I have lived in the bosom of the White Mountains since I last wrote, heartily enjoying the companionship of the giants, the fantastic gambols of the clouds around them, the songs and the dances of the brooks in the deep glens, the whole of this bold and strong scenery, which made me feel as if at home in Sweden, amid the glorious river-valleys of Dalecarlia or Norrland. Yet the scenery here is more picturesque, more playful and fantastic, has more cheerful diversity, and the affluence of wood and the beautiful foliage in the valleys is extraordinary; you walk or drive continually between the most lovely wild hedges of hazel, elm, schumach (a very beautiful shrub, which is general throughout America), sugar-maple, yellow-birch, fir-trees, pines, and many other trees and shrubs; and on all sides is heard the singing, and the roaring of mountain-streams clear as silver, through the passes of the hills. It was so cold in certain parts of this mountain region, that it was with difficulty I could guide my pen, from the stiffness of my fingers. But both soul and body were hale, and Mrs. S. was equally vigorous and refreshing as the scenery itself, with all its heights and its singing brooks, its waving flowers and shrubs.
The peculiarity of these so-called White Mountains is, the many gigantic human profiles which, in many places, look out from the mountains with a precision and perfect regularity of outline which is quite astonishing. They have very much amused me, and I have sketched several of them in my rambles. We have our quarters here very close to one of these countenances, which has long been known under the name of “the old man of the mountain.” It has not any nobility of features, but resembles a very old man in a bad humour, and with a night-cap on his head, who is looking out from the mountain half inquisitive. Far below the old giant's face is an enchanting
