The Aldine, Vol. 5, No. 1., January, 1872

That, at least, was always worth seeing, I reflected; and so, without more ado, I put on my wraps as I was bid, and reported myself under marching orders.

How lovely, how indescribably lovely, the world was that September afternoon, as we strolled along the shaded sidewalk where the maples were already laying a mosaic of gold and garnet, and looked off toward the river and the hills beyond—the far blue hills—all veiled in tenderest amber mist! The very air was full of soft, warm color; the sunbeams, mild and level now, played with the shadows across our path, and every now and then a leaf, flecked with orange or crimson, fluttered to our feet. The blue-birds sang in the goldening boughs, unaffrighted by the constant roll of elegant equipages in which, at this hour, the residents of the stately mansions on either side the road were taking the air; and the crickets hopped about undisturbed in the crevices of the gray stone walls.

We walked leisurely on, past one and another lofty gateway, until presently reaching an entrance rather less assuming than its neighbors, but, like them, hospitably open, Nannette said, with promptness:

"This is the place, I am sure. Square white house; black railing; next to the printing-press man's great gate. Come right in; all are welcome, and not even thank you to pay, for one never sees anyone to speak to here."

It seemed to my modesty rather an audacious proceeding, but trusting to my companion's superior information, I followed her in, and we walked up a circular carriage-drive through smooth shaven lawns dotted with brilliant clumps of salvia and gladiolus, towards the house—a square, solid structure, white, and with broad verandas running across its front.

At its northern side, sloping towards the wall, was visible what looked like an ordinary terrace, rather low, and ornamented with small shrubs and grotto-work; but which, on nearer approach, proved to be a veritable village in miniature, constructed with a verisimilitude of design, and a fidelity to detail, which was at once in the highest degree amazing and amusing. As Nannette had been assured, no one appeared to interfere with us in any way, and full of a curious wonder at such a manifestation of eccentric ingenuity, we seated ourselves upon a wooden box, evidently kept more for the purpose of protecting the odd out-of-door plaything in bad weather, and proceeded to give it the minute inspection which it merited; the result of which I chronicle here for the benefit of the like curious minded.

The terrace, which forms the site of this doll-baby city, is low and semi-circular in shape, and separated from the graveled drive by a close border of box. Within this protecting hedge the ground is laid out in the most picturesque and fantastic manner compatible with a scale of extreme minuteness. Winding roads, shady bye-paths ending in rustic stiles, willow-bordered ponds, streams with fairy bridges, rocky ravines and sunny meadows, ferny dells, and steep hills clambered over with a wilderness of tangled vines, and strewn with lichen-covered stones—all are there, and all reproduced with the most conscientious fidelity to nature, and with Lilliputian diminutiveness. Regular streets, "macadamized" with a gray cement which gives very much the effect of asphaltum, separate one demesne from another; and each meadow, lawn, field, and barn-yard has its own proper fence or wall, constructed in the most workmanlike manner. The streets are bordered by trees, principally evergreens, which, though rigidly kept down to the height of mere shrubs, appear stately by the side of the miniature mansions they overlook; and, in every dooryard, or more pretentious greensward, tiny larches, pines yet in their babyhood, and dwarfed cedars, cast a mimic shade, and bestow an air of dignity and venerableness to the place.

The first object upon which the eye is apt to rest on approaching this modern Lilliput is the squire's house, the residence of the landed proprietor. This is a handsome edifice of some eight by ten inches in breadth and height. It stands upon an eminence in the midst of ornamented grounds, and with its white walls, its lofty cupola, and high, square portico, presents a properly imposing appearance. There are signs of social life about the mansion befitting its own style of conscious superiority. In the wide arched entrance hall stands a high-born dame attired in gay Watteau costume—red-heeled slippers, brocaded petticoat, and bodice and train of puce-colored satin. She is receiving the adieux of an elegant gentleman, hatted, booted, and spurred, who, with whip in hand and dog by his side, is about to descend the steps and mount his horse for a ride over his estate. A bird-cage swings by an open window, and, on the lawn, a group of children, in charge of their nurse, are engaged in the time-honored game of "Ring-around-a-rosy." Winding walks, bordered with shrubbery, disappear among fantastic mounds of rock-work, moss-grown grottoes, and tiny dells of fern; and under a ruined arch, gray with lichen and green with vines, flows a placid streamlet, spanned by a rustic bridge. In the meadow beyond, flocks of sheep are cropping the grass, and an old negro is busily engaged in repairing a breach in the stone wall.

