PER

ERHAPS no other part of America has been associated with history and fiction so much as the banks of the Hudson river. Nature seems to have adapted them for such, and to have given such spots and haunts as would tend to confirm any tale be it ever so vague, any adventure be it ever so daring. Besides these, the river has a picturesque and beautiful charm that enchants all who view it, and the numerous costly mansions that nestle on its banks harmonize and contrast finely with the wild and rugged scenery its mountains and hills present. The numerous towns and villages that adorn its banks give it a civilized and inhabited appearance mingling their charm with the primitive beauty and grandeur of the scen

ery.

With it are treasured some of the noblest and most daring deeds that the revolutionary history of the United States records. Associated with it are some of the most fabulous legends the imagination can invent. The Catskills with their wild and weird haunted appearance first awakened the imagination of Washington Irving who gave the world ere long two of the most charming tales in the Sketch Book; Rip Van Winkle and the Headless Horseman. To Irving was entrusted the description of the beauties of the Hudson, and to him was confided the peopling of its banks with creatures of his rich imagination. "Twas

He whose fancy wove a spell
As lasting as the scene is fair,

And made the mountain stream and dell
His own dream life forever share.'

The legendary renown of the Hud

son is now fully established, the master genius who linked his fame with the rock-ribbed mountains of its banks has invested it with beauties unrevealed before. He opened up a new and untrodden field of literature and removed the differences existing between English and American authors. He is connected indissolubly with the history of American fiction and justly entitled to the pioneership thereof. He gave us the grotesque and humorous phases in the life of the old Knickerbockers, and transplanted us to the banks of the river rendered classic by his genius. He has led us into the

halls of the Alhambra to witness the faded and fallen grandeur of decayed royalty and pictured to us the contentment of the poor Irish bard wending his way to some humble cottage 'neath a foreign sky.

Among the old Dutch residences on the banks of the Hudson River is one about thirty miles above the City of New York, between the villages of Irvington and Tarrytown. It was built, we are told, by a sturdy old Dutchman in the beginning of the eighteenth century. This portentous and obese old burgomaster was no less a personage than Mynheer Woolfert Acker, who had served in the Privy Council of the renowned Peter Stuyvesant, but having been kept in a constant fume and fret by the perverseness of mankind, hied himself in disgust to the wilderness, built the gabled house, inscribed over the door his favourite Dutch motto "Lust in Rust" (pleasure in quiet), and enjoyed a life of repose and ease, never to be disturbed by wrangles

and broils outside his own metes and bounds.' Notwithstanding the declaration of seclusion made by old Woolfert, we find in a few years he sells the home of pleasure in quiet' to a brother Knickerbocker, Jacob Van Tassel, who lived the proverbial life of a Dutchman until the breaking out of the war between Great Britain and the Colonies. The valiant Dutchman espoused the cause of the Colonists, and became one of their most zealous supporters, fortifying his new house to such an extent that it became a stronghold of some considerable importance. History has not recorded the valorous deeds of the gallant Dutchman, but the archives of Tarrytown have rescued a name noted for prowess about the lower part of the Hudson in the days of the Revolutionary War. The cottage remained in the Van Tassel family until 1835, when it was sold to one who has made it famous in story. Washington Irving, the purchaser, had long entertained a filial affection for the weatherbeaten cottage that overlooked the placid waters of Tappan Zee. With it was associated some of the happiest dreams of boyhood, and its existence gave rise to some of his choicest literary productions. Beneath its trees he sat when a stripling and conjured up those ideas of Dutch life which are so strikingly portrayed in the inimitable History of New York.' The quaint matter-of-fact old stone edifice, which was afterwards the home of his old age, gave rise to one of the finest pictures in The Sketch Book.'

but unpretending.' It was currently reported at the time of the purchase that Irving had become so enthusiastie over the style of architecture that an architect in Holland had been engaged to plan and superintend the construction of the additions, whereas, in truth, the designer was a young man of Irvington. A stone inscription over the portico records the name of George Harvey, Boumr,' the adjunct being an abreviation of the Dutch word 'boumeester,' which signities architect. After a six months' superintendence, the humble Dutch cottage swelled to the size of a respectable manor house, ornamented with weather-cocks and spindles in the true Holland style. Mr. Irving's humour prompted him to christen the new house in honour of its first occu pant Woolfert Acker, and the name 'Woolfert's Roost' still clings to the cottage, although superseded by the more endearing and poetic name, Sunnyside.' The first name given to the cottage became a theme for its christener, who has described it as 'a little old-fashioned stone mansion, all made up of gable ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat. is said, in fact,' continues Mr. Irving, 'to have been modelled after the cocked hat of Peter the Headstrong, as the Escurial was modelled after the gridiron of the blessed St. Lawrence.' From this description one can easily see the quiet and affectionate humour with which he regarded his new home.

