The daily dispatch. [volume] (Richmond [Va.]) 1850-1884, 1870-12-28
The Rip VAN Wrinkle OF the Ta'n"o-
sleeping Seventy Summers

ono or two particulars to the world
renowned story of Rip Van Wrinkle, which
Washington Irving gave to the world, and
which has been revived in the drama 10y
Mr.. Joseph Jefferson. The Rabbi was
learned above his peers, and many reyer-
cnccd him for his wisdom : Id erudition.
Bit he perceived not the Necessity OF .na'
charity and forcthought which should III
ducc individuals to make provision lor tiiose
coming after them, and therefore Ae ic-
ccivcd the stern lesson.
An old man was planting caroo .lec;
and displayed . hcartlncss wh'ch seeiisu
to indicate that he cNpecteo 10 e,go! tils
Min astnn;shmcnt and certain degree OF
cnntemnt. for it is a tradition OF the Tat
NM that a carob tree does not bear fruit
iii seventy wears after it has been planted.
DO YOU expect to eat Of the fruit OF
this trcc:" the Rabbi asked, with shrug
Of dStlain.
Rabbi" answered the old man meekly,
but with dignity, when wasa little child
This field aboundcd with carob trees laden
with fruit. Ny fathers had planted them
for me: plant this tree for my children"
CONAN turned away murmurlng: "For
his children. Blind. how blind We are
We live in this world but brief period,
and vet presume to provide for those that
will came after us. They must die as well
as we. Our existence was not gwen us
merely for this world. Every man ought
to consider his heavenly life, ana forGso al
care or interest about the few days that he
and others will spend here. What is our
lot, or the lot of our children, is OF little ac-
count. We are destined for heaven, and
that is enough"
While he was meditating in this manner,
Conial lay down upon the ground. teeilnS
the sensation OF hunger. he drew for tn from
his pocket piece oil bread, ana ATE. con-
tinuiny his reflections. Presently he be-
came drowsy, and fell asleep. lie aWoke
not all that day, nor during that night.
The dav returned. and the night begun
again, and still he slept. Thus passed many
DAYS and nights. during which he awoke
moi. 4 wall of stone was erected over him
hv a miracle, and shut him from the sight
OF men.
Thus for wears he lay incarcerated rs i'll Il
tomb. Generations passed away, ana nu-
mrro,ls events occurred to change the
aspect of the world. Finally seventy years
were accomplished, and the stony Sepul-
cbre disappeared, restoring Coniah to the
lirht of dav. He awokc rs the sun ascend
ed the meridian, and exclaimed:
"Nerily. have slept long. 1t was lit
tie before the dusk OF evening when lay
down, and now the sun is midway in the
sky
lie arose and walked to the place where
he had rcproachcd the old man who plant
cd the tree for postcrity. Behold, it was
fully grown. and boy stood near to 1t cat
ing of its fruit. Coniah accoStcd him:
.My young friend, who planted that ca
rob tree"
"Not l." replied the youth; for it re-
uuircs many Years for such tree TO mature
nnd Weld its fruit. Ny father declared to
NE Tint my grandfather planted it."
Coniah heard this with feeling Of hor-
ror.
"rhcrc can be no mistake" said he to
himself
..Iicre it is that 1 rebuked the old man,
and there lay down and slept. The tree
bears fruit. and l have been sleeping for
seventy years.
Full Of anxiety, he directed his footsteps
toward the city where he had dwelt. But he
soon paused in sad bewiderment. The old
path was gone, and the familiar trees and
landmarks had disappeared. The houses
had put OH an unfamiliar appearance. Eve
rything around him was strange and new.
At length he discovered the way, and he
came TO the city. a multitude, swarmed
in the streets. Coniah looked sharply,
but no face could he descry that had
ever been known to him. Once he
had a host of admirers; but now he
WAS not recognized by any one. For
him was no welcome, no word Of greeting.
A terrible sense OF isolation came over him.
He was alone in the midst Of that crowd. as
much so rs he had been in the solitude OF a
desert. Bitter was the anguish Of that hour.
A faint hope only remained TO mitigate the
GerceneSS of his despair.
'No more" said he to himself, "no more
have | friends and acquaintance. But my
family yet remains to me. With them |
may yet linda home, and consolation, and
peace"
With throbbing heart he fastened to the
house where he had dwelt. But as he
went along his confidence ahated. He could
not recognize his home, neither the walls
nor the roof. Everything was new. With
feeling of hesitation he entered. Children
were ut play their mother aided in their
sports, while the father, q hale middle-aged
man, was ut his work. The moment that
Coniah was perceived all were still, and re.
garded him with apprehension and looks OF
suspicion. Addressing himself to the man
"Cali for me the son of Coniah."
"The son of Coniah :" exclaimed the
man in establishment; che has long since
slept with his tathers.'
"Who, then, are you?" Coniah asked
81 am the grandson of Coniah."
Overjoyed, Coniah extended his arms
to embrace him, eXclaiming: 81 am your
grandfather
But the grandson eluded his caresses,
and replied, with great establishment g.:
"You my grandfather? No! l never
saw you, and | know you not"
The distracted Coniah began to tell the
story of his wonderful sleep, and to entreat
for the affection of his grandson. But the
latter shook his head, and answered.:
"Iou may remain here with me and do
what you please; but do not ask my love.
have never seen you before, and know
you not"
So Conah remained. But his life was
wretched. There was no memory to con-
meet him with his family and endear them
to each other. He was in solitude, although
surrounded by living persons for they had
never seen him before, and their hearts
were not opened toward him. He was
never more than a stranger who abode with
them.
He visited the elderly men Of the city,
but no one could recognize him. They re-
membered the name of Coniah, the great
Rabbi, but when he attempted to make
himself known they repulsed him angrily,
saying: :,
"You are imposing upon us. Coniah
has been dead for many, many years. You
cannot be he."
So he wandered about with his terrible
sorrow, seeking some kinsman or friend to
love and comfort him. But it was in vain.
He could be received nowhere without a
name and when he insisted upon his own
he was secuted as an impoStor.
One day he entered into the college where
once be had been accustomed to teach and
receive honor. To avoid reproach, he for
bore to mention his name or speak OF him.
self. A learned discussion was going on,
and he listened with his old eagernesS. AS