built of rough stone, and might have contained the trunk of an old tree
for a backlog. A man keeps a comfortable hearth when his own forest is
at his very door. In the parlor, when the evening was fairly set in, we
held our hands before our eyes to shield them from the ruddy glow,
and began a pleasant variety of conversation. The mineralogist and the
physician talked about the invigorating qualities of the mountain air,
and its excellent effect on Ethan Crawford's father, an old man of
seventy-five, with the unbroken frame of middle life. The two brides and
the doctor's wife held a whispered discussion, which, by their frequent
titterings and a blush or two, seemed to have reference to the trials or
enjoyments of the matrimonial state. The bridegrooms sat together in a
corner, rigidly silent, like Quakers whom the spirit moveth not, being
still in the odd predicament of bashfulness towards their own young
wives. The Green Mountain squire chose me for his companion, and
described the difficulties he had met with half a century ago in
travelling from the Connecticut River through the Notch to Conway, now
a single day's journey, though it had cost him eighteen. The Georgians
held the album between them, and favored us with the few specimens
of its contents which they considered ridiculous enough to be worth
hearing. One extract met with deserved 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