ON HORSEBACK

By Charles Dudley Warner

I

"The way to mount a horse"--said the Professor. 

"If you have no ladder--put in the Friend of Humanity. "

The Professor had ridden through the war for the Union on the rightside, enjoying a much better view of it than if he had walked, and knewas much about a horse as a person ought to know for the sake of hischaracter. The man who can recite the tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims, on horseback, giving the contemporary pronunciation, never missing anaccent by reason of the trot, and at the same time witch North Carolinaand a strip of East Tennessee with his noble horsemanship, is a kind ofLiterary Centaur of whose double instruction any Friend of Humanity maybe glad to avail himself. 

"The way to mount a horse is to grasp the mane with the left handholding the bridle-rein, put your left foot in the stirrup, with theright hand on the back of the saddle, and---"

Just then the horse stepped quickly around on his hind feet, and lookedthe Professor in the face. The Superintendents of Affairs, who occupythe flagging in front of the hotel, seated in cane-bottomed chairstilted back, smiled. These useful persons appear to have a life-leaseof this portion of the city pavement, and pretty effectually block it upnearly all day and evening. When a lady wishes to make her way throughthe blockade, it is the habit of these observers of life to rise andmake room, touching their hats, while she picks her way through, andgoes down the street with a pretty consciousness of the flutter shehas caused. The war has not changed the Southern habit of sittingout-of-doors, but has added a new element of street picturesqueness ingroups of colored people lounging about the corners. There appears to bemore leisure than ever. 

The scene of this little lesson in horsemanship was the old town ofAbingdon, in southwest Virginia, on the Virginia and East Tennesseerailway; a town of ancient respectability, which gave birth to theJohnstons and Floyds and other notable people; a town, that stillpreserves the flavor of excellent tobacco and, something of theeasy-going habits of the days of slavery, and is a sort of educationalcenter, where the young ladies of the region add the final graces ofintellectual life in moral philosophy and the use of the globes to theirnatural gifts. The mansion of the late and left Floyd is now a seminary, and not far from it is the Stonewall Jackson Institute, in the midstof a grove of splendid oaks, whose stately boles and wide-spreadingbranches give a dignity to educational life. The distinction of theregion is its superb oak-trees. As it was vacation in these institutionsof learning, the travelers did not see any of the vines thattraditionally cling to the oak. 

The Professor and the Friend of Humanity were about starting on ajourney, across country southward, through regions about which thepeople of Abingdon could give little useful information. If thetravelers had known the capacities and resources of the country, theywould not have started without a supply train, or the establishmentof bases of provisions in advance. But, as the Professor remarked, knowledge is something that one acquires when he has no use for it. Thehorses were saddled; the riders were equipped with flannel shirts andleather leggings; the saddle-bags were stuffed with clean linen, andnovels, and sonnets of Shakespeare, and other baggage, it would havebeen well if they had been stuffed with hard-tack, for in real life meatis more than raiment. 

The hotel, in front of which there is cultivated so much of what theGermans call sitzfleisch, is a fair type of the majority of Southernhotels, and differs from the same class in the North in being left alittle more to run itself. The only information we obtained about it wasfrom its porter at the station, who replied to the question, "Is itthe best?" "We warrant you perfect satisfaction in every respect. "This seems to be only a formula of expression, for we found thatthe statement was highly colored. It was left to our imagination toconjecture how the big chambers of the old house, with their gapingfireplaces, might have looked when furnished and filled with gaycompany, and we got what satisfaction we could out of a bygone bustleand mint-julep hilarity. In our struggles with the porter to obtain thelittle items of soap, water, and towels, we were convinced that we hadarrived too late, and that for perfect satisfaction we should have beenhere before the war. It was not always as now. In colonial days theaccommodations and prices at inns were regulated by law. In the oldrecords in the court-house we read that if we had been here in 1777, wecould have had a gallon of good rum for sixteen shillings; a quart bowlof rum toddy made with loaf sugar for two shillings, or with brown sugarfor one shilling and sixpence. In 1779 prices had risen. Good rum soldfor four pounds a gallon. It was ordered that a warm dinner should costtwelve shillings, a cold dinner nine shillings, and a good breakfasttwelve shillings. But the item that pleased us most, and made us regretour late advent, was that for two shillings we could have had a "goodlodging, with clean sheets. " The colonists were fastidious people. 

