The punctiliousness of Don Sebastian by W. Somerset-Morme. Siomeneath is the most inaccessible place in Spain. Only one train arrives there in the course of the day, and that arrives at two o'clock in the morning. Only one train leaves it, and that starts an hour before sunrise. No one has ever been able to discover what happens to the railway officials during the intermediate one and twenty hours. A German painter I met there, who had come by the only train, and had been endeavouring for a fortnight to get up in time to go away, told me that he had frequently gone to the station in order to clear up the mystery, but had never been able to do so. Yet, from his inquiries he was inclined to suspect, and that was as far as he would commit himself, being a cautious man, that they spent the time in eating garlic and smoking extensible cigarettes. The guidebooks tell you that Siomeneath possesses the eyebrows of Joseph of Arimathea, a cathedral of the greatest quaintness, and battlements untouched since their erection in the fourteenth century, and they strongly advise you to visit it, but recommend you, before doing so, to add Keating's insect powder to your other toilet necessaries. I was travelling to Madrid in an express train, which had been rushing along at the pace of sixteen miles an hour, when suddenly it stopped. I leant out of the window, asking where we were. Siomeneath answered the guard, I thought we did not stop at Siomeneath. He replied impassively, but we are stopping now. That may be, but we are going on again. I had already learnt that it was folly to argue with the Spanish guard, and drawing back my head, I sat down. But looking at my watch I saw that it was only ten. I should never again have a chance with inspecting the eyebrows of Joseph of Arimathea, unless I chartered a special train. So seizing the opportunity, and my bag, I jumped out. The only porter told me that everyone in Siomeneath was asleep at that hour, and recommended me to spend the night in the waiting-room. But I bribed him heavily. I offered him two pesettas, which is nearly fifteen pence, and leaving the train to its own devices, he shouldered my bag and started off. Along a stony road we walked into the dark night, the wind blowing cold and bitter, and the clouds chasing one another across the sky. In front I could see nothing but the porter, hurrying along, bent down under the weight of my bag, and the wind blew icily. I buttoned up my coat, and then I regretted the warmth of the carriage, the comfort of my corner and my rug. I wished I had peacefully continued my journey to Madrid. I was on the verge of turning back, as I heard the whistling of the train. I hesitated, but the porter hurried on, and fearing to lose him in the night I sprang forwards. Then the puffing of the engine, and on the smoke the bright reflection of the furnace, and the train steamed away. Like Abdelrahman I felt that I had flung my scabbard into the flames. Still the porter hurried on, bent down under the weight of my bag, and I saw no light in front of me to announce the approach to a town. On each side bordering the road were trees, and beyond them darkness, and great black clouds hastened after one another across the heavens. Then as we walked along we came to a rough stone cross, and lying on the steps before it was a woman with uplifted hands, and the wind blew bitter and keen, freezing the marrow of one's bones. What prayers had she to offer that she must kneel there alone in the night? We passed another cross, standing up with its outstretched arms like a soul in pain. At last a heavier night rose before me, and presently I saw a great stone arch. Between beneath it I found myself immediately in the town. The street was tortuous and narrow, paved with rough cobbles, and it rose steeply so that the porter bent lower beneath his burden, panting.  On either side rose tall houses, lying crooked and irregular, leaning towards one another at the top so that one could not see the clouds, and their windows were great black apertures like giant mouths. There was not a light, not a soul, not a sound, except that of my own feet and the heavy panting of the porter. We wound through streets, round corners, through low arches, a long way up the steep cobbles, and suddenly down broken steps. They hurt my feet, and I stumbled and almost fell. But the hunchback walked along, nimbly, hurrying ever. Then we came into an open space, and the wind caught us again and blew through our clothes, so that I shrank up, shivering, and never a soul did we see as we walked on. It might have been a city of the dead. Then passed a tall church, I saw a carved porch, and from the side grim devils grinning down upon me. The porter dived through an arch, and I groped my way along a narrow passage.  He beat with his fists upon an iron door, making the metal ring. A window above was thrown open, and a voice cried out. The porter answered. There was a clattering down the stairs, and unlocking, and the door was timidly held open, so that I saw a woman, with the light of her candle throwing a strange yellow glare on her face. And so I arrived at the hotel of Zyormanné, too. My night was troubled by the ghostly crying of the watchman. Protectus Mary, Queen of Heaven, protectus Mary! Every hour it rang out stridently, as soon as the heavy bells of the cathedral had ceased their clanging. And I thought of the woman kneeling at the cross, and wondered if her soul had found peace. In the morning I threw open the windows, and the sun came dancing in, flooding the room with gold. In front of me the great wall of the cathedral stood grim and gray, and the gargoyles looked savagely across the square. The cathedral is admirable. When you enter you find yourself at once in darkness, and the air is heavy with incense, but as your eyes become accustomed to the gloom, you see the black forms of penitence kneeling by pillars looking towards an altar, and by the light of the painted windows a raridos, with the gaunt saints of an early painter, and Orioles shining dimly. But the gem of the cathedral of Zyormanné is the chapel of the duke de Lossos, containing as it does the alabaster monument of Don Sebastian Emmanuel de Mantona, duke de Lossos, and of the very illustrious senora doña Sordina de Veragüet, his wife. Like everything else in Spain the chapel is kept locked up, and the guidebook tells you to apply to the porter at the palace of the present duke.  