瑞普·凡·溫克爾Rip-Van-Winkle中英文對(duì)照與summary

作者簡介：華盛頓?歐文(Washington?Irving)(1789T895),?美國浪漫主義作家，也是一個(gè)純文學(xué)作家，他的寫作態(tài)度是"writing?for?pleasure?and?to?produce?pleasure"。歐文的代表作有《見聞札記》(Sketch?Book)，這是第一部偉大的青少年讀物，也是美國本土作家第一部成功的小說。由于歐文對(duì)美國文學(xué)的偉大貢獻(xiàn)，他獲得了“美國文學(xué)之父”的光榮稱號(hào)。這篇短篇小說，《瑞普?凡?溫克爾》便是摘自《見聞札記》。RipVanWinkleAPosthumousWritingofDiedrichKnickerbockerByWashingtonIrving(THEFOLLOWINGtalewasfoundamongthepapersofthelateDiedrichKnickerbocker,anoldgentlemanofNewYork,whowasverycuriousintheDutchhistoryoftheprovince,andthemannersofthedescendantsfromitsprimitivesettlers.Hishistoricalresearches,however,didnotliesomuchamongbooksasamongmen；fortheformerarelamentablyscantyonhisfavoritetopics；whereashefoundtheoldburghers,andstillmoretheirwives,richinthatlegendaryloresoinvaluabletotruehistory.Whenever,therefore,hehappeneduponagenuineDutchfamily,snuglyshutupinitslow-roofedfarmhouse,underaspreadingsycamore,helookeduponitasalittleclaspedvolumeofblack-letter,andstudieditwiththezealofabookworm.TheresultofalltheseresearcheswasahistoryoftheprovinceduringthereignoftheDutchgovernors,whichhepublishedsomeyearssince.Therehavebeenvariousopinionsastotheliterarycharacterofhiswork,and,totellthetruth,itisnotawhitbetterthanitshouldbe.Itschiefmeritisitsscrupulousaccuracy,whichindeedwasalittlequestionedonitsfirstappearance,buthassincebeencompletelyestablished；anditishowadmittedintoallhistoricalcollectionsasabookofunquestionableauthority.Theoldgentlemandiedshortlyafterthepublicationofhiswork,andnowthatheisdeadandgoneitcannotdomuchharmtohismemorytosaythathistimemighthavebeenmuchbetteremployedinweightierlabors.He,however,wasapttoridehishobbyinhisownway；andthoughitdidnowandthenkickupthedustalittleintheeyesofhisneighborsandgrievethespiritofsomefriends,forwhomhefeltthetruestdeferenceandaffection,yethiserrorsandfolliesareremembered“moreinsorrowthaninanger”；anditbeginstobesuspectedthatheneverintendedtoinjureoroffend.Buthoweverhismemorymaybeappreciatedbycritics,itisstillhelddearamongmanyfolkwhosegoodopinioniswellworthhaving;particularlybycertainbiscuitbakers,whohavegonesofarastoimprinthislikenessontheirNewYearcakes,andhavethusgivenhimachanceforimmortalityalmostequaltothebeingstampedonaWaterloomedaloraQueenAnne’sfarthing.)ByWoden,GodofSaxons,FromwhencecomesWensday,thatisWodensday,TruthisathingthateverlwillkeepUntothylkedayinwhichIcreepintoMysepulchre—C ARTWRIGHT.WhoeverhasmadeavoyageuptheHudsonmustremembertheCatskillMountains.TheyareadismemberedbranchofthegreatAppalachianfamily,andareseenawaytothewestoftheriver,swellinguptoanobleheight,andlordingitoverthesurroundingcountry.Everychangeofseason,everychangeofweather,indeed,everyhouroftheday,producessomechangeinthemagicalhuesandshapesofthesemountains,andtheyareregardedbyallthegoodwives,farandnear,asperfectbarometers.Whentheweatherisfairandsettled,theyareclothedinblueandpurple,andprinttheirboldoutlinesonthecleareveningsky；butsometimes,whentherestofthelandscapeiscloudless,theywillgatherahoodofgrayvaporsabouttheirsummits,which,inthelastraysofthesettingsun,willglowandlightuplikeacrownofglory.Atthefootofthesefairymountainsthevoyagermayhavedescriedthelightsmokecurlingupfromavillagewhoseshingleroofsgleamamongthetrees,justwherethebluetintsoftheuplandmeltawayintothefreshgreenofthenearerlandscape.Itisalittlevillageofgreatantiquity,havingbeenfoundedbysomeoftheDutchcolonists,intheearlytimesoftheprovince,justaboutthebeginningofthegovernmentofthegoodPeterStuyvesant(mayherestinpeace!),andthereweresomeofthehousesoftheoriginalsettlersstandingwithinafewyears,withlatticewindows,gablefrontssurmountedwithweathercocks,andbuiltofsmallyellowbricksbroughtfromHolland.Inthatsamevillage,andinoneoftheseveryhouses(which,totelltheprecisetruth,wassadlytime-wornandweather-beaten),therelivedmanyyearssince,whilethecountrywasyetaprovinceofGreatBritain,asimple,good-naturedfellow,ofthenameofRipVanWinkle.HewasadescendantoftheVanWinkleswhofiguredsogallantlyinthechivalrousdaysofPeterStuyvesant,andaccompaniedhimtothesiegeofFortChristina.Heinherited,however,butlittleofthemartialcharacterofhisancestors.Ihaveobservedthathewasasimple,good-naturedman；hewas,moreover,akindneighborandanobedient,henpeckedhusband.Indeed,tothelattercircumstancemightbeowingthatmeeknessofspiritwhichgainedhimsuchuniversalpopularity；forthosemenaremostapttobeobsequiousandconciliatingabroadwhoareunderthedisciplineofshrewsathome.Theirtempers,doubtless,arerenderedpliantandmalleableinthefieryfurnaceofdomestictribulation,andacurtainlectureisworthallthesermonsintheworldforteachingthevirtuesofpatienceandlong-suffering.Atermagantwifemay,therefore,insomerespects,beconsideredatolerableblessing;andifso,RipVanWinklewasthriceblessed.Certainitisthathewasagreatfavoriteamongallthegoodwivesofthevillage,who,asusualwiththeamiablesex,tookhispartinallfamilysquabbles,andneverfailed,whenevertheytalkedthosemattersoverintheireveninggossipings,tolayalltheblameonDameVanWinkle.Thechildrenofthevillage,too,wouldshoutwithjoywheneverheapproached.Heassistedattheirsports,madetheirplaythings,taughtthemtoflykitesandshootmarbles,andtoldthemlongstoriesofghosts,witches,andIndians.Wheneverhewentdodgingaboutthevillage,hewassurroundedbyatroopofthem,hangingonhisskirts,clamberingonhisback,andplayingathousandtricksonhimwithimpunity；andnotadogwouldbarkathimthroughouttheneighborhood.ThegreaterrorinRip'scompositionwasaninsuperableaversiontoallkindsofprofitablelabor.Itcouldnotbefromthewantofassiduityorperseverance；forhewouldsitonawetrock,witharodaslongandheavyasaTartar'slance,andfishalldaywithoutamurmur,eventhoughheshouldnotbeencouragedbyasinglenibble.Hewouldcarryafowlingpieceonhisshoulder,forhourstogether,trudgingthroughwoodsandswamps,anduphillanddowndale,toshootafewsquirrelsorwildpigeons.Hewouldneverevenrefusetoassistaneighborintheroughesttoil,andwasaforemostmanatallcountryfrolicsforhuskingIndiancorn,orbuildingstonefences.Thewomenofthevillage,too,usedtoemployhimtoruntheirerrands,andtodosuchlittleoddjobsastheirlessobliginghusbandswouldnotdoforthem；inaword,Ripwasreadytoattendtoanybody'sbusinessbuthisown；butastodoingfamilyduty,andkeepinghisfarminorder,itwasimpossible.Infact,hedeclareditwasofnousetoworkonhisfarm；itwasthemostpestilentlittlepieceofgroundinthewholecountry；everythingaboutitwentwrong,andwouldgowrong,inspiteofhim.Hisfenceswerecontinuallyfallingtopieces；hiscowwouldeithergoastrayorgetamongthecabbages；weedsweresuretogrowquickerinhisfieldsthananywhereelse；therainalwaysmadeapointofsettinginjustashehadsomeoutdoorworktodo；sothatthoughhispatrimonialestatehaddwindledawayunderhismanagement,acrebyacre,untiltherewaslittlemoreleftthanamerepatchofIndiancornandpotatoes,yetitwastheworst-conditionedfarmintheneighborhood.Hischildren,too,wereasraggedandwildasiftheybelongedtonobody.HissonRip,anurchinbegotteninhisownlikeness,promisedtoinheritthehabits,withtheoldclothesofhisfather.Hewasgenerallyseentroopinglikeacoltathismother’sheels,equippedinapairofhisfather’scast-offgalligaskins,whichhehadmuchadotoholdupwithonehand,asafineladydoeshertraininbadweather.RipVanWinkle,however,wasoneofthosehappymortals,offoolish,well-oileddispositions,whotaketheworldeasy,eatwhitebreadorbrown,whichevercanbegotwithleastthoughtortrouble,andwouldratherstarveonapennythanworkforapound.Iflefttohimself,hewouldhavewhistledlifeaway,inperfectcontentment；buthiswifekeptcontinuallydinninginhisearsabouthisidleness,hiscarelessness,andtheruinhewasbringingonhisfamily.Morning,noon,andnight,hertonguewasincessantlygoing,andeverythinghesaidordidwassuretoproduceatorrentofhouseholdeloquence.Riphadbutonewayofreplyingtoalllecturesofthekind,andthat,byfrequentuse,hadgrownintoahabit.Heshruggedhisshoulders,shookhishead,castuphiseyes,butsaidnothing.This,however,alwaysprovokedafreshvolleyfromhiswife,sothathewasfaintodrawoffhisforces,andtaketotheoutsideofthehouse—theonlysidewhich,intruth,belongstoahenpeckedhusband.Rip’ssoledomesticadherentwashisdogWolf,whowasasmuchhenpeckedashismaster;forDameVanWinkleregardedthemascompanionsinidleness,andevenlookeduponWolfwithanevileye,asthecauseofhismaster’ssooftengoingastray.Trueitis,inallpointsofspiritbefittinganhonorabledog,hewasascourageousananimalaseverscouredthewoods—butwhatcouragecanwithstandtheever-duringandall-besettingterrorsofawoman'stongue?ThemomentWolfenteredthehousehiscrestfell,histaildroopedtotheground,orcurledbetweenhislegs；hesneakedaboutwithagallowsair,castingmanyasidelongglanceatDameVanWinkle,andattheleastflourishofabroomstickorladlewouldflytothedoorwithyelpingprecipitation.TimesgrewworseandworsewithRipVanWinkleasyearsofmatrimonyrolledon；atarttempernevermellowswithage,andasharptongueistheonlyedgedtoolthatgrowskeenerbyconstantuse.Foralongwhileheusedtoconsolehimself,whendrivenfromhome,byfrequentingakindofperpetualclubofthesages,philosophers,andotheridlepersonagesofthevillage,whichhelditssessionsonabenchbeforeasmallinn,designatedbyarubicundportraitofhismajestyGeorgetheThird.Heretheyusedtositintheshade,ofalonglazysummer'sday,talkinglistlesslyovervillagegossip,ortellingendlesssleepystoriesaboutnothing.Butitwouldhavebeenworthanystatesman'smoneytohaveheardtheprofounddiscussionswhichsometimestookplace,whenbychanceanoldnewspaperfellintotheirhands,fromsomepassingtraveler.Howsolemnlytheywouldlistentothecontents,asdrawledoutbyDerrickVanBummel,theschoolmaster,adapper,learnedlittleman,whowasnottobedauntedbythemostgiganticwordinthedictionary;andhowsagelytheywoulddeliberateuponpubliceventssomemonthsaftertheyhadtakenplace.TheopinionsofthisjuntowerecompletelycontrolledbyNicholasVedder,apatriarchofthevillage,andlandlordoftheinn,atthedoorofwhichhetookhisseatfrommorningtillnight,justmovingsufficientlytoavoidthesun,andkeepintheshadeofalargetree;sothattheneighborscouldtellthehourbyhismovementsasaccuratelyasbyasun-dial.Itistrue,hewasrarelyheardtospeak,butsmokedhispipeincessantly.Hisadherents,however(foreverygreatmanhashisadherents),perfectlyunderstoodhim,andknewhowtogatherhisopinions.Whenanythingthatwasreadorrelateddispleasedhim,hewasobservedtosmokehispipevehemently,andsendforthshort,frequent,andangrypuffs;butwhenpleased,hewouldinhalethesmokeslowlyandtranquilly,andemititinlightandplacidclouds,andsometimestakingthepipefromhismouth,andlettingthefragrantvaporcurlabouthisnose,wouldgravelynodhisheadintokenofperfectapprobation.FromeventhisstrongholdtheunluckyRipwasatlengthroutedbyhistermagantwife,whowouldsuddenlybreakinuponthetranquillityoftheassemblage,andcallthemembersalltonought;norwasthataugustpersonage,NicholasVedderhimself,sacredfromthedaringtongueofthisterriblevirago,whochargedhimoutrightwithencouragingherhusbandinhabitsofidleness.PoorRipwasatlastreducedalmosttodespair;andhisonlyalternative,toescapefromthelaborofthefarmandclamorofhiswife,wastotakeguninhandandstrollawayintothewoods.Herehewouldsometimesseathimselfatthefootofatree,andsharethecontentsofhiswalletwithWolf,withwhomhesympathizedasafellow-suffererinpersecution.“PoorWolf,”hewouldsay,“thymistressleadstheeadog’slifeofit;butnevermind,mylad,whileIlivethoushaltneverwantafriendtostandbythee!”Wolfwouldwaghistail,lookwistfullyinhismaster’sface,andifdogscanfeelpity,Iverilybelievehereciprocatedthesentimentwithallhisheart.Inalongrambleofthekindonafineautumnalday,RiphadunconsciouslyscrambledtooneofthehighestpartsoftheCatskillMountains.Hewasafterhisfavoritesportofsquirrelshooting,andthestillsolitudeshadechoedandre?choedwiththereportsofhisgun.Pantingandfatigued,hethrewhimself,lateintheafternoon,onagreenknoll,coveredwithmountainherbage,thatcrownedthebrowofaprecipice.Fromanopeningbetweenthetreeshecouldoverlookallthelowercountryformanyamileofrichwoodland.HesawatadistancethelordlyHudson,far,farbelowhim,movingonitssilentbutmajesticcourse,thereflectionofapurplecloud,orthesailofalaggingbark,hereandtheresleepingonitsglassybosom,andatlastlosingitselfinthebluehighlands.Ontheothersidehelookeddownintoadeepmountainglen,wild,lonely,andshagged,thebottomfilledwithfragmentsfromtheimpendingcliffs,andscarcelylightedbythereflectedraysofthesettingsun.ForsometimeRiplaymusingonthisscene；eveningwasgraduallyadvancing；themountainsbegantothrowtheirlongblueshadowsoverthevalleys；hesawthatitwouldbedarklongbeforehecouldreachthevillage,andheheavedaheavysighwhenhethoughtofencounteringtheterrorsofDameVanWinkleAshewasabouttodescend,heheardavoicefromadistance,hallooing,“RipVanWinkle!RipVanWinkle!”Helookedaround,butcouldseenothingbutacrowwingingitssolitaryflightacrossthemountain.Hethoughthisfancymusthavedeceivedhim,andturnedagaintodescend,whenheheardthesamecryringthroughthestilleveningair：“RipVanWinkle!RipVanWinkle!”—atthesametimeWolfbristleduphisback,andgivingalowgrowl,skulkedtohismaster'sside,lookingfearfullydownintotheglen.Ripnowfeltavagueapprehensionstealingoverhim；helookedanxiouslyinthesamedirection,andperceivedastrangefigureslowlytoilinguptherocks,andbendingundertheweightofsomethinghecarriedonhisback.Hewassurprisedtoseeanyhumanbeinginthislonelyandunfrequentedplace,butsupposingittobesomeoneoftheneighborhoodinneedofassistance,hehasteneddowntoyieldit.Onnearerapproach,hewasstillmoresurprisedatthesingularityofthestranger’sappearance.Hewasashort,square-builtoldfellow,withthickbushyhair,andagrizzledbeard.HisdresswasoftheantiqueDutchfashion—aclothjerkinstrappedaroundthewaist—severalpairofbreeches,theouteroneofamplevolume,decoratedwithrowsofbuttonsdownthesides,andbunchesattheknees.Heboreonhisshouldersastoutkeg,thatseemedfullofliquor,andmadesignsforRiptoapproachandassisthimwiththeload.Thoughrathershyanddistrustfulofthisnewacquaintance,Ripcompliedwithhisusualalacrity,andmutuallyrelievingoneanother,theyclamberedupanarrowgully,apparentlythedrybedofamountaintorrent.Astheyascended,Ripeverynowandthenheardlongrollingpeals,likedistantthunder,thatseemedtoissueoutofadeepravine,orrathercleftbetweenloftyrocks,towardwhichtheirruggedpathconducted.Hepausedforaninstant,butsupposingittobethemutteringofoneofthosetransientthundershowerswhichoftentakeplaceinmountainheights,heproceeded.Passingthroughtheravine,theycametoahollow,likeasmallamphitheater,surroundedbyperpendicularprecipices,overthebrinksofwhichimpendingtreesshottheirbranches,sothatyouonlycaughtglimpsesoftheazureskyandthebrighteveningcloud.Duringthewholetime,Ripandhiscompanionhadlaboredoninsilence;forthoughtheformermarveledgreatlywhatcouldbetheobjectofcarryingakegofliquorupthiswildmountain,yettherewassomethingstrangeandincomprehensibleabouttheunknownthatinspiredaweandcheckedfamiliarity.Onenteringtheamphitheater,newobjectsofwonderpresentedthemselves.Onalevelspotinthecenterwasacompanyofodd-lookingpersonagesplayingatninepins.Theyweredressedinaquaint,outlandishfashion：someworeshortdoublets,othersjerkins,withlongknivesintheirbelts,andmosthadenormousbreeches,ofsimilarstylewiththatoftheguide's.Theirvisages,too,werepeculiar：onehadalargehead,broadface,andsmall,piggisheyes；thefaceofanotherseemedtoconsistentirelyofnose,andwassurmountedbyawhitesugar-loafhatsetoffwithalittleredcock'stail.Theyallhadbeards,ofvariousshapesandcolors.Therewasonewhoseemedtobethecommander.Hewasastoutoldgentleman,withaweather—beatencountenance；heworealaceddoublet,broadbeltandhanger,high-crownedhatandfeather,redstockings,andhigh-heeledshoes,withrosesinthem.ThewholegroupremindedRipofthefiguresinanoldFlemishpainting,intheparlorofDominieVanSchaick,thevillageparson,andwhichhadbeenbroughtoverfromHollandatthetimeofthesettlement.WhatseemedparticularlyoddtoRip,wasthatthoughthesefolkswereevidentlyamusingthemselves,yettheymaintainedthegravestfaces,themostmysterioussilence,andwere,withal,themostmelancholypartyofpleasurehehadeverwitnessed.Nothinginterruptedthestillnessofthescenebutthenoiseoftheballs,which,whenevertheywererolled,echoedalongthemountainslikerumblingpealsofthunder.AsRipandhiscompanionapproachedthem,theysuddenlydesistedfromtheirplay,andstaredathimwithsuchfixedstatue—likegaze,andsuchstrange,uncouth,lack—lustercountenances,thathisheartturnedwithinhim,andhiskneessmotetogether.Hiscompanionnowemptiedthecontentsofthekegintolargeflagons,andmadesignstohimtowaituponthecompany.Heobeyedwithfearandtrembling；theyquaffedtheliquorinprofoundsilence,andthenreturnedtotheirgame.Bydegrees,Rip’saweandapprehensionsubsided.Heevenventured,whennoeyewasfixeduponhim,totastethebeverage,whichhefoundhadmuchoftheflavorofexcellentHollands.Hewasnaturallyathirstysoul,andwassoontemptedtorepeatthedraught.Onetasteprovokedanother,andhereiteratedhisvisitstotheflagonsooften,thatatlengthhissenseswereoverpowered,hiseyesswaminhishead,hisheadgraduallydeclined,andhefellintoadeepsleep.Onawaking,hefoundhimselfonthegreenknollfromwhencehehadfirstseentheoldmanoftheglen.Herubbedhiseyes—itwasabrightsunnymorning.Thebirdswerehoppingandtwitteringamongthebushes,andtheeaglewaswheelingaloftandbreastingthepuremountainbreeze.