bers rung for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 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. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn-but it was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petti-partly aside, inquired "on which side coats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes-all this was strange and incomprehensible. 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, 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 folks 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. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens-elections-members of congress-liberty-Bunker's hill-heroes of seventy-six-and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "whether Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes, and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?"-"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!" and it was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again 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 when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice," Nicholas Vedder? why he is dead and gone these thirteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotted and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher ?" "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed in the storming of Stoney-Point -others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose.-I don't know he never came back again." "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 in the world. Every answer puzzled him, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand :-war-congress -Stoney-Point;-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 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? | tell what's my name, or where I am!"The bystanders now began to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 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 wont 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. "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's 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 mountains, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of sincehis dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice: "Where's your mother?" Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himsef no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms." Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now!Does nobody know poor Rip Van Win| kle?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle-it is himself! Welcome | for a husband, whom Rip recollected for home again, old neighbour-Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's story was soon told, for the twenty years had been 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; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head-upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. 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 company that it was a fact, handed 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 the crew of the Half-moon, being permitted 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 a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favour. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events which had taken place during his torpor. How had there been a revolutionary war-that the country had thrown off the yoke of England-and that, instead of being a subject of His Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was-petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the elec- He used to tell his story to every tion. Rip's daughter took him home stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's to live with her; she had a snug, well-hotel. He was observed, at first, to furnished house, and a cheery farmer vary on some points every time he told Down the great wind sweeps from the hills, The forest's gloomy chamber fills With sighings; and o'er hill and dale Spreads its rough violence, and sings With midnight howlings, and of midnight things. Hot as desire is the breath Of night-the distant lightning flash On speeds the curlew to her rest, Voices are on the gale; ere now A shout comes breaking thro' the roar Up Heldgeland's beach their steps are led, Range round the fishers' cottages, Like tigers lurking for their prey are these. The storm hath pass'd, the waves are still, 'Tis midnight yet, and lock'd in sleep A pistol flash!-a shriek !-again! Young mothers kneel, babes-children-cry, As vessels fade on foaming seas: Brothers, and sons, and fathers go, Strong men like these, with fire and steel Firm is his eye-his voice is strong- "The curse of God, of man, and hell, Eternal billows drench their spite, And whirl ye on the ocean's breast, "Dreams of the murder'd haunt your sleep, Spells of the murder'd blast your deeds, And strike the wound that ever bleeds; As from a plague they all shall flee; And woman's love for ye is cold, Your tainted hearts shall ne'er with her's enfold ! "Go!--but when night returns again, The shout of mockery they raise, While thus they shout, "Old dotard first |