12

than six thousand feet above the Atlantic's level.

Having preëngaged horses for the convenience of our own party, before leaving the Alpine House (with which

[July

to ascend the mountain), we were greatly at our ease upon this somewhat important point before arriving at the Glen-my agreeable traveling companion, Mr. Greene, consoling himself and us frequently, en route, with the assurance that, at all events, we should be "well mounted."

"I have been there," remarked Mr. Greene, complacently.

"Indeed?"

exclaimed

Miss Georgette, "I am so glad, dear Mr. Greene; and you are always so thoughtful, too."

"But, Greene"-I suggested, with some surprise, this is news. I thought you were a stranger in this region."

"In general terms," said my friend. "I spoke in a

general way, only. I have traveled, in my day, you 'know."

"Then you haven't been there?" I insisted, inquiringly.

"No," said Greene. "That is, not in the common acceptation of this term, exactly there. But I have bin there,' nevertheless," persisted Mr. Greene.

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The sentiment is a vulgarism, Mr.

Greene," I added. "And, though you may have traveled,' you have yet a good deal to learn."

"Yes, I see," continued my friend, coolly.

At this point in the conversation, we reached the Glen House stables, where we ascertained, a few minutes subsequently, that parties to the number of over forty-five had accomplished exactly what the enterprising Mr. Greene had done, but some time in advance of him, however. The agreeable feature, therefore, in this preparatory arrangement, (which had been so confidently and so dexterously effected by my friend) was that, in our case, the animals thus "bespoken" by our accomplished cicerone were the very last that were engaged. Our party, with Mr. Greene at its head, were in consequence supplied, without delay, with Hobson's choice. Mr. Greene had "been there," perhaps, -but not in this precise spot!

Immediately on leaving the carriage, Greene (who had traveled, in his time) made himself agreeable among the ostlers and guides congregated there, and who were awaiting the arrival of our party at the "Glen;" it being desirable, ordinarily, that as many visitors as is convenient may ascend the mountain together. Mr. Greene, having distributed, with unsparing hand, among the crowd, the fees which he contended was one of the first of considerations with "traveled" persons, learned immediately after this performance, that, at least in the present instance, it was an act of supererogation; for there were but five miserable hacks left in the stables for the accommodation of our party!

"On'y five left," said the guide, politely.

"How very precise!" remarked Mr. Greene.

Very," was the response. "Allers jess so, sir. Five pussons-five 'orses." "Yes, I see. Exactly five horses here," continued Greene, calculatingly. Five times four are twenty. That is to say, ten pairs of legs. Five animals-five persons."

"Yes, sir," said the guide, 'an' we're all ready-'f'u please, sir."

"O, yes-I see, I see," continued Mr. Greene. "You couldn't, MikeI think you said your name is Michael," added Greene, persuasively, as he thrust another coin into the guide's hand,

"you couldn't contrive to manage to exchange-that is to say, provide us with five animals a shade better, that is, different from these-eh? could you Mike ?"

"Couldn't, possibly," responded Mike, as he quietly thrust the coin into his watch-fob. "All gone-an' besides, sir, these is the best in the stables. Last allers best, sir."

Mr. Greene scanned the poor jaded ponies, and exclaimed, half-unconsciously, "if these are the best, heaven help the others!"

Ready, sir?" inquired Mike, a moment afterwards, "ladies all mounted, and gone on, sir."

"Bless me! You don't say so," ejaculated Greene.

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The signal was at length given for the march, and the party moved slowly away in a line, single file;" and crossing the river, a few rods below the front of the Glen House, the leading guide (at the head of his motley battalion) turned up the roadway, and commenced the ascent to Mount Washington.

Mr. Greene stood beside his sorry nag, in readiness to mount, but evidently a little shy and suspicious either of his beast, or of his own horsemanship.

"'Ave a care!" suggested Mike, kindly to him, as he placed his foot in the stirrup. "She's a good 'un, but she's apt to run back'ards a leetle, at fust. You ken ride, carn't you?"

This home-thrust, at my pleasant friend's accomplishments as an equestrian, was rather ill-advised; for, if there were any one thing in Mr. Greene's "traveled experience" upon which he prided himself more especially than another, it was that he could ride

well.

"O, yes-I see, I see. Thank you. Capital seat, capital," said Mr. Greene, bravely. "Never better-never!" he continued throwing his right limb gallantly over the saddle, and jerking himself upon the unruly creature's back, briskly.

But at the instant he performed this graceful feat in mounting, his erratic pony, sulking, sprang violently backwards, and by the retrograde movement brought the nose and chin of Mr. Greene very suddenly and unceremoniously between the brute's ears, at the same time knocking his hat from his head, uncivilly.

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Greene, greatly disconcerted, but quickly regaining his seat in the saddle, "Bless me-what a horse!"