Abingdon, prettily situated on rolling hills, and a couple of thousandfeet above the sea, with views of mountain peaks to the south, is acheerful and not too exciting place for a brief sojourn, and hospitableand helpful to the stranger. We had dined--so much, at least, the publicwould expect of us--with a descendant of Pocahontas; we had assisted onSunday morning at the dedication of a new brick Methodist church, thefinest edifice in the region--a dedication that took a long time, sincethe bishop would not proceed with it until money enough was raised inopen meeting to pay the balance due on it: a religious act, though itdid give a business aspect to the place at the time; and we had been thelight spots in the evening service at the most aristocratic church ofcolor. The irresponsibility of this amiable race was exhibited in thetardiness with which they assembled: at the appointed time nobody wasthere except the sexton; it was three quarters of an hour before thecongregation began to saunter in, and the sermon was nearly over beforethe pews were at all filled. Perhaps the sermon was not new, but it wasfervid, and at times the able preacher roared so that articulate soundswere lost in the general effect. It was precisely these passages ofcataracts of sound and hard breathing which excited the liveliestresponses, --"Yes, Lord, " and "Glory to God. " Most of these responsescame from the "Amen corner. " The sermon contained the usual vividdescription of the last judgment--ah, and I fancied that thecongregation did not get the ordinary satisfaction out of it. Fashionhad entered the fold, and the singing was mostly executed by a choir inthe dusky gallery, who thinly and harshly warbled the emotional hymns. It occupied the minister a long time to give out the notices of theweek, and there was not an evening or afternoon that had not itsmeetings, its literary or social gathering, its picnic or fair for thebenefit of the church, its Dorcas society, or some occasion of religioussociability. The raising of funds appeared to be the burden on thepreacher's mind. Two collections were taken up. At the first, the boxesappeared to get no supply except from the two white trash present. Butthe second was more successful. After the sermon was over, an eldertook his place at a table within the rails, and the real business of theevening began. Somebody in the Amen corner struck up a tune that hadno end, but a mighty power of setting the congregation in motion. Theleader had a voice like the pleasant droning of a bag-pipe, and thefaculty of emitting a continuous note like that instrument, withoutstopping to breathe. It went on and on like a Bach fugue, winding andwhining its way, turning the corners of the lines of the catch without abreak. The effect was soon visible in the emotional crowd: feet beganto move in a regular cadence and voices to join in, with spurts ofejaculation; and soon, with an air of martyrdom, the members beganto leave their seats and pass before the table and deposit theircontributions. It was a cent contribution, and we found it verydifficult, under the contagious influence of the hum from the Amencorner, not to rise and go forward and deposit a cent. If anything couldextract the pennies from a reluctant worldling, it would be the buzzingof this tune. It went on and on, until the house appeared to be draineddry of its cash; and we inferred by the stopping of the melody thatthe preacher's salary was secure for the time being. On inquiring, we ascertained that the pecuniary flood that evening had risen to theheight of a dollar and sixty cents. 

All was ready for the start. It should have been early in the morning, but it was not; for Virginia is not only one of the blessed regionswhere one can get a late breakfast, but where it is almost impossible toget an early one. At ten A. M. The two horsemen rode away out of sightof the Abingdon spectators, down the eastern turnpike. The day was warm, but the air was full of vitality and the spirit of adventure. It wasthe 22d of July. The horses were not ambitious, but went on at an easyfox-trot that permits observation and encourages conversation. Ithad been stipulated that the horses should be good walkers, the oneessential thing in a horseback journey. Few horses, even in a countrywhere riding is general, are trained to walk fast. We hear much ofhorses that can walk five miles an hour, but they are as rare as whiteelephants. Our horses were only fair walkers. We realized how necessarythis accomplishment is, for between the Tennessee line and Asheville, North Carolina, there is scarcely a mile of trotting-ground. 

We soon turned southward and descended into the Holston River Valley. Beyond lay the Tennessee hills and conspicuous White-Top Mountain (5530feet), which has a good deal of local celebrity (standing where theStates of Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina corner), and had beenpointed out to us at Abingdon. We had been urged, personally andby letter, to ascend this mountain, without fail. People recommendmountains to their friends as they do patent medicines. As we leisurelyjogged along we discussed this, and endeavored to arrive at some rule ofconduct for the journey. The Professor expressed at once a feeling aboutmountain-climbing that amounted to hostility, --he would go nowhere thathe could not ride. Climbing was the most unsatisfactory use to which amountain could be put. As to White-Top, it was a small mountain, andnot worth ascending. The Friend of Humanity, who believes inmountain-climbing as a theory, and for other people, and knows the valueof being able to say, without detection, that he has ascended any highmountain about which he is questioned, --since this question is the firstone asked about an exploration in a new country, --saw that he shouldhave to use a good deal of diplomacy to get the Professor over anyconsiderable elevation on the trip. And he had to confess also that aview from a mountain is never so satisfactory as a view of a mountain, from a moderate height. The Professor, however, did not argue the matteron any such reasonable ground, but took his stand on his right as aman not to ascend a mountain. With this appeal to first principles, --aposition that could not be confuted on account of its vagueness(although it might probably be demonstrated that in society man has nosuch right), there was no way of agreement except by a compromise. Itwas accordingly agreed that no mountain under six thousand feet is worthascending; that disposed of White-Top. It was further agreed that anymountain that is over six thousand feet high is too high to ascend onfoot. 

