Iowa voter. [volume] (Knoxville, Iowa) 1867-1874, 1871-01-19
The Rip Van Wrinkle Of the Talmud'

THE story of the Rabbi Coniah has
been reproduced for the ,IeUish Messenger,
and is chiefly remarkable for its resem-
b,ancc, in one or two particulars, to the
world renowned story of Rip Van Wrinkle,
world, and which has been revived in the
drama by Mr. Joseph Jefferson. The
Rabbi was learned above his peers, and
many reverenced him for his wisdom and
eruditiop. But he perceived not the ne
cessity Of that charity and forethought
which should induce individuals to make
provision for those coming after them,
and therefore he received the stern lesson.
An old man was planting a carob-tree,
and displayed heartiness and zeal which
seemed to indicate that he expected to en-
10y the results of his labor. Coniah re-
garded him with establishment, and a GER
tain degree of contempt. For it Is a ira
dition of the Talmud that carob-tree does
not bear fruit till seventy years after it
has been planted h9
"Do you expect TO eat Of the fruit of
this treey" the Rabbi asked with shrug
of disdain.
Rabbi" answered the old man meekly,
but with dignity, when j was a little
child this field abounded with carob trees
laden with fruit My fathers had planted
them for me; plant this tree for my
children" tE tNI y.
Coniah turned away murmuring: For
his children. Blind, how blind we are.
We live in this world but brief period,
and vet presume to provide for those who
will come after us, They must die as well
as we. Our existence was not given us
merely for this world Every man ought
to consider his heavenly life, and forcgo
all 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 account. We are destined for heaven,
and that is enough" a
While he was meditating in this man
ner, Coniah lay down upon the ground
Feeling the sensation Of hunger he drew
forth from his pocket piece of bread, and
ate, continuing his reflection. Presently
he became drowsy, and fell asleep He
awoke not all that day, nor during the
night The day returned, and the night
begun again, and still he slept. Thus
passed many days and nights during which
he awoke not A wall of stone was erect
ed over him by miracle, and shut him
from the sight of men.
Thus for years he lay incarcerated as il
tomb. Generations passed away, alid
numerous events occurred to change the
aspect Of the world. Finally seventy years
were accomplished, and the stony sepul
chrc disappeared, restoring Coniah once
more to the light Of the the day. lie awokt
as the sun assembled the meridian, and ex
claimed:
"Verily, l have slept long. 1t was q
little before the dusk Of evening when
lay down; and now the sun is midway in
the sky
He arose and walked to the place where
he had reproached the old man who plant
ed the tree for posterity. Behold, it was
fully grown, and boy stood near to it,
eating of its fruit, Coniah accosted him:
MY young friend, who planted that
carob .tree?
Not l." replied the youth; "for it re-
quires many years for such a tree to ma
ture and yield its fruit. My father de-.
clared to me that my granfather planted
it,"
Coniah heard this with feeling Of
horror. There can be no mistake" said
he to himself. Here it is that 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 foot
steps toward the city where he had dwelt.
But he soon paused In sad bewilderment.
The old path had gone, and the familiar
trees and landmarks had disappeared.
The houses had put on an unfamiliar ap.
pearance. Everything around him was
strange and new. - 8H
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 been ever
known to him. Once he had host Of
admirers; but now he was not recognized
by anyone. 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 30 as II
he had been In the solitude Of q desert
Bitter was the anguish of that hour. A
faint hope only remained to mitigate the
ferceness Of his dispair.
No more" said he to himself. "no
more have ! friends and acquaintance
But my family yet remains to me. With
them may yet fad home, and consola-
ton and peace" 'e ~ aFsf
With thrObbing heart he hasteued to
the house where he had dwelt. But Is he
went along his confidence abated. He