Four Famous American Writers: Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, James Russell Lowell, Bayard Tayl | Page 9

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;