-
作者简介：
华盛顿
·
欧文（
Washington Ir
ving
）
（
1789-1895
）
,
美国浪漫主义作家，也是一个纯文学
作家，
他的写作态度是
。欧文的代表作
有《见闻札记》
（
Sketch Book
）
，这是第一部伟大的青少年读物，也是美国本土作家第一部成功的小说。由
于欧文对美国文学的伟大贡献，他获得了
“
美
国文学之父
”
的光荣称号。这篇短篇小说，
《瑞
普
·
凡
·
温克尔》便是摘自《见闻札记》
。
Rip Van Winkle
A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich
Knickerbocker
By Washington
Irving
(T
HE
FOLLOWING
tale was found among the
papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker,
an old
gentleman
of New
York, who was very curious
in the
Dutch history of the
province, and the manners of the descendants from
its primitive settlers. His historical
researches, however, did not lie
so
much among books as among men; for the former are
lamentably scanty
on
his
favorite
topics;
whereas
he
found
the
old
burghers,
and
still
more
their wives, rich in that legendary
lore so invaluable to true history.
Whenever,
therefore,
he
happened
upon
a
genuine
Dutch
family,
snugly
shut
up
in
its
low-roofed
farmhouse,
under
a
spreading
sycamore,
he
looked
upon
it as
a little clasped volume of black-letter, and
studied it with the
zeal of a bookworm.
The
result
of
all
these
researches
was
a
history
of
the
province
during
the reign of the Dutch governors, which
he published some years since.
There
have
been
various
opinions
as
to
the
literary
character
of
his
work,
and, to tell the
truth, it is not a whit better than it should be.
Its
chief
merit
is
its
scrupulous
accuracy,
which
indeed
was
a
little
questioned
on
its
first
appearance,
but
has
since
been
completely
established; and
it is how admitted into all historical collections
as
a book of unquestionable authority.
The
old
gentleman
died
shortly
after
the
publication
of
his
work,
and
now that he is dead and gone it cannot
do much harm to his memory to say
that
his time might have been much better employed in
weightier labors.
He, however, was apt
to ride his hobby in his own way; and though it
did
now and then kick up the dust a
little in the eyes of his neighbors and
grieve the spirit of some
friends,
for whom
he felt the
truest deference
and
affection,
yet
his
errors
and
follies
are
remembered
“more
in
sorrow
than in
anger”; and it begins to be suspected that he
never intended to
injure or offend. But
however his memory may be appreciated by critics,
it is still held dear among many folk
whose good opinion is well worth
having; particularly by certain biscuit
bakers, who have gone so far as
to
imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes, and
have thus given him
a chance for
immortality
almost equal to
the being stamped
on a
Waterloo
medal or a Queen Anne’s
fart
hing.)
By
Woden, God of Saxons,
From whence comes
Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a
thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke
day in which I creep into
My
sepulchre
—
C
ARTWRIGHT.
Whoever has made a voyage
up the Hudson must remember the Catskill
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
blue
tints
of
the
upland
melt
away
into
the
fresh
green
of
the
nearer
landscape.
It
is
a
little
village
of
great
antiquity,
having been founded by some of the
Dutch colonists, in the early times
of
the province, just about the beginning of the
government of the good
Peter
Stuyvesant
(may
he
rest
in
peace!),
and
there
were
some
of
the
houses
of
the
original
settlers
standing
within
a
few
years,
with
lattice
windows,
gable fronts surmounted with
weathercocks, and built of small yellow
bricks brought from Holland.
In
that
same
village,
and
in
one
of
these
very
houses
(which,
to
tell
the precise truth, was sadly time-worn
and weather-beaten), there lived
many
years since, while
the country was
yet a province
of Great
Britain,
a simple, good-natured fellow,
of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a
descendant
of
the
Van
Winkles
who
figured
so
gallantly
in
the
chivalrous
days
of
Peter
Stuyvesant,
and
accompanied
him
to
the
siege
of
Fort
Christina.