And immediately I saw walking towards me a little dark man wrapped up in the big cape, with the red and blue velvet of the lining flung gaudily over his shoulder. He bowed courteously as he approached, and I perceived that on the crown his hair was somewhat more than thin. I hesitated a little, rather awkwardly, for the guidebook said that the porter exacted a fear of one peseta for opening the chapel. One could scarcely offer Sempens' hate me to a duke. But he quickly put an end to all doubts, for as he unlocked the door, he turned to me and said, and the fear is one franc. As I gave it him, he put it in his pocket, and gravely handed me a little printed receipt. The guide-ecker had obligingly informed me that the Duchy of Lausace was sure of its splendour, but I had not understood that the present representative added to his income by exhibiting the bones of his ancestors at a frank ahead. We entered, and the duke pointed out the groining on the roof and the tracery of the windows. This chapel contains some of the finest agothic in Spain, he said. When he considered that I had sufficiently admired the architecture, he turned to the pictures, and with the fluency of a professional guide gave me their subjects and the names of the artists. Now we come to the tombs of Don Sebastian, the first duke of Lausace, and his spouse Don Josodina, not, however, the first duchess. The monument stood in the middle of the chapel, covered with the great pole of red velvet, so that no economical tourist should see it through the bars of the gate, and thus save his peseta. The duke removed the covering, and watched me silently, a slight smile trembling below his little macnastache. The duke and his wife, who was not his duchess, lay side by side on a bed of carved alabaster. At the corners were four twisted pillars, covered with little leaves and flowers, and between them bas-reliefs, representing love and youth and strength and pleasure. As if, even in the midst of death, death must be forgotten. Don Sebastian was in full armour, his helmet was admirably carved, with the representation of the battle between the centaurs and the lapithae, on the right armpiece were portrayed the adventures of Venus and Mars, and on the left the emotions of Vulcan, but on the breastplate was an elaborate crucifixion, with soldiers and women and apostles. The visor was raised, and showed a stern heavy face, with prominent cheekbones, sensual lips and a massive chin. It is very fine, I remarked, thinking the duke expected some remark. People have thought so for three hundred years, he replied gravely. He pointed out to me the hands of Don Sebastian. The guide-books have said that they are the finest hands in Spain.  They say it is the summit of arts. And he took me to the other side of the monument, that I might look at Donia Sodina. They say she was the most beautiful woman of her day, he said, but in that case the Castilian lady is the only thing in Spain which has not degenerated. She was indeed not beautiful.  One could not but hope that the artist had done her an injustice. The duke of Lossus made me observe the dog which was lying at her feet. It is a symbol of fidelity, he said. The guide-book told me she was chaste and faithful. If she had been, he replied, smiling, Don Sebastian would perhaps never have become duke of Lossus. Really? It is an old history which I discovered one day among some family papers. I pricked up my ears and discreetly began to question him. Are you interested in old manuscripts, said the duke? Come with me and I will show you what I have. With the flourish of the hand he waved me out of the chapel, and having carefully locked the doors, accompanied me to his palace. He took me into a gothic chamber, furnished with worn French furniture, the walls covered with cheap paper. Giving me a cigarette he opened a drawer, and produced a faded manuscript. This is the docuant in question, he said, those crooked and fantastic characters are terrible. I often wonder if the writers were able to read them. You are fortunate to be the possessor of such things, I remarked. He shrugged his shoulders. What good are they? I would soon have fifty passettos in this musty parchment. An offer. I quickly reckoned it out in English money. He would doubtless have taken less, but I felt a certain delicacy in bargaining with a duke over his family secrets. But do you mean it, may I—he sprang towards me. I take it, my dear Sir, take it, and shall I give you all his seat? And so, for thirty-one shings and trepents, I obtained the only authentic account of how the frailty of the illustrious senora Donia Sodina was indirectly the means of raising her husband to the highest dignities in Spain. Three. Don Sebastian and his wife had lived together for fifteen years with the entireist happiness to themselves and the greatest admiration of their neighbours. People said that such an example of conjugal felicity was not often seen in those degenerate days, for even then they praded of the golden age of their grandfathers, lamenting their own decadence. As behoved good castilians, burdened with such a line of noble ancestors, the fortunate couple conducted themselves with all imaginable gravity. No strange eye was permitted to witness a caress between the Lord and his lady, or to hear an expression of endearment. But every one could see the devotion of Don Sebastian, the look of adoration which filled his eyes when he gazed upon his wife. And people said that Donia Sodina was worthy of all his affection. They said that her virtue was only matched by her piety, and her piety was patent to the whole world. For every day she went to the cathedral at the Ormenet, and remained long immersed in her devotions. Her charity was exemplary, and no beggar ever applied to her in vain. But even if Don Sebastian and his wife had not possessed these conjugal virtues, they would have been in the Ormenet persons of note, since not only did they belong to an old and respected family, which was rich as well, but the gentleman's brother was archbishop of the sea, who, when he graced the cathedral city with his presence, paid the greatest attention to Don Sebastian and Donia Sodina. Every one said that the archbishop Pablo would shortly become a cardinal, for he was a great favourite with the king, and with the latter his holiness the pope was then on terms of quite unusual friendship. And in those days, when the priesthood was more noticeable for its gallantry than for its good works, it was refreshing to find so high-placed a dignitary of the church a pattern of Christian virtues, who, notwithstanding his gorgeous habit of life, his retinue, his palaces, recalled by his freedom from at least two of the seven deadly sins, the simplicity of the apostles, which the common people have often supposed the perfect state of the minister of God. Don Sebastian had been a fanced to Donia Sodina when he was a boy of ten, and before she could properly pronounce the viparish sibilance of her native tongue. When the lady attained her sixteenth year, the pair was solemnly espoused, and the young priest Pablo, the bridegroom's brother, assisted at the ceremony. In these days the union would have been instance as a triumphant example of the success of the mariage de convenance, but at that time such arrangements were so usual that it never occurred to anyone to argue for or against them. Yet it was not customary for a young man of two and twenty to fall madly in love with the