The streets are
all changed, the people are all changed, the town seems changed, and
what is strangest of all, Catherine Rugg has deserted her husband and
child. Pray,” continued the stranger, “has John Foy come home from sea?
He went a long voyage; he is my kinsman. If I could see him, he could
give me some account of Mrs. Rugg.”
“Sir,” said Mrs. Croft, “I never heard of John Foy. Where did he live?”
“Just above here, in Orange-tree Lane.”
“There is no such place in this neighborhood.”
“What do you tell me! Are the streets gone? Orange-tree Lane is at the
head of Hanover Street, near Pemberton’s Hill.”
“There is no such lane now.”
“Madam, you cannot be serious! But you doubtless know my brother,
William Rugg. He lives in Royal Exchange Lane, near King Street.”
“I know of no such lane; and I am sure there is no such street as King
Street in this town.”
“No such street as King Street! Why, woman, you mock me! You may as
well tell me there is no King George. However, madam, you see I am wet
and weary, I must find a resting-place. I will go to Hart’s tavern,
near the market.”
“Which market, sir? for you seem perplexed; we have several markets.”
“You know there is but one market near the town dock.”
“Oh, the old market; but no such person has kept there these twenty
years.”
Here the stranger seemed disconcerted, and uttered to himself quite
audibly: “Strange mistake; how much this looks like the town of Boston!
It certainly has a great resemblance to it; but I perceive my mistake
now. Some other Mrs. Rugg, some other Middle Street.--Then,” said he,
“madam, can you direct me to Boston?”
“Why, this is Boston, the city of Boston; I know of no other Boston.”
“City of Boston it may be; but it is not the Boston where I live. I
recollect now, I came over a bridge instead of a ferry. Pray, what
bridge is that I just came over?”
“It is Charles River bridge.”
“I perceive my mistake: there is a ferry between Boston and
Charlestown; there is no bridge. Ah, I perceive my mistake. If I were
in Boston my horse would carry me directly to my own door. But my horse
shows by his impatience that he is in a strange place. Absurd, that I
should have mistaken this place for the old town of Boston! It is a
much finer city than the town of Boston. It has been built long since
Boston. I fancy Boston must lie at a distance from this city, as the
good woman seems ignorant of it.”
At these words his horse began to chafe, and strike the pavement with
his forefeet. The stranger seemed a little bewildered, and said, “No
home to-night;” and giving the reins to his horse, passed up the
street, and I saw no more of him.
It was evident that the generation to which Peter Rugg belonged had
passed away.
This was all the account of Peter Rugg I could obtain from Mrs. Croft;
but she directed me to an elderly man, Mr. James Felt, who lived near
her, and who had kept a record of the principal occurrences for the
last fifty years. At my request she sent for him; and after I had
related to him the object of my inquiry, Mr. Felt told me he had known
Rugg in his youth, and that his disappearance had caused some surprise;
but as it sometimes happens that men run away,--sometimes to be rid of
others, and sometimes to be rid of themselves,--and Rugg took his child
with him, and his own horse and chair, and as it did not appear that
any creditors made a stir, the occurrence soon mingled itself in the
stream of oblivion; and Rugg and his child, horse, and chair were soon
forgotten.
“It is true,” said Mr. Felt, “sundry stories grew out of Rugg’s affair,
whether true or false I cannot tell; but stranger things have happened
in my day, without even a newspaper notice.”
“Sir,” said I, “Peter Rugg is now living. I have lately seen Peter Rugg
and his child, horse, and chair; therefore I pray you to relate to me
all you know or ever heard of him.”
“Why, my friend,” said James Felt, “that Peter Rugg is now a living
man, I will not deny; but that you have seen Peter Rugg and his child,
is impossible, if you mean a small child; for Jenny Rugg, if living,
must be at least--let me see--Boston massacre, 1770--Jenny Rugg was
about ten years old. Why, sir, Jenny Rugg, if living, must be more than
sixty years of age. That Peter Rugg is living, is highly probable, as
he was only ten years older than myself, and I was only eighty last
March; and I am as likely to live twenty years longer as any man.”