With this amicable adjustment we forded the Holston, crossing it twicewithin a few miles. This upper branch of the Tennessee is a noblestream, broad, with a rocky bed and a swift current. Fording it isticklish business except at comparatively low water, and as itis subject to sudden rises, there must be times when it seriouslyinterrupts travel. This whole region, full of swift streams, is withouta bridge, and, as a consequence, getting over rivers and brooks andthe dangers of ferries occupy a prominent place in the thoughts ofthe inhabitants. The life necessarily had the "frontier" quality allthrough, for there can be little solid advance in civilization in theuncertainties of a bridgeless condition. An open, pleasant valley, theHolston, but cultivation is more and more negligent and houses are fewand poorer as we advance. 

We had left behind the hotels of "perfect satisfaction, " and expectedto live on the country, trusting to the infrequent but remuneratedhospitality of the widely scattered inhabitants. We were to dine atRamsey's. Ramsey's had been recommended to us as a royal place ofentertainment the best in all that region; and as the sun grew hot inthe sandy valley, and the weariness of noon fell upon us, we magnifiedRamsey's in our imagination, --the nobility of its situation, itscuisine, its inviting restfulness, --and half decided to pass the nightthere in the true abandon of plantation life. Long before we reachedit, the Holston River which we followed had become the Laurel, a mostlovely, rocky, winding stream, which we forded continually, for thevalley became too narrow much of the way to accommodate a road anda river. Eagerly as we were looking out for it, we passed the greatRamsey's without knowing it, for it was the first of a little settlementof two houses and a saw-mill and barn. It was a neat log house of twolower rooms and a summer kitchen, quite the best of the class that wesaw, and the pleasant mistress of it made us welcome. Across the roadand close, to the Laurel was the spring-house, the invariable adjunctto every well-to-do house in the region, and on the stony margin ofthe stream was set up the big caldron for the family washing; andhere, paddling in the shallow stream, while dinner was preparing, weestablished an intimacy with the children and exchanged philosophicalobservations on life with the old negress who was dabbling the clothes. What impressed this woman was the inequality in life. She jumped to theunwarranted conclusion that the Professor and the Friend were very rich, and spoke with asperity of the difficulty she experienced in gettingshoes and tobacco. It was useless to point out to her that her alfrescolife was singularly blessed and free from care, and the happy lot ofany one who could loiter all day by this laughing stream, undisturbed bydebt or ambition. Everybody about the place was barefooted, except themistress, including the comely daughter of eighteen, who served ourdinner in the kitchen. The dinner was abundant, and though it seemedto us incongruous at the time, we were not twelve hours older when welooked back upon it with longing. On the table were hot biscuit, ham, pork, and green beans, apple-sauce, blackberry preserves, cucumbers, coffee, plenty of milk, honey, and apple and blackberry pie. Here we hadour first experience, and I may say new sensation, of "honey on pie. " Ithas a cloying sound as it is written, but the handmaiden recommended itwith enthusiasm, and we evidently fell in her esteem, as persons froman uncultivated society, when we declared our inexperience of "honey onpie. " "Where be you from?" It turned out to be very good, and we havetried to introduce it in families since our return, with indifferentsuccess. There did not seem to be in this family much curiosity aboutthe world at large, nor much stir of social life. The gayety of madameappeared to consist in an occasional visit to paw and maw and grandmaw, up the river a few miles, where she was raised. 

Refreshed by the honey and fodder at Ramsey's, the pilgrims went gaylyalong the musical Laurel, in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, which played upon the rapids and illumined all the woody way. Inspiredby the misapprehension of the colored philosopher and the dainties ofthe dinner, the Professor soliloquized:

 "So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set, Like stones of wealth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. "

Five miles beyond Ramsey's the Tennessee line was crossed. The Laurelbecame more rocky, swift, full of rapids, and the valley narrowed downto the riverway, with standing room, however, for stately trees alongthe banks. The oaks, both black and white, were, as they had beenall day, gigantic in size and splendid in foliage. There is a certaindignity in riding in such stately company, and the travelers clatteredalong over the stony road under the impression of possible highadventure in a new world of such freshness. Nor was beauty wanting. Therhododendrons had, perhaps, a week ago reached their climax, and nowbegan to strew the water and the ground with their brilliant petals, dashing all the way with color; but they were still matchlesslybeautiful. Great banks of pink and white covered the steep hillsides;the bending stems, ten to twenty feet high, hung their rich clustersover the river; avenues of glory opened away in the glade of the stream;and at every turn of the winding way vistas glowing with the huesof romance wrenched exclamations of delight and wonder from theShakespearean sonneteer and his humble Friend. In the deep recesses ofthe forest suddenly flamed to the view, like the splashes of splendoron the somber canvas of an old Venetian, these wonders of color, --theglowing summer-heart of the woods. 

