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 [v]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."