en 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