It

The main or old portion of the stone cottage faces the south. Its walls are half shrouded in English ivy, the first slip of which was given to Mr. Irving by Sir Walter Scott during his second visit at Abbotsford. Mr Irving extended the main portion of the building to the north, and erected a large and quaint stone kitchen, in the old Dutch style, to the east. A person taking a passing glance at the whole edifice would doubtless form an impression that it was all built in the same year. But the additions lack

the moss-grown and weather-stained appearance that distinguishes the old cottage, although they harmonize with the style of architecture. Before the portico is a small lawn bordered by the carriage way, which winds to the public road, and at the southern extremity of the premises is the handsome little grove of Sunnyside, running in wild luxuriance. Those who have sat beneath its umbrageous trees on a hot and sultry day in July, and listened to the music of its warblers, can fully appreciate the cool sylvan retreat. It begins near the entrance gate, south-west of the cottage, and slopes gradually toward the river. It is a fit haunt for the traditionary Gnomes and Fays who have invested the banks of old Hendrick Hudson's stream with such a fund of legendary lore. Through this little wild wood trickles a small stream, laughing as it leaps over its stony bed or shoots down a declivity over moss-grown trunks,

widening in and out' over fallen trees until its murmurings are lost in the sportive waves of the Hudson. And here a quarter of a century since, on a fine summer afternoon, the gentle reader might have seen a sprightly old gentleman of three score and ten sitting on a rustic bench 'neath the shade, listening to the singing of the birds and the murmuring of the brook. The little grove was a favourite retreat of Mr. Irving's, and many of his happiest hours in green old age were spent beneath its bowers in company with a little golden-haired boy.' His love for the society of children was strong, and many a one, now grown up, can relate with pride the happy days of childhood spent at Sunnyside with the dear old man.

On a bright summer morning in July, a few years ago, I awoke with the same thought that pervaded Irving's mind on his first visit to Abbotsford, 'now I know I'm to be happy. I know I have an unfailing treat before me.' A short sail up the Hudson and I was landed at Yonkers,

only to be transmitted to Irvington, the quiet and handsome retreat of wealthy New Yorkers. I inquired the way to Sunnyside, and, like many who had put the same question, was directed along the railway track on the bank of the Hudson. The distance was short, being only about half a mile from the station, and as I stood on the track before the cottage I recognised it at once. It stands on a bluff overlooking the railway track and meadow land, half hidden by a circlet of oak trees which border the hill top. I wandered along over a marshy piece of land, clambered the hill, and loitered about the northern extremity of the premises. There I stood and watched the panoramic view that lay before me. It was noon-day. Beneath my feet lay Tappan Zee in dull repose, dotted with schooners, whose sails flaunted lazily in search of some passing breeze. Across the river loomed the shrub fringed Palisades, towering in all the magnificence of massive grandeur and natural rugged

ness.

On entering the mansion, I was considerably astonished at its gloomy appearance. The life and soul of the old cottage had fled, and nothing cheery remained save the reminiscences of its

late genial occupant. How many times had he stood at that hall-door, and shaking the hand of the literary aspirant, gave him counsel with the accompanying 'God bless you.' Who cannot think kindly of him who was so kind? On the left-hand side of the hall is the dining room. It faces the river, and commands a beautiful view of the opposite shore. Its walls are adorned with three pictures-Daniel Webster, in front as you enter the dining-room; General Washington, near the window looking out on the lawn; and another, which I took for Washington Allston, near the window facing the river. In the centre of the room is the dining-table, around which have sat many of the shining lights of American literature. It was around

this board the Irving family assembled on Christmas day and enjoyed themselves in the true old English style. I could not help calling to mind the beautiful description Irving has given in the 'Sketch Book' of the manner of celebrating the Christmas holyday, and methinks his love of the quaint would prompt him to repeat in old English:

Lo now is come our joyful'st feast!
Let every man be jolly,

Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.'

On the right-hand side of the hall is the library. The room is quite small, but described by Mr. Irving as a neat and cosey little place.' Its walls are well-nigh hidden with books, and all tastefully arranged and in order. Most of the finely bound volumes are on the east side of the library. In the centre of the room is a plain desk, presented to Mr. Irving by his publishers -Messrs. Putnam-in 1856, and beside it stood the old and easy arm-chair in which he sat while composing most of his last great work, 'The Life of General Washington.'

North of the desk is a small recess with a couch and a bookcase well filled with old annals and statutes of New York.

