I am sure the ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper's poem, was not a more superb piece of architecture.
The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset and we had the bitterest cold night I ever experienced.

This brought out the Oldest Inhabitant again the next day--and what a gay old boy he was for deciding everything! Our tunnel was turned into solid ice.

A crust thick enough to bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the air was alive with merry sleigh-bells.

Icy stalactites, a yard long, bung from the eaves of the house, and the Turkish sentinels at the gate looked as if they had given up all hopes of ever being relieved from duty.
So the winter set in cold and glittering.

Everything out-of-doors was sheathed in silver mail.