“Surely,”thoughtRip,“Ihavenotslepthereallnight.”Herecalledtheoccurrencesbeforehefellasleep.Thestrangemanwithakegofliquor—themountainravine—thewildretreatamongtherocks—thewoe-begonepartyatninepins—theflagon—“Oh!thatflagon!thatwickedflagon!”thoughtRip—“whatexcuseshallImaketoDameVanWinkle?”Helookedroundforhisgun,butinplaceoftheclean,well-oiledfowlingpiece,hefoundanoldfirelocklyingbyhim,thebarrelincrustedwithrust,thelockfallingoff,andthestockworm-eaten.Henowsuspectedthatthegraveroystersofthemountainhadputatrickuponhim,andhavingdosedhimwithliquor,hadrobbedhimofhisgun.Wolf,too,haddisappeared,buthemighthavestrayedawayafterasquirrelorpartridge.Hewhistledafterhim,shoutedhisname,butallinvain；theechoesrepeatedhiswhistleandshout,butnodogwastobeseen.Hedeterminedtorevisitthesceneofthelastevening'sgambol,andifhemetwithanyoftheparty,todemandhisdogandgun.Asherosetowalk,hefoundhimselfstiffinthejoints,andwantinginhisusualactivity."Thesemountainbedsdonotagreewithme,“thoughtRip,“andifthisfrolicshouldlaymeupwithafitoftherheumatism,IshallhaveablessedtimewithDameVanWinkle.”Withsomedifficultyhegotdownintotheglen；hefoundthegullyupwhichheandhiscompanionhadascendedtheprecedingevening；buttohisastonishmentamountainstreamwasnowfoamingdownit,leapingfromrocktorock,andfillingtheglenwithbabblingmurmurs.He,however,madeshifttoscrambleupitssides,workinghistoilsomewaythroughthicketsofbirch,sassafras,andwitch-hazel,andsometimestrippeduporentangledbythewildgrapevinesthattwistedtheircoilsandtendrilsfromtreetotree,andspreadakindofnetworkinhispath.Atlengthhereachedtowheretheravinehadopenedthroughthecliffstotheamphitheater；butnotracesofsuchopeningremained.Therockspresentedahigh,impenetrablewall,overwhichthetorrentcametumblinginasheetoffeatheryfoam,andfellintoabroad,deepbasin,blackfromtheshadowsofthesurroundingforest.Here,then,poorRipwasbroughttoastand.Heagaincalledandwhistledafterhisdog；hewasonlyansweredbythecawingofaflockofidlecrows,sportinghighinairaboutadrytreethatoverhungasunnyprecipice；andwho,secureintheirelevation,seemedtolookdownandscoffatthepoorman'sperplexities.Whatwastobedone?themorningwaspassingaway,andRipfeltfamishedforwantofhisbreakfast.Hegrievedtogiveuphisdogandgun；hedreadedtomeethiswife；butitwouldnotdotostarveamongthemountains.Heshookhishead,shoulderedtherustyfirelock,and,withaheartfulloftroubleandanxiety,turnedhisstepshomeward.Asheapproachedthevillage,hemetanumberofpeople,butnonewhomheknew,whichsomewhatsurprisedhim,forhehadthoughthimselfacquaintedwitheveryoneinthecountryround.Theirdress,too,wasofadifferentfashionfromthattowhichhewasaccustomed.Theyallstaredathimwithequalmarksofsurprise,andwhenevertheycasttheireyesuponhim,invariablystrokedtheirchins.TheconstantrecurrenceofthisgestureinducedRip,involuntarily,todothesame,when,tohisastonishment,hefoundhisbeardhadgrownafootlong!Hehadnowenteredtheskirtsofthevillage.Atroopofstrangechildrenranathisheels,hootingafterhim,andpointingathisgraybeard.Thedogs,too,noneofwhichherecognizedforhisoldacquaintances,barkedathimashepassed.Theveryvillagewasaltered:itwaslargerandmorepopulous.Therewererowsofhouseswhichhehadneverseenbefore,andthosewhichhadbeenhisfamiliarhauntshaddisappeared.Strangenameswereoverthedoors—strangefacesatthewindows—everythingwasstrange.Hismindnowbegantomisgivehim;hedoubtedwhetherbothheandtheworldaroundhimwerenotbewitched.Surelythiswashisnativevillage,whichhehadleftbutthedaybefore.TherestoodtheCatskillMountains—thereranthesilverHudsonatadistance—therewaseveryhillanddalepreciselyasithadalwaysbeen—Ripwassorelyperplexed—“Thatflagonlastnight,”thoughthe,“hasaddledmypoorheadsadly!”Itwaswithsomedifficultyhefoundthewaytohisownhouse,whichheapproachedwithsilentawe,expectingeverymomenttoheartheshrillvoiceofDameVanWinkle.Hefoundthehousegonetodecay—therooffallenin,thewindowsshattered,andthedoorsoffthehinges.Ahalf-starveddog,thatlookedlikeWolf,wasskulkingaboutit.Ripcalledhimbyname,butthecursnarled,showedhisteeth,andpassedon.Thiswasanunkindcutindeed—“Myverydog,"sighedpoorRip,“hasforgottenme!”Heenteredthehouse,which,totellthetruth,DameVanWinklehadalwayskeptinneatorder.Itwasempty,forlorn,andapparentlyabandoned.Thisdesolatenessovercameallhisconnubialfears—hecalledloudlyforhiswifeandchildren—thelonelychambersrungforamomentwithhisvoice,andthenallagainwassilence.Henowhurriedforth,andhastenedtohisoldresort,thelittlevillageinn—butittoowasgone.Alargericketywoodenbuildingstoodinitsplace,withgreatgapingwindows,someofthembroken,andmendedwitholdhatsandpetticoats,andoverthedoorwaspainted,“TheUnionHotel,byJonathanDoolittle.”InsteadofthegreattreewhichusedtoshelterthequietlittleDutchinnofyore,therenowwasrearedatallnakedpole,withsomethingonthetopthatlookedlikearednightcap,andfromitwasflutteringaflag,onwhichwasasingularassemblageofstarsandstripes—allthiswasstrangeandincomprehensible.Herecognizedonthesign,however,therubyfaceofKingGeorge,underwhichhehadsmokedsomanyapeacefulpipe,buteventhiswassingularlymetamorphosed.Theredcoatwaschangedforoneofblueandbuff,aswordwasstuckinthehandinsteadofascepter,theheadwasdecoratedwithacockedhat,andunderneathwaspaintedinlargecharacters,GENERALWASHINGTON.Therewas,asusual,acrowdoffolkaboutthedoor,butnonewhomRiprecollected.Theverycharacterofthepeopleseemedchanged.Therewasabusy,bustling,disputatioustoneaboutit,insteadoftheaccustomedphlegmanddrowsytranquillity.HelookedinvainforthesageNicholasVedder,withhisbroadface,doublechin,andfairlongpipe,utteringcloudsoftobaccosmokeinsteadofidlespeeches;orVanBummel,theschoolmaster,dolingforththecontentsofanancientnewspaper.Inplaceofthese,alean,bilious-lookingfellow,withhispocketsfullofhandbills,washaranguingvehementlyaboutrightsofcitizens—election—membersofCongress—liberty—Bunker’sHill—heroesof’76—andotherwords,thatwereaperfectBabylonishjargontothebewilderedVanWinkle.TheappearanceofRip,withhislonggrizzledbeard,hisrustyfowlingpiece,hisuncouthdress,andthearmyofwomenandchildrenthathadgatheredathisheels,soonattractedtheattentionofthetavernpoliticians.Theycrowdedaroundhim,eyinghimfromheadtofoot,withgreatcuriosity.Theoratorbustleduptohim,anddrawinghimpartlyaside,inquired“onwhichsidehevoted?”Ripstaredinvacantstupidity.Anothershortbutbusylittlefellowpulledhimbythearm,andraisingontiptoe,inquiredinhisear,“whetherhewasFederalorDemocrat.”Ripwasequallyatalosstocomprehendthequestion;whenaknowing,self-importantoldgentleman,inasharpcockedhat,madehiswaythroughthecrowd,puttingthemtotherightandleftwithhiselbowsashepassed,andplantinghimselfbeforeVanWinkle,withonearmakimbo,theotherrestingonhiscane,hiskeeneyesandsharphatpenetrating,asitwere,intohisverysoul,demanded,inanausteretone,“whatbroughthimtotheelectionwithagunonhisshoulder,andamobathisheels,andwhetherhemeanttobreedariotinthevillage?”