bride whom he saw for the first time a day or two before his marriage, and it was still less customary for the bride to give back an equal affection. For fifteen years the couple lived in harmony and contentment, with nothing to trouble the even tenor of their lives. And if there was a cloud in their sky, it was that a kindly providence had vouchsafed no fruit to the union, notwithstanding the prayers and candles which Donia Sodina was known to have offered, at the shrine of more than one saint in Spain who had made that kind of miracle particularly his own. But even felicitous marriages cannot last forever, since if the love does not nigh the lovers do, and so it came to pass that Donia Sodina, having eaten excessively of pickled shrimps, which the abyss of a highly respected convent had assured her were of great efficacy in the begetting of children, took a fever of the stomach, as the chronicle inelegantly puts it, and after a week of suffering was called to the other world, from which, as from the pickled shrimps, she had always expected much. There let us hope her virtues have been rewarded, and she rests in peace and happiness. Four. When Don Sebastian walked from the cathedral to his house after the burial of his wife, no one saw a trace of emotion on his face, and it was with his wanted grave courtesy that he bowed to a friend as he passed him. Learnly and briefly, as usual, he gave orders that no one should disturb him, and went to the room of Donia Sodina. He knelt on the praying-stool, which Donia Sodina had daily used for so many years, and he fixed his eyes on the crucifix hanging on the wall above it. The day passed, and the night passed, and Don Sebastian never moved. No thought or emotion entered him. Being alive he was like the dead. He was like the dead that linger on the outer limits of hell, with never a hope for the future, dull with the despair that shall last for ever and ever and ever. But when the woman who had nursed him in his childhood, lovingly disobeyed his order, and entered to give him food, she saw no tear in his eye, no sign of weeping. "'You are right,' he said, painfully rising from his knees. "'Give me to eat.' Mistlessly taking the food, he sank into a chair, and looked at the bed on which had lately rested the corpse of Donia Sodina. But a kindly nature relieved his unhappiness, and he fell into a weary sleep. When he awoke, the night was far advanced. The house, the town, were filled with silence. All round him was darkness, and the ivory crucifix shone dimly-dimly. Inside the door a page was sleeping. He woke him, and led him to bring light. In his sorrow Don Sebastian began to look at the things his wife had loved. He fingered her rosary, and turned over the pages of the half-dozen pious books which formed her library. He looked at the jewels which he had seen glittering on her bosom, the brocades, the rich silks, the cloths of gold and silver that she had delighted to wear. And at last he came across an old breviary, which he thought she had lost. How glad she would have been to find it! She had so often regretted it. The pages were musty with their long concealment, and only faintly could be detected the scent which Donia Sodina used yearly to make and strew about her things. Turning over the pages listlessly, he saw some crabbed writing. He took it to the light. "'Tonight, my beloved, I come.' And the handwriting was that of Pablo, Archbishop of Jiménez. Don Sebastian looked at it long. Why should his brother write such words in the breviary of Donia Sodina?' He turned the pages, and the handwriting of his wife met his eye, and the words were the same. "'Tonight, my beloved, I come.' As if they were such delight to her that she must write them herself.' The breviary dropped from Don Sebastian's hand. The taper flickering in the draught, through glaring lights on Don Sebastian's face, but it showed no change in it. He sat looking at the fallen breviary, and in his mind at the love which was dead. At last he passed his hand over his forehead. And yet, he whispered, "'I loved thee well.' But as the day came he picked up the breviary, and locked it in the casket. He knelt again at the praying stool, and lifting his hands to the crucifix, prayed silently. Then he locked the door of Donia Sodina's room, and it was a year before he ended it again. That day the Archbishop Pablo came to his brother to offer consolation for his loss. And Don Sebastian, at the parting, kissed him on either cheek. Five. The people of the Ormaneth said that Don Sebastian was heartbroken. For from the date of his wife's interment he was not seen in the streets by day. A few returning home from some riot had met him wandering in the dead of night, but he passed them silently by. But he sent his servants to Toledo, and to Burgos, to Salamanca, Gordoba, even to Paris and Rome, and from all these places they brought him books, and day after day he studied in them till the common folk asked if he had turned magician. So passed eleven months, nearly twelve, till it wanted but five days to the anniversary of the death of Donia Sodina. Then Don Sebastian wrote to his brother the letter which for months he had turned over in his mind. Seeing the instability of all human things, and the uncertain length of our exile upon earth, I have considered that it is evil for brothers to remain so separate. Therefore I implore you, who are my only relative in this world, and heir to all my goods and estates, to visit me quickly. For I have a presentiment that death is not far off, and I would see you before we are parted by the immense sea. The Archbishop was thinking that he must shortly pay a visit to his cathedral city, and as his brother had desired, came to Salamaneth immediately. On the anniversary of Donia Sodina's interment Don Sebastian entertained Archbishop Pablo to supper. My brother, said he to his guest, I have lately received from Cordoba a wine which I desire you to taste. It is very highly prized in Africa, whence I am told it comes, and is made with curious art and labour. Glass cups were brought, and the wine poured. The Archbishop was a connoisseur, and held it between the light and himself, admiring the sparkling clearness, and then inhaled the odour. It is nectar, he said, at last he sipped it. The flavour is very strange. He drank deeply. Don Sebastian looked at him, and smiled as his brother put down the empty glass. But when he was himself about to drink, the cup fell between his hands and the stewards, breaking into a hundred fragments, and the wine spilt on the floor. Fool! cried Don Sebastian, and in his anger struck the servant. There, being a man of peace, the Archbishop interposed. Do not be angry with him. It was an accident. There is more wine in the flag than. No, I will not drink it, said Don Sebastian rothfully. I will drink no more to-night. The Archbishop shrugged his shoulders. When they were alone Don Sebastian made a strange request. My brother, it