jour- nal of a voyage up the Hudson in 1769 which we have the good fortune to publish in this volume, the reader will notice that the name " Broken Neck Hill ' ' appears, and a glance at the camel-like profile of the mountain in question will go far toward convincing one that the later name, "Breakneck," is a corruption of a title that was really descriptive. The name Breakneck might be applied with equal propriety to any of the steep-sided promontories along the rock-wall of the Highlands. Uninteresting in many respects as Coldspring is to those not imrnediately concerned in foundry work, it has contributed its share to national military strength, having been for years engaged in the production of ordnance for the United States army and navy. Digitized by Microsoft® Digitized by Microsoft® Digitized by IVIicrosoft® Chapter XXIV The Fisher's Reach IT is as difficult now to get beyond the Highlands as it was in 1777. Instead of the chevaux-de-frise, chains, and fortresses with which Sir Henry Clin- ton had to contend, we are stayed by the no less im- perative challenge of natural beauty, at once majestic and unique; while the imagination carries by assault the heights that are buttressed with historic associa- tions and garrisoned with legions of romantic fancies. We hear in the thunder that reverberates from crag to crag the echo of long silent artillery; we see in the mists of morning the smoke of British guns, and under the downright rays of noon seem to distinguish the entrenchments of patriotic levies. But when night falls the mysterious significance of nature asserts a sway that is stronger than embattled arms and older than history. Then the passions and the conquests of man are forgotten and the abiding mystery of imme- morial hills possesses the soul. The pen of Irving has rixed on an inimitable page the subtle charm of a night in the Highlands: 389 Digitized by Microsoft® 390 The Hudson River The moon had just raised her silver horns above the round back of old Bull Hill, and lit up the grey rocks and shagged forests,- and glittered on the waving bosom of the river. The nightrdew was falling, and the late gloomy mountains began to soften and put on a grey, aerial tint in the dewy light. The hunters stirred the fire, and threw on fresh fuel to qualify the damp of the night -air. Thev t1-ien prepared a bed of branches and dry leaves under a ledge of rocks for Dolph ; while Antony Vander Heyden, wrapping himself in a huge coat of skins, stretched himself before the fire. It was some time, however, before Dolph could close his eyes. He lay contemplating the strange scene before him: the wild woods and rocks around; the fire throwing fitful gleams on the faces of the sleeping sav- ages; and the Heer Antony, too, who so singularly, yet vaguely, reminded him of the nightly visitant to the haunted house. Now and then he heard the cry of some animal from the forest ; or the hooting of the owl; orthe notes of the whippoorwill, which seemed to abound among these solitudes ; or the splash of a sturgeon leaping out of the river and falling back full-length on its placid surface. It is said to have been an old custom among the river skippers to christen new hands by sousing them in the current when near PoUopel's Island, and this was done ostensibly because it was supposed to make the victim immune against the goblins that were well known to haunt every available spot on the river shore, but especially the tree-shaded, bush-grown rock that guards the northern Highland gate. It may be imagined that besides affording protection to the apprentice, the ducking also gratified the love for horse- play that has always distinguished sailors of every degree, and for that reason did not fall into disuse till the popular belief in goblins was well-nigh obsolete. Digitized by Microsoft® Digitized by Microsoft® Digitized by Microsoft® The Fisher's Reach 393 PoUopel's has long been considered as a haunted spot, especially infested by the evil spirits that in time of storm fly ;with the storm through the Highlands. In this particular it resembles the Duyvel's Dans Kamer. Cruger's Island, on the contrary, enjoys the distinction of never having been visited by death, even down to the present day. Above the Highlands, on the western shore of the river, the northern slope of Storm King declines into a bluff that is broken by numerous ravines, each at some time the bed of a watercourse. It is here that the village of Cornwall, with its many literary asso- ciations, pursues the quiet and orderly tenor of life. It was a secluded and almost unknown hamlet till