O bells of Nyack, faintly toll
Across the starry lighted sea.
Thy murmurs thrill a thirsty soul,
And wing a heavenly hymn to me."
How wonderfully beautiful appeared Tarrytown on that quiet Sabbath afternoon of July. The fine homes embowered in a landscape which "for two centuries had known human cultivation seemed to have that touch of ripe old world-beauty which comes from man's long association with Nature; a beauty that revealed to us its depth in warm tones, fullness of foliage of its ancient trees, and velvety smoothness of the lawns which had the appearance of being long loved and cultivated." One is strangely reminded of some charming villas of Nice and, clothed in that dreamy haze, viewed front a distance they need only the blossoming orange trees, mimosas and palms to lift their royal forms about them, to make them a reality. The town rises from the water's edge to the summit of a low hill that runs parallel with the eastern shore of the Hudson. The one main road with many laterals coming into it, is almost buried in masses of foliage.
According to Irving, Tarrytown owes its name to the fact that the farmers who used to bring their produce here found the kind hospitality of its taverns so beguiling that they tarried in town until their wives gave it the name. We, after beholding its quiet air of repose and superb charm, did not blame those old Dutch farmers for tarrying in a spot so romantic.
The Hudson here is singularly beautiful and the tranquil waters flow past many legendary and historical places. This town lay in the path of both armies during the Revolution and knew the uncertain terrors of war. It was harried alike by friend and foe. There is a monument near the west side of Broadway, marking the spot where the three patriots, Williams, Paulding and Van Wert, captured Major Andre, the British spy. He was returning from an interview with Benedict Arnold, carrying papers of a treasonable nature for the surrender of West Point to Sir Henry Clinton.
A stone memorial bridge to Irving was presented to the town by William Rockefeller, replacing the bridge over Pocantico brook, at North Tarrytown, over which the headless horsemen of Sleepy Hollow rode. On the east side of the road just north of the bridge is the old Dutch church, built probably in 1697 or possibly earlier. It is no doubt the oldest church in New York state, now holding regular services. Washington Irving is buried in the cemetery of this church, where the river almost unseen flows under its canopy of foliage, while to the north and sloping gently down to the brook lies this ancient burying ground. This peaceful spot, whose gentle slope is dotted with ancient graves, is protected on the northeast by wooded heights, crowned with high old trees. It has a commanding view of the west of the Tappan Zee, the tree embowered town and gleaming river, also the distant front of the Palisades. Andrew Carnegie, Whitelaw Reid and other men of note are buried here. It indeed seems as if when walking here you are treading upon hallowed ground, for how much the world owes to these great souls, Irving and Carnegie. Irving, whose genius combined with toil gave the people the choicest flowers of his fertile brain, and Carnegie who made it possible for millions to enjoy those treasures, make this spot, aside from its quiet beauty, a place of inspiration.
Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, is still kept in its original condition, and visitors are welcome certain days of the week. Mrs. Helen Gould Shepard owns a large and beautiful estate here. The Rockefellers also live here.
The glimpses of the broad blue river, the wonderful shrubs and trees and the tranquil and romantic beauty of the hills seen through the blue veil had in them faint suggestions of Indian Summer. This stanza from Hofflnan, who was a life-long friend of Irving, glided from the dim portals of memory:
Light as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river,
The blue-bird notes upon the soft breeze born,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver.
The weeping birch like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew, the witch elms' tassels shiver,
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springing spray the squirrels gaily leaping.
FISHKILL
At Fishkill is located the old Dutch church, erected in 1731, which housed the provincial convention of 1776. The blacksmith who forged Washington's sword lived and worked here. The house referred to in Cooper's Spy is also located here. Back of the town rises a ridge of lofty hills covered in many places by forests. Here if you go to the summit a remarkably fine view of vast extent and most pleasing variety may be obtained. How often here on Beacon Hill the lurid glare of great signal fires painted the ebon curtains of the night with their ominous glow. How often they warned the warriors on distant hillsides of the approach of an enemy or their crimson glow spoke with many fiery tongues that peace had been declared. It was viewed by many a weary patriot or fierce Indian warrior from the wooded peaks of the Catskills to the high elevations of the Alleghenies, or more distant heights of Mount Graylock in Massachusetts, or Mount Washington in New Hampshire.