the long ridges which support them, give the idea of immense bulk rather than of towering height.  Mount Washington, indeed, looked near to heaven:  he was white with snow a mile downward, and had caught the only cloud that was sailing through the atmosphere to veil his head.  Let us forget the other names of American statesmen that have been stamped upon these hills, but still call the loftiest Washington.  Mountains are Earth’s undecaying monuments.  They must stand while she endures, and never should be consecrated to the mere great men of their own age and country, but to the mighty ones alone, whose glory is universal, and whom all time will render illustrious.

The air, not often sultry in this elevated region, nearly two thousand feet above the sea, was now sharp and cold, like that of a clear November evening in the lowlands.  By morning, probably, there would be a frost, if not a snowfall, on the grass and rye, and an icy surface over the standing water.  I was glad to perceive a prospect of comfortable quarters in a house which we were approaching, and of pleasant company in the guests who were assembled at the door.

Our evening party among the mountains We stood in front of a good substantial farmhouse, of old date in that wild country.  A sign over the door denoted it to be the White Mountain Post Office—­an establishment which distributes letters and newspapers to perhaps a score of persons, comprising the population of two or three townships among the hills.  The broad and weighty antlers of a deer, ‘a stag of ten,’ were fastened at the corner of the house; a fox’s bushy tail was nailed beneath them; and a huge black paw lay on the ground, newly severed and still bleeding the trophy of a bear hunt.  Among several persons collected about the doorsteps, the most remarkable was a sturdy mountaineer, of six feet two and corresponding bulk, with a heavy set of features, such as might be moulded on his own blacksmith’s anvil, but yet indicative of mother wit and rough humor.  As we appeared, he uplifted a tin trumpet, four or five feet long, and blew a tremendous blast, either in honor of our arrival or to awaken an echo from the opposite hill.

Ethan Crawford’s guests were of such a motley description as to form quite a picturesque group, seldom seen together except at some place like this, at once the pleasure house of fashionable tourists and the homely inn of country travellers.  Among the company at the door were the mineralogist and the owner of the gold opera glass whom we had encountered in the Notch; two Georgian gentlemen, who had chilled their southern blood that morning on the top of Mount Washington; a physician and his wife from Conway; a trader of Burlington, and an old squire of the Green Mountains; and two young married couples, all the way from Massachusetts, on the matrimonial jaunt, Besides these strangers, the rugged county of Coos, in which we were, was represented by half a dozen wood-cutters, who had slain a bear in the forest and smitten off his paw.