I had forgotten that Cold Spring “plucks a glory on its head” from being honoured with the frequent visits of Washington Irving, Halleck, and other lesser stars in the literary firmament; when these first lights above the horizon shall have set, (Hesperus-like—first and brightest!) there will linger about this little village—by that time, perhaps, arrived at the dignity of a landing-place—many a tale of the days when Geoffrey Crayon talked in his gentle way with the ferryman who brought him to Cold Spring; or the now plethoric post-master, who, in his character of librarian to the village, enjoyed the friendship of Irving and Halleck, and received from their own hands the “authors’ copies,” since curiously preserved in the execrable print and binding then prevalent in America. Perhaps even old Lipsey the ferryman, and his rival Andrews, will come in for their slice of immortality, little as they dream now, pulling close in for the counter-current under our Lady’s skirts, of working at that slow oar for posthumous reputation. [Illustration] VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE, CATSKILL. * * * * * In the following masterly description, by Miss Martineau, is said all, and the best that can be said, of the glorious view from the Mountain-House at Catskill. “After tea, I went out upon the platform in front of the house, having been warned not to go too near the edge, so as to fall an unmeasured depth into the forest below. I sat upon the edge as a security against stepping over unawares. The stars were bright overhead, and had conquered half the sky, giving promise of what we ardently desired, a fine morrow. Over the other half, the mass of thunder-clouds was, I supposed, heaped together; for I could at first discern nothing of the champaign which I knew must be stretched below. Suddenly, and from that moment incessantly, gushes of red lightning poured out from the cloudy canopy, revealing, not merely the horizon, but the course of the river, in all its windings through the valley. This thread of river, thus illuminated, looked like a flash of lightning caught by some strong hand and laid along in the valley. “All the principal features of the landscape might, no doubt, have been discerned by this sulphureous light; but my whole attention was absorbed by the river, which seemed to come out of the darkness, like an apparition, at the summons of my impatient will. It could be borne only for a short time—this dazzling, bewildering alternation of glare and blackness, of vast reality and nothingness. I was soon glad to draw back from the precipice, and seek the candle-light within.