Here I perceived that Mr. Felt was in his dotage, and I despaired of
gaining any intelligence from him on which I could depend.
I took my leave of Mrs. Croft, and proceeded to my lodgings at the
Marlborough Hotel.
“If Peter Rugg,” thought I, “has been travelling since the Boston
massacre, there is no reason why he should not travel to the end of
time. If the present generation know little of him, the next will know
less, and Peter and his child will have no hold on this world.”
In the course of the evening, I related my adventure in Middle Street.
“Ha!” said one of the company, smiling, “do you really think you have
seen Peter Rugg? I have heard my grandfather speak of him, as though
he seriously believed his own story.”
“Sir,” said I, “pray let us compare your grandfather’s story of Mr.
Rugg with my own.”
“Peter Rugg, sir,--if my grandfather was worthy of credit,--once
lived in Middle Street, in this city. He was a man in comfortable
circumstances, had a wife and one daughter, and was generally esteemed
for his sober life and manners. But unhappily, his temper, at times,
was altogether ungovernable, and then his language was terrible. In
these fits of passion, if a door stood in his way, he would never do
less than kick a panel through. He would sometimes throw his heels
over his head, and come down on his feet, uttering oaths in a circle;
and thus in a rage, he was the first who performed a somerset, and did
what others have since learned to do for merriment and money. Once Rugg
was seen to bite a tenpenny nail in halves. In those days everybody,
both men and boys, wore wigs; and Peter, at these moments of violent
passion, would become so profane that his wig would rise up from his
head. Some said it was on account of his terrible language; others
accounted for it in a more philosophical way, and said it was caused
by the expansion of his scalp, as violent passion, we know, will swell
the veins and expand the head. While these fits were on him, Rugg had
no respect for heaven or earth. Except this infirmity, all agreed that
Rugg was a good sort of a man; for when his fits were over, nobody was
so ready to commend a placid temper as Peter.
“One morning, late in autumn, Rugg, in his own chair, with a fine large
bay horse, took his daughter and proceeded to Concord. On his return a
violent storm overtook him. At dark he stopped in Menotomy, now West
Cambridge, at the door of a Mr. Cutter, a friend of his, who urged him
to tarry the night. On Rugg’s declining to stop, Mr. Cutter urged him
vehemently. ‘Why, Mr. Rugg,’ said Cutter, ‘the storm is overwhelming
you. The night is exceedingly dark. Your little daughter will perish.
You are in an open chair, and the tempest is increasing.’ ‘_Let the
storm increase_,’ said Rugg, with a fearful oath, ‘_I will see home
to-night, in spite of the last tempest, or may I never see home!_’ At
these words he gave his whip to his high-spirited horse and disappeared
in a moment. But Peter Rugg did not reach home that night, nor the
next; nor, when he became a missing man, could he ever be traced beyond
Mr. Cutter’s, in Menotomy.
“For a long time after, on every dark and stormy night the wife of
Peter Rugg would fancy she heard the crack of a whip, and the fleet
tread of a horse, and the rattling of a carriage passing her door. The
neighbors, too, heard the same noises, and some said they knew it was
Rugg’s horse; the tread on the pavement was perfectly familiar to them.
This occurred so repeatedly that at length the neighbors watched with
lanterns, and saw the real Peter Rugg, with his own horse and chair and
the child sitting beside him, pass directly before his own door, his
head turned toward his house, and himself making every effort to stop
his horse, but in vain.
“The next day the friends of Mrs. Rugg exerted themselves to find her
husband and child. They inquired at every public house and stable in
town; but it did not appear that Rugg made any stay in Boston. No
one, after Rugg had passed his own door, could give any account of
him, though it was asserted by some that the clatter of Rugg’s horse
and carriage over the pavements shook the houses on both sides of the
streets. And this is credible, if indeed Rugg’s horse and carriage did
pass on that night; for at this day, in many of the streets, a loaded
truck or team in passing will shake the houses like an earthquake.