Hard by this stately demesne is a humbler tenement, built of wattled logs, but showing signs of comfort and thrift all about it. The old grandsire sits in a high-backed chair, sunning himself in front of the door; on a bench, at the side of the house, stand rows of washtubs filled with soiled linen, and a woman is busy wringing out clothes; while another, with a bucket on her head, goes to the well to supply her with a fresh thimbleful of water; and still a third milks a handsome dapple-gray cow in the yard where the dairy stands. There is a well-filled barn behind, with another cow and a horse, too, for that matter, in the stable attached, and the farmer, who is putting the last sheaf on his wheat-stack, looks contented enough with his lot.

Just beyond the stream, on whose bank the fisherman sits leisurely dropping his line, stands the village church; a fac-simile of the old Dutch Church which has stood near the entrance of Sleepy Hollow since long before the Revolution, and is hallowed now not only by the pious associations of centuries, but by the near vicinage of Irving's grave. In its little twelve-inch counterpart, every point of the ancient structure is preserved in exact detail. The dull red walls, the beetling roof, the narrow pointed windows and low, arched door; the quaint Dutch weathercock, and odd-shaped tower—aye, even the bell within, no bigger than a doll's thimble—and upon all a sentimental traveler in the person of a china figure perhaps three inches in height, is gazing half pensively, half curiously, as we suppose, at this relic of by-gone years!

On the other side of the stream the village school, likewise an ancient and steeple-crowned edifice, stands out in the midst of a bare and clean swept playground. It bears its signature upon its front:

"DISTRICT SCHOOL, NO. 2,"

and its worshipful character is otherwise indicated by the presence of the master, a venerable looking puppet in cocked hat and knee-breeches, in the doorway, and sundry china children playing rather stiffly about the stone steps.

Ascending by a steep, rocky path, one arrives at a rather pretentious looking wind-mill, which spreads its wide white arms protectingly over the cottages below. Barrels of flour and sacks of meal, well filled and plentiful in number, attest its thriving business, and the miller himself, in a properly dusty coat, looks about him with contented air. At the foot of the hill upon which the mill is perched, are several dwellings—all showing signs of more or less prosperous life, with the exception of one, which affords the orthodox "haunted house" belonging to every well-regulated village. The ruined walls of this old mansion, with lichen cropping out from every crevice; the unhinged doors and broken windows; the ladder rotting as it leans against the moss-grown roof, the broken well-sweep and deserted barn, offer an aspect of desolation and decay which should prove sufficient bait to tempt any ghost of moderate demands.

In direct contrast to the gloom which surrounds this now empty and forsaken home, one observes, in a shady grove surmounting a ridge of hills which rise somewhat steeply here from the roadway, a party of "pic-nickers" gaily attired and disporting themselves after the time-honored manner of such merry-makers; swinging, dancing, or, better still, strolling off arm in arm, in search of cooler shades, and of that company which is never a crowd.

At the base of this rocky ridge, the same stream which one meets above flowing darkly under arch and bridge, winds placidly along in sunshine and shadow until it loses itself in a clump of alders and willows quite at the edge of the box-bordered terrace; and here the village ends.

Not so my sketch: for I have purposely left it to the last to make mention of the great central idea round which all the rest is gathered, and which, doubtless, formed the germ of the whole oddly-conceived, but most admirably-executed plan. This is the "Cat's Monument" of which Nannette had made mention, and which is a structure so original and imposing that it deserves special and minute description.

About midway the terrace, and conspicuous from its size and height, rises a mound of earth shaped into the semblance of an urn or vase, crusted thickly with bits of rock, moss, and pebbles, and overgrown with a tangle of tiny vines. Surmounting this picturesque pedestal is an obelisk of black-veined marble on a granite base, the whole rising some seven feet from the ground. On the polished surface of this memorial pillar is inscribed, in large black capitals, the following classic and touching tribute to the venerable departed who sleeps in peace below:

IN MEMORIAM

TOMMY

FELINI GENERIS

OPTIMUS

DECESSIT A VITA

MENSE NOVEMBRIS

ANNO ÆTATIS 19

Quid me ploras? Nonne decessi gravis senectute? Nonne vivo amicorum ardentium memoria?

