Let me speak of this quiet grave-yard with all due reverence, for I owe
it amends for the heedlessness of my boyish days. I blush to acknowledge
the thoughtless frolic with which, in company with other whipsters, I
have sported within its sacred bounds during the intervals of worship;
chasing butterflies, plucking wild flowers, or vying with each other
who could leap over the tallest tomb-stones, until checked by the stern
voice of the sexton.

The congregation was, in those days, of a really rural character. City
fashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, by the country people
of the neighborhood. Steam-boats had not as yet confounded town with
country. A weekly market-boat from Tarry town, the "Farmers' Daughter,"
navigated by the worthy Gabriel Requa, was the only communication
between all these parts and the metropolis. A rustic belle in those days
considered a visit to the city in much the same light as one of our
modern fashionable ladies regards a visit to Europe; an event that may
possibly take place once in the course of a lifetime, but to be hoped
for, rather than expected. Hence the array of the congregation was
chiefly after the primitive fashions existing in Sleepy Hollow; or if,
by chance, there was a departure from the Dutch sun-bonnet, or the
apparition of a bright gown of flowered calico, it caused quite a
sensation throughout the church. As the dominie generally preached by
the hour, a bucket of water was providently placed on a bench near the
door, in summer, with a tin cup beside it, for the solace of those who
might be athirst, either from the heat of the weather, or the drouth of
the sermon.

Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the elders of the
church, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged men, whom I regarded