A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS
At nightfall once in the olden time， on the ruggedside of one of the Crystal Hills， a party of adventurerswere refreshing themselves after a toilsome and fruitlessquest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither，not as friends nor partners in the enterprise， but each，save one youthful pair， impelled by his own selfish andsolitary longing for this wondrous gem. Their feelingof brotherhood， however， was strong enough to inducethem to contribute a mutual aid in building a rude hutof branches and kindling a great fire of shattered pinesthat had drifted down the headlong current of theAmonoosuck， on the lower bank of which they wereto pass the night. There was but one of their number，perhaps， who had become so estranged from naturalsympathies by the absorbing spell of the pursuit as toacknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human faces inthe remote and solitary region whither they had ascended.
A vast extent of wilderness lay between them and thenearest settlement， while scant a mile above their headswas that bleak verge where the hills throw off their shaggymantle of forest-trees and either robe themselves in cloudsor tower naked into the sky. The roar of the Amonoosuckwould have been too awful for endurance if only a solitaryman had listened while the mountain-stream talked withthe wind.
The adventurers， therefore， exchanged hospitable greetingsand welcomed one another to the hut where each man wasthe host and all were the guests of the whole company.
They spread their individual supplies of food on theflat surface of a rock and partook of a general repast； atthe close of which a sentiment of good-fellowship wasperceptible among the party， though repressed by the ideathat the renewed search for the Great Carbuncle mustmake them strangers again in the morning. Seven menand one young woman， they warmed themselves togetherat the fire， which extended its bright wall along the wholefront of their wigwam. As they observed the various andcontrasted figures that made up the assemblage， eachman looking like a caricature of himself in the unsteadylight that flickered over him， they came mutually to theconclusion that an odder society had never met in city orwilderness， on mountain or plain.
The eldest of the group—a tall， lean， weatherbeatenman some sixty years of age—was clad in the skins of wildanimals whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate，since the deer， the wolf and the bear had long been hismost intimate companions. He was one of those ill-fatedmortals， such as the Indians told of， whom in their earlyyouth the Great Carbuncle smote with a peculiar madnessand became the passionate dream of their existence. Allwho visited that region knew him as “the Seeker，” andby no other name. As none could remember when hefirst took up the search， there went a fable in the valleyof the Saco that for his inordinate lust after the GreatCarbuncle he had been condemned to wander amongthe mountains till the end of time， still with the samefeverish hopes at sunrise， the same despair at eve. Nearthis miserable Seeker sat a little elderly personage wearinga high-crowned hat shaped somewhat like a crucible.
He was from beyond the sea—a Doctor Cacaphodel，who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy bycontinually stooping over charcoal-furnaces and inhalingunwholesome fumes during his researches in chemistryand alchemy. It was told of him—whether truly or not—that at the commencement of his studies he had drainedhis body of all its richest blood and wasted it， with otherinestimable ingredients， in an unsuccessful experiment，and had never been a well man since. Another of theadventurers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort， a weightymerchant and selectman of Boston， and an elder of thefamous Mr. Norton’s church. His enemies had a ridiculousstory that Master Pigsnort was accustomed to spend awhole hour after prayer-time every morning and eveningin wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pinetreeshillings， which were the earliest silver coinage ofMassachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice hadno name that his companions knew of， and was chieflydistinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thinvisage， and by a prodigious pair of spectacles which weresupposed to deform and discolor the whole face of natureto this gentleman’s perception. The fifth adventurerlikewise lacked a name， which was the greater pity， as heappeared to be a poet. He was a bright-eyed man， butwoefully pined away， which was no more than natural if， assome people affirmed， his ordinary diet was fog， morningmist and a slice of the densest cloud within his reach，sauced with moonshine whenever he could get it. Certainit is that the poetry which flowed from him had a smackof all these dainties. The sixth of the party was a youngman of haughty mien and sat somewhat apart from therest， wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders， whilethe fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress andgleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword.
This was the lord De Vere， who when at home was saidto spend much of his time in the burial-vault of his deadprogenitors rummaging their mouldy coffins in search ofall the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden amongbones and dust； so that， besides his own share， he had thecollected haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry.
Lastly， there was a handsome youth in rustic garb， andby his side a blooming little person in whom a delicateshade of maiden reserve was just melting into the richglow of a young wife’s affection. Her name was Hannah，and her husband’s Matthew—two homely names， yet wellenough adapted to the simple pair who seemed strangelyout of place among the whimsical fraternity whose witshad been set agog by the Great Carbuncle.