It seemed to my modesty rather an audacious proceeding, but trusting to my companion's superior information, I followed her in, and we walked up a circular carriage-drive through smooth shaven lawns dotted with brilliant clumps of salvia and gladiolus, towards the house—a square, solid structure, white, and with broad verandas running across its front.
At its northern side, sloping towards the wall, was visible what looked like an ordinary terrace, rather low, and ornamented with small shrubs and grotto-work; but which, on nearer approach, proved to be a veritable village in miniature, constructed with a verisimilitude of design, and a fidelity to detail, which was at once in the highest degree amazing and amusing. As Nannette had been assured, no one appeared to interfere with us in any way, and full of a curious wonder at such a manifestation of eccentric ingenuity, we seated ourselves upon a wooden box, evidently kept more for the purpose of protecting the odd out-of-door plaything in bad weather, and proceeded to give it the minute inspection which it merited; the result of which I chronicle here for the benefit of the like curious minded.
The terrace, which forms the site of this doll-baby city, is low and semi-circular in shape, and separated from the graveled drive by a close border of box. Within this protecting hedge the ground is laid out in the most picturesque and fantastic manner compatible with a scale of extreme minuteness. Winding roads, shady bye-paths ending in rustic stiles, willow-bordered ponds, streams with fairy bridges, rocky ravines and sunny meadows, ferny dells, and steep hills clambered over with a wilderness of tangled vines, and strewn with lichen-covered stones—all are there, and all reproduced with the most conscientious fidelity to nature, and with Lilliputian diminutiveness. Regular streets, "macadamized" with a gray cement which gives very much the effect of asphaltum, separate one demesne from another; and each meadow, lawn, field, and barn-yard has its own proper fence or wall, constructed in the most workmanlike manner. The streets are bordered by trees, principally evergreens, which, though rigidly kept down to the height of mere shrubs, appear stately by the side of the miniature mansions they overlook; and, in every dooryard, or more pretentious greensward, tiny larches, pines yet in their babyhood, and dwarfed cedars, cast a mimic shade, and bestow an air of dignity and venerableness to the place.
The first object upon which the eye is apt to rest on approaching this modern Lilliput is the squire's house, the residence of the landed proprietor. This is a handsome edifice of some eight by ten inches in breadth and height. It stands upon an eminence in the midst of ornamented grounds, and with its white walls, its lofty cupola, and high, square portico, presents a properly imposing appearance. There are signs of social life about the mansion befitting its own style of conscious superiority. In the wide arched entrance hall stands a high-born dame attired in gay Watteau costume—red-heeled slippers, brocaded petticoat, and bodice and train of puce-colored satin. She is receiving the adieux of an elegant gentleman, hatted, booted, and spurred, who, with whip in hand and dog by his side, is about to descend the steps and mount his horse for a ride over his estate. A bird-cage swings by an open window, and, on the lawn, a group of children, in charge of their nurse, are engaged in the time-honored game of "Ring-around-a-rosy." Winding walks, bordered with shrubbery, disappear among fantastic mounds of rock-work, moss-grown grottoes, and tiny dells of fern; and under a ruined arch, gray with lichen and green with vines, flows a placid streamlet, spanned by a rustic bridge. In the meadow beyond, flocks of sheep are cropping the grass, and an old negro is busily engaged in repairing a breach in the stone wall.
Hard by this stately demesne is a humbler tenement, built of wattled logs, but showing signs of comfort and thrift all about it. The old grandsire sits in a high-backed chair, sunning himself in front of the door; on a bench, at the side of the house, stand rows of washtubs filled with soiled linen, and a woman is busy wringing out clothes; while another, with a bucket on her head, goes to the well to supply her with a fresh thimbleful of water; and still a third milks a handsome dapple-gray cow in the yard where the dairy stands. There is a well-filled barn behind, with another cow and a horse, too, for that matter, in the stable attached, and the farmer, who is putting the last sheaf on his wheat-stack, looks contented enough with his lot.
Just beyond the stream, on whose bank the fisherman sits leisurely dropping his line, stands the village church; a fac-simile of the old Dutch Church which has stood near the entrance of Sleepy Hollow since long before the Revolution, and is hallowed now not only by the pious associations of centuries, but by the near vicinage of Irving's grave. In its little twelve-inch counterpart, every point of the ancient structure is preserved in exact detail. The dull red walls, the beetling roof, the narrow pointed windows and low, arched door; the quaint Dutch weathercock, and odd-shaped tower—aye, even the bell within, no bigger than a doll's thimble—and upon all a sentimental traveler in the person of a china figure perhaps three inches in height, is gazing half pensively, half curiously, as we suppose, at this relic of by-gone years!
On the other side of the stream the village school, likewise an ancient and steeple-crowned edifice, stands out in the midst of a bare and clean swept playground. It bears its signature upon its front:
"DISTRICT SCHOOL, NO. 2,"
and its worshipful character is otherwise indicated by the presence of the master, a venerable looking puppet in cocked hat and knee-breeches, in the doorway, and sundry china children playing rather stiffly about the stone steps.
Ascending by a steep, rocky path, one arrives at a rather pretentious looking wind-mill, which spreads its wide white arms protectingly over the cottages below. Barrels of flour and sacks of meal, well filled and plentiful in number, attest its thriving business, and the miller himself, in a properly dusty coat, looks about him with contented air. At the foot of the hill upon which the mill is perched, are several dwellings—all showing signs of more or less prosperous life, with the exception of one, which affords the orthodox "haunted house" belonging to every well-regulated village. The ruined walls of this old mansion, with lichen cropping out from every crevice; the unhinged doors and broken windows; the ladder rotting as it leans against the moss-grown roof, the broken well-sweep and deserted barn, offer an aspect of desolation and decay which should prove sufficient bait to tempt any ghost of moderate demands.