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,

The place seemed the very Eden for Cupid’s votaries, the silence and solitude the very sanctuary for love’s impassioned confessions, and Harry wondered if there were no legend connected with the spot. Whilst musing upon the scene, a solitary bird came floating along leisurely, balancing its way in the air, and took its station on the bough of a tree near him. The stillness was interrupted; for it commenced gayly to warble its evening lullaby. Harry had lingered without observing the thick mass of clouds that hovered over him, at first almost imperceptible, but now gradually assuming a threatening aspect, whose portentous appearance gave signs of bursting into storm; and twilight, which in a mountainous country is so rapidly succeeded by darkness, was fading away beneath the sable veil of night. The wind commenced sighing along the ground in low, sullen murmurs, then all at once rushing into a gust, swept like the roar of artillery through the trees, bending and tearing off their topmost branches. To seek the nearest shelter was the first impulse of our hero, as the quick splashing sound of rain-drops fell upon the ground, and sharp flashes of lightning, followed by the loud thunder, began to chase each other through the black clouds that now seemed to cover the boundless expanse of heaven. He paced rapidly along the single narrow precipitous path, nearly overgrown with thorns and bushes, and had progressed but a short distance, when he found he had mistaken his way, for the passage became impregnable; rocks seemed piled one upon another, and innumerable clusters of wild vines and thistles were so thick as to defy intrusion. It was growing intensely dark, and the rain commenced falling in torrents. The rumbling sound of the water as it dashed down the mountain—the angry whistle of the wind as it swept along in destruction and fury, while the arrowy bolts of lightning lighted up the darkness, and the deep thunder that rocked the earth, like a tremendous cannonading, as clash after clash rent the clouds, blended with the low muttered growls of the wild beasts, made it an awful night, and would have sent a chill through the stoutest heart. An awe as of some mighty presence fell upon the spirits of Harry as he watched the progress of the terrific storm. Presently a bolt of lightning more vivid than the rest flashed near him, like the spirit of destruction, tearing a large tree to atoms. He sunk back appalled, and a sickening sensation of loneliness and dread came over him, as he strained his sight in vain to catch, through the thick and almost impenetrable gloom, a glimpse of some opening by which he could leave this fearful spot. Presently he thought he heard the report of a gun, and assuming a listening altitude, he distinctly heard, during the lulls of the now fast subsiding storm, a succession of firing. Although aware of the proximity of friends, yet it was difficult to ascertain their locality, for the distance between them prevented intercourse with the voice. But to his great relief he soon heard his own name repeatedly called, and answered to the call with shouts which echoed from rock to rock. Footsteps were also approaching, and as they drew nearer, the forms of three men were indistinctly seen emerging from a thicket of brushwood.

“Never were the forms of mortals so welcome to the sight as yours are to mine, my good friends,” exclaimed Harry, grasping their hands in his delight.

“Mr. Fabyan, fearing you had lost yourself among these intricate windings, sent us to search for you, and guide you safely down,” replied one of the three.

“Thank you! you are all very kind!” said Harry, “and but for your assistance I might have had a perfect Radcliffe adventure; for I verily believe this is the haunt for gnomes, witches, and all the dread family of evil spirits, who would choose such a night as this to walk abroad.”

Under the guidance of these men, Harry descended the declivity; first ascending a rough and almost imperceptible path, which a thick hedge of laurels hid entirely from view, until they came to the footway which led below. The descent was tedious, and would have been, without the escort of one thoroughly acquainted with the path, totally impracticable in the darkness.

Harry Thatcher was a Virginian by birth. His health had been delicate for some time, and a tour north had been recommended by his physicians, with a view to his entire recovery. Already he had visited Saratoga, Niagara Falls, Canada and the Lakes, and was now taking a homeward route through New England. Wherever he went the hand of friendship was extended to him, and a sigh of regret was heaved at his departure, for he inherited from nature all those qualities which, properly cultivated, can render a man esteemed.

It would prolong this story too much to detail all his voyages of discovery over the summits of this exceedingly picturesque and wild “Alpine region.” It was to the end full of interest and excitement. The Willey house, which has been celebrated by the catastrophe which happened in 1826, when a whole family were swept from a living world into eternity, particularly interested him, as also did the far-famed Notch, which is a “sundering of the mountains” supposed to have been caused by a convulsion of nature.

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