[Footnote 17:  Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies during the early times of the settlements, there seems to have been a singular one about phantom ships.  The superstitious fancies of men are always apt to turn upon those objects which concern their daily occupations.  The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settlement the comforts of life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present to their dreams, whether sleeping or waking.  The accidental sight from shore, of a sail gliding along the horizon, in those, as yet, lonely seas, was apt to be a matter of much talk and speculation.  There is mention made in one of the early New-England writers, of a ship navigated by witches, with a great horse that stood by the mainmast.  I have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove on shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails all set, and a table spread in the cabin, as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being on board.  These phantom ships always sailed in the eye of the wind; or ploughed their way with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when not a breath of air was stirring.

Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea into a little tale which, within a small compass, contains the very essence of this species of supernatural fiction.  I allude to his Spectre-Ship bound to Dead-man’s Isle.]

* * * * *

“Such,” said Antony Vander Heyden, “are a few of the stories written down by Selyne the poet concerning this storm-ship; which he affirms to have brought this colony 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.”

The moon had just raised her silver horns above the round back of old Bull-Hill, and lit up the gray rocks and shagged forests, and glittered on the waving bosom of the river.  The night-dew was falling, and the late gloomy mountains began to soften, and put on a gray aerial tint in the dewy light.  The hunters stirred the fire, and threw on fresh fuel to qualify the damp of the night air.  They then prepared a bed of branches and dry leaves under a ledge of rocks, for Dolph; while Antony Vander Heyden, wrapping himself up in a huge coat made 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 savages—­and the Heer Antony, too, who so singularly, yet vaguely reminded him of the nightly visitant to the haunted house.  Now and then he