Upon

resolved to take my departure the following morning, without attaining the grand object of my journey. awaking on the 21st of October, after a violent stormy night, I found the window of my room thickly incrusted with frost. In an instant I sprang out of bed, and, seeing a clear blue sky, hurried on my dress, tumbled down stairs head foremost, minus hat, stock, and boots, but with pencils, paper, rubber, and board in hand, and throwing back the door of the house, rushed into the open air to seize the long-wished-for sketch, when, lo and behold! thick dark clouds hung more heavily about the mountain's brow than even on the preceding days. The wind, too, cut like a razor (that of the briny gods upon the equator, I mean), so I darted up stairs again into my berth, and, burying my head under the clothes, blamed myself for not having selected a room which had one window at least towards the mountains. My host, however, consoled me at breakfast with the news that the wind was blowing the clouds away, and that my wishes would be gratified in the course of the day; but, upon my proposing to ascend Mount Washington, which was thickly covered with snow, the guide said that "he would not go up for a five-dollar bill, for that it would require two men to hold my hat on." I therefore satisfied my climbing propensity for that day by ascending Mount Deception, which is well named, and affords ample fatigue for unambitious travellers. The prospect that the ensuing day would bring more moderate weather induced me to prolong my stay for the purpose of ascending the loftiest.

Mount Washington is nearly in the centre of a continued range running from north to south, each of which is named after the presidents of the United States in succession; but, as usual, one political party of the people