On the east side of the library is a bookcase filled with morocco bound books. Sir Walter Scott's were there side by side with Irving's. The association of their works looked very appropriate, for Irving, in a great measure, owed his fame to the kindness of Scott. Who can help admiring the glorious old minstrel as he limped to the gate of Abbotsford to greet the young American author then almost unknown to the world. He met the young man with open arms obtained him a purchaser for the 'Sketch Book' which had been unconditionally rejected. From the day of their first meeting Irving's fame as an author was in the ascendant, and ever afterwards he attributed his success to the kindness of the great Scotch bard and novelist. 'He is a theme

and

on which I love to dwell, everything that comes within his influence seems to catch a beam of that sunshine that plays around his heart.' Thus wrote Irving shortly after four days' visit at Abbotsford. The world has been pleased to associate these two as the representative authors of two great nations, each excelling in his particular branch of authorship, and infusing interest into a class of literature before neglected. The hills and dales of Scotland had little more than a local interest until the pen of Scott wove them with romance and history. And so likewise with the Hudson. Those quiet villages that nestle on the water's edge would have still remained unfamous had not Irving invested them with legendary fame.

Over the mantle-piece in the library hangs a picture of a literary party at Sir Joshua Reynolds,' and before the grate is an easy chair in which Irving sat the last day of his illness. It was here he noted the beauty of the last sunset he ever saw.

After visiting the library I loitered about the green sward under the shade trees near the verandah. Here would the household sit of a summer's eve and listen to the old gentleman as he described the days of boyhood when Paulding Brevoort and himself went yachting on Tappan Sea with the young ladies and chanted some old chorus of gaiety and fun. But, remarks Mr. Irving, 'It is a different yacht and a different generation that have taken up the game, and are now sailing by moonlight and singing on the Tappan Sea.'

I had now visited the home of one of America's greatest authors, and viewed its surroundings with inde scribable delight. I had peeped into the cheery study and hospitable dining-room, and saw the retreat in old age of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. My mind had become so possessed by its former characters that I seemed to have had an actual existence among them. As I loitered along the road

side to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I could not but reflect on the scenes I had just witnessed. The quaint old cottage and its former occupants furnished an abundance for reflection. I had surveyed the old cottage and compared its appearance a century ago with that of to-day. I had been in the very room in which the pedagogue, Ichabod Crane, had whispered love to the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel, and I was now wandering along the road that poor Ichabod found so foreboding on the dark and eventful night in which he vanished from this earth. I was treading classic ground with mythical characters who had no real existence, and yet they were presented to me in all the charm of reality. He is the true poet who speaks to the heart and raises man's ideas from the hum-drum of everyday life to the beatitude of the imagination.

The way to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is picturesque, and recalls many wild historic tales of the Revolutionary war. It was also a favourite haunt for many a weird sister in the superstitious days of the early Dutch Governors. A mile or thereabouts from Sunnyside, on a cross road, is a small monument erected in memory of the capture of the brave but unfortunate Major André. From this place we have a beautiful view of the river and the quiet old village of Tarrytown. The road then winds through a most romantic part of the country into 'Sleepy Hollow,' so named for its quietude. On the hill across the valley stands the antique Sleepy Hollow Church, the oldest place of worship in New York State, built about two centuries and a half ago. The brick and most of the material of which it is constructed, was brought from Holland.

The architecture of the church is purely Dutch, in style resembling many of the antiquities which will ere long be the only landmarks bearing testimony to the settlement of New York State by that once powerful

and influential people. It was on the bridge at the foot of the hill that the unfortunate Ichabod Crane met the headless Hessian trooper. About fifty yards south of the church is the entrance gate to the cemetery. I walked around the carriage road until I came to a redoubt thrown up a century since by General Washington, where I espied a grey-headed sexton trimming the hedge of a burial plot. I inquired for the grave of Washington Irving and he pointed to a headstone in the plot. It would never strike the eye as being the last restingplace of one whose name absorbs so much of the world's praise, so simple and plain is its appearance. No costly monument records any eulogium, but on the small marble slab is simply inscribed

'Washington Irving, Born April 3rd, 1783. Died Nov. 28th, 1859.'

He rests by his mother's side in a spot selected by him some six years before his death. His grave is shaded by a small oak tree. I stood beneath its branches and looked across the valley into the Beekman wood, where he and Paulding sported in early boyhood with gun in hand. On the other side I saw the Hudson and the Catskills appearing in faded distinctness --which are so closely associated with the story of his own bright life.

After visiting several spots of local importance, I wended my way across the bridge towards Tarrytown, which is now a place of considerable size. As I sauntered along its principal street, the dull quiet of the place brought to my mind the origin of its name, which, we are told, was given by the good housewives of the adjacent country from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days.' The old village still bears testimony of its original inhabitants,. and the sign-boards are replete with