图书图片
PDF
ePub

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim ;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst the muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn:
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.

Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet
music.

ADVENTURES OF RIP VAN WINKLE.

[WASHINGTON IRVING. See Page 1.]

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 house hold eloquence.

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must | In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's remember the Kaatskill Mountains. At the foot business but his own; but as to doing family of these fairy mountains the voyager may have duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it descried the light smoke curling up from a village, impossible. His children were as ragged and wild whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an where the blue tints of the upland melt away into urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to a fresh green of the nearer landscape. In that inherit the habits with the old clothes of his small village, and in one of these very houses father. He was generally seen trooping like a (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time- colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of worn and weather-beaten), there lived, many years his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had since, while the country was yet a province of much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and ac- world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever companied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He can be got with least thought or trouble, and inherited, however, but little of the martial cha- would rather starve on a penny than work for a racter of his ancestors. I have observed that he pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled was a simple, good-natured man: he was, moreover, life away in perfect contentment; but his wife a kind neighbour, and an obedient hen-pecked kept continually dinning in his ears about his idlehusband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance mightness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing 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. Certain it is that he was a great favourite among all the good-wives of the neighbourhood. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. 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 fowlingpiece on his shoulder, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbour, even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone fences.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master, for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an 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 dropped to the ground or curled between his legs; he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as years of matrimony rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge-tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of per

RIP VAN WINKLE.

petual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its session on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade during a long, lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. 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 naught.

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 in the woods. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, he had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. 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 mountains. 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 appear

ance.

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 pairs 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 shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and, mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow

35

gulley, 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, towards 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 per pendicular precipices; over the brink of which impending trees shot their branches, merely allowing 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 the 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 of them had enormous breeches, in 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 entirely to consist 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 folk 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, lack-lustre 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,

[ocr errors]

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 waking, 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 roysterers 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 and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes rcpeated 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 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.

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 a surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished. 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 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 grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised for an old acquaintance, 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. 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

[graphic]
[merged small][merged small][graphic][merged small]

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. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort, the village inn; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, with old hats and petticoats stuffed in the chasms, and over the door was painted "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." He recognised on the sign, however. the ruby face of

King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceable pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, and a sword was held 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 that 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. 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 round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity.

One orator bustled up to him, and drawing him

[blocks in formation]

"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 a self-important man in a cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded 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.

[ocr errors]

'Well, who are they? Name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder ?"

There was silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! Why, he's dead and gone these eighteen years. There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard, and that used to tell all about him; but that's rotten, and gone too."

"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. 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 to 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 wits' 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

66

securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief. At this critical moment, a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the grey-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, his name was Rip Van Winkle. It's twenty years since he went away 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, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one more question to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice. "Where's your mother?" "Oh, she died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New English pedlar." There was a drop of comfort, at least, at this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I'm your father!" cried he. Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?” 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. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. 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

66

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 accustomed 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 the hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer's afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather worse for the wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the rising genera tion, with whom he soon grew into great favour.

« 上一页继续 »