It was difficult to say, meantime, whether the road was laid out in theriver, or the river in the road. In the few miles to Egger's (this wasthe destination of our great expectations for the night) the stream wascrossed twenty-seven times, --or perhaps it would be more proper to saythat the road was crossed twenty-seven times. Where the road did notrun in the river, its bed was washed out and as stony as the bed of thestream. This is a general and accurate description of all the roadsin this region, which wind along and in the streams, through narrowvalleys, shut in by low and steep hills. The country is full of springsand streams, and between Abingdon and Egger's is only one (small)bridge. In a region with scarcely any level land or intervale, farmersare at a disadvantage. All along the road we saw nothing but meanshanties, generally of logs, with now and then a decent one-story frame, and the people looked miserably poor. 

As we picked our way along up the Laurel, obliged for the most part toride single-file, or as the Professor expressed it, "Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one, "

we gathered information about Egger's from the infrequent hovels on theroad, which inflamed our imaginations. Egger was the thriving man ofthe region, and lived in style in a big brick house. We began to feela doubt that Egger would take us in, and so much did his brickmagnificence impress us that we regretted we had not brought apparel fitfor the society we were about to enter. 

It was half-past six, and we were tired and hungry, when the domainof Egger towered in sight, --a gaunt, two-story structure of raw brick, unfinished, standing in a narrow intervale. We rode up to the gate, andasked a man who sat in the front-door porch if this was Egger's, and ifwe could be accommodated for the night. The man, without moving, allowedthat it was Egger's, and that we could probably stay there. This person, however, exhibited so much indifference to our company, he was such ahairy, unkempt man, and carried on face, hands, and clothes so much moreof the soil of the region than a prudent proprietor would divert fromraising corn, that we set him aside as a poor relation, and askedfor Mr. Egger. But the man, still without the least hospitable stir, admitted that that was the name he went by, and at length advised us to"lite" and hitch our horses, and sit on the porch with him and enjoy thecool of the evening. The horses would be put up by and by, and in factthings generally would come round some time. This turned out to be theeasy way of the country. Mr. Egger was far from being inhospitable, butwas in no hurry, and never had been in a hurry. He was not exactly agentleman of the old school. He was better than that. He dated fromthe time when there were no schools at all, and he lived in that placidworld which is without information and ideas. Mr. Egger showed hissuperiority by a total lack of curiosity about any other world. 

This brick house, magnificent by comparison with other dwellings in thiscountry, seemed to us, on nearer acquaintance, only a thin, crude shellof a house, half unfinished, with bare rooms, the plastering alreadydiscolored. In point of furnishing it had not yet reached the "God blessour Home" stage in crewel. In the narrow meadow, a strip of vivid greensouth of the house, ran a little stream, fed by a copious spring, andover it was built the inevitable spring-house. A post, driven into thebank by the stream, supported a tin wash-basin, and here we performedour ablutions. The traveler gets to like this freedom and primitiveluxury. 

The farm of Egger produces corn, wheat, grass, and sheep; it is a goodenough farm, but most of it lies at an angle of thirty-five to fortydegrees. The ridge back of the house, planted in corn, was as steep asthe roof of his dwelling. It seemed incredible that it ever could havebeen plowed, but the proprietor assured us that it was plowed withmules, and I judged that the harvesting must be done by squirrels. Thesoil is good enough, if it would stay in place, but all the hillsidesare seamed with gullies. The discolored state of the streams wasaccounted for as soon as we saw this cultivated land. No sooner is theland cleared of trees and broken up than it begins to wash. We saw moreof this later, especially in North Carolina, where we encountered nostream of water that was not muddy, and saw no cultivated ground thatwas not washed. The process of denudation is going on rapidly whereverthe original forests are girdled (a common way of preparing for crops), or cut away. 

As the time passed and there was no sign of supper, the question becamea burning one, and we went to explore the kitchen. No sign of it there. No fire in the stove, nothing cooked in the house, of course. Mrs. Eggerand her comely young barefooted daughter had still the milking to attendto, and supper must wait for the other chores. It seemed easier to beMr. Egger, in this state of existence, and sit on the front porch andmeditate on the price of mules and the prospect of a crop, than to beMrs. Egger, whose work was not limited from sun to sun; who had, infact, a day's work to do after the men-folks had knocked off; whosechances of neighborhood gossip were scanty, whose amusements wereconfined to a religious meeting once a fortnight. Good, honest peoplethese, not unduly puffed up by the brick house, grubbing away year inand year out. Yes, the young girl said, there was a neighborhood party, now and then, in the winter. What a price to pay for mere life!