However, Rugg’s neighbors never afterward watched. Some of them treated
it all as a delusion, and thought no more of it. Others of a different
opinion shook their heads and said nothing.
“Thus Rugg and his child, horse, and chair were soon forgotten; and
probably many in the neighborhood never heard a word on the subject.
“There was indeed a rumor that Rugg was seen afterward in Connecticut,
between Suffield and Hartford, passing through the country at headlong
speed. This gave occasion to Rugg’s friends to make further inquiry;
but the more they inquired, the more they were baffled. If they heard
of Rugg one day in Connecticut, the next they heard of him winding
round the hills in New Hampshire; and soon after a man in a chair, with
a small child, exactly answering the description of Peter Rugg, would
be seen in Rhode Island inquiring the way to Boston.
“But that which chiefly gave a color of mystery to the story of Peter
Rugg was the affair at Charleston bridge. The toll-gatherer asserted
that sometimes, on the darkest and most stormy nights, when no object
could be discerned, about the time Rugg was missing, a horse and
wheel-carriage, with a noise equal to a troop, would at midnight,
in utter contempt of the rates of toll, pass over the bridge. This
occurred so frequently that the toll-gatherer resolved to attempt a
discovery. Soon after, at the usual time, apparently the same horse
and carriage approached the bridge from Charlestown square. The
toll-gatherer, prepared, took his stand as near the middle of the
bridge as he dared, with a large three-legged stool in his hand; as
the appearance passed, he threw the stool at the horse, but heard
nothing except the noise of the stool skipping across the bridge. The
toll-gatherer on the next day asserted that the stool went directly
through the body of the horse, and he persisted in that belief ever
after. Whether Rugg, or whoever the person was, ever passed the bridge
again, the toll-gatherer would never tell; and when questioned, seemed
anxious to waive the subject. And thus Peter Rugg and his child, horse,
and carriage, remain a mystery to this day.”
This, sir, is all that I could learn of Peter Rugg in Boston.
FURTHER ACCOUNT OF PETER RUGG
BY JONATHAN DUNWELL
In the autumn of 1825 I attended the races at Richmond in Virginia. As
two new horses of great promise were run, the race-ground was never
better attended, nor was expectation ever more deeply excited. The
partisans of Dart and Lightning, the two race-horses, were equally
anxious and equally dubious of the result. To an indifferent spectator,
it was impossible to perceive any difference. They were equally
beautiful to behold, alike in color and height, and as they stood side
by side they measured from heel to forefeet within half an inch of
each other. The eyes of each were full, prominent, and resolute; and
when at times they regarded each other, they assumed a lofty demeanor,
seemed to shorten their necks, project their eyes, and rest their
bodies equally on their four hoofs. They certainly showed signs of
intelligence, and displayed a courtesy to each other unusual even with
statesmen.
It was now nearly twelve o’clock, the hour of expectation, doubt, and
anxiety. The riders mounted their horses; and so trim, light, and airy
they sat on the animals as to seem a part of them. The spectators, many
deep in a solid column, had taken their places, and as many thousand
breathing statues were there as spectators. All eyes were turned to
Dart and Lightning and their two fairy riders. There was nothing to
disturb this calm except a busy woodpecker on a neighboring tree.
The signal was given, and Dart and Lightning answered it with ready
intelligence. At first they proceed at a slow trot, then they quicken
to a canter, and then a gallop; presently they sweep the plain. Both
horses lay themselves flat on the ground, their riders bending forward
and resting their chins between their horses’ ears. Had not the ground
been perfectly level, had there been any undulation, the least rise
and fall, the spectator would now and then have lost sight of both
horses and riders.
