poor Ichabod Crane on his memorable night ride up the valley,
and so on to the Kakout, where his horse should have gone to reach
"Sleepy Hollow." Instead of that, obstinate Gunpowder plunged down over
that bridge where poor Ichabod encountered his fatal and final
catastrophe. The good old man's face was full of fun as he told me the
story. Irving was so exceedingly shy that he never could face any public
ovation, and yet he had a great deal of quiet enjoyment of his own
popularity. For example, one day when he was going with a young relative
up Broadway, which was thronged with omnibuses, he pointed out one of
the old "Knickerbocker" line of stages to the lad and said: "Billy, you
see how many coaches I own in this city, and you may take as many rides
in them as you like."

After refreshments had been served to all the guests on board, we
gathered on the deck for the inevitable American practice of speech
making. In the course of my speech I gave an account of what was being
done for poor children in the slums of New York, and then introduced as
many Dutch stories as I could recollect for the special edification of
old "Geoffrey Crayon." As I watched his countenance, and heard his
hearty laughter and saw sometimes the peculiar quizzical expression of
his mouth, I fancied that I knew precisely how he looked when he drew
the inimitable pictures of Ichabod Crane, and Rip Van Winkle. When the
excursion ended, and we drew up to the shore, I bade him a very grateful
and affectionate farewell, and my readers, I hope, will pardon me if I
say to them that dear old Irving whispered quietly in my ear, "I should
like to be one of your parishioners." Three years afterwards, Irving was
borne by his neighbors at Tarrytown to his final resting place in the
old Dutch churchyard at the entrance of Sleepy Hollow.

Twenty years afterwards my dear friend, Mr. William E. Dodge, drove me
up from his summer house at Tarrytown to see the simple tomb of the good
old Geoffrey Crayon, whose genius has gladdened innumerable admirers,
and whose writings are as pure as the rivulet which now flows by his
resting place.

The pleasant little town of Burlington, N.J., in which I spent my
earliest ministry, was the headquarters of orthodox Quakers. I was
thrown much into the society of their most eminent people, and very
delightful society I found it. The venerable Stephen Grellet, their
apostle, who had held many interviews with the crowned heads of Eu