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16 And

through the throng to get a peep at the grey-bearded

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. " Judith Gardenier.” your

father's name ?" “Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 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 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: 66 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 NewEngland pedlar.”

There was a drop of comfort at least in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his

“I am your father !" cried he—"Young Rip Van Winkle once-old Rip Van Winkle now !-Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ?

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 home again, old neighbour—Why, where have you

been these twenty long years ?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him 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 down 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 his 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 ninepins 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.

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for her husband, whom Rip recollected for 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 anything else but his business.

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he suon 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 be idle 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 that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary warthat the country had thrown off the yoke of old England —and that instead of being a subject of his Majesty George III., 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 Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, 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.

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 remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 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.


By A Minor(ies) Poet.
The long-expected Coming Man

Must be the man, as I surmise,
Who trial makes of each new plan

Inventive tradesmen advertise.

To build his paletot's Nicoll's job,

His vest is made by famous Jews,
His nether-man, for sixteen bob,

Is thrust into the Sydenham trews.

The City hat adorns his head,

The Alpine kid his gloves supplies,
And Rimmel and Sultana shed

Rare odours round him as he hies.

A paper-collar-bought perchance

Of Grainger-decks his manly throat.
His sinooth Eureka's white expanse

Will Glenfield's snowy starch denote.

Sangster shall shield his wardrobe prime

From showers, else drenching to the skin.
Benson shall measure out his time,

And Mappin Brothers shear his chin.

No bulging bunions shall he greet;

Nor with their irritating roots
Shall corns disfigure his “poor feet”-

Because he has tried Grundy's boots.

In Chubb's rare locks shall curl his hair

His voice be pitched in Bramah's key;
And Epps his cocoa shall

And Loysel percolate his tea.
The London dinner he will try,

Where half-a-crown opes plenty's horn.
He'll take the sauce of Lazenby,

And drink the sherry of Cremorne.
And when the pills of Holloway

Recruit his health, yet leave him weak,
Du Barry's Revalenta may

Restore the roses to his cheek.
He'll marry_if I do not err-

A SINGLE LADY, who desires
To keep house for a WIDOWER,

And home, not salary requires."
When they're united hand in hand,

For honeymoon he'll places book,
For some three weeks' excursion planned

By enterprising Mr. Cook.
To furnish, he'll to Maple go.

And he'll in beds from Heal's enjoy
Unbroken sleep, whose every foe

Great Twelvetrees shall for him destroy.
And when arrives the fatal day,

And he expires, as mortals must,
A Necropolitan Co. shall lay

In Woking's shades his envied dust.


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now

I The humble school-house of my A B C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire :


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