A Trip to Tarrytown "Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.”—Washington Irving. Ο N a misty, loury morning in the latter part of August, we left New York City en route for Tarrytown-there to visit Washington Irving's home and some of the scenes made famous by his pen. As we left the train, we were at once assailed by a chorus of Jehus, whose call conjured up nothing of the greatness of the place where they plied their trade,-"Taxi, taxi," sounds "all salary and hire." Finding none of the equine friends of Gunpowder, or their descendants, we were of necessity required to bargain for one of the modern peace-disturbing air-enfouling vehicles at the moderate price of three dollars per hour. In a fine drizzling rain we wound up an old Tarrytown street to the New York-Albany post road. We listened in vain for a rumbling coach and rattling harness. No post horn warned us of the coming of fiery steeds and hallooing travellers. Instead, along the brick-paved street ran gas propelled vehicles of all descriptions; some purred; others rattled; some |