attentive and devout worshippers there. It is an ancient
building of homely architecture, looking now just as it did a century ago,
with a big old pulpit and sounding board in the midst of the church, which
the people would have been glad to remove, but refrained, because Mr.
Verplanck, whom they so venerated, preferred that it should remain.

The patrimonial mansion at Fishkill had historical associations which must
have added to the interest with which our friend regarded it. Mr.
Tuckerman relates, in the "North American Review," though without naming
the place or the persons, a story in which they were brought out in a
singular manner. He was there fifteen or twenty years since, a guest at
Verplanck's table. He describes the June sunshine which played through the
shifting branches of tall elms on the smooth oaken floor of the old
dining room, the plate of antique pattern on the sideboard and the
portraits of revolutionary heroes on the walls. As they sat down to
dinner, an old lady, bowed with years and with a restless, yet serene
look, entered and took a seat beside Mr. Verplanck. A servant adjusted a
napkin under her chin and the dinner proceeded. A steamer was passing up
the river and a band on board struck up a martial air. The old lady
trembled, clasped her hands, and, raising her eyes, exclaimed, "Ah! all
intercession is vain. Andre must die." Mr. Verplanck made a sign to the
company to listen, and calling the lady Aunt, addressed her with some kind
inquiry, on which she went on to speak of the events and personages of the
Revolution as matters of the present day. She repeated rapidly the names
of the English officers whom she had known, "described her lofty
head-dress of ostrich feathers, which caught fire at the theatre, and
repeated the verses of her admirer who was so fortunate as to extinguish
it." She dwelt upon the majestic bearing of Washington, the elegance of
the French, the dogmatism of the British officers; the by-words, the names
of gallants, belles and heroes; the incidents, the questions, the
etiquette of those times seemed to live again in her tremulous accents,
which gradually became feeble, until she fell asleep! "It was," continued
the narrator, "like a voice from the grave." This old lady was a Miss
Walton, a sister of Judge Verplanck's second wife.

When he found time for the studies by which his mind was kept so full of
useful and curious knowledge, I cannot well conceive. He loved to prot