Stowe notes, letters and verses . , being confusedabout the points of the compass, I did not know them;then with a sudden emotion I recognized that mightycentral form. Though dwarfed and disproportioned,there lay the great profile, the chin heaved up against thesky, and all the lesser of the Green Mountains clusteredaround it—Sterling to the northeast, the Nebraska peaksrising west and south—calm and reposeful, the sleepinggiant with his awful and passionless countenance. My Mountain! With a swelling heart, with the riseof emotion that shakes the voice and brings tears into theeyes, I looked b
Stowe notes, letters and verses . , being confusedabout the points of the compass, I did not know them;then with a sudden emotion I recognized that mightycentral form. Though dwarfed and disproportioned,there lay the great profile, the chin heaved up against thesky, and all the lesser of the Green Mountains clusteredaround it—Sterling to the northeast, the Nebraska peaksrising west and south—calm and reposeful, the sleepinggiant with his awful and passionless countenance. My Mountain! With a swelling heart, with the riseof emotion that shakes the voice and brings tears into theeyes, I looked back at Mount Mansfield. Clouds, touchedby the setting sun, rested upon the highest point of thechin, and above them, white as smoke, hung the sight was borne in upon me like the swelling strainsof some immortal music. The Pilgrim Chorus, whichhas been associated in my mind with that mountain, themagnificent ebb and flow of that passion of sound, cameback to me. The silent Mountain spoke in a voice of undying har- 132. THE ADIRONDACKS 133 mony, great and tender; it was the theme of home andcountry; for not ten miles to the eastward, lying therein the shadow of that Great Stone Face, was my Valpa-raiso—my vale of Paradise. Loon Lake. Early morning; mackerel clouds in thewest; sunrise; the drive over. The water-lily-deckedlake surface, northern extremity of Loon Lake; wild andrugged shore. How beautiful—beautiful compared withtravelling in the South! Thank God for the white pines! Paul Smiths. This morning misty; heavy clouds,damp and cold. Walked into grove of white pines, redpines, and spruces, hemlocks, birches, etc. The whitepines are fine large trees, also the red, whose bark, in flatplates, looks like beaten silver off which a wash of goldis partly worn. Beyond this grove there is a marshy place where thewind made a thin and icy whisper in the lean , these white pines, go far to reconcile one to hisfate should it lead him into these wilds, but I f
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