“Alas!gentlemen,“criedRip,somewhatdismayed,“Iamapoorquietman,anativeoftheplace,andaloyalsubjectoftheking,Godblesshim!”Hereageneralshoutburstfromthebystanders—“ATory!aTory!aspy!arefugee!hustlehim!awaywithhim!”Itwaswithgreatdifficultythattheself-importantmaninthecockedhatrestoredorder;andhavingassumedatenfoldausterityofbrow,demandedagainoftheunknownculprit,whathecametherefor,andwhomhewasseeking.Thepoormanhumblyassuredhimthathemeantnoharm;butmerelycamethereinsearchofsomeofhisneighbors,whousedtokeepaboutthetavern.“Well—whoarethey?—namethem.”Ripbethoughthimselfamoment,andtheninquired,“Where'sNicholasVedder?”Therewassilenceforalittlewhile,whenanoldmanrepliedinathin,pipingvoice,“NicholasVedder?why,heisdeadandgonetheseeighteenyears!Therewasawoodentombstoneinthechurchyardthatusedtotellallabouthim,butthat'srottedandgone,too.”“Where'sBromDutcher?”“Oh,hewentofftothearmyinthebeginningofthewar；somesayhewaskilledatthebattleofStonyPoint—otherssayhewasdrownedinasquall,atthefootofAntony'sNose.Idon'tknow—henevercamebackagain.”“Where’sVanBummel,theschoolmaster?”“Hewentofftothewars,too,wasagreatmilitiageneral,andisnowinCongress.”Rip’sheartdiedaway,athearingofthesesadchangesinhishomeandfriends,andfindinghimselfthusaloneintheworld.Everyanswerpuzzledhim,too,bytreatingofsuchenormouslapsesoftime,andofmatterswhichhecouldnotunderstand:war—Congress—StonyPoint!—hehadnocouragetoaskafteranymorefriends,butcriedoutindespair,“DoesnobodyhereknowRipVanWinkle?”“Oh,RipVanWinkle!”exclaimedtwoorthree,“Oh,tobesure!that’sRipVanWinkleyonder,leaningagainstthetree.”Riplooked,andbeheldaprecisecounterpartofhimself,ashewentupthemountain:apparentlyaslazy,andcertainlyasragged.Thepoorfellowwasnowcompletelyconfounded.Hedoubtedhisownidentity,andwhetherhewashimselforanotherman.Inthemidstofhisbewilderment,themaninthecockedhatdemandedwhohewas,andwhatwashisname?“Godknows,“exclaimedhe,athiswit'send；"I'mnotmyself—I'msomebodyelse—that'smeyonder—no—that'ssomebodyelse,gotintomyshoes—Iwasmyselflastnight,butIfellasleeponthemountain,andthey'vechangedmygun,andeverything'schanged,andI'mchanged,andIcan'ttellwhat'smyname,orwhoIam!”Thebystandersbegannowtolookateachother,nod,winksignificantly,andtaptheirfingersagainsttheirforeheads.Therewasawhisper,also,aboutsecuringthegun,andkeepingtheoldfellowfromdoingmischief；attheverysuggestionofwhich,theself-importantmaninthecockedhatretiredwithsomeprecipitation.Atthiscriticalmomentafresh,likelywomanpressedthroughthethrongtogetapeepatthegray-beardedman.Shehadachubbychildinherarms,which,frightenedathislooks,begantocry."Hush,Rip,"criedshe,“hush,youlittlefool,theoldmanwon'thurtyou.”Thenameofthechild,theairofthemother,thetoneofhervoice,allawakenedatrainofrecollectionsinhismind.“Whatisyourname,mygoodwoman?”askedhe.“JudithGardenier.”“Andyourfather'sname?”“Ah,poorman,hisnamewasRipVanWinkle；it'stwentyyearssincehewentawayfromhomewithhisgun,andneverhasbeenheardofsince—hisdogcamehomewithouthim；butwhetherheshothimself,orwascarriedawaybytheIndians,nobodycantell.Iwasthenbutalittlegirl.”Riphadbutonequestionmoretoask;butheputitwithafalteringvoice:“Where’syourmother?”“Oh,shetoohaddiedbutashorttimesince；shebrokeabloodvesselinafitofpassionataNewEnglandpeddler.”Therewasadropofcomfort,atleast,inthisintelligence.Thehonestmancouldcontainhimselfnolonger.—Hecaughthisdaughterandherchildinhisarms.—“Iamyourfather!”criedhe—“YoungRipVanWinkleonce—oldRipVanWinklenow!—DoesnobodyknowpoorRipVanWinkle!”Allstoodamazed,untilanoldwoman,totteringoutfromamongthecrowd,putherhandtoherbrow,andpeeringunderitinhisfaceforamoment,exclaimed,“Sureenough!itisRipVanWinkle—itishimself.Welcomehomeagain,oldneighbor.