At one the stage for the Mountain House started. The passengers had already waited three hours for the arrival of the down boat, delayed by the fog. They were consequently in no very cheerful frame of mind, and grumbled and growled all the way up the mountain. The day was very warm (94 deg. in the shade), the horses were wearied out by so many journeys up and down, and the five outside and two inside gentlemen seemed by no means willing to relieve their aching limbs and panting hearts. When we reached the steep portion of the ascent, not a single one offered to walk. I felt ashamed--three were Germans, and four my own countrymen. Of the inside ladies, one was German, and four were Americans. In vain did the mountains, with alternate sun and shadow, shining slopes and passionate thunder clouds, don their loveliest aspect. Though never up before, the young German lady and one of the New Yorkers _read_ nearly the whole way to the summit; another lady kept down her veil, and refused to look out, because it was _so_ sunny; the German youth slept, and one only of the inside passengers seemed to feel any real interest in the beautiful and gradual unveiling of the mysteries of these noble hills. When about half a mile above the toll-gate, the horses stopped to rest, and I could no longer endure the idea of their straining up the steep declivity under so heavy a load. I asked a gentleman to open the door for me, as I would walk a way, and thus relieve the poor animals of at least one hundred and ten pounds. Walk I did, but not a single individual followed my example. Heavy drops began to fall, the thunder muttered, and I reached Rip Van Winkle's fabled retreat barely in time to escape a wetting. As the stage came lumbering up with its load of stout, well-fed men, a young woman in the little hut called out: 'Just see them _hogs_ on top of that coach!' Whether the gentlemen heard her, I know not, but the rain having ceased, all left the top of the vehicle and walked thence to the Mountain House. I reached the Laurel House in the early twilight, and thus happily ended my three days' journey. THE MARCH OF LIFE. Less from evils borne we suffer Than from those we apprehend, And no path through life seems rougher Than the one which we ascend. But though Time delights in dealing Wounds which he alone can heal, And the sorrows wed to feeling Make it misery to feel; Nobler than the soulless Stoic, He, who, like the Theban chief, Till the fight is won, heroic Hides the rankling dart of grief. Lords of an immortal glory Be the slaves of mortal shame! No; though Martyrdom before ye Rear a precipice of flame. On the barriers that dismay us Carve the charter of your birth; True endurance, like Antaeus, Strengthens with each cast to earth.