And hedged against an amber light,
The lone hills cling, in vain endeavor
To touch the curtained clouds of night,
That, weird-like, form and fade forever.
Then break upon the blessed calm, -
Deep dying melodies of even, -
Those Nyack Bells; like some sweet psalm,
They float along the fields of heaven.
Now laden with a nameless balm,
Now musical with song thou art,
I tune thee by an inward charm
And make thee minstrel of my heart.
O bells of Nyack, faintly toll
Across the starry lighted sea.
Thy murmurs thrill a thirsty soul,
And wing a heavenly hymn to me."
How wonderfully beautiful appeared Tarrytown on that quiet
Sabbath afternoon of July. The fine homes embowered in a
landscape which "for two centuries had known human cultivation
seemed to have that touch of ripe old world-beauty which comes
from man's long association with Nature; a beauty that revealed
to us its depth in warm tones, fullness of foliage of its
ancient trees, and velvety smoothness of the lawns which had the
appearance of being long loved and cultivated." One is strangely
reminded of some charming villas of Nice and, clothed in that
dreamy haze, viewed front a distance they need only the
blossoming orange trees, mimosas and palms to lift their royal
forms about them, to make them a reality. The town rises from
the water's edge to the summit of a low hill that runs parallel
with the eastern shore of the Hudson. The one main road with
many laterals coming into it, is almost buried in masses of
foliage.
According to Irving, Tarrytown owes its name to the fact that
the farmers who used to bring their produce here found the kind
hospitality of its taverns so beguiling that they tarried in
town until their wives gave it the name. We, after beholding its
quiet air of repose and superb charm, did not blame those old
Dutch farmers for tarrying in a spot so romantic.
The Hudson here is singularly beautiful and the tranquil waters
flow past many legendary and historical places. This town lay in
the path of both armies during the Revolution and knew the
uncertain terrors of war. It was harried alike by friend and
foe. There is a monument near the west side of Broadway, marking
the spot where the three patriots, Williams, Paulding and Van
Wert, captured Major Andre, the British spy. He was returning
from an interview with Benedict Arnold, carrying papers of a
treasonable nature for the surrender of West Point to Sir Henry
Clinton.
A stone memorial bridge to Irving was presented to the town by
William Rockefeller, replacing the bridge over Pocantico brook,
at North Tarrytown, over which the headless horsemen of Sleepy
Hollow rode. On the east side of the road just north of the
bridge is the old Dutch church, built probably in 1697 or
possibly earlier. It is no doubt the oldest church in New York
state, now holding regular services. Washington Irving is buried
in the cemetery of this church, where the river almost unseen
flows under its canopy of foliage, while to the north and
sloping gently down to the brook lies this ancient burying
ground. This peaceful spot, whose gentle slope is dotted with
ancient graves, is protected on the northeast by wooded heights,
crowned with high old trees. It has a commanding view of the
west of the Tappan Zee, the tree embowered town and gleaming
river, also the distant front of the Palisades. Andrew Carnegie,
Whitelaw Reid and other men of note are buried here. It indeed
seems as if when walking here you are treading upon hallowed
ground, for how much the world owes to these great souls, Irving
and Carnegie. Irving, whose genius combined with toil gave the
people the choicest flowers of his fertile brain, and Carnegie
who made it possible for millions to enjoy those treasures, make
this spot, aside from its quiet beauty, a place of inspiration.
Sunnyside, the home of Washington Irving, is still kept in its
original condition, and visitors are welcome certain days of the
week. Mrs. Helen Gould Shepard owns a large and beautiful estate
here. The Rockefellers also live here.
The glimpses of the broad blue river, the wonderful shrubs and
trees and the tranquil and romantic beauty of the hills seen
through the blue veil had in them faint suggestions of Indian
Summer. This stanza from Hofflnan, who was a life-long friend of
Irving, glided from the dim portals of memory:
Light as love's smiles, the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river,
The blue-bird notes upon the soft breeze born,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver.
The weeping birch like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew, the witch elms' tassels shiver,
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springing spray the squirrels gaily leaping.
FISHKILL
At Fishkill is located the old Dutch church, erected in 1731,
which housed the provincial convention of 1776. The blacksmith
who forged Washington's sword lived and worked here. The house
referred to in Cooper's Spy is also located here. Back of the
town rises a ridge of lofty hills covered in many places by
forests. Here if you go to the summit a remarkably fine view of
vast extent and most pleasing variety may be obtained. How often
here on Beacon Hill the lurid glare of great signal fires
painted the ebon curtains of the night with their ominous glow.
How often they warned the warriors on distant hillsides of the
approach of an enemy or their crimson glow spoke with many fiery
tongues that peace had been declared.