is a year to-day that Soudina was buried, and I have not entered her room since then. But now I have a desire to see it. Will you come with me? The Archbishop consented, and together they crossed the long corridor that lent to Don your Soudina's apartment, preceded by a boy with lights. Don Sebastian unlocked the door, and taking the taper from the page's hand entered. The Archbishop followed. The air was chill and musty, and even now an odour of recent death seemed to pervade the room. Don Sebastian went to a casket, and from it took a brievery. He saw his brother start as his eye fell on it. He turned over the leaves till he came to a page on which was the Archbishop's handwriting, and handed it to him. Oh, God! exclaimed the priest, and looked quickly at the door. Don Sebastian was standing in front of it. He opened his mouth to cry out, but Don Sebastian interrupted him. Do not be afraid. I will not touch you. For a while they looked upon another silently, one pale sweating with terror, the other calm and grave as usual. At last Don Sebastian spoke hoarsely. Did she—did she love you? Oh, my brother forgive her. It was long ago, and she repented bitterly. And I—I—I have forgiven you. The words were said so strangely that the Archbishop shuddered. What did he mean? Don Sebastian smiled. You have no cause for anxiety. From now it is finished. I will forget. And opening the door he helped his brother across the threshold. The Archbishop's hand was clammy as a hand of death. When Don Sebastian bade his brother good-night, he kissed him on either cheek. Six. The priest returned to his palace, and when he was in bed his secretary prepared to read to him, as was his want, but the Archbishop sent him away, desiring to be alone. He tried to think, but the wine he had drunk was heavy upon him, and he fell asleep. But presently he awoke, feeling thirsty. He drank some water. When he became strangely wide awake, a feeling of uneasiness came over him, as of some threatening presence behind him, and again he felt the thirst. He stretched out his hand for the flag, but now there was a mist before his eyes, and he could not see. His hand trembled so that he spilt the water, and the uneasiness was magnified till it became a terror, and the thirst was horrible. He opened his mouth to call out, but his throat was dry, so that no sound came. He tried to rise from his bed, but his limbs were heavy, and he could not move. He breathed quicker and quicker, and his skin was extraordinarily dry. The terror became an agony. It was unbearable. He wanted to bury his face in the pillows to hide it from him. He felt the hair on his head hard and dry, and it stood on end. He called to God for help, but no sound came from his mouth. Then the terror took shape and form, and he knew that behind him was standing Donya Sudina, and she was looking at him with terrible, reproachful eyes. And a second Donya Sudina came and stood at the end of the bed, and another came by her side, and the room was filled with them. But his thirst was horrible. He tried to moisten his mouth with spittle, but the source of it was dry. Cramps seized his limbs so that he rised with pain. Presently a red glow fell upon the room, and it became hot and hotter till he gasped for breath. It blinded him, but he could not close his eyes. And he knew it was the glow of hellfire. Or in his ears rang the groans of souls in torment, and among the voices he recognized that of Donya Sudina, and then he heard his own voice, and in the livid heat he saw himself in his episcopal robes lying on the ground chained to Donya Sudina hand and foot, and he knew that as long as heaven and earth should last the torment of hell would continue. Then the priests came into their master in the morning.  Then there was weeping and lamentation, and from house to house the people told one another that the archbishop had died in his sleep. The bells were set tolling, and as Don Sebastian in his solitude heard them, referring to the chief ingredient of that strange wine from Kordova, he permitted himself the only jest of his life. It was Bella Donna that sent his body to the worms, and it was Bella Donna that sent his soul to hell. 7. The Chronicle does not state whether the thought of his brother's heritage had ever entered Don Sebastian's head, but the fact remains that he was the sole heir, and the archbishop had gathered the loaves and fishes to such purpose during his life that his death made Don Sebastian one of the wealthiest men in Spain. The simplest actions in this world, O Martin Tupper, have often the most unforeseen results. Now Don Sebastian had always been ambitious, and his changed circumstances made him realize more clearly than ever that his merit was worthy of a brilliant arena. The times were propitious, for the old king had just died, and the new one had sent away the army of priests and monks, which had turned every day into a Sunday.  From all corners of Spain gallants were coming to enjoy the sunshine, and every one who could make a compliment or a graceful bow was sure of a welcome. So Don Sebastian prepared to go to Madrid, but before leaving his native town he thought well to appease a possibly vengeful providence by erecting in the cathedral a chapel in honor of his patron saint. Not that he thought the saints would trouble themselves about the death of his brother, even though the causes of it were not entirely natural. But Don Sebastian remembered that Pablo was a archbishop, and the fact caused him a certain anxiety. He called together architects and sculptors, and ordered them to erect an edifice befitting his dignity. And being a careful man, as all Spaniards are, thought he would serve himself as well as the saint, and bad the sculptors make an image of Don Yasodina and an image of himself in order that he might use the chapel also as a burial place. To pay for this Don Sebastian left the revenue of several of his brother's farms, and then with a peaceful conscience set out for the capital. At Madrid he laid himself out to gain the favor of his sovereign, and by dint of unceasing flattery soon received much of the king's attention, and presently Philip Dane to ask his advice on petty matters. And since Don Sebastian took care to advise as he saw the king desired, the latter concluded that the courtier was a man of stamina and ability, and began to consult him on matters of state. Don Sebastian opined that the pleasure of the prince must always come before the welfare of the nation, and the king was so impressed with his sagacity that one day he asked his opinion on a question of precedence, to the indignation of the most famous counsellors in the land. But the haughty soul of Don Sebastian chafed, because he was only one among many favorites. The court was full of flatterers as a Sidious and as a Seapius as himself. His proud Castilian blood could brook no companions. But one day, as he was moodily waiting in the Royal Anti-Chamber, thinking of these things, it occurred to him that a certain profession had always been in great honor among princes, and he remembered that he had a cousin of eighteen who was being educated in a convent near the Ormaneth. She was beautiful. With buoyant heart he went to his house and told his steward to fetch her from the convent at once. Within a fortnight she was at Madrid. Mercier was presented to the queen in the presence of Philip, and Don Sebastian noticed that the royal eye lighted up as he gazed on the bachelor maiden.  