'cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!"-He looked anxiously in the same direction, and 'perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bend'ing under the weight of something he carried on his back. He 'was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but supposing it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it.

'On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square built 'old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His 'dress was of the antique Dutch fashion-a cloth jerkin strapped 'round the waist-several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 'volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and 'bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that 'seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 'assist him with the load.' pp. 68-70.

They scramble up the ravine together in silence, till they reach a green hollow in the boson of the mountains.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd'looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in 'a quaint, outlandish fashion: some wore short doublets, others 'jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad 'face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to con'sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugarloaf hat, set off with a little red cockstail. They all had beards, of ' various shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to be 'the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather'beaten countenance: He wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high 'heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.

'

What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 'most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene, but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the moun'tains like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play. His companion now emptied the con'tents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait

The Sketch Book.

* upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling: they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their ⚫game.

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 'which he found had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. 'He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat 'the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered; his eyes swam in his head; his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

'On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence ' he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes'it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, "Surely," thought and breasting the pure mountain breeze.

Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occur'rences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 'liquor the mountain ravine-the wild retreat among the rocksthe wo-begone party at nine-pins-the flagon-"Õh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip-" what excuse shall I 'make to Dame Van Winkle?"

"He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well'oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock ' worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the * mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with * liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the 'echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen.' pp. 72-75.

He spends some time, in a fruitless search, for the scene and the companions of his evening revel; and at last resolves to go home.

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 'Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he ' was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 'surprise; and whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stro'ked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long!

'He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange ' children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs too, not one of which he recognised for

an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very vil 'lage was altered: it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors-strange faces at the windows-every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him: he began to doubt 'whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.' pp. 77, 78.

He looks in vain for his ancient dame and his dog; and, leaving his deserted house, He now hurried forth, and hastened to his 'old resort, the village inn--but it too 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 petticoats, 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 top that looked like a red night cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular as'semblage of stars and stripes-all this was strange and incompre'hensible. He recognised on the sign, however, the ruby face of 'King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful '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 folk 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, in'stead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He look'ed in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, dou'ble chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke in'stead 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-election-mem'bers of congress-liberty-Bunker's hill-heroes of seventy-sixand other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the be'wildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and chil'dren 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 partly aside, inquired "on which side 'he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but

The Sketch Book.

busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, in'quired in his ear, "whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip 'was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a know'ing, 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 "Alas! gen'whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" 'tlemen," 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 by-standers-"A tory! a 'tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" 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 tavern.—" Well'who are they?-name them."-Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired "Where's Nicholas Vedder ?"-There was a silence 'for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why he is dead and gone these eighteen 'years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that ' used to tell all about him, but that's rotted and gone too."in "Where's Brom Dutcher ?"-" Oh, he went off to the army 'the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at 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, too, 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.

She

At this critical moment a fresh likely-looking woman pressed ⚫ through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. ⚫ had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, ⚫ began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool, The name of the child, the air of the old man won't hurt you." the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recolVOL. II.

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'lections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he." 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 since-his dog came home without him; but whe'ther 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 'peddler. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli'gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.-He caught his daughter and her child in his arms." I am your fa'ther!" cried he-" Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van • Winkle now!" pp. 80-87.

Upon his identity being duly ascertained, he is taken home to his daughter's house, and resumes most of his ancient habits.

'He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points, every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his 'having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 'the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 'neighbourhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended 'to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of 'his head. and that this was one point on which he always remain'ed flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost univer'sally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a 'thunder storm of a summer afternoon, about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of 'ninepins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in 'the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that 'they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.' pp. 91-92.

We have made rather large extracts from this facetious legend and yet have mangled it a little in our abridgment. But it seemed fair and courteous not to stint a stranger on his first introduction to our pages; and what we have quoted, we are persuaded, will justify all that we have said in his favour.

We shall now make another long extract from a paper of a very different character; an essay on the temper in which recent English writers have spoken of America. The tone of the author upon this delicate subject is admirable-and the substance of his observations so unanswerably just and reasonable, that we cannot help thinking that they will produce beneficial effects, in both the countries to which they relate. He begins by observing, that notwithstanding the great intercourse which subsists between the two