Long before supper was ready, nearly nine o'clock, we had almost lostinterest in it. Meantime two other guests had arrived, a couple ofdrovers from North Carolina, who brought into the circle--by this timea wood-fire had been kindled in the sitting-room, which contained a bed, an almanac, and some old copies of a newspaper--a rich flavor of cattle, and talk of the price of steers. As to politics, although a presidentialcampaign was raging, there was scarcely an echo of it here. This wasJohnson County, Tennessee, a strong Republican county but dog-gone it, says Mr. Egger, it's no use to vote; our votes are overborne by the restof the State. Yes, they'd got a Republican member of Congress, --he'dheard his name, but he'd forgotten it. The drover said he'd heard italso, but he didn't take much interest in such things, though he wasn'tany Republican. Parties is pretty much all for office, both agreed. Eventhe Professor, who was traveling in the interest of Reform, couldn'twake up a discussion out of such a state of mind. 

Alas! the supper, served in a room dimly lighted with a smoky lamp, ona long table covered with oilcloth, was not of the sort to arouse thedelayed and now gone appetite of a Reformer, and yet it did notlack variety: cornpone (Indian meal stirred up with water and heatedthrough), hot biscuit, slack-baked and livid, fried salt-pork swimmingin grease, apple-butter, pickled beets, onions and cucumbers raw, coffee(so-called), buttermilk, and sweet milk when specially asked for (thecorrect taste, however, is for buttermilk), and pie. This was not thepie of commerce, but the pie of the country, --two thick slabs ofdough, with a squeezing of apple between. The profusion of this supperstaggered the novices, but the drovers attacked it as if such cookingwere a common occurrence and did justice to the weary labors of Mrs. Egger. 

Egger is well prepared to entertain strangers, having several rooms andseveral beds in each room. Upon consultation with the drovers, they saidthey'd just as soon occupy an apartment by themselves, and we gave uptheir society for the night. The beds in our chamber had each one sheet, and the room otherwise gave evidence of the modern spirit; for in onecorner stood the fashionable aesthetic decoration of our Queen Annedrawing-rooms, --the spinning-wheel. Soothed by this concession to taste, we crowded in between the straw and the home-made blanket and sheet, andsoon ceased to hear the barking of dogs and the horned encounters of thedrovers' herd. 

We parted with Mr. Egger after breakfast (which was a close copy ofthe supper) with more respect than regret. His total charge forthe entertainment of two men and two horses--supper, lodging, andbreakfast--was high or low, as the traveler chose to estimate it. It was$1. 20: that is, thirty cents for each individual, or ten cents for eachmeal and lodging. 

Our road was a sort of by-way up Gentry Creek and over the Cut LaurelGap to Worth's, at Creston Post Office, in North Carolina, --the nextavailable halting place, said to be fifteen miles distant, and turningout to be twenty-two, and a rough road. There is a little settlementabout Egger's, and the first half mile of our way we had the company ofthe schoolmistress, a modest, pleasant-spoken girl. Neither she norany other people we encountered had any dialect or local peculiarity ofspeech. Indeed, those we encountered that morning had nothing in manneror accent to distinguish them. The novelists had led us to expectsomething different; and the modest and pretty young lady with frank andopen blue eyes, who wore gloves and used the common English speech, hadnever figured in the fiction of the region. Cherished illusions vanishoften on near approach. The day gave no peculiarity of speech to note, except the occasional use of "hit" for "it. "

The road over Cut Laurel Gap was very steep and stony, the thermometermounted up to 80 deg. , and, notwithstanding the beauty of the way, theride became tedious before we reached the summit. On the summit is thedwelling and distillery of a colonel famous in these parts. We stoppedat the house for a glass of milk; the colonel was absent, and while thewoman in charge went after it, we sat on the veranda and conversed witha young lady, tall, gent, well favored, and communicative, who leaned inthe doorway. 

"Yes, this house stands on the line. Where you sit, you are inTennessee; I'm in North Carolina. "

"Do you live here?"

"Law, no; I'm just staying a little while at the colonel's. I live overthe mountain here, three miles from Taylorsville. I thought I'd be whereI could step into North Carolina easy. "

"How's that?"

"Well, they wanted me to go before the grand jury and testify aboutsome pistol-shooting down by our house, some friends of mine got intoa little difficulty, --and I did n't want to. I never has no difficultywith nobody, never says nothing about nobody, has nothing againstnobody, and I reckon nobody has nothing against me. "

"Did you come alone?"

"Why, of course. I come across the mountain by a path through the woods. That's nothing. "

A discreet, pleasant, pretty girl. This surely must be the Esmeralda wholives in these mountains, and adorns low life by her virgin purityand sentiment. As she talked on, she turned from time to time to thefireplace behind her, and discharged a dark fluid from her pretty lips, with accuracy of aim, and with a nonchalance that was not assumed, butbelongs to our free-born American girls. I cannot tell why this habit ofhers (which is no worse than the sister habit of "dipping") should takeher out of the romantic setting that her face and figure had placed herin; but somehow we felt inclined to ride on farther for our heroine. 

