fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at
his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They
crowded round 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, rising 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 by-standers--"A tory! a tory! a spy!
a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having
assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown
culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in
search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
"Well--who are they?--name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a
thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these
eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that
used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 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 storming of Stony 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--Stony 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 every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and
I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!"
The by-standers 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 comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at
the gray-bearded 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, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 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 neighbor---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 neighbors 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 neighborhood.
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
enterprise, 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 distant 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 any thing
else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his
former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of
time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with
whom he soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a
man can be idle 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 the Third, he was now a free citizen of
the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of
states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that
was--petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his
neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her
name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders,
and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of
resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.
Doolittle's hotel. He was 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 neighborhood, 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
thunderstorm 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 hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, 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 der Rothbart, and the Kypphaüser 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 doubt. D. K."--[AUTHOR'S NOTE.]
POSTSCRIPT
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 moons 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 Kaaters-kill.
[Illustration: EDGAR ALLAN POE]
THE GOLD BUG
"What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula."
_All in the Wrong._
Many years ago I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He
was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a
series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the
mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the
city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's Island,
near Charleston, South Carolina.
This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the
sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds
a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the main land by a scarcely
perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and
slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation, as might be
supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are
to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and
where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted during summer by the
fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the
bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of the
western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is
covered with a dense undergrowth of sweet myrtle, so much prized by the
horticulturalists of England. The shrub here often attains the height
of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice,
burthening the air with its fragrance.
In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or more
remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut, which
he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This
soon ripened into friendship,--for there was much in the recluse to
excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with unusual
powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse
moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many
books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and
fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles in quest
of shells or entomological specimens; his collection of the latter might
have been envied by a Swammerdam. In these excursions he was usually
accompanied by an old negro called Jupiter, who had been manumitted
before the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by
threats nor by promises, to abandon what he considered his right of
attendance upon the footsteps of his young "Massa Will." It is not
improbable that the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat
unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy into
Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and guardianship of the
wanderer.
The winters in the latitude of Sullivan's Island are seldom very severe,
and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a fire is
considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18--, there occurred,
however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset I scrambled
my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I had not
visited for several weeks, my residence being at that time in
Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while the
facilities of passage and re-passage were very far behind those of the
present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom; and,
getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted,
unlocked the door, and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth.
It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited patiently
the arrival of my hosts.
Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits--how else shall I
term them?--of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, forming a
new genus; and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured, with
Jupiter's assistance, a scarabæus which he believed to be totally new,
but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow.
"And why not to-night?" I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and
wishing the whole tribe of scarabæi at the devil.
"Ah, if I had only known you were here!" said Legrand; "but it's so long
since I saw you, and how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit
this very night of all others? As I was coming home I met Lieutenant
G---- from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the bug; so it will
be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay here to-night,
and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in
creation!"
"What--sunrise?"
"Nonsense! no! the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color, about the size
of a large hickory nut, with two jet black spots near one extremity of
the back, another, somewhat longer, at the other. The _antennæ_ are"--
"Dey ain't _no_ tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-telling on you," here
interrupted Jupiter; "de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him,
inside and all, sep him wing--neber feel half so hebby a bug in my
life."
"Well, suppose it is, Jup," replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it
seemed to me, than the case demanded, "is that any reason for you
letting the birds burn? The color"--here he turned to me--"is really
almost enough to warrant Jupiter's idea. You never saw a more brilliant
metallic lustre than the scales emit; but of this you cannot judge till
to-morrow. In the meantime I can give you some idea of the shape."
Saying this, he seated himself at a small table on which were a pen and
ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.
"Never mind," said he at length, "this will answer;" and he drew from
his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap,
and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I
retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design
was complete he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud
growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened
it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped
upon my shoulders and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much
attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked
at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled
at what my friend had depicted.
"Well!" I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, "this _is_ a
strange _scarabæus_, I must confess; new to me; never saw anything like
it before--unless it was a skull, or a death's-head--which it more
nearly resembles than anything else that has come under _my_
observation."
"A death's-head!" echoed Legrand. "Oh--yes--well, it has something of
that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look
like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth--and then
the shape of the whole is oval."
"Perhaps so," said I; "but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must
wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its
personal appearance."
"Well, I don't know," said he, a little nettled, "I draw
tolerably--_should_ do it at least, have had good masters--and flatter
myself that I am not quite a blockhead."
"But, my dear fellow, you are joking then," said I; "this is a very
passable _skull_--indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_ skull,
according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of physiology--and
your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest _scarabæus_ in the world if it
resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling bit of superstition
upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug _scarabæus caput
hominis_, or something of that kind--there are many similar titles in
the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennæ_ you spoke of?"
"The _antennæ_!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably
warm upon the subject; "I am sure you must see the _antennæ_. I made
them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that
is sufficient."
"Well, well," I said, "perhaps you have--still I don't see them;" and I
handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle
his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his
ill-humor puzzled me--and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were
positively _no antennæ_ visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very close
resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death's-head.
He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it,
apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design
seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew
violently red--in another as excessively pale. For some minutes he
continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length he
arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon
a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an
anxious examination of the paper, turning it in all directions. He said
nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought
it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any
comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the
paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he
locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air
of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as
abstracted. As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in
revery, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been my
intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before,
but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He
did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with
even more than his usual cordiality.
It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen
nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man
Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and I
feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend.
"Well, Jup," said I, "what is the matter now?--how is your master?"
"Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be."
"Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?"
"Dar! dat's it!--him never plain of notin--but him berry sick for all
dat."
"_Very_ sick, Jupiter!--why didn't you say so at once? Is he confined to
bed?"
"No, dat he aint!--he aint find nowhar--dat's just whar de shoe
pinch--my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will."
"Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about.
You say your master is sick. Hasn't he told you what ails him?"