erved applause. It was a 'Sonnet to the
Snow on Mount Washington,' and had been contributed that very afternoon,
bearing a signature of great distinction in magazines and annals. The
lines were elegant and full of fancy, but too remote from familiar
sentiment, and cold as their subject, resembling those curious specimens
of crystallized vapor which I observed next day on the mountain top. The
poet was understood to be the young gentleman of the gold opera glass,
who heard our laudatory remarks with the composure of a veteran.

Such was our party, and such their ways of amusement. But on a winter
evening another set of guests assembled at the hearth where these summer
travellers were now sitting. I once had it in contemplation to spend a
month hereabouts, in sleighing time, for the sake of studying the yeomen
of New England, who then elbow each other through the Notch by hundreds,
on their way to Portland. There could be no better school for such a
place than Ethan Crawford's inn. Let the student go thither in December,
sit down with the teamsters at their meals, share their evening
merriment, and repose with them at night when every bed has its three
occupants, and parlor, barroom, and kitchen are strewn with slumberers
around the fire. Then let him rise before daylight, button his
greatcoat, muffle up his ears, and stride with the departing caravan
a mile or two, to see how sturdily they make head against the blast. A
treasure of characteristic traits will repay all inconveniences, even
should a frozen nose be of the number.

The conversation of our party soon became more animated and sincere,
and we recounted some traditions of the Indians, who believed that the
father and mother of their race were saved from a deluge by ascending
the peak of Mount Washington. The children of that pair have been
overwhelmed, and found no such refuge. In the mythology of the savage,
these mountains were afterwards considered sacred and inaccessible,
full of unearthly wonders, illuminated at lofty heights by the blaze
of precious stones, and inhabited by deities, who sometimes shrouded
themselves in the snowstorm and came down on the lower world. There
are few legends more poetical than that of the' Great Carbuncle' of the
White Mountains. The belief was communicated to the English settlers,
and is hardly yet extinct, that a gem, of such immense size as to be
seen shining miles away, hangs from a rock over a clear, deep lake,
high up a