"And yet, " said the Professor, as we left the site of the colonel'sthriving distillery, and by a winding, picturesque road through a roughfarming country descended into the valley, --"and yet, why fling asideso readily a character and situation so full of romance, on account ofa habit of this mountain Helen, which one of our best poets has almostmade poetical, in the case of the pioneer taking his westward way, withox-goad pointing to the sky:

 "'He's leaving on the pictured rock His fresh tobacco stain. '

"To my mind the incident has Homeric elements. The Greeks would havelooked at it in a large, legendary way. Here is Helen, strong and litheof limb, ox-eyed, courageous, but woman-hearted and love-inspiring, contended for by all the braves and daring moonshiners of Cut LaurelGap, pursued by the gallants of two States, the prize of a borderwarfare of bowie knives and revolvers. This Helen, magnanimous asattractive, is the witness of a pistol difficulty on her behalf, andwhen wanted by the areopagus, that she may neither implicate a lovernor punish an enemy (having nothing, this noble type of her sex againstnobody), skips away to Mount Ida, and there, under the aegis of the flagof her country, in a Licensed Distillery, stands with one slender footin Tennessee and the other in North Carolina... "

"Like the figure of the Republic itself, superior to state sovereignty, "interposed the Friend. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the Professor, urging up Laura Matilda (forso he called the nervous mare, who fretted herself into a fever in thestony path), "I was quite able to get the woman out of that positionwithout the aid of a metaphor. It is a large and Greek idea, that ofstanding in two mighty States, superior to the law, looking east andlooking west, ready to transfer her agile body to either State on theapproach of messengers of the court; and I'll be hanged if I didn'tthink that her nonchalant rumination of the weed, combined with herlofty moral attitude, added something to the picture. "

The Friend said that he was quite willing to join in the extremestdefense of the privileges of beauty, --that he even held in abeyancejudgment on the practice of dipping; but when it came to chewing, gumwas as far as he could go as an allowance for the fair sex. 

 "When I consider everything that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment... "

The rest of the stanza was lost, for the Professor was splashing throughthe stream. No sooner had we descended than the fording of streamsbegan again. The Friend had been obliged to stipulate that the Professorshould go ahead at these crossings, to keep the impetuous nag of thelatter from throwing half the contents of the stream upon his slower anduncomplaining companion. 

What a lovely country, but for the heat of noon and the longwearisomeness of the way!--not that the distance was great, but milesand miles more than expected. How charming the open glades of theriver, how refreshing the great forests of oak and chestnut, and what apanorama of beauty the banks of rhododendrons, now intermingled with thelighter pink and white of the laurel! In this region the rhododendron iscalled laurel and the laurel (the sheep-laurel of New England) is calledivy. 

At Worth's, well on in the afternoon, we emerged into a wide, openfarming intervale, a pleasant place of meadows and streams and decentdwellings. Worth's is the trading center of the region, has a postoffice and a saw-mill and a big country store; and the dwelling of theproprietor is not unlike a roomy New England country house. Worth'shas been immemorially a stopping-place in a region where places ofaccommodation are few. The proprietor, now an elderly man, whosereminiscences are long ante bellum, has seen the world grow up abouthim, he the honored, just center of it, and a family come up into themodern notions of life, with a boarding-school education and glimpses ofcity life and foreign travel. I fancy that nothing but tradition anda remaining Southern hospitality could induce this private family tosuffer the incursions of this wayfaring man. Our travelers are not aptto be surprised at anything in American life, but they did not expect tofind a house in this region with two pianos and a bevy of young ladies, whose clothes were certainly not made on Cut Laurel Gap, and to readin the books scattered about the house the evidences of the finishingschools with which our country is blessed, nor to find here pupilsof the Stonewall Jackson Institute at Abingdon. With a flush of localpride, the Professor took up, in the roomy, pleasant chamber set apartfor the guests, a copy of Porter's "Elements of Moral Science. "

"Where you see the 'Elements of Moral Science, '" the Friend generalized, "there'll be plenty of water and towels;" and the sign did not fail. Thefriends intended to read this book in the cool of the day; but as theysat on the long veranda, the voice of a maiden reading the latest novelto a sewing group behind the blinds in the drawing-room; and the anticsof a mule and a boy in front of the store opposite; and the arrival ofa spruce young man, who had just ridden over from somewhere, a matterof ten miles' gallop, to get a medicinal potion for his sick mother, andlingered chatting with the young ladies until we began to fear that hismother would recover before his return; the coming and going of leanwomen in shackly wagons to trade at the store; the coming home of thecows, splashing through the stream, hooking right and left, and lowingfor the hand of the milker, --all these interruptions, together with thegenerally drowsy quiet of the approach of evening, interfered with thestudy of the Elements. And when the travelers, after a refreshing rest, went on their way next morning, considering the Elements and the pianosand the refinement, to say nothing of the cuisine, which is not treatedof in the text-book referred to, they were content with a bill doublethat of brother Egger, in his brick magnificence. 

