But how in thunder shall I get down from this great poetical eminence? Why, by giving you a simple matter-of-fact description. As you know, 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 is 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 labor. The Painter will be pleased with the views which he will command in ascending the route from Crawford’s, and 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,
“Wak’d by the circling hours, with rosy hand
Unbarr’d the gates of light;”
or when, in the language of Shakspeare,
“The grey-eyed morn smiled on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.”