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RIP VAN WINKLE

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 favorite 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 lowroofed 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 bookworm.

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 labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, 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," 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 being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.-Original Introduction by the Author.

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RIP VAN WINKLE

A Posthumous1 Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker2

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

1Posthumous. Published after the author's death.

"Diedrich Knickerbocker. Irving told the story that Rip Van Winkle and Knickerbocker's History of New York, both of which he himself wrote, were the work of Diedrich Knickerbocker, the survivor of an old Dutch family in New York.

Thylke. That same. After reading the story, the student will see the humor of using for its keynote this verse about truth. 'Hudson. Look up this river on a map of New York.

Kaatskill Mountains. The name is now commonly written "Catskill." Look up these mountains on a map of New York.

Appalachian family. A great range of mountains, the location of which should be observed on a map of New York and neighboring states.

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 vapors 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, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gabled fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.

In that same village, and in one of these very

"Dutch colonists. What is now New York was first settled by Hollanders, who called it New Netherlands. It was surrendered to the British in 1664, and at that time was given its present

name.

Peter Stuyvesant. The last of the Dutch governors of New Netherlands. Lived from 1602 to 1682.

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