or what is there apart from the traditions of dungeoned warriors and kings (which will not wholly account for it) that makes the white tower of london tell so much more strongly on the imagination of an untravelled american, than those other storied structures, its neighbors—the byward tower, or even the bloody? and those sublimer towers, the white mountains of new hampshire, whence, in peculiar moods, comes that gigantic ghostliness over the soul at the bare mention of that name, while the thought of virginia’s blue ridge is full of a soft, dewy, distant dreaminess? or why, irrespective of all latitudes and longitudes, does the name of the white sea exert such a spectralness over the fancy, while that of the yellow sea lulls us with mortal thoughts of long lacquered mild afternoons on the waves, followed by the gaudiest and yet sleepiest of sunsets? or, to choose a wholly unsubstantial instance, purely addressed to the fancy, why, in reading the old fairy tales of central europe, does "the tall pale man"