The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversionto all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want ofassiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with arod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day withouta murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a singlenibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hourstogether, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and downdale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would neverrefuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was aforemost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, orbuilding stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to employhim to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their lessobliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready toattend to anybody's business but his own; but as to doing family duty,and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it wasthe most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country;every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite ofhim. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow wouldeither go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to growquicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a pointof setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so thatthough his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under hismanagement, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a merepatch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditionedfarm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged tonobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness,promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. Hewas generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels,equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he hadmuch ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train inbad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish,well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread orbrown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and wouldrather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, hewould have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wifekept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, hiscarelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning,noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and every thinghe said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence.
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that,by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders,shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however,always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain todraw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house- the onlyside which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as muchhen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them ascompanions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, asthe cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in allpoints of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous ananimal as ever scoured the woods- but what courage can withstand theever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue? Themoment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped tothe ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with agallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and atthe least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to thedoor with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimonyrolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue isthe only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a longwhile he used to console himself, when driven from home, byfrequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, andother idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on abench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of HisMajesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through along lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, ortelling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have beenworth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussionsthat sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell intotheir hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they wouldlisten to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, theschoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be dauntedby the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they woulddeliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by NicholasVedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at thedoor of which he took his seat from morning till night just movingsufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree;so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements asaccurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard tospeak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (forevery great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knewhow to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or relateddispleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and tosend forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he wouldinhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light andplacid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, andletting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nodhis head in token of perfect approbation.
