We lodged here this Sunday night in a comfortable bed-room, apparently the best one; and all that I noticed unusual in the night—­for I still kept taking notes, like a spy in the camp—­was the creaking of the thin split boards, when any of our neighbors stirred.

Such were the first rude beginnings of a town.  They spoke of the practicability of a winter-road to the Moosehead carry, which would not cost much, and would connect them with steam and staging and all the busy world.  I almost doubted if the lake would be there,—­the self-same lake,—­ preserve its form and identity, when the shores should be cleared and settled; as if these lakes and streams which explorers report never awaited the advent of the citizen.

The sight of one of these frontier-houses, built of these great logs, whose inhabitants have unflinchingly maintained their ground many summers and winters in the wilderness, reminds me of famous forts, like Ticonderoga, or Crown Point, which have sustained memorable sieges.  They are especially winter-quarters, and at this season this one had a partially deserted look, as if the siege were raised a little, the snow-banks being melted from before it, and its garrison accordingly reduced.  I think of their daily food as rations,—­it is called “supplies”; a Bible and a great coat are munitions of war, and a single man seen about the premises is a sentinel on duty.  You expect that he will require the countersign, and will perchance take you for Ethan Allen, come to demand the surrender of his fort in the name of the Continental Congress.  It is a sort of ranger service.  Arnold’s expedition is a daily experience with these settlers.  They can prove that they were out at almost any time; and I think that all the first generation of them deserve a pension more than any that went to the Mexican war.

[To be continued.]

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.

EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL.

Aqui esta encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias.

If I should ever make a little book out of these papers, which I hope you are not getting tired of, I suppose I ought to save the above sentence for a motto on the title-page.  But I want it now, and must use it.  I need not say to you that the words are Spanish, nor that they are to be found in the short Introduction to “Gil Blas,” nor that they mean, “Here lies buried the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias.”

I warned all young people off the premises when I began my notes referring to old age.  I must be equally fair with old people now.  They are earnestly requested to leave this paper to young persons from the age of twelve to that of four-score years and ten, at which latter period of life I am sure that I shall have at least one youthful reader.  You know well enough what I mean by youth and age;—­something in the soul, which has no more to do with the color of the hair than the vein of gold in a rock has to do with the grass a thousand feet above it.