The simple truth is, that the traveler in this region must be contentto feed on natural beauties. And it is an unfortunate truth in naturalhistory that the appetite for this sort of diet fails after a time, if the inner man is not supplied with other sort of food. There is nolandscape in the world that is agreeable after two days of rusty-baconand slack biscuit. 

"How lovely this would be, " exclaimed the Professor, if it had abackground of beefsteak and coffee!

We were riding along the west fork of the Laurel, distinguished locallyas Three Top Creek, --or, rather, we were riding in it, crossing itthirty-one times within six miles; a charming wood (and water) road, under the shade of fine trees with the rhododendron illuminating theway, gleaming in the forest and reflected in the stream, all the tenmiles to Elk Cross Roads, our next destination. We had heard a greatdeal about Elk Cross Roads; it was on the map, it was down in theitinerary furnished by a member of the Coast Survey. We looked forwardto it as a sweet place of repose from the noontide heat. Alas! ElkCross Roads is a dirty grocery store, encumbered with dry-goods boxes, fly-blown goods, flies, loafers. In reply to our inquiry we were toldthat they had nothing to eat, for us, and not a grain of feed for thehorses. But there was a man a mile farther on, who was well to do andhad stores of food, --old man Tatern would treat us in bang-up style. Thedifficulty of getting feed for the horses was chronic all through thejourney. The last corn crop had failed, the new oats and corn had notcome in, and the country was literally barren. We had noticed all alongthat the hens were taking a vacation, and that chickens were not putforward as an article of diet. 

We were unable, when we reached the residence of old man Tatem, toimagine how the local superstition of his wealth arose. His house isof logs, with two rooms, a kitchen and a spare room, with a low loftaccessible by a ladder at the side of the chimney. The chimney is a hugeconstruction of stone, separating the two parts of the house; in fact, the chimney was built first, apparently, and the two rooms were thenbuilt against it. The proprietor sat in a little railed veranda. TheseSouthern verandas give an air to the meanest dwelling, and they are muchused; the family sit here, and here are the washbasin and pail (which isfilled from the neighboring spring-house), and the row of milk-pans. The old man Tatern did not welcome us with enthusiasm; he had nocorn, --these were hard times. He looked like hard times, grizzled times, dirty times. It seemed time out of mind since he had seen comb or razor, and although the lovely New River, along which we had ridden to hishouse, --a broad, inviting stream, --was in sight across the meadow, therewas no evidence that he had ever made acquaintance with its cleansingwaters. As to corn, the necessities of the case and pay being dwelt on, perhaps he could find a dozen ears. A dozen small cars he did find, andwe trust that the horses found them. 

We took a family dinner with old man Tatern in the kitchen, where therewas a bed and a stove, --a meal that the host seemed to enjoy, but whichwe could not make much of, except the milk; that was good. A painfulmeal, on the whole, owing to the presence in the room of a grown-updaughter with a graveyard cough, without physician or medicine, orcomforts. Poor girl! just dying of "a misery. "

In the spare room were two beds; the walls were decorated with thegay-colored pictures of patent-medicine advertisements--a favorite artadornment of the region; and a pile of ancient illustrated papers withthe usual patent-office report, the thoughtful gift of the member forthe district. The old man takes in the "Blue Ridge Baptist, " a journalwhich we found largely taken up with the experiences of its editor onhis journeys roundabout in search of subscribers. This newspaper was thesole communication of the family with the world at large, but the oldman thought he should stop it, --he did n't seem to get the worth of hismoney out of it. And old man Tatem was a thrifty and provident man. Onthe hearth in this best room--as ornaments or memento mori were a coupleof marble gravestones, a short headstone and foot-stone, mounted onbases and ready for use, except the lettering. These may not have beenso mournful and significant as they looked, nor the evidence of simple, humble faith; they may have been taken for debt. But as parlor ornamentsthey had a fascination which we could not escape. 

It was while we were bathing in the New River, that afternoon, andmeditating on the grim, unrelieved sort of life of our host, that theProfessor said, "judging by the face of the 'Blue Ridge Baptist, ' hewill charge us smartly for the few nubbins of corn and the milk. " Theface did not deceive us; the charge was one dollar. At this rate itwould have broken us to have tarried with old man Tatem (perhaps he isnot old, but that is the name he goes by) over night. 

