On a warm afternoon, in the summer of 1843, a solitary horseman might have been seen advancing along a sylvan road not far from the Washington House, in the neighborhood of the White Mountains. Our traveler was apparently very young, and had quite a prepossessing appearance. His figure, though well knit, was delicate, and he rode his spirited steed with graceful ease. Suddenly the road emerged from the woodlands, and he found himself in one of those bright green valleys with which our beautiful land is embellished. He involuntarily drew in his rein, and stopped to gaze on the landscape. On one side the view presented the White Hills, with their mighty peaks, stupendous and grand. On the other side, in the distance, swelled up a gentle elevation, covered with green fields and clumps of forest. Immediately before him a streamlet went purling on its course, warbling its murmuring music, seeming the spirit of peace whispering “all’s well.” After a few minutes the young man put spurs to his horse, and in a gallop dashed down the road with unabated speed until he arrived at the Washington House, kept by Horace Fabyan, which lay concealed in the lap of the mountain, like the modest violet nestling in a quiet nook. After refreshing himself, our hero, whom we shall call Harry Thatcher, urged on by his enthusiastic love of nature, and contrary to the advice of his landlord, who thought it rather late to make the attempt alone, resolved to gain the summit of Mount Deception. From the beginning the ascent led through winding ravines, thickets, and a rough broken path; but surmounting these difficulties without much fatigue, he at length found himself standing alone on the “mountain’s silent brow.” Here his spirit drank in the intensity of sublimity on which he gazed. On all sides a vast pile of mountains met his eye, with Mount Washington towering above the rest with frowning majesty in all its “azure somberness.” Solitude and silence reigned. No sound came up from beneath, and the breeze was too gentle to be heard. The wooded summits of the adjacent hills were bathed in a flood of golden radiance, which pierced the thickets of underwood, and revealed many a nook of vernal beauty. Our hero had chosen a situation where he could view the setting sun, and catch the zephyrs that played lightly in its dying beam, and then swept on where the ferns, the mosses, and the wild flowers grow. The gazer might well call up a dream of romance, and forget for a time the plodding, busy world, for here was plenty of food for romantic rumination, “Beneath, around, above, Earth, water, air, seemed full of love.”