po), Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom, Joel Chandler Harris's
Uncle Remus, and Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. He has
been called un-American, and so he is, and so Irving plainly intended
him to be. If one insists on finding a bit of distinctive Americanism
somewhere in the story, he will find it not in Rip but in the number and
rapidity of the changes that American life underwent during the twenty
years that serve as background to the story. George William Curtis calls
Rip "the constant and unconscious satirist of American life," but surely
Irving would have smiled at finding so purposeful a mission laid upon
the stooping shoulders of his vagabond ne'er-do-well hero. Rip is no
satirist, conscious or unconscious. He is a provincial Dutch type, such
as Irving had seen a hundred times; but he is so lovable and is sketched
so lovingly that we hardly realize the consummate art, the human
sympathy, and the keen powers of observation that have gone into his
making. Every other character in the story, including Wolf, is a
sidelight on Rip. Of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" Irving said: "The
story is a mere whimsical band to connect the descriptions of scenery,
customs, manners, etc." The emphasis, in other words, was put on the
setting. Of "Rip Van Winkle" might he not have said, "The descriptions
of scenery, customs, manners, etc. are but so many channels through
which the character of Rip finds outlet and expression"?]

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 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 b