Let the traveller stand with us on the top of this rugged eminence,
and look down upon the scene below. Around us, the hills gather
in groups on every side, a family cluster, each of which wears the
same general likeness to that on which we stand, yet there is no
monotony in their aspect. The axe has not yet deprived them of a
single tree, and they rise up, covered with the honored growth of
a thousand summers. But they seem not half so venerable. They wear,
in this invigorating season, all the green, fresh features of youth
and spring. The leaves cover the rugged Limbs which sustain them,
with so much ease and grace, as if for the first time they were
so green and glossy, and as if the impression should be made more
certain and complete, the gusty wind of March has scattered abroad
and borne afar, all the yellow garments of the vanished winter.
The wild flowers begin to flaunt their blue and crimson draperies
about us, as if conscious that they are borne upon the bosom
of undecaying beauty; and the spot so marked and hallowed by each
charming variety of bud and blossom, would seem to have been a
selected dwelling for the queenly Spring herself.

Man, mindful of those tastes and sensibilities which in great part
constitute his claim to superiority over the brute, has not been
indifferent to the beauties of the place. In the winding hollows
of these hills, beginning at our feet, you see the first signs of
as lovely a little hamlet as ever promised peace to the weary and
the discontent. This is the village of Charlemont.