He
inherited,
however,
but
little
of
the
martial
character
of
his
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple,
good-natured man;
he was, moreover, a
kind neighbor and an obedient, henpecked husband.
Indeed,
to
the
latter
circumstance
might
be
owing
that
meekness
of
spirit
which gained him such
universal popularity; for those men are most apt
to
be
obsequious
and conciliating
abroad who
are
under
the
discipline
of
shrews
at
home.
Their
tempers,
doubtless,
are
rendered
pliant
and
malleable in the fiery
furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain
lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues
of
patience
and
long-suffering.
A
termagant
wife
may,
therefore,
in
some
respects,
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip
Van Winkle
was thrice blessed.
Certain it is that he was a great
favorite among all the good wives
of
the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex,
took his part in all
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.
The
great
error
in
Rip’s
composition
was
an
insuperable
aversion
to
all
kinds
of
profitable
labor.
It
could
not
be
from
the
want
of
assiduity
or perseverance;
for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long
and
heavy
as
a
Tartar’s
lance,
and
fish
all
day
without
a
murmur,
even
though
he should not be
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a
fowling
piece on his shoulder, for
hours together, trudging through woods and
swamps,
and
up
hill
and
down
dale,
to
shoot
a
few
squirrels
or
wild
pigeons.
He
would
never
even
refuse
to
assist
a
neighbor
in
the
roughest
toil,
and
was a
foremost man at all country frolics for husking
Indian corn, or
building stone fences.
The
women of
the
village, too, used
to employ
him
to
run
their
errands,
and
to
do
such
little
odd
jobs
as
their
less
obliging
husbands would not
do for them; in a word, Rip was ready to attend to
anybody’s
business
but
his
own;
but
as
to
doing
family
duty,
and
keeping
his farm in order, it was impossible.
In
fact, he
declared it
was
of no use to work on
his
farm; it was the
most pestilent little
piece of ground in the whole country; everything
about
it
went
wrong,
and
would
go
wrong,
in
spite
of
him.
His
fences
were
continually
falling
to
pieces;
his
cow
would
either
go
astray
or
get
among
the
cabbages;
weeds
were
sure
to
grow
quicker
in
his
fields
than
anywhere
else;
the
rain
always
made
a
point
of
setting
in
just
as
he
had
some
outdoor
work
to
do;
so
that
though
his
patrimonial
estate
had
dwindled
away
under
his
management,
acre
by
acre,
until
there
was
little
more
left
than
a
mere
patch
of
Indian
corn
and
potatoes,
yet
it
was
the
worst-conditioned
farm
in the neighborhood.
His
children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to
nobody. His son Rip, an
urchin
begotten in
his own likeness,
promised
to
inherit the habits, with
the old clothes
of his
father.
He was generally
seen trooping like a colt at his
mother’
s heels, equipped in a pair of
his
father’s
cast
-off
galligaskins,
which
he
had
much
ado
to
hold
up
with
one hand,
as a fine lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip
Van
Winkle,
however,
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.
Morning,
noon,
and
night,
her
tongue
was
incessantly going, and everything he
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 to draw off his forces, and take to the
outside of the
house
—
the only
side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked
husband.
Rip’s
sole
domestic
adherent
was
his
dog
Wolf,
who
was
as
much
henpecked
as
his
master;
for
Dame
Van
Winkle
regarded
them
as
companions
in
idleness,
and
even
looked
upon
Wolf
with
an
evil
eye,
as
the
cause
of
his
master’s
so
often going astray. True it is, in all points of
spirit befitting an
honorable
dog,
he
was
as
courageous
an
animal
as
ever
scoured
the
woods
—
but what
courage can withstand the ever-during and all-
besetting
terrors
of
a
woman’s
tongue?
The
moment
Wolf
entered
the
house
his
crest
fell,
his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between
his legs; he
sneaked about with a
gallows
air,
casting many
a sidelong glance at
Dame
Van Winkle, and at the least flourish
of a broomstick or ladle would fly
to
the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew
worse
and worse with Rip
Van
Winkle as
years of matrimony
rolled on; a tart temper never mellows
with age, and a sharp tongue is
the
only edged tool that grows keener by constant use.
