Washington Irving

“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 confounded. 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,—what was his name?
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end, “I’m not myself.—I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s 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 every thing’s changed—and I’m changed—and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”