the parlor and bar-room, especially the latter, where the fireplace
was 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 annuals.
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