A GOOD WOHD FOR WINTER. 47 



to fancy that Shakespeare served his apprenticeship at 

 this trade, and owed to it that most pathetic of despair- 

 ing wishes, — 



" 0, that I were a mockery-king of snow, 

 Standing before the sun of BoHngbroke, 

 To melt myself away m water-drops 1 " 



I have spoken of the exquisite curves of snow sur- 

 faces. Not less rare are the tints of which they are 

 capable, — the faint blue of the hollows, for the shadows 

 in snow are always blue, and the tender rose of higher 

 points, as you stand wdth yoiu- back to the setting sun 

 and look upward across the soft rondure of a hillside. 

 I have seen within a mile of home effects of color as 

 lovely as any iridescence of the Silberhorn after sun^ 

 down. Charles XL, who never said a foolish thing, gave 

 the English climate the highest praise wheu he said that 

 it allowed you more hours out of doors than any other, 

 and I think our winter may fairly make the same boast 

 as compared with the rest of the year. Its still morn- 

 ings, with the thermometer near zero, put a premium on 

 walking. There is more sentiment in turf, perhaps, and 

 it is more elastic to the foot ; its silence, too, is wellnigh 

 as congenial with meditation as that of fallen pine-tassel;* 

 but for exhilaration there is nothing like a stiff snow' 

 crust that creaks like a cricket at every step, and com- 

 municates its own sparkle to the senses. The air you 

 drink isfrappe, all its grosser particles precipitated, and 

 the dregs of your blood with them. A purer cun-ent 

 mounts to the brain, courses sparkling through it, and 

 rinses it thoroiighly of all dejected stuff. There is 

 nothing left to breed an exhalation of ill-humor or 

 despondency. They say that this rarefied atmosphere 

 has lessened the capacity of our lungs. Be it so. Quart- 

 pots are for muddier liquor than nectar. To me, the 

 city in winter is infinitely dreary, — the sharp street- 