For a long while
he used to console
himself, when
driven
from home, by
frequenting a
kind
of perpetual club of the sages,
philosophers, and other idle personages
of the village, which held its sessions
on a bench before a small inn,
designated by a rubicund portrait of
his majesty George the Third. Here
they
used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy summer’s
day, talking
listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about
nothing.
But
it
would
have
been
worth
any
statesman’s
money
to
have
heard
the profound discussions which
sometimes took place, when by chance an
old newspaper fell into their hands,
from some passing traveler. How
solemnly
they
would
listen
to
the
contents,
as
drawled
out
by
Derrick
Van
Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper,
learned little man, who was not to
be
daunted by the most gigantic word in the
dictionary; and how sagely
they
would
deliberate
upon
public
events
some
months
after
they
had
taken
place.
The opinions of this junto were
completely controlled by Nicholas
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and
landlord of the inn, at the door
of
which
he
took
his
seat
from
morning
till
night,
just
moving
sufficiently
to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade
of a large tree; so that the
neighbors
could tell the hour by his movements as accurately
as by a
sun-dial. It is true, he was
rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe
incessantly.
His
adherents,
however
(for
every
great
man
has
his
adherents),
perfectly
understood
him,
and
knew
how
to
gather
his
opinions.
When anything that
was read or related displeased him, he was
observed
to smoke his pipe vehemently,
and send forth short, frequent, and angry
puffs;
but
when
pleased,
he
would
inhale
the
smoke
slowly
and
tranquilly,
and
emit
it
in
light
and
placid
clouds,
and
sometimes
taking
the
pipe
from
his mouth, and letting the fragrant
vapor curl about his nose, would
gravely nod his head in token of
perfect approbation.
From
even
this
stronghold
the
unlucky
Rip
was
at
length
routed
by
his
termagant
wife,
who
would
suddenly
break
in
upon
the
tranquillity
of
the
assemblage, and call the
members all to nought; nor was that august
personage,
Nicholas
Vedder
himself,
sacred
from
the
daring
tongue
of
this
terrible virago, who
charged him outright with encouraging her husband
in habits of idleness.
Poor
Rip
was
at
last
reduced
almost
to
despair;
and
his
only
alternative,
to
escape
from
the
labor
of
the
farm
and
clamor
of
his
wife,
was to take gun in
hand and stroll away into the woods. 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; but never
mind, my lad, while I live thou shalt never
want
a
friend
to
stand
by
thee!”
Wolf
would
wag
his
tail,
look
wistfully
in
his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity, I
verily believe he
reciprocated the
sentiment with all his heart.
In
a
long
ramble
of
the
kind
on
a
fine
autumnal
day,
Rip
had
unconsciously scrambled
to one of the highest parts of the Catskill
Mountains.
He
was
after
his
favorite
sport
of
squirrel
shooting,
and
the
still
solitudes had echoed and re?choed with the reports
of
his gun.
Panting
and
fatigued,
he
threw
himself,
late
in
the
afternoon,
on
a
green
knoll,
covered
with
mountain
herbage,
that
crowned
the
brow
of
a
precipice.
From
an
opening
between
the
trees
he
could
overlook
all
the
lower
country
for
many
a
mile
of
rich
woodland.
He
saw
at
a
distance
the
lordly
Hudson,
far,
far
below
him,
moving
on
its
silent
but
majestic
course,
the
reflection
of
a
purple
cloud,
or
the
sail
of
a
lagging
bark,
here
and
there
sleeping on its glassy
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue
highlands.
On the other side
he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild,
lonely,
and
shagged,
the
bottom
filled
with
fragments
from
the
impending
cliffs, and
scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the
setting sun.
For
some
time
Rip
lay
musing
on
this
scene;
evening
was
gradually
advancing;
the mountains
began to throw their long blue shadows over the
valleys;
he saw that it would be dark
long before he could reach the village, and
he
heaved
a
heavy
sigh
when
he
thought
of
encountering
the
terrors
of
Dame
Van Winkle.
