He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strangechildren ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his graybeard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an oldacquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village wasaltered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houseswhich he had never seen before, and those which had been hisfamiliar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors-strange faces at the windows- every thing was strange. His mind nowmisgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world aroundhim were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which hehad left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains-there ran the silver Hudson at a distance- there was every hill anddale 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 that he found the way to his ownhouse, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every momentto hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house goneto decay- the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors offthe hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulkingabout it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed histeeth, 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 Winklehad always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparentlyabandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears- hecalled loudly for his wife and children- the lonely chambers rangfor a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the villageinn- but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in itsplace, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mendedwith old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "TheUnion Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree thatused to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now wasreared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like ared night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was asingular assemblage of stars and stripes- all this was strange andincomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face ofKing George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; buteven this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed forone of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of asceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneathwas painted in large characters, GENERAL WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none thatRip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed.
There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of theaccustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for thesage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fairlong pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idlespeeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contentsof an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-lookingfellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguingvehemently about rights of citizens- elections- members of congress-liberty- Bunker's Hill- heroes of seventy-six- and other words,which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rustyfowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children athis heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians.
They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with greatcuriosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partlyaside, inquired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacantstupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm,and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "Whether he was Federal orDemocrat?" 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 leftwith his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before VanWinkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keeneyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul,demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election witha gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant tobreed 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! aspy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with greatdifficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restoredorder; and, having assumed a ten-fold austerity of brow, demandedagain of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom hewas seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm,but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who usedto keep about the tavern.
"Well- who are they?- name them."
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's NicholasVedder?"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 gonethese eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in thechurch-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten andgone too.""Where's Brom Dutcher?"
"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some sayhe was killed at the storming of Stony Point- others say he wasdrowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know- henever came back again.""Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?"