quagmires. The journey was usually begun at 3 o'clock in the morning, and after eighteen hours of jogging over the rough roads the weary traveler was put down at a country inn whose bed and board were such as few horny-handed laborers of to-day would endure. Long before daybreak the next morning a blast from the driver's horn summoned him to the renewal of his journey. If the coach stuck fast in a mire, as it often did, the passengers must alight and help lift it out." No wonder a man made his will and had prayers offered in church for his safe return before he ventured forth. But even such a conveyance was a luxury. As a rule people traveled on foot, carrying their packs on their backs. The well-to-do rode on horseback, and in some places post chaises with relays of horses every ten or twenty miles could be obtained. What would the ghosts of such travelers say to-day, should they stumble on a Pullman car or a dust-compelling devil wagon? Our very expressions of speech are modeled on the common, every-day things of life. Fifty or a hundred years ago the man who was a "slow coach" to-day would be "geared low."

At least two of the many interesting buildings hereabouts are worth noting. Standing back from the road a quarter of a mile or so, and within the compass of the Ardsley Club grounds, is a plain little cottage whose clapboards show no mark of the planing mill. Here once lived the redoubtable Col. John Odell, whose father, Jonathan, languished in a British prison in New York because his son was fighting under the flag of freedom. At the time of his capture Jonathan Odell was living on the Odell Estate, which was later sold to a son of Alexander Hamilton. It is told that the Hessians hanged a negro slave of Odell's three separate times in an effort to make him disclose the hiding place of certain hogs with which the said Hessians were anxious to fraternise.

A step further on stands the former residence of Cyrus W. Field, whose place, known as Ardsley, at one time covered some five hundred or more acres extending from the Post Road over the ridge to the Sawmill River. The house was built in the day of the mansard roof, and is not a particularly picturesque creation, but every American is interested in the man who succeeded in linking his country with the outside world as did Cyrus W. Field.

As we proceed toward the land of enchantment the surroundings seem to take on a more mysterious air. Sounds that awhile before meant nothing more than the wind in the trees now begin to make one think of the rush of galloping cowboys or Hessians on mischief bent; or, if perchance we catch through the gathering dusk a glint of white on the river below, may it not be that Flying Dutchman who, tired of the narrow bounds of the Tappan Zee, is trying to steal out to the open ocean while the constable sleeps, but the cause of such speculation is gone almost before the speculation itself takes shape. However, the abode wherein so many of these marvels were clothed in becoming language is close at hand—Sunnyside. No better description of the place can be had than the artist's own: "About five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned city of Manhattan ... stands a little, old-fashioned stone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat.... Though but of small dimensions, yet, like many small people, it is of mighty spirit and values itself greatly on its antiquity.... Its origin in truth dates back in that remote region commonly called the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes mystified and tinted up with delectable fiction.... The seat of empire now came into the possession of Wolfert Acker, one of the privy counsellors of Peter Stuyvesant.... During the dark and troublous times of the Revolutionary War it was the keep or stronghold of Jacob Van Tassel, a valiant Dutchman.... Years and years passed over the time honored little mansion. The honeysuckle and the sweet briar crept up its walls; the wren and the phœbe bird built under its eaves.... Such was the state of the Roost many years since, at the time when Diedrich Knickerbocker came into this neighborhood.... Mementoes of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker are still cherished at the Roost. His elbow chair and antique writing desk maintain their place in the room he occupied, and his old cocked hat still hangs on a peg against the wall."

From here to Tarrytown is but a little way. Tarwetown, "wheat-town." It is odd that two names so dissimilar in sound as this and Greenburgh, and both of Dutch origin, should mean the same thing. The Indian village here was Alipconck, "the place of elms." Like all this region the place is full of the romance which Irving created, and of stirring incidents of Colonial and Revolutionary days. Chief among these are the remains of the Philipse domain, the capture of André and the legend of Sleepy Hollow, into which the old Dutch Church has been woven. The church yard contains some beautiful monuments to the dead.

It is an odd coincidence that the Whitewood tree known as Major André's tree, near which the capture was effected, was struck by lightning the day that news was received at Tarrytown of Arnold's death. A monument now standing on the edge of the road has taken the place of the tree. We all know how the Skinners, Paulding, Van Wart and Williams made this capture which disclosed the treachery of Arnold. It was indeed a fortunate combination of circumstances that led these three incorruptible men to the right spot at the right moment.

How many times did the death knell of independence seem on the point of being tolled, and how many times did the god of chance throw his weight into the ascending scale of the Colonists. But for a lapse of memory, the attempt of the British in the Summer of 1777 to capture the Hudson Valley and separate New England from her sisters might have been as successful as it proved disastrous. Lord George Germain sent Burgoyne peremptory instructions to proceed down the Hudson, and the instructions to Howe to move north to meet him were equally peremptory, but the latter were pigeonholed and forgotten for several weeks, and when remembered it was too late. Washington had decoyed Howe to Pennsylvania, and Burgoyne, lacking the expected support from the south, was defeated by the farmers.

Pocantico, "a run between two hills," the Dutch called it Sleepy Haven Kill, hence Sleepy Hollow. "Far in the foldings of the hills winds this wizard stream," writes the grand sachem of all the wizards, who wove the romance of the headless horseman and the luckless schoolmaster so tightly about the spot that they are to-day part and parcel of it. The bridge over which the scared pedagogue scurried was some rods further up the stream than is the present crossing, for in those days the Post Road ran along the north side of the church, and the entrance was originally on that side of the building, while now it is on the western end which faces the present road.

The name Frederick Philipse was originally written Vreedryk, or Vrederyck, Felypsen, the former meaning "rich in peace," indicating, we presume, the difference between his peaceful occupation of breaking into the new wilderness and that of his ancestors in Bohemia who, being persecuted for their religious opinions, fled to Holland, from whence Frederick emigrated to New Amsterdam, some time before 1653, becoming a successful merchant, and later a patroon. Sen, meaning son in Dutch, Felypsen meant the son of Felyp, Frederick the son of Philip. On the west bank of the Pocantico Philipse