Best 'orse in the crowd, sir," insisted Mike, coming to the rescue, and seizing the animal by the head, with an emphatic "whoa!"

"There-Michael, don't chafe her," exclaimed Mr. Greene, soothingly"don't! There that's better. Hold on to her now, a moment," continued Greene, putting another coin into the guide's hand. "Don't let her run back again, Mike."

"No, sir-" "No-don't;" repeated Mr. Greene.

Then turning to the crowd who remained behind at the hotel, and who had enjoyed his trifling discomfiture vastly, he resumed his castor with the remark that he "deemed it but civil to uncover in the presence of so many fair ladies, at starting;" and, followed by three hearty cheers, he forced his unwilling Rosinante into a sharp gallop down the valley, to the mountain road, overtaking the party

Glen."

Your party winds along, in Indian file-one horse behind the other-through the varying scenes of wild and natural beauty which crowd upon the view at every turn, and you cannot cease to admire, to exclaim, to wonder, or to praise, as you pass sluggishly on towards the peak. Surrounded on both sides, at first, by the forest, you shortly find your way flanked by trees of a lesser magnitude, but thickly set; and soon after, the

stunted growth of savins and scrub-oak appear; then you encounter patches of aged and grim dwarfs, now blasted and torn by the lightnings, now uprooted by the mountain storms, and laid prostrate in your path, or by the sides of the road; now appear clumps of cedar and other hardy evergreens, all withered and apparently sapless, as you get higher up the mountain side, where the size of the trees is now reduced to the merest shrub; and soon all sign of vegetation

ceases.

Now you encounter a sharp hill for several rods-now a ragged knoll, and now a gulch, through which the spring rains and melting snows have been tearing for weeks, perhaps, and at sight of which even your well-bred donkey starts, or bolts, or halts outright; now, a lively spring or miniature torrent gushes madly out from some rocky fissure at the way-side, and your jaded beast thrusts his head into its cool waters "with a will." Now you meet a chasm in your way, over which your dull nag leaps with the agility of a lame cow, causing your hair to stand on end at your awkward escape from a momentarily anticipated breaking of the neck! And now, rollicking and shouting with the ladies-heaven bless them, how admirably well they endure the fatigues of this journey!-and still moving forward slowly, measuredly, but surely, upon the backs of those sullen, dogged,

but faithful ponies, you straggle upup-up-towards the summit.

You leave behind you the birches and the maples, the beech-trees and the firs, the few hemlocks and the fewer white-pines, the aspen-poplars and the mountain-ash, the spruce bushes and the savins, the scrubs and the dwarfsand now, only a few sparsely scattered plants, and lichens, and mosses, greet the eye for a mile or more, as you still ascend.

The atmosphere is perceptibly colder, and the cumbersome coats and shawls, which the guide insisted you should take with you at starting, you find of great service. As you proceed, the fir bushes and stinted shrubs grow fewer and further between, and are now seen only in the sheltered crevices and hollows of the rocks. A little grass is then met with, along the margin of the springy spots, and finally the brown moss, even, refuses to show itself on the sides of your pathway.

Some five miles distant from the bed of the valley stands Bald Ledge-the wildest and most outre of all the wild scenes to be witnessed upon the mountains. At an elevation of near five thousand feet above the ocean's level, it is a rocky, barren spot, over which you pass in reaching the Summit House, and from which, in a clear hour, you have a surprisingly interesting view of the hills and valleys below you. From

the front of the Glen House, when the atmosphere is unobstructed, you catch a glimpse of the trail of travelers as it passes around a bluff just beyond its plaza, and from this height, en passant, you may turn in the saddle and obtain a charming view of the mountains already passed, and of the scenery far down in the valley below. The line of travelers can thus be seen from below only for a moment; but against a clear sky they are very distinctly defined; and signals are here exchanged between those who are bound up, and who may have left friends at the public-house in the glen-the latter, from the hotel piazza, being on the lookout for their companions, with the telescope.

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Bald Ledge" itself is an uncharitable, cheerless, barren mass of broken rocks well named. It is flanked upon the right by a miserable death-stricken forest of tall, gnarled stumps, standing

thickly together, from which the leaves and bark has been stript, evidently, for years, and which, by the action of the extreme cold weather and storms there, have become bleached to a chalky whiteness, from the roots to the highest branches. The trees are shapeless; or, rather, of every conceivable shape into which the pitiless winters of that region, aided by the thousand storms that have spent their fury around, could possibly contort them; and there they stand, along the sharp brink of the ledge, upright or embracing a neighbor, twisted and shattered, isolated or in clumps-but entirely white-root, boll, and branch, throughout the whole forest; like so many blanched and blasted ghosts, halting there with outstretched arms and scrawny fingers, to fright one from his propriety as he is compelled to pass by this desolate region.

Various theories are current, account