"RIP VAN WINKLE"
Irving's most famous work is undoubtedly the "Sketch Book"; and of the
thirty-two stories and essays in this volume, all Americans love best
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle."
After the failure of his business, when Irving saw that he must write
something at once to meet his ordinary living expenses, he went up to
London and prepared several sketches, which he sent to his friend,
Henry Brevoort, in New York. Among them was the story of Rip Van
Winkle. This, with the other sketches, was printed in handsome form as
the first number of a periodical, which was offered for sale at
seventy-five cents. Though "The Sketch Book," as the periodical was
called, professed to be edited by "Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.," every one
knew that Washington Irving was the real author. In fact, the best
story in the first number, "Rip Van Winkle," was represented to be a
posthumous writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker, the author of the
"History of New York."
There are few Americans who do not know the story of "Rip Van Winkle"
by heart; for those who have not read the story, have at least seen
the play in which Joseph Jefferson, the great actor, has made himself
so famous.
Attached to the story is a note supposed to have been written by
Diedrich Knickerbocker, which a careless reader might overlook, but
which is an excellent introduction to the story. Says he:
"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 marvelous 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 I last saw him, was a very venerable old man,
and so perfectly rational and consistent on every 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 doubt."
Rip was truly an original character. He had a shrewish wife who was
always scolding him; and he seems to have deserved all the cross
things she said to him, for he had "an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor--in other words, he was as lazy a fellow as
you could find in all the country side."
Nevertheless, every one liked him, he was so good-natured. "He was a
great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who took his
part in all the 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 with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him
throughout the neighborhood."
You can't find much fault with a man who is so well liked that even
the dogs will not bark at him. You are reminded of Irving himself, who
for so many years was so idle; and yet who, out of his very idleness,
produced such charming stories.
"Rip Van Winkle," continues the narrative, "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."
This description is as perfect and as delightful as any in the English
language. Any one who cannot enjoy this has no perception of human
nature, and no love of humor in his composition. In time Rip
discovered that his only escape from his termagant wife was to take
his gun, and stroll off into the woods with his dog. "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 into his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily
believe he reciprocated with all his heart."
Rip is just the sort of fellow to have some sort of adventure, and we
are not at all astonished when we find him helping the dwarf carry his
keg of liquor up the mountain. The description of "the odd-looking
personages playing at nine-pins" whom he finds on entering the
amphitheater, is a perfect picture in words; for the truly great
writer is a painter of pictures quite as much as the great artist.
"They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short
doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts. 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.... 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."
But now comes a surprise. Rip indulges too freely in the contents of
the keg and falls asleep. When he wakes he finds a rusty old gun
beside him, and he whistles in vain for his dog. He goes back to the
village; but every thing and everybody is strange and changed. Putting
his hand to his chin he finds that his beard has grown a foot. He has
been sleeping twenty years.
But you must read the story for yourselves. It will bear reading many
times, and each time you will find in it something to smile at and
enjoy.