While these horses, side by side, thus appeared, flying without
wings, flat as a hare, and neither gaining on the other, all eyes
were diverted to a new spectacle. Directly in the rear of Dart and
Lightning, a majestic black horse of unusual size, drawing an old
weather-beaten chair, strode over the plain; and although he appeared
to make no effort, for he maintained a steady trot, before Dart and
Lightning approached the goal the black horse and chair had overtaken
the racers, who, on perceiving this new competitor pass them, threw
back their ears, and suddenly stopped in their course. Thus neither
Dart nor Lightning carried away the purse.
The spectators now were exceedingly curious to learn whence came the
black horse and chair. With many it was the opinion that nobody was in
the vehicle. Indeed, this began to be the prevalent opinion; for those
at a short distance, so fleet was the black horse, could not easily
discern who, if anybody, was in the carriage. But both the riders, very
near to whom the black horse passed, agreed in this particular,--that a
sad-looking man and a little girl were in the chair. When they stated
this I was satisfied that the man was Peter Rugg. But what caused no
little surprise, John Spring, one of the riders (he who rode Lightning)
asserted that no earthly horse without breaking his trot could, in a
carriage, outstrip his race-horse; and he persisted, with some passion,
that it was not a horse,--or, he was sure it was not a horse, but a
large black ox. “What a great black ox can do,” said John, “I cannot
pretend to say; but no race-horse, not even flying Childers, could
out-trot Lightning in a fair race.”
This opinion of John Spring excited no little merriment, for it
was obvious to every one that it was a powerful black horse that
interrupted the race; but John Spring, jealous of Lightning’s
reputation as a horse, would rather have it thought that any other
beast, even an ox, had been the victor. However, the “horse-laugh”
at John Spring’s expense was soon suppressed; for as soon as Dart and
Lightning began to breathe more freely, it was observed that both of
them walked deliberately to the track of the race-ground, and putting
their heads to the earth, suddenly raised them again and began to
snort. They repeated this till John Spring said,--“These horses have
discovered something strange; they suspect foul play. Let me go and
talk with Lightning.”
He went up to Lightning and took hold of his mane; and Lightning put
his nose toward the ground and smelt of the earth without touching it,
then reared his head very high, and snorted so loudly that the sound
echoed from the next hill. Dart did the same. John Spring stooped down
to examine the spot where Lightning had smelled. In a moment he raised
himself up, and the countenance of the man was changed. His strength
failed him, and he sidled against Lightning.
At length John Spring recovered from his stupor and exclaimed, “It was
an ox! I told you it was an ox. No real horse ever yet beat Lightning.”
And now, on a close inspection of the black horse’s tracks in the
path, it was evident to every one that the forefeet of the black horse
were cloven. Notwithstanding these appearances, to me it was evident
that the strange horse was in reality a horse. Yet when the people
left the race-ground, I presume one half of all those present would
have testified that a large black ox had distanced two of the fleetest
coursers that ever trod the Virginia turf. So uncertain are all things
called historical facts.
While I was proceeding to my lodgings, pondering on the events of the
day, a stranger rode up to me, and accosted me thus,--“I think your
name is Dunwell, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Did I not see you a year or two since in Boston, at the Marlborough
Hotel?”
“Very likely, sir, for I was there.”
“And you heard a story about one Peter Rugg?”
“I recollect it all,” said I.
“The account you heard in Boston must be true, for here he was to-day.
The man has found his way to Virginia, and for aught that appears, has
been to Cape Horn. I have seen him before to-day, but never saw him
travel with such fearful velocity. Pray, sir, where does Peter Rugg
spend his winters, for I have seen him only in summer, and always in
foul weather, except this time?”
I replied, “No one knows where Peter Rugg spends his winters; where or
when he eats, drinks, sleeps, or lodges. He seems to have an indistinct
idea of day and night, time and space, storm and sunshine. His only
object is Boston. It appears to me that Rugg’s horse has some control
of the chair; and that Rugg himself is, in some sort, under the control
of his horse.”
I then inquired of the stranger where he first saw the man and horse.
“Why, sir,” said he, “in the summer of 1824, I travelled to the North
for my health; and soon after I saw you at the Marlborough Hotel I
returned homeward to Virginia, and, if my memory is correct, I saw
this man and horse in every State between here and Massachusetts.