As
he
was
about
to
descend,
he
heard
a
voice
from
a
distance,
hallooing,
“Rip
Van
Winkle!
Rip
Van
Winkle!”
He
looked
around,
but
could
see
nothing
but a crow winging
its solitary flight across the mountain. He
thought
his fancy must have deceived
him, and turned again to descend, when he
heard the same cry
ring
through
the
still evening
air: “Rip
Van Winkle!
Rip
Van
Winkle!”—
at
the
same
time
Wolf
bristled
up
his
back,
and
giving
a low growl, skulked
to his master’s side, looking fearfu
lly
down into
the glen. Rip now
felt a
vague
apprehension stealing over
him; he looked
anxiously in
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure
slowly
toiling
up
the
rocks,
and
bending
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 neighborhood
in need of 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
around
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
shoulders
a
stout
keg, that
seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to
approach and
assist him with the load.
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new
acquaintance,
Rip
complied
with
his
usual
alacrity,
and
mutually
relieving one another, they clambered
up a narrow gully, apparently the
dry
bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip
every now and then
heard
long
rolling
peals,
like
distant
thunder,
that
seemed
to
issue
out
of
a
deep
ravine,
or
rather
cleft
between
lofty
rocks,
toward
which
their
rugged path conducted. He paused for an
instant, but supposing it to be
the
muttering
of
one
of
those
transient
thunder
showers
which
often
take
place
in
mountain
heights,
he
proceeded.
Passing
through
the
ravine,
they
came
to
a
hollow,
like
a
small
amphitheater,
surrounded
by
perpendicular
precipices,
over
the
brinks
of
which
impending
trees
shot
their
branches,
so that you only
caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright
evening
cloud. During the whole time,
Rip and his companion had labored on in
silence;
for
though
the
former
marveled
greatly
what
could
be
the
object
of
carrying
a
keg
of
liquor
up
this
wild
mountain,
yet
there
was
something
strange and
incomprehensible about the unknown that inspired
awe and
checked familiarity.
On
entering
the
amphitheater,
new
objects
of
wonder
presented
themselves. On a
level spot in the center was a company of odd-
looking
personages
playing
at
ninepins.
They
were
dressed
in
a
quaint,
outlandish
fashion: some
wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
knives in
their belts, and most 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
consist
entirely of nose, and was surmounted by
a white sugar-loaf hat set off
with a
little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of
various shapes
and colors. 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 parlor 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 mountains
like rumbling peals of thunder.
As
Rip
and
his
companion
approached
them,
they
suddenly
desisted
from
their play, and stared
at him with
such fixed
statue-like gaze, and
such
strange,
uncouth,
lack-luster
countenances,
that
his
heart
turned
within
him,
and
his
knees
smote
together.
His
companion
now
emptied
the
contents
of the keg into
large flagons, and made signs to him to wait 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
flavor
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 awaking, 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
and
breasting
the
pure
mountain
breeze.
“Surely,”
thought
Rip,
“I
have
not
slept
here
all
night.”
He
recalled
the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man
with a keg of
liquor
—
the
mountain
ravine
—
the
wild
retreat
among
the
rocks
—
the
woe-begone
party
at
ninepins
—
the
flagon
—“Oh!
that
flag
on!
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
incrusted 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, shouted his name, but all in
vain; the echoes
repeated his whistle
and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He
determined
to
revisit
the
scene
of
the
last
evening’s
gambol,
and
if he met with any of
the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose
to walk, he found himself stiff in the
joints, and wanting in his usual
activity.
“These
mountain
beds
do
not
agree
with
me,”
thought
Rip,
“and
if
this
frolic
should
lay
me
up
with
a
fit
of
the
rheumatism,
I
shall
have
a
blessed time wit
h Dame Van Winkle.”
