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have been three creators of Rip Van Winkle. The first, who was Washington Irving, created him with his pen; the second, who was Joseph Jefferson, created him with his personality; and the third, who is Arthur Rackham, created him with his brush. And all three owed much to another, far earlier, and unknown creator—the nameless imagination which, in many lands, through many ages, built up the haunted storehouse of lore and legend to which only the true imaginations of later ages possessed the key. Irving, Jefferson, and Rackham, all true imaginers in their different veins, have all held that key in their possession; and though it is of the third holder, only, that I am writing, it is for a particular reason impossible for me to think of him without thinking of the other two as well. For Joseph Jefferson was my grandfather, and Rip. in my family, is regarded as a household god by inheritance.

Rip was the first book to bring Arthur Rackham fame, and I doubt whether it had to pass through so severe a test at the hands of the qualified critics as at our hands, who judged it from a special personal standpoint. But we were captured instantly. There was never doubt that this dear vagabond figure of Rip in his tatterd emalion youth—this wild, pathetic figure of Rip in his lorn age—was our “Rip”; or that the red-roofed village under the haunted mountains was his village, or that the haunted mountains were the “Katskills” of Hendrik Hudson.