Within a week Mercier was created made of honor to the queen, and Don Sebastian was seized with an indisposition which confined him to his room. The king paid his court royally, which is boldly, and Don Yamesia had received in the convent two religious and education not to know that it was her duty to grant the king whatever it graciously pleased him to ask. When Don Sebastian recovered from his illness he found the world at his feet. For everyone was talking of the king's new mistress, and it was taken as a matter of course that her cousin and guardian should take a prominent part in the affairs of the country. But Don Sebastian was furious. He went to the king and bitterly reproached him for thus dishonoring him. Philip was a humane and generous-minded man, and understood that with a certain temperament it might be annoying to have one's ward, Philander, with the king. So he did his best to console the courtier. He called him his friend and brother. He told him he would always love him. But Don Sebastian would not be consoled, and nothing would comfort him except to be made high admiral of the fleet. Philip was charmed to settle the matter so simply, and as he delighted in generosity, when to be generous cost him nothing, he also created Don Sebastian, Duke of Lausace, and gave him into the bargain the hand of the richest heiress in Spain. And that is the end of the story of the punctiliousness of Don Sebastian. With his second wife he lived many years, beloved of his sovereign, courted by the world, honoured by all, till he was visited by the destroyer of delights and the leveller of the grandeur of this world. Eighth, towards evening the Duke of Lausace passed my hotel, and seeing me at the door, asked if I had read the manuscript. I thought it interesting. I said a little coldly, for of course I knew no Englishman would have acted like Don Sebastian. He shrugged his shoulders. It is not half so interesting as a good dinner. At these words I felt bound to offer him such hospitality as the hotel afforded. I found him a very agreeable messmate. He told me the further history of his family, which nearly became extinct at the end of the last century, since the only son of the Seventh Duke had, unfortunately, not been born of any Duchess. But Ferdinand, who was then King of Spain, was unwilling that an ancient family should die out, and was at the same time sorely in want of money. So the titles and honours of the house were continued to the son of the Seventh Duke, and King Ferdinand built himself another palace. But now, said my guest, mournfully shaking his head, it is finished. My palace and a few acres of barren rock are all that remain to me of the lands of my ancestors, and I am the last of the line. But I bad him not despair. He was a bachelor, and a Duke, and not yet forty. I advised him to go to the United States before they put a duty on foreign noblemen. This was before the war, and I recommended him to take made of ale and Manchester on his way. Personally, I gave him a letter of introduction to an heiress of my acquaintance at Hampstead. For even in these days it is not so bad a thing to be a Duchess of Loser, and the present Duke has no brother. End of The Punctiliousness of Don Sebastian by Somerset Maugham Read by Termin Diane Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Rip Van Winkle Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Cascale Mountains. They are a dismembered 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 good wives far and near as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled they are clothed in blue and purple and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky. But sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have described 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 the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, 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 by weathercocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses, which to tell the precise truth was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten, 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, hen-pecked husband. Indeed to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity. For those men are apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers doubtless are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termigant wife may, therefore, in some respects be considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice-blessed. Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, 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 play-things, 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, clamoring on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity, and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be for want of acidity or perseverance, for he would sit on a wet rock with a rod as long and heavy as a tartar's lance and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fouling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps and uphill 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 in 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. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm. It was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country. Nothing about it went wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces. His cow would either go astray or get among the cabbages. Weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else. The rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do, so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 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 Galagascans which he had much adieu 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 the 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 ears 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 folly from his wife, so that he was feigned to draw off his forces and take to the outside of the house the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hand-packed husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hand-packed 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. Through it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods. But what courage can withstand the evil doing 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 side-long 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 the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a Rubicant portrait of His Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade through 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 traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawn out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper-lernet little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary, and how sagely they would deliberate on public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this Junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vetter, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning to 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 sundial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherence, however, for every great man has his adherence, truly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was red or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth frequent and angry puffs. But when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in a light and placid cloud, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky rip was at length routed by his termigant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquility of the assemblage and call the members all to not, nor was the august personage as Nicholas Vetter himself sacred from that daring tongue of this terrible virgo, who charged him outright 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 labour of the farm and the clamour 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 sympathised as a fellow sufferer in persecution. Poor Wolf, he would say, thy mistress leads the a dog's life of it, but never mind, my lad, willst 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 these 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 favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatiqued, he threw himself late in the afternoon on a green knoll, covered with mountain-erbage, 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, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending 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 hallowing, Rip Van Winkle, Rip Van Winkle! He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and he 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 someone of the neighbourhood 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 one of the antique Dutch fashion, a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist, several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders 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 mutually relieving each other they clamoured up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peels, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, towards 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 the mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending 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 laboured 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 amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in quaint, outlandish fashion, somewhere short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guides. Their visages, too, were peculiar.  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 cox tail. They all had beards of various shapes and colours, and 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 hangar, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in the old Flemish painting in the parlor of Dominave and Shake, the village parson, and 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, with all, 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 a fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lackluster countenances that his heart turned within him and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagans, 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 apprehensions subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage which he found had much the flavour of an excellent Holland. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagans 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. 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. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting on 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 nine-pins, the flagan— Oh, that flagan, that wicked flagan, thought Rip, what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle? He looked around for his gun, but in place of the clean, well oiled fouling-piece, he found an old fire-lock lying by him. The barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock were meetin'. He now suspected that the grave-roysterers of the mountains had put a trick upon him, and having doused him with liquor had robbed him of his gun. Wolf too had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or a partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain.  He determined to revisit the scene of last evening's gamble, 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 and tendrils 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 broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here then poor Rip was brought to a stand. He called again, and whistled after his dog. He was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in the 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 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 heartful 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 everyone 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 reoccurrence 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 troupe of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him and pointing at his grey 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 a 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.  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 Dane Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay. The roof had 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 cursed gnarled showed his teeth 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, Dane Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolate-ness overcame all his cannubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and children. The lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice. Then all again was silence. He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort to the village in. 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 night-cap, and from it was a fluttering 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 metamorphist. 