To my surprise and delight I found Washington Irving on board the steamer.  The veteran author had laid aside the fourth volume of the “Life of Washington,” which he was just preparing, to come away for a bit of rest and recreation.  I had never seen him before, but found him precisely the type of man that I had expected.  He was short, rather stout, and attired in an old fashioned black summer dress, with “pumps” and white stockings, and a broad Panama hat.  As he was no novelty to his neighbors I was able to secure more of his time; and, like the apostle of old, I was exceedingly “filled with his company.”  He took me to the upper deck of the steamer, and pointed out a glimpse of his own home—­“Sunnyside”—­which he told me was the original of Baltus Van Tassel’s homestead in the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”  He pointed out the route of 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.