With some difficulty he got down
into
the
glen;
he
found
the
gully
up
which
he
and
his
companion
had
ascended
the
preceding
evening;
but
to
his
astonishment
a
mountain
stream
was
now
foaming
down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling
the glen with
babbling murmurs. He,
however, made shift to scramble up its sides,
working
his
toilsome
way
through
thickets
of
birch,
sassafras,
and
witch-hazel,
and
sometimes
tripped
up
or
entangled
by
the
wild
grape
vines
that
twisted
their
coils
and
tendrils
from
tree
to
tree,
and
spread
a
kind
of network in his path.
At
length
he
reached
to
where
the
ravine
had
opened
through
the
cliffs
to the
amphitheater; but no traces of such opening
remained. The rocks
presented
a
high,
impenetrable
wall,
over
which
the
torrent
came
tumbling
in
a
sheet
of
feathery
foam,
and
fell
into
a
broad,
deep
basin,
black
from
the shadows of the
surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was
brought
to
a
stand.
He
again
called
and
whistled
after
his
dog;
he
was
only
answered
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows,
sporting high in air about a dry
tree
that
overhung
a
sunny
precipice;
and
who,
secure
in
their
elevation,
seemed to look
down and scoff at the poor man’s perplexities.
What was
to be done? the morning was
passing away, and Rip felt famished for want
of his breakfast. He grieved to give up
his dog and gun; he dreaded to
meet
his
wife;
but
it
would
not
do
to
starve
among
the
mountains.
He
shook
his
head,
shouldered
the
rusty
firelock,
and,
with
a
heart
full
of
trouble
and anxiety, turned
his steps homeward.
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 their eyes
upon
him,
invariably
stroked
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,
none
of
which
he
recognized
for
his
old
acquaintances,
barked at him
as he passed. The very village 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
—
everything was
strange. His mind now began to misgive
him; he doubted whether both he
and the
world around him were not bewitched. Surely this
was his native
village, which he had
left but the day before. There stood the Catskill
Mountains
—
there
ran
the
silver
Hudson
at
a
distance
—
there
was
every
hill
and
dale
precisely
as
it
had
always
been
—
Rip
was
sorely
perplexed
—“That
flagon last night,” thought he, “has
addled my poor head sadly!”
It was with some difficulty he found
the way to his own house, which
he
approached
with
silent
awe,
expecting
every
moment
to
hear
the
shrill
voice
of
Dame
Van
Winkle.
He
found
the
house
gone
to
decay
—
the
roof
fallen
in,
the windows shattered, and the doors off the
hinges. A half-starved
dog,
that
looked
like
Wolf,
was
skulking
about
it.
Rip
called
him
by
name,
but the cur snarled, showed his teeth,
and passed on. This was an unkind
cut
indeed
—“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip,
“has forgotten me!”
He
entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame
Van Winkle had
always
kept
in
neat
order.
It
was
empty,
forlorn,
and
apparently
abandoned.
This
desolateness
overcame
all
his
connubial
fears
—
he
called
loudly
for
his
wife
and
children
—
the
lonely
chambers
rung
for
a
moment
with
his
voice,
and then all again
was silence.
He now hurried forth, and
hastened to his old resort, the little
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 hat
s and
petticoats,
and over the
door was painted, “The Union
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead
of the great tree which 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
nightcap,
and from it was fluttering a
flag, on which was a singular assemblage of
stars
and
stripes
—
all
this
was
strange
and
incomprehensible.
He
recognized
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 stuck in the hand instead of a
scepter, the head was decorated with
a
cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large
characters, G
ENERAL
W
ASHINGTON.
There
was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but
none whom
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 <
/p>
citizens
—
election<
/p>
—
members
of
Congress
—
liberty
—Bunker’s
Hill
—heroes of
’76—
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, 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 around him, eying 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 busy little fellow pulled him by the
arm, and raising
on tiptoe, inquired in
his ear, “whether he was 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,
G
od bless him!”
Here a general shout burst from the
bystanders
—“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
neighbors, who used to
keep about the tavern.
“Well—
who are
they?
—name them.”
Rip
bethought
himself
a
moment,
and
then
inquired,
“Where’s
Nicholas Vedder?”
There was 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.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in the
beginning of the war; some say
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