Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy agewhen a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more onthe bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchsof 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 placeduring his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war- thatthe country had thrown off the yoke of old England- and that,instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was nowa free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was nopolitician; the changes of states and empires made but littleimpression on him; but there was one species of despotism underwhich he had long groaned, and that was- petticoat government. Happilythat was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke ofmatrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, withoutdreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name wasmentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, andcast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression ofresignation 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 pointsevery time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having sorecently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale Ihave related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood,but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality ofit, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that thiswas one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutchinhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Evento this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon aboutthe Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are attheir game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-peckedhusbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands,that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle'sflagon.
NOTE.
The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr.
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the EmperorFrederick der Rothbart, and the Kyffhauser mountain: the subjoinednote, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it isan absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:
"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, butnevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity ofour old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellousevents and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger storiesthan this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were toowell authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with RipVan Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerableold man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every otherpoint, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to takethis into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subjecttaken before a country justice and signed with a cross, in thejustice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond thepossibility of doubt.
D. K."
POSTSCRIPT.
The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr.
Knickerbocker:
The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region fullof fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, whoinfluenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over thelandscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled byan old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highestpeak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night toopen and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons inthe skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, ifproperly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out ofcobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of themountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float inthe air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall ingentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen,and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, shewould brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like abottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these cloudsbroke, wo betide the valleys!
In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitouor Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the CatskillMountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds ofevils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume theform of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter aweary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and thenspring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of abeetling precipice or raging torrent.
The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a greatrock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from theflowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers whichabound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of Garden Rock.
Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitarybittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of thepond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great aweby the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursuehis game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter whohad lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld anumber of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these heseized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let itfall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washedhim 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 tothe present day; being the identical stream known by the name of theKaaters-kill.
THE END
.
1819-20
