. The White hills; their legends, landscape, and poetry. hall be my Germanyof mystic philosophy and dreams. And we cannot better close thesepages on the privilege of sight in a village like North Conway thanwith another charming passage by Mr. Emerson which he kindly consented to extract for us from a manuscript lecture. The world isnot made up to the eye of figures,—that is only half; it is also madeof color. How that mysterious element washes the universe with itsenchanting waves ! The sculptor had ended his work,—and behold!a new world of dream-like glory. This is the last stroke of nature;
. The White hills; their legends, landscape, and poetry. hall be my Germanyof mystic philosophy and dreams. And we cannot better close thesepages on the privilege of sight in a village like North Conway thanwith another charming passage by Mr. Emerson which he kindly consented to extract for us from a manuscript lecture. The world isnot made up to the eye of figures,—that is only half; it is also madeof color. How that mysterious element washes the universe with itsenchanting waves ! The sculptor had ended his work,—and behold!a new world of dream-like glory. This is the last stroke of nature;—beyond color wo cannot go. In like manner, life is made up not ofknowledge only, but of love also. If thought is form, sentiment iscolor. It clothes the poor skeleton world with space, variety, andglow. The hues of sunset make life great and romantic to a wretch ;so the affections make some pretty web of cottage and fireside detailsbright, populous, important, and claiming the high place in outhistory. THE 6ACO VALLEY. 183 !)% \ ) ?^. \ a^ In Scotland, a highland pass, so wild and romantic as that fromCFpper Bartlett to the Crawford House, would be overhung with 184 THE WHITE HILLS. traditions along the whole winding wall of its wilderness ; and legendsthat had been enshrined in song and ballad would be as plentiful asthe streams that leap singing towards the Saco, down their rockyBtairs. But no hill, no sheer battlement, no torrent that ploughs anddrains the barriers of this narrow and tortuous glen, suggests anyIndian legend. One cascade, howev^er, about half a mile from theformer residence of old Abel Crawford, is more honored by the sadstory associated with it, than by the picturesqueness of the cragsthroush which it hurries for the last mile or two of its descendino;course. It is called Nancys Brook; and the stage-drivers showto the passengers the stone which is the particular monument of thetragedy, bearing the name Nancys Rock. Here, late in the autumn of the
Size: 1547px × 1616px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksubjectwhitemo, bookyear1876
