oped to gather the May roses at Dungeness; or Juan de Fuca, two
centuries earlier, "sailed into that silent sea," and looked round at
the mountains,--not less beautiful, though more imposing, than those
that lay about his own home on the distant Mediterranean.

DECEMBER 10, 1869.

We have just seen an English gentleman who came over to this country for
the purpose of ascending Mount Baker, first called by the Spaniards
_Montana del Carmelo_. He was three years in trying to get a small
company to attempt the expedition with him. Indians do not at all
incline to ascending mountains; they seem to have some superstitious
fear about it. I believe this mountain has never been explored to any
extent. He describes the colors of the snow and ice as intensely
beautiful. He has travelled among the Alps, but saw an entirely new
phenomenon on the summit of Mount Baker,--the snow like little tongues
of flame. In the deep rifts was a most exquisite blue. On the last day's
upward journey, they were obliged to throw away all their blankets,--as
they were not able to carry any weight,--and depend on chance for the
night's shelter. How well Fate rewarded them for trusting her! They
happened at night upon a warm cavern, where any extra coverings would
have been quite superfluous. It was part of the crater, but they slept
quietly notwithstanding.

JANUARY 15, 1870.

We have now a little Chinese boy to live with us; that is, he represents
himself as a boy, but he seems more as if he were a most ancient man. He
might have stepped out of some Ninevite or Egyptian sculpture. He is
like the little figures in the processions on the tombs, and his face is
perfectly grave and unchanging all the time. I feel about him, as I do
about some of the Indians,--as if he had not only his own age, but the
age of his race, about him.

There never could be any thing more inappropriate than that he should be
named "Wing," for no creature could be farther from any thing light or
airy. One reason, I think, why he seems so different from any of his
countrymen that we have seen, is because he has never lived in a city,
but only in a small village, which he says has no name that we should
understand.

He works in the slowest possible way, but most faithfully and
incessantly, and never shows the slightest desire for any recreation or
rest. Even the anticipation of the great national Chinese feast, which
is to be celebrated next month, and which occurs