Sometimes he would meet me, but oftener overtake me. He never spoke but
once, and that once was in Delaware. On his approach he checked his
horse with some difficulty. A more beautiful horse I never saw; his
hide was as fair and rotund and glossy as the skin of a Congo beauty.
When Rugg’s horse approached mine he reined in his neck, bent his
ears forward until they met, and looked my horse full in the face. My
horse immediately withered into half a horse, his hide curling up like
a piece of burnt leather; spell-bound, he was fixed to the earth as
though a nail had been driven through each hoof.
“‘Sir,’ said Rugg, ‘perhaps you are travelling to Boston; and if so, I
should be happy to accompany you, for I have lost my way, and I must
reach home to-night. See how sleepy this little girl looks; poor
thing, she is a picture of patience.’
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘it is impossible for you to reach home to-night, for
you are in Concord, in the county of Sussex, in the State of Delaware.’
“‘What do you mean,’ said he, ‘by State of Delaware? If I were in
Concord, that is only twenty miles from Boston, and my horse Lightfoot
could carry me to Charlestown ferry in less than two hours. You
mistake, sir; you are a stranger here; this town is nothing like
Concord. I am well acquainted with Concord. I went to Concord when I
left Boston.’
“‘But,’ said I, ‘you are in Concord, in the State of Delaware.’
“‘What do you mean by State?’ said Rugg.
“‘Why, one of the United States.’
“‘States!’ said he, in a low voice; ‘the man is a wag, and would
persuade me I am in Holland.’ Then, raising his voice, he said, ‘You
seem, sir, to be a gentleman, and I entreat you to mislead me not: tell
me, quickly, for pity’s sake, the right road to Boston, for you see my
horse will swallow his bits; he has eaten nothing since I left Concord.’
“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘this town is Concord,--Concord in Delaware, not
Concord in Massachusetts; and you are now five hundred miles from
Boston.’
“Rugg looked at me for a moment, more in sorrow than resentment, and
then repeated, ‘Five hundred miles! Unhappy man, who would have thought
him deranged; but nothing in this world is so deceitful as appearances.
Five hundred miles! This beats Connecticut River.’
“What he meant by Connecticut River, I know not; his horse broke away,
and Rugg disappeared in a moment.”
I explained to the stranger the meaning of Rugg’s expression,
“Connecticut River,” and the incident respecting him that occurred
at Hartford, as I stood on the door-stone of Mr. Bennett’s excellent
hotel. We both agreed that the man we had seen that day was the true
Peter Rugg.
Soon after, I saw Rugg again, at the toll-gate on the turnpike between
Alexandria and Middleburgh. While I was paying the toll, I observed to
the toll-gatherer that the drought was more severe in his vicinity than
farther south.
“Yes,” said he, “the drought is excessive; but if I had not heard
yesterday, by a traveller, that the man with the black horse was seen
in Kentucky a day or two since, I should be sure of a shower in a few
minutes.”
I looked all around the horizon, and could not discern a cloud that
could hold a pint of water.
“Look, sir,” said the toll-gatherer, “you perceive to the eastward,
just above that hill, a small black cloud not bigger than a blackberry,
and while I am speaking it is doubling and trebling itself, and rolling
up the turnpike steadily, as if its sole design was to deluge some
object.”
“True,” said I, “I do perceive it; but what connection is there between
a thunder-cloud and a man and horse?”
“More than you imagine, or I can tell you; but stop a moment, sir, I
may need your assistance. I know that cloud; I have seen it several
times before, and can testify to its identity. You will soon see a man
and black horse under it.”
While he was speaking, true enough, we began to hear the distant
thunder, and soon the chain-lightning performed all the figures
of a country-dance. About a mile distant we saw the man and black
horse under the cloud; but before he arrived at the toll-gate, the
thunder-cloud had spent itself, and not even a sprinkle fell near us.