Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve!”
When thy hunger-shriek echoes through the wilderness, with terror does the wild animal seek his den, for thy talons are of iron and thine eyes of fire. But what is thy message to the sun? Far, far into the zenith art thou gone, for ever gone—emblem of a mighty hope that once was mine.
My thoughts were upon the earth once more, and my feet upon a hill out of the woods, whence might be seen the long broad valley of the Amonoosack, melting into that of the Connecticut. Long and intently did I gaze upon the landscape, with its unnumbered farm-houses, reposing in the sunlight, and surmounted by pyramids of light blue smoke, and also upon the cattle gazing on a thousand hills. Presently I heard the rattling wheels of the stage-coach;—one more look over the charming valley, and I was in my seat beside the coachman.
In view of the foregoing and forthcoming facts, I cannot but conclude that I am a most lucky fellow. My ride from Franconia to Littleton was attended with this interesting circumstance. A very pretty young lady, who was in the stage, found it necessary to change her seat to the outside on account of the confinement within. Of course, I welcomed her to my side with unalloyed pleasure. The scenery was fine, but what does my reader suppose I cared for that—as I sat there talking in a most eloquent strain to my companion, with my right arm around her waist to keep her from falling? That conduct of mine may appear “shocking” to those who have “never travelled,” but it was not only an act of politeness but of absolute necessity. Neither, as my patient’s smile told me, “was it bad to take.” And how delightful it was to have her cling to me, and to hear the beating of her heart, as the driver swung his whip and ran his horses down the hills! Animal magnetism is indeed a great invention—and I am a believer in it, so far as the touch of a beautiful woman is concerned.
Away, away—thoughts of the human world! for I am entering into the heart of the White Mountains. Ah me! how can I describe these glorious hierarchs of New England! How solemnly do they raise their rugged peaks to heaven! Now, in token of their royalty, crowned with a diadem of clouds; and now with every one of their cliffs gleaming in the sunlight like the pictures of a dream! For ages, have they been the playmates of the storm, and held communion with the mysteries of the midnight sky. The earliest beams of the morning have bathed them in living light, and theirs too have been the last kisses of departing day. Man and his empires have arisen and decayed, but they have remained unchanged, a perpetual mockery. Upon their summits, Time has never claimed dominion. There, as of old, does the eagle teach her brood to fly, and there does the wild bear prowl after his prey. There do the waterfalls still leap and shout on their way to the dells below, even as when the tired Indian hunter, some hundred ages agone, bent him to quaff the liquid element. There still, does the rank grass rustle in the breeze, and the pine, and cedar, and hemlock, take part in the howling of the gale. Upon Man alone falls the heavy curse of time; Nature has never sinned, therefore is her glory immortal.
As is well known, the highest of these mountains was christened after our beloved Washington; and with it, as with him, are associated the names of Jefferson, Madison, and Adams. Its height is said to be six thousand and eight hundred feet above the sea; but owing to its situation in the centre of a brotherhood of hills, it does not appear to be so grand an object as South Peak Mountain among the Catskills. Its summit, like most of its companions, is destitute of vegetation, and therefore more desolate and monotonous. It is somewhat of an undertaking to ascend Mount Washington, though the trip is performed on horseback; but if the weather is clear, the traveller will be well repaid for his labour. The painter will be pleased with the views he may command in ascending the route from Crawford’s, which abounds in the wildest and most diversified charms of mountain scenery. But the prospect from the summit of Washington, will mostly excite the soul of the poet. Not so much on account of what he will behold, but for the breathless feeling, which will make him deem himself, for a moment, to be an angel or a god. And then, more than ever, if he is a Christian, will he desire to be alone, so as to anticipate the bliss of heaven by a holy communion with the Invisible.
I spent a night upon this mountain; and my best view of the prospect was at the break of day, when, as Milton says,
“—— morn, her rosy steps in th’ Eastern clime
Advancing, sow’d the earth with orient pearls,”
and,