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New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 10
t last, and perhaps see the showers come up the Connecticut till they patter on the leaves beneath you, and then, swerving, pass up the black ravine and leave you unwet. Or of those among the White Mountains, gorgeous with great red lilies which presently seem to take flight in a cloud of butterflies that match their tints,--paths where the balsamic air caresses you in light breezes, and masses of alder-berries rise above the waving ferns. Or of the paths that lead beside many a little New England stream, whose bank is lost to sight in a smooth green slope of grape-vine: the lower shoots rest upon the quiet water, but the upper masses are crowned by a white wreath of alder-blooms; beside them grow great masses of wild-roses, and the simultaneous blossoms and berries of the gaudy nightshade. Or of those winding tracks that lead here and there among the flat stones of peaceful old graveyards, so entwined with grass and flowers that every spray of sweetbrier seems to tell more of lif
Newport (Rhode Island, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
Footpaths. All round the shores of the island where I dwell there runs a winding path. It is probably as old as the settlement of the country, and has been kept open with pertinacious fidelity by the fishermen whose right of way it represents. In some places, as between Fort Adams and Castle Hill, it exists in its primitive form, an irregular track above rough cliffs, whence you look down upon the entrance to the harbor and watch the white-sailed schooners that glide beneath. Elsewhere the high-road has usurped its place, and you have the privilege of the path without its charm. Along our eastern cliffs it runs for some miles in the rear of beautiful estates, whose owners have seized on it, and graded it, and gravelled it, and made stiles for it, and done for it everything that landscape-gardening could do, while leaving it a footpath still. You walk there with croquet and roses on the one side, and with floating loons and wild ducks on the other. In remoter places the pat
Sioux City (Iowa, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
overland route into Kansas. All day and all night we rode between distant prairie-fires, pillars of evening light and of morning cloud, while sometimes the low grass would burn to the very edge of the trail, so that we had to hold our breath as we galloped through. Parties of armed Missourians were sometimes seen over the prairie swells, so that we had to mount guard at nightfall; Free-State emigrants, fleeing from persecution, continually met us; and we sometimes saw parties of wandering Sioux, or passed their great irregular huts and houses of worship. I remember one desolate prairie summit on which an Indian boy sat motionless on horseback; his bare red legs clung closely to the white sides of his horse; a gorgeous sunset was unrolled behind him, and he might have seemed the last of his race, just departing for the hunting-grounds of the blest. More often the horizon showed no human outline, and the sun set cloudless, and elongated into pear-shaped outlines, as behind ocean-wa
Worcester (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
summer after summer, till I had made my own chart of their devious tracks, and now when I close my eyes in this Oldport midsummer, the soft Italian air takes on something of a Scandinavian vigor; for the incessant roll of carriages I hear the tinkle of the quarryman's hammer and the veery's song; and I long for those perfumed and breezy pastures, and for those promontories of granite where the fresh water is nectar and the salt sea has a regal blue. I recall another footpath near Worcester, Massachusetts; it leads up from the low meadows into the wildest region of all that vicinity, Tatesset Hill. Leaving behind you the open pastures where the cattle lie beneath the chestnut-trees or drink from the shallow brook, you pass among the birches and maples, where the woodsman's shanty stands in the clearing, and the raspberry-fields are merry with children's voices. The familiar birds and butterflies linger below with them, and in the upper and more sacred depths the wood-thrush chants
Thoreau (search for this): chapter 10
at of Tennyson's flowery squares. Even the country road, which is but an enlarged footpath, is never quite straight, as Thoreau long since observed, noting it with his surveyor's eye. I read in his unpublished diary: The law that plants the rushes at all the same thing; indeed, a spotted trail, marked only by the woodman's axe-marks on the trees, is not a footpath. Thoreau, who is sometimes foolishly accused of having sought to be a mere savage, understood this distinction well. A man changr woods are sylvan, and their inhabitants woodsmen and rustics; that is, a selvaggia and its inhabitants salvages. What Thoreau loved, like all men of healthy minds, was the occasional experience of untamed wildness. I love to see occasionally, her meads; or the few American paths that genius has yet idealized; that where Hawthorne's David Swan slept, or that which Thoreau found upon the banks of Walden Pond, or where Whittier parted with his childhood's playmate on Ramoth Hill. It is not h
Welch (search for this): chapter 10
the silver meads; or the few American paths that genius has yet idealized; that where Hawthorne's David Swan slept, or that which Thoreau found upon the banks of Walden Pond, or where Whittier parted with his childhood's playmate on Ramoth Hill. It is not heights, or depths, or spaces that make the world worth living in; for the fairest landscape needs still to be garlanded by the imagination, to become classic with noble deeds and romantic with dreams. Go where we please in nature, we receive in proportion as we give. Ivo, the old Bishop of Chartres, wrote, that neither the secret depth of woods nor the tops of mountains make man blessed, if he has not with him solitude of mind, the sabbath of the heart, and tranquillity of conscience. There are many roads, but one termination; and Plato says, in his Republic, that the point where all paths meet is the soul's true resting-place and the journey's end. The End. Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
Whittier (search for this): chapter 10
alleies wide With footing worne; or the path of Browning's Pippa Down the hillside, up the glen, Love me as I love! or the weary tracks by which Little Nell wandered; or the haunted way in Sydney Dobell's ballad, Ravelstone, Ravelstone, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hills, And through the silver meads; or the few American paths that genius has yet idealized; that where Hawthorne's David Swan slept, or that which Thoreau found upon the banks of Walden Pond, or where Whittier parted with his childhood's playmate on Ramoth Hill. It is not heights, or depths, or spaces that make the world worth living in; for the fairest landscape needs still to be garlanded by the imagination, to become classic with noble deeds and romantic with dreams. Go where we please in nature, we receive in proportion as we give. Ivo, the old Bishop of Chartres, wrote, that neither the secret depth of woods nor the tops of mountains make man blessed, if he has not with him solitude of
Wordsworth (search for this): chapter 10
the apartment and marked on it in bold characters, Thou shalt not kill. Two slabs outside, a little way from the walls, bear these inscriptions, Peace on earth, Good-will to men. When I visited it, the path was rough and so obstructed with bushes that it was hard to comprehend how it had afforded passage for these various materials; it seemed more as if some strange architectural boulder had drifted from some Runic period and been stranded there. It was as apt a confessional as any of Wordsworth's nooks among the Trossachs; and when one thinks how many men are wearing out their souls in trying to conform to the traditional mythologies of others, it seems nobler in this man to have reared upon that lonely hill the unfinished memorial of his own. I recall another path which leads from the Lower Saranac Lake, near Martin's, to what the guides call, or used to call, The philosopher's camp at Amperzand. On this oddly named lake, in the Adirondack region, a tract of land was bought
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