I
Whoever has made a voyage up the
Hudson must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a 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 goodwives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
At the foot of these fairy
mountains the traveler may have seen 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 the0 fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little
village of great age, 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, built of small
yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one
of these very houses, 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.
Certain it is that he was a great
favorite among all the goodwives of the village, who 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; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s
composition was a strong dislike of all kinds of profitable labor. It could not
be from the want of perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as
long and heavy as a 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 refuse
to assist a neighbor even 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, he found it impossible.
His children, too, were as ragged
and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip 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
breeches, 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 ear 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 going so often 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-enduring 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 he 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 with
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of 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 III. 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 to 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 nod his head in
approbation.
From even this stronghold the
unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly
break in upon the tranquility of the assemblage, and call the members all to
naught; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the
daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him 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, whilst 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 reëchoed 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,
with 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 and lonely, the bottom filled with fragments
from the overhanging 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 round, 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 fearfully
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 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, and
several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of
buttons down the sides. 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. Though
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his
usual alacrity, and 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 thundershowers 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 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 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
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 Shaick, the village parson,
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 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 repeated 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.
II
On waking he found himself on the
green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his
eyes—it was a bright, sunny morning. The0 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 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 incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave revelers 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.
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 with 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 grapevines that
twisted their coils 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, not one of which he recognized
for an old acquaintance, 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 misgave him; he began to doubt
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 that
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 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. He called loudly for his wife and
children—the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again
was silence.
III
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 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 changed. The red coat was changed
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter,
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 tone about it, instead of the
accustomed drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder,
with his broad face, double chin, and 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 fellow, with
his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of
citizens—elections—members of congress—Bunker’s Hill—heroes of seventy-six—and
other words, which were a perfect jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his
long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army
of women and children 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 busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising 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, God 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.
“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 rotten and gone, too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in
the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony
Point; others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Anthony’s Nose. I
don’t know; he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Brummel, 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—Stony
Point. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in
despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed
two or three, “oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against
the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise
counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain—apparently as lazy and
certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted
his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of
his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was
his name.
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his
wits’ end; “I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s
somebody else got into my shoes—I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on
the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and everything’s changed, and I’m
changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The bystanders began now to look
at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their
foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the
old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this
critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep
at the gray-bearded man. 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 won’t 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.”
“And 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:
“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 intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He
caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “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 neighbor. 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 neighbors 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
neighborhood. 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 Catskill Mountains had always
been haunted by strange beings. 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 enter0prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river
and the great city called by his name. His father had once seen them in their
old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the mountain; and 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 a 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 showed an hereditary disposition to attend to anything
else but his business.
Washington
Irving.