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 ripped recollected. The very characters of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Fetter, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches. Orvin Bummel, the schoolmaster doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, billious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about the rights of citizens, elections, members of Congress, liberty, bunkers-hill, heroes of seventy-six and other words, which were perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fouling-piece, his uncouthed dress, and the 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 a federal or a 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 the left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle with one arm a Kimbo, the other resting on a 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. A last gentleman cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, I am a poor, quiet man, a native of this place, and a loyal subject of the king. God bless him. Here a general shout burst from the bystanders, 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 therefore 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 who used to keep about the tavern. Well, who are they? Name them. Rip thought himself a moment and inquired, where's Nicholas Fetter? There was a silence for a little while, and then an old man replied in a thin piping voice, Nicholas Fetter, 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. 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 Antony's nose. I don't know. He never came back again. Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? Oh, he went off to the wars, too. Was a great militia general, and he's 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 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 confused. 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 had his wits end. I'm not myself, I'm somebody else. That's me yonder. Know that 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 and 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 with 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 great bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms which frightened at his looks began to cry. Hush, Rip! cried she.  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's your name, my good woman? asked he. Judith Cardinier? And your father's name? Ah, poor man! Rip then 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 no one can tell. I was then but a little girl. Rip had one more question 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'm your father! cried he, young Rip then Winkle, once old Rip then Winkle now. Does nobody know poor Rip then 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 then 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 as but 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 self-important men 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 heads throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who had been slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that same 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, 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 nine pins in the 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 a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb on 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 he vince a hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse were 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 indoor, 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 war, that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England, and that instead of being a subject to his majesty George III, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician, the changes of the states and empires made but little impression on him, but there was one species of despotism under which he had long grown, and that was Petticoat Government. Finally 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 tear-knee of Danebin Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes, which might pass for either 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. Dolittle'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 neighborhood 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 thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Catskill, but they say Hendrik Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine pins. And it is a common wish of all the henpecked husbands in the neighborhood when life hangs heavy on their hands that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's of Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving, read by Julie Ross Rushden. Running for Governor by Mark Twain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Running for Governor by Mark Twain. A few months ago I was nominated for governor of the great state of New York to run against Mr. John T. Smith and Mr. Blank J. Blank on an independent ticket. I somehow felt that I had one prominent advantage over these gentlemen and that was good character. It was easy to see by the newspapers that if ever they had known what it was to bear a good name that time had gone by. It was plain that in these latter years they had become familiar with all manner of shameful crimes. But at the very moment that I was exalting my advantage and joying in it in secret, there was a muddy undercurrent of discomfort riling the depths of my happiness. And that was the having to hear my name bandied about in familiar connection with those of such people. I grew more and more disturbed. Suddenly I wrote my grandmother about it. Her answer came quick and sharp. She said, You have never done one single thing in all your life to be ashamed of, not one. Look at the newspapers, look at them, and comprehend what sort of characters Mrs. Smith and Blank are and then see if you are willing to lower yourself to their level and enter a public canvas with them. It was my very thought. I did not sleep a single moment that night, but after all I could not recede. I was fully committed and must go on with the fight. As I was looking listlessly over the papers at breakfast I came across this paragraph and I may truly say I never was so confounded before. Perjury Perhaps now that Mr. Mark Twain is before the people as candidate for governor, he will condescend to explain how he came to be convicted of perjury by thirty-four witnesses in walk-a-walk coaching China in 1863. The intent of which perjury being to rob a poor native widow and her helpless family of a meager plantain patch, their only stay and support in their bereavement and desolation. Mr. Twain owes it to himself as well as to the great people whose suffrage he asks to clear this matter up. Will he do it? I thought I should burst with amazement. Such a cruel, heartless charge. I never had seen coaching China. I never heard of walk-a-walk. I didn't know a plantain patch from a kangaroo. I did not know what to do. I was crazed and helpless. I let the day slip away without doing anything at all. The next morning the same paper had this, nothing more. Significant. Mr. Twain, it will be observed, is suggestively silent about the coaching China perjury. Note, during the rest of the campaign this paper never referred to me in any other way than as the infamous perjurer Twain. Next came the gazette with this. Need to know. Will the new candidate for Governor Dane to explain to certain of his fellow citizens who are suffering to vote for him the little