skippers and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of "the storm-ship."

These reports perplexed the governor and his council more than ever, and it would be endless to repeat the conjectures and opinions uttered on the subject. Some quoted. cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table Bay, but being unable to make port, had now sought another harbor. Others suggested, that if it really was a supernatural apparition, as there was every natural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the Halfmoon, who, it was well known, had once run aground in the upper part of the river, in seeking a north-west passage to China. This opinion had very little weight with the governor, but it passed current out of doors, for, indeed, it had already been reported that Hendrick Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain; and it appeared very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest the river where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the mountain.

Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts of the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ceased to be a subject of deliberation at the board. It continued, however, a matter of popular belief, and marvellous anecdote through the whole time of the Dutch government, and particularly just before the capture of New Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the English squadron. About that time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee and about Weehawk, and even down as far as Hoboken, and her appearance was supposed to be ominous of the approaching squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination.

Since that time we have no authentic accounts of her, though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises about Pointno-point. People who live along the river insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight, and that in a deep, still midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and about the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject.

It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seer

in these highlands in storms, which are considered as connected with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps the Dunderberg. They declare that they have heard him, in storiny weather, in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders in low Dutch, for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or the rattling off of another thunder-clap. That sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little imps, in broad clothes and short doublets, tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in the air, or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's nose; and that, at such times the hurry scurry of the storm was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, she labored dreadfully, and the water came over the gunwale. All the crew were amazed, when it was discovered that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast head, known at once to be the hat of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the mast-head, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop continued laboring and rocking, as if she would have rolled her mast overboard, and seemed in continual danger either of upsetting, or of running on shore. In this way she drove quite through the Highlands, until she had passed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she passed this bourne, than the little hat spun up into the air, like a top, whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg, while the sloop righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck, but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nailed against the mast, a wise precaution against evil spirits, since adopted by all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river.

There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, by Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fishkill, who was never known to tell a lie. He declared that, in a severe squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt against Antony's nose, and that he was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who sang the hymn of St. Nicholas, whereupon the goblin threw

himself up in the air like a ball, and went off in a whirlwind carrying away with him the nightcap of the Dominio's wife, which was discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on the weathercock of Esopus church steeple, at least forty miles off. Several events of this kind having taken place, the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not venture to pass the Dunderberg without lowering their peaks, out of homage to the Heer of the mountain, and it was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass unmolested.

"Such," said Antony Vander Heyden, "are a few of the stories written down by Selyne the poet, concerning this stormship; which he affirms to have brought a crew of mischievous imps into the province, from some old ghost-ridden country of Europe. I could give you a host more, if necessary; for all the accidents that so often befall the river craft in the Highlands are said to be tricks played off by these imps of the Dunderberg; but I see that you are nodding, so let us turn in for the night."

DESCRIPTION OF THE CHASE. JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLE

WILDRAKE and CONSTANCE.

Wild. Kind lady, I attend your fair commands.
Con.

Worthy sir,

Souls attract souls, when they're of kindred vein.
The life that you love, I love. Well I know,

'Mongst those who breast the feats of the bold chase
You stand without a peer; and for myself,

I dare avow, 'mong such none follows them
With heartier glee than I do.

Wild. Churl were he

That would gainsay you, madam!

Con. [courtesying] What delight

To back the flying steed, that challenges

The wind for speed!-
-seems native more of air
Than earth!-whose burden only lends him fire!-
Whose soul, in his task, turns labor into sport!
Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now!
He takes away my breath!-He makes me reell
I touch not earth--I see not-hear not--All
Is ecstacy of motion!

Wild. You are used.

I see, to the chase.

Con. I am, Sir! Then the leap!

To see the saucy barrier, and know

The mettle that can clear it. Then your time

To prove you master of the manage.

You keep him well together for a space,

Now

Both horse and rider braced as you were one,
Scanning the distance then you give him rein,
And let him fly at it, and o'er he goes,
Light as a bird on wing.

Wild. Twere a bold leap,

I see, that turned you, madam.

Con. [courtesying] Sir, you're good! And then the hounds, sir! Nothing I admire Beyond the running of the well-trained pack. The training's everything! Keen on the scent! At fault none losing heart!—but all at work! None leaving his task to another!-answering The watchful huntsman's caution, check, or cheer, As steed his rider's rein! Away they go! How close they keep together!-What a pack! Nor turn, nor ditch, nor stream divides them-as They moved with one intelligence, act, will! And then the concert they keep up!-enough To make one tenant of the merry wood, To list their jocund music!

Wild. You describe

The huntsman's pastime to the life!
Con. I love it!

To wood and glen, hamlet and town, it is

A laughing holiday!-not a hill-top

But's then alive!-Footmen with horsemen vie,
All earth's astir, roused with the revelry

Of vigor, health and joy! Cheer awakes cheer,
While Echo's mimic tongue that never tires,
Keeps up the hearty din! Each face is then
Its neighbor's glass-where gladness sees itself,
And, at the bright reflection grows more glad!
Breaks into tenfold mirth !-laughs like a child!
Would make a gift of its heart, it is so free!
Would scarce accept a kingdom, 'tis so rich!
Shakes hands with all, and vows it never knew
That life was life before!

Wild. Nay, every way

You do fair justice, lady, to the chase.

THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYPT.-REV. A. CLEVELAND COXE.

Deep night o'er thy waters, thou dark-rolling Nile,
And the Hebrew sleeps trembling, his lord with a smile,
For a voice comes in dreams to the children of God:
But the proud have no whisper that Death is abroad!

So, nestled in rocks, when the whirlwind is nigh,
They hear its far coming-the birds of the sky!
While trees it must shiver in leaf and in form,
Are hush as the stillness that heralds the storm.

And the Memphian, at midnight, lay smiling and pleased,
His sin all unshriven, his God unappeas'd,

Till o'er his dark slumbers chill shadows were curl'd,
And the soul of the dreamer was far from the world.

And he lay in the coils of the death-spirit, mute,
With a seal on his lips, like the blast in the fruit;
And he seem'd as when hoar frost hath stiffen'd the flower
'Twas the blight of the Lord, 'twas the touch of his power.

But still was the starlight, while shrouded and hid,
Death brooded o'er palace, and cold pyramid;
No voice on the midnight; no larum of wrath;
No sound of the whirlwind-but only its path.

And a cry was in Egypt, when rose the red morn,
For a thousand pale mothers bewail'd their first born;
And Memnon's sweet music that greeted the Sun
Was lost in the moan of a nation undone.

And shriek'd the young wife o'er the child of her pain,
That never should breathe on her bosom again,
And breasts that were warm with their nursling before,
But heaved, in her grief, for the boy that she bore.

And the bride shrunk aghast, like the death-stricken dove,
When she woke in the cold frozen lock of her love;
And a groan for the noble, the lovely outpour'd,
A wail for the battle they waged with the Lord.

And they seem'd like the willows, that, left on the steep,
Are bent o'er the wreck of the forest to weep,

Or lilies that dripping, and drooping of form,
Shed tears o'er the broken, the spoil of the storm.

Ye join not the wailing, ye dwellers of Zan!
Hath the death-angel spared ye, that smote as he ran?
Oh, the blood-sprinkled lintel hath stayed his proud reign,
And watch'd at your threshold the Lamb that was slain.