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    Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse")
    Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse")
    Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse")
    Ebook38 pages31 minutes

    Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse")

    By Nathaniel Hawthorne

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse")
    Author

    Nathaniel Hawthorne

    Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864) was an American novelist, short-story writer, and biographer. His work centres on his New England home and often features moral allegories with Puritan inspiration, with themes revolving around inherent good and evil. His fiction works are considered part of the Romantic movement and, more specifically, Dark romanticism.

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      Book preview

      Sketches from Memory (From "Mosses from an Old Manse") - Nathaniel Hawthorne

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sketches from Memory (From Mosses From An Old Manse), by Nathaniel Hawthorne

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Sketches from Memory (From Mosses From An Old Manse)

      Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

      Posting Date: December 8, 2010 [EBook #9233] Release Date: November, 2005 First Posted: September 6, 2003 Last Updated: February 6, 2007

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCHES FROM MEMORY ***

      Produced by David Widger. HTML version by Al Haines.

      MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE

      By Nathaniel Hawthorne

      SKETCHES FROM MEMORY

      THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

      It was now the middle of September. We had come since sunrise from Bartlett, passing up through the valley of the Saco, which extends between mountainous walls, sometimes with a steep ascent, but often as level as a church-aisle. All that day and two preceding ones we had been loitering towards the heart of the White Mountains,—those old crystal hills, whose mysterious brilliancy had gleamed upon our distant wanderings before we thought of visiting them. Height after height had risen and towered one above another till the clouds began to hang below the peaks. Down their slopes were the red pathways of the slides, those avalanches of earth, stones, and trees, which descend into the hollows, leaving vestiges of their track hardly to be effaced by the vegetation of ages. We had mountains behind us and mountains on each side, and a group of mightier ones ahead. Still our road went up along the Saco, right towards the centre of that group, as if to climb above the clouds in its passage to the farther region.

      In old times the settlers used to be astounded by the inroads of the Northern Indians, coming down upon them from this mountain rampart through some defile known only to themselves. It is, indeed, a wondrous path. A demon, it might be fancied, or one of the Titans, was travelling up the valley, elbowing the heights carelessly aside as he passed, till at length a great mountain took its stand directly across his intended road. He tarries not for such an obstacle, but, rending it asunder a thousand feet from peak to base, discloses its treasures of hidden minerals, its sunless waters, all the secrets of the mountain's inmost heart, with a mighty fracture of rugged precipices on each

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