circumstance of his cabin-mates in Montana losing small valuables from time to time, until at last these things have been invariably found on Mr. Twain's person or in his trunk. Newspaper he rolled his traps in. They felt compelled to give him a friendly admonition for his own good and so tarred and feathered him and rode him on a rail and then advised him to leave a permanent vacuum in the place where he usually occupied in the camp. Will he do this? Could anything be more deliberately malicious than that? For I never was in Montana in my life. After this this journal customarily spoke of me as Twain the Montana Thief. I got to picking up papers apprehensively, much as one would lift a desired blanket which he had some idea might have a rattlesnake under it. One day this met my eye. The lie nailed. By the sworn affidavits of Michael O'Flanigan Esquire of the Five Points and Mr. Snubb, Rafferty and Catty Mulligan of Water Street, it is established that Mr. Mark Twain's vile statement that the lamented grandfather of our noble standard-bearer, Blank J. Blank, was hanged for highway robbery is a brutal and gratuitous lie, without a shadow of foundation in fact. It is disheartening to virtuous men to see such shameful means resorted to achieve political success as the attacking of the dead in their graves and defiling their honored names with slander. When we think of the anguish this miserable falsehood must cause the innocent relatives and friends of the deceased, we are almost driven to incite an outraged and insulted public to summary an unlawful vengeance upon the transducer. But no. Let us leave him to the agony of a lacerated conscience, though if passion should get the better of the public and in its blind fury they should do the transducer bodily injury. It is but too obvious that no jury could convict and no court punish the perpetrators of the deed. The ingenious closing sentence had the effect of moving me out of bed with dispatch that night, and out at the back door also while the outraged and insulted public surged in the front way, breaking furniture and windows in their righteous indignation as they came, and taking off such property as they could carry when they went. And yet I can lay my hand upon the book and say that I never slandered Mr. Blank's grandfather. More, I had never even heard of him or mentioned him up to that day in date. I will state in passing that the journal above quoted from always referred to me afterward as tween, the body snatcher. The next newspaper article that attracted my attention was the following. A Sweet Candidate. Mr. Mark Twain, who was to make such a blighting speech at the mass meeting of the independents last night, didn't come to time. A telegram from his physician stated that he had been knocked down by a runaway team and his leg broken in two places, sufferer lying in great agony, and so forth and so forth, and a lot more bosh of the same sort. And the independents tried hard to swallow the wretched subterfusion, pretend they did not know what was the real reason of the absence of the abandoned creature whom they denominate their standard bearer. A certain man was seen to reel into Mr. Twain's hotel last night in a state of beastly intoxication. It is the imperative duty of the independents to prove that this besotted brute was not Mark Twain himself. We have them at last. This is a case that admits of no shirking. The voice of the people demand in thunder-toads. Who was that man? It was incredible, absolutely incredible, for a moment, that it was really my name that was coupled with this disgraceful suspicion. Three long years had passed over my head since I had tasted ale, beer, wine, or liquor of any kind. It shows what effect the times were having on me when I say that I saw myself confidently dubbed Mr. Delirium Tremens Twain in the next issue of that journal without a pang, nonwithstanding, I knew that with monotonous fidelity the paper would go on calling me so to the very end. By this time anonymous letters were getting to be an important part of my mail matter. This form was common.  Pull, pry. And this. There is things which you have done which is unbeknownst to anybody but me. Better trot out a few dots to yours truly or you'll hear through the papers. From handy, andy. This is about the idea I could continue them till the reader was surfeited if desirable. Shortly the principal republican journal convicted me of wholesale bribery, and the leading democratic paper nailed an aggravated case of blackmailing to me. In this way I acquired two additional names, Twain the filthy corruptionist, and Twain the loathsome embracer. By this time there had grown to be such a clamour for an answer to all the dreadful charges that were laid to me that the editors and leaders of my party said it would be political ruin for me to remain silent any longer. As if to make their appeal the more imperative the following appeared in one of the newspapers the very next day. Behold the man. The independent candidate still maintains silence, because he dare not speak. Every accusation against him has been amply proved, and they have been endorsed and re-endorsed by his own eloquent silence. Till at this day he stands forever convicted. Look upon your candidate independence, look upon the infamous perjurer, the Montana thief, the body snatcher.  Gaze upon him, ponder him well, and then say if you can give your honest votes to a creature who has earned this dismal array of titles by his hideous crimes and dares not open his mouth in denial of any one of them. There was no possible way of getting out of it, and so in deep humiliation I set about preparing to answer a mass of baseless charges and mean and wicked falsehoods. But I never finished the task, for the very next morning a paper came out with a new horror, a fresh malignity and seriously charged me with burning a lunatic asylum with all of its inmates because it obstructed the view from my house. This threw me into a sort of panic. Then came the charge of poisoning my uncle to get his property, with an imperative demand that the grave should be opened. This drove me to the verge of distraction. On top of this I was accused of employing toothless and incompetent old relatives to prepare the food for the fumbling hospital when I warden. I was wavering, wavering, and at last, as a due and fitting climax to the shameless persecution that party ranker had inflicted upon me, nine little, toddling children of all shades of color and degree of raggedness were taught to rush onto the platform at a public meeting and clasp me around the legs and call me pa. I gave up. I hauled down my colors and surrendered. I was not equal to the requirements of a gubernatorial campaign in the state of New York, and so I sent my withdrawal from the candidacy and in bitterness of spirit signed it truly yours, once a decent man, but now Mark Twain, LP, MT, BS, DT, FC, and LE. End of Running for Governor by Mark Twain.