On the reverse side of the column appears an inscription even more pathetic and poetic, to yet another departed favorite, who seems, not like Tommy to have been gathered to his fathers ripe in years and honors but to have been cut down in the bloom of youth by some untimely and tragic fate. He is all the more felin'ly lamented:

HIC JACET

PUSSY

SUI GENERIS

PULCHERRIMUS

OCCISUS EST

MENSE APRILIS

ÆTAT. 9

"Vixi, et quum dederat cursum fortuna, peregi. Felix! heu nimium felix! si litora ista nunquam tetigissem!"

Thanks to certain by no means homoeopathic doses of the Latin grammar in my early years, I was able to gather the meaning of these elegiac effusions, and when the last stanza embodying poor Pussy's posthumous wail was discovered to be none other than the despairing death-cry of the "infelix Dido" as immortalized by Virgil—the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous seemed to have been passed.

I looked at Nannette, and Nannette looked at me, and we burst into silent but irrepressible laughter. Nannette was the first to recover herself.

"We ought to be ashamed of ourselves," said she severely: "Honest grief is always respectable; and a fitting tribute to departed worth, no more than what is due from the survivors. I have no doubt but that Tommy and Pussy were most esteemed members of society, and that their loss has left an aching void in the family of which they were the youngest and most petted darlings. I have heard the history of this monument, and the village that has grown up around it, and if you will comport yourself more as a Christian being should in the presence of a solemn memorial, I will relate to you the interesting facts in my possession."

I immediately signified a due contrition and full purpose of amendment; when Nannette continued, still speaking with the gravity befitting the subject.

"This estate then, this large and respectable mansion, and these pleasant grounds in which we now sit, are the property in common of three most estimable ladies, all past their first youth, and all possessed of sufficient good sense and strength of mind to remain their own mistresses, which has procured for the very remarkable specimen of ingenuity now before us, from some ignorant townspeople, the sobriquet of the 'Old Maid's Village.'

"There is only one of the ladies, however, I am informed, who interests herself in the construction of these most ingenious toys. Possessed of ample means, and more than ample leisure, she amuses herself in hours which might otherwise be devoted to gossip and tea, in putting together these various models of buildings, all differing in style, and of most singular materials. The church, for instance, is built of fragments of clinker, gathered from stove and grate, and held firmly together by cement. Nothing could have reproduced so exactly the rough reddish stone of which the old Sleepy Hollow Church is built. The window-glass is represented by carefully framed pieces of tin foil; the gray stone of the gate-posts is imitated by sand rubbed on wooden pillars with a coating of cement. The streets are paved in much the same clever fashion. The well, the pond, the stream, are filled with water each day by the chatelaine's own careful hands. Many of the mimic creatures, human and otherwise, are automata, manufactured to order; the others are wooden or china figures selected with extreme care as to their fitness for their purpose. So rare and so exceedingly pretty are some of these little figures, that they have become objects of unlawful desire to certain soulless curiosity-mongers, who have rewarded an open and confiding hospitality with base attempts at spoliation; and now a person is employed to live in the cottage just beyond us, and do little else than take care of these unique possessions.

"No, you need not start. The woman is probably there at her post, and surveying our operations from time to time. But we have behaved like decent people. We are taking away nothing but a remembrance of a singularly interesting hour, and an admiring impression of the originality, the ingenuity, the industry, and the independence of one of our own sex.

"Is it not so, my friend? And now, by the length of those cedar shadows, it is time for us to rise up and be gone. Else the moonlight will have met and parted with the sunset ere we reach home."

There was nothing to be said; the tale had been told, and with one last, lingering glance, one parting smile, half amused, half touched, I rose, and together we walked home in somewhat pensive mood. Was it not our last day in Fairyland?—Kate J. Hill.

WINE AND KISSES

Translated from the Persian of Mirtsa Schaffy

The lover may be shy—
His bashfulness goes by
When first he kisses.

The bibber, though so staid,
Gets bravely unafraid
When wine his bliss is.