charming Kiarsarge, which, long after it is passed, draws the eye to look back upon it, still hungry for the exquisite droop of its folds, as of drapery falling from a ring; through the Bartlett village, which is only a long winding lane among steep hills, cool with thick and dark

green verdure; into, and soon out of, the little mountain basin over which the clumsy crest of Mount Crawford peers-a perpetual monument to the old patriarch of the district, who kept, for years, a small inn for travellers in this secluded bowl, and drove a team, four in hand, to the Crawford House, when he was over eighty; and six miles further on, until two mountain lines shoot across each other, and, by a sudden turn of the road, open, and allow us to ride into the pass, where

thus we are swept on, and find that no two miles of the ride are monotonous, and that each hour introduces us to scenery of fresh

character and charm. After the Crawford House is reached through the upper gateway of "The Notch," where there is just room, under the decaying crags that face each other, for the little mill-stream of 'the Saco and the road; after Mount Willard has been ascended, and

Washington scaled, and the whole mountain visit is finished, we may remember our first sight of "The Notch," and the subsequent experience, in the language of Whittier :

We had checked our steeds
Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall
Is piled to heaven; and through the narrow rift
Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet
Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar,
Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind
Comes burdened with the everlasting moan
Of forests and of far-off waterfalls,

We had looked upward where the summer sky
Tasselled with clouds, light-woven by the sun,

Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags,
O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land
Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed
The high source of the Saco; and, bewildered
In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills,
Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud,
The horn of Fabyan sounding; and atop

Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains

Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick
As meadow-molehills-the far sea of Casco

A white gleam on the horizon of the east;
Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills;
Moosehillock's mountain 'range, and Kiarsarge
Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun.

All as true as it is vivid, except the "Titan forehead" of Kiarsarge. No summit so little deserves that title. Queenly forehead would be more appropriate.

But we have skipped North Conway, of which the graceful mountain just spoken of is only one of the gems, in our notice of the ride from Centre Harbor to "The Notch." It is not because we have overlooked it, but because we reserve a separate chapter for it, farther on. This village, five miles above Conway Centre, and twentyfive miles from "The Notch," is not to be considered, or alluded to, as one point on the route, to be merely driven through. It is a place to stay in, where the mountains are to be studied, where the mind is to rest as in a natural art-gallery, and in an atmosphere saturated with beauty.

From the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails,
Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales;

There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow,

As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago.

But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills,
How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom of the hills,
Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon
Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet of the loon!
With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam,
-Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream,
Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fast
The mile-stones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past.

The steeds of fire and steam do not vex the air of North Conway even with any echoes as yet; and it is not till it passes beyond the meadows which lie under "The Ledges" and "The Mote," that the Saco is "vexed" with "dams and mills." As to "bridges," the Bartlett farmers can testify that the Saco vexes them, in every time of freshet, more than it is troubled by their piers.

North Conway has been the favorite resort among the mountains for artists. And after the first of July, its hotels and private houses are often crowded with visitors who desire to spend several days at least, if not several weeks, in quiet enjoyment of mountain scenery. Why is it that so few persons make provision, in the programme of their tour for waiting two or three days in one spot, and for taking the short jaunts, in their own hired wagon, to the rarer and secluded landscapes in which the glories of the mountain districts are concentrated? Such is the true way to get adequate and lasting impressions of the character of the hill country. People, in the majority of instances, reach Conway Centre the same day that they left Boston and caught their first view of Winnipiseogee. They hurry through North Conway to "The Notch," whether it rains or shines, the day after. They ascend Mount Washington the third day; and, on the fourth, are driven to Franconia for an equally rapid glimpse of its treasures; or, perhaps not waiting for that, push on to Littleton for the Connecticut valley cars. A large proportion of the summer travellers in New Hampshire bolt the scenery, as a man, driven by work, bolts his dinner at a restaurant. Sometimes, indeed, where railroads will allow, as on the eastern side, they will gobble some of the superb views between two trains, with as little consciousness of any flavor or artistic relish, as a turkey has in swallowing corn. One might as well be a railroad conductor for a week on an up-country train, so far as any effect on mind or sentiment is concerned, or any real acquaintance with Nature is gained, as to take to what we Yankees call "pleasurin'," in such style.

Where persons do not have a margin of a few days, they may lose the whole object of their journey. It sometimes happens that not

more than a few perfect hours for sight-seeing are drawn out of the week. Day after day may turn up a blank. Perhaps there is rain; or vapors are heavily folded over the great ridges; or there is inces sant sunshine, without any clouds to give relief to the eyes and expression to the hills; or a slaty and chilly sky spreads a mournful monotony over scenes that you want to see transfigured by the

Mysteries of color daily laid,

By the sun in light and shade.

And then a week may be given, in which, to those who can stay in a place like North Conway or Gorham, every day will be a prize. South wind, north wind, and west wind will come by turns, and do their best.

It may blow north, it still is warm;

Or south, it still is clear;

Or east, it smells like a clover farm;
Or west, no thunder fear.

Varying with each hour the favored visitors will have the full range of summer views, the anthology of a season's art, gathered into a portion of a single week. The mountains seem to overhaul their meteorological wardrobe. They will array themselves, by rapid turns, in their violets and purples and mode colors, their cloaks of azure and caps of gold, their laces and velvets, and their iris-scarfs.

One day it will be so clear, that, for the eye, space seems to have been half annihilated. Every sharp ridge lies in the sky like the curving blade of an adze, and the pinnacles tower sharp as spears. Then the few shadows that spot the slopes seem engraved upon them. Such is the day for proof-impressions of the roughness and raggedness, the cuts and scars, the ravines and spurs, the boundary lines of shrubbery and rock, that make up the surface of the mountains. In an air like this, from the top of Mount Washington, the vessels in Portland harbor will be distinctly descried by the glass.

Then will come a day sacred to great clouds. How majestically they will sail through the azure, perplexing the eye with their double