It was a hot afternoon, and it needed some courage to mount and climbthe sandy hill leading us away from the corn-crib of Tatem. But weentered almost immediately into fine stretches of forest, and rode underthe shade of great oaks. The way, which began by the New River, soon ledus over the hills to the higher levels of Watauga County. So far on ourjourney we had been hemmed in by low hills, and without any distantor mountain outlooks. The excessive heat seemed out of place at theelevation of over two thousand feet, on which we were traveling. Boone, the county seat of Watauga County, was our destination, and, ever sincemorning, the guideboards and the trend of the roads had notified us thateverything in this region tends towards Boone as a center of interest. The simple ingenuity of some of the guide-boards impressed us. If, oncoming to a fork, the traveler was to turn to the right, the sign read, To BOONE 10 M. If he was to go to the left, it read, . M 01 ENOOB oT

A short ride of nine miles, on an ascending road, through an open, unfenced forest region, brought us long before sundown to this capital. When we had ridden into its single street, which wanders over gentlehills, and landed at the most promising of the taverns, the Friendinformed his comrade that Boone was 3250 feet above Albemarle Sound, andbelieved by its inhabitants to be the highest village east of theRocky Mountains. The Professor said that it might be so, but it was aGod-forsaken place. Its inhabitants numbered perhaps two hundred andfifty, a few of them colored. It had a gaunt, shaky court-house andjail, a store or two, and two taverns. The two taverns are needed toaccommodate the judges and lawyers and their clients during the sessionof the court. The court is the only excitement and the only amusement. It is the event from which other events date. Everybody in the countyknows exactly when court sits, and when court breaks. During the sessionthe whole county is practically in Boone, men, women, and children. They camp there, they attend the trials, they take sides; half ofthem, perhaps, are witnesses, for the region is litigious, and theneighborhood quarrels are entered into with spirit. To be fond oflawsuits seems a characteristic of an isolated people in new conditions. The early settlers of New England were. 

Notwithstanding the elevation of Boone, which insured a pure air, thethermometer that afternoon stood at from 85 to 89 deg. The flies enjoyedit. How they swarmed in this tavern! They would have carried off allthe food from the dining-room table (for flies do not mind eatingoff oilcloth, and are not particular how food is cooked), but for themachine with hanging flappers that swept the length of it; and theydestroy all possibility of sleep except in the dark. The mountainregions of North Carolina are free from mosquitoes, but the fly hassettled there, and is the universal scourge. This tavern, one end ofwhich was a store, had a veranda in front, and a back gallery, wherethere were evidences of female refinement in pots of plants and flowers. The landlord himself kept tavern very much as a hostler would, but wehad to make a note in his favor that he had never heard of a milk punch. And it might as well be said here, for it will have to be insisted onlater, that the traveler, who has read about the illicit stills tillhis imagination dwells upon the indulgence of his vitiated tastes in themountains of North Carolina, is doomed to disappointment. If he wantsto make himself an exception to the sober people whose cooking will makehim long for the maddening bowl, he must bring his poison with him. We had found no bread since we left Virginia; we had seen cornmeal andwater, slack-baked; we had seen potatoes fried in grease, and baconincrusted with salt (all thirst-provokers), but nothing to drinkstronger than buttermilk. And we can say that, so far as our exampleis concerned, we left the country as temperate as we found it. How canthere be mint juleps (to go into details) without ice? and in the summerthere is probably not a pound of ice in all the State north of BuncombeCounty. 

There is nothing special to be said about Boone. We were anxious toreach it, we were glad to leave it; we note as to all these placesthat our joy at departing always exceeds that on arriving, which isa merciful provision of nature for people who must keep moving. Thiscountry is settled by genuine Americans, who have the aboriginalprimitive traits of the universal Yankee nation. The front porch in themorning resembled a carpenter's shop; it was literally covered with thewhittlings of the row of natives who had spent the evening there in thesedative occupation of whittling. 

We took that morning a forest road to Valle Crusis, seven miles, throughnoble growths of oaks, chestnuts, hemlocks, rhododendrons, --a charmingwood road, leading to a place that, as usual, did not keep the promiseof its name. Valle Crusis has a blacksmith shop and a dirty, flyblownstore. While the Professor consulted the blacksmith about a loose shoe, the Friend carried his weariness of life without provisions up to awhite house on the hill, and negotiated for boiled milk. This house wasoccupied by flies. They must have numbered millions, settled in blackswarms, covering tables, beds, walls, the veranda; the kitchen wassimply a hive of them. The only book in sight, Whewell's--"Elements ofMorality, " seemed to attract flies. Query, Why should this have such adifferent effect from Porter's? A white house, --a pleasant-lookinghouse at a distance, --amiable, kindly people in it, --why should we havearrived there on its dirty day? Alas! if we had been starving, ValleCrusis had nothing to offer us. 

So we rode away, in the blazing heat, no poetry exuding from theProfessor, eight miles to Banner's Elk, crossing a mountain and passingunder Hanging Rock, a conspicuous feature in the landscape, and the onlyoutcropping of rock we had seen: the face of a ledge, rounded up intothe sky, with a green hood on it. From the summit we had the firstextensive prospect during our journey. The road can be described asawful, --steep, stony, the horses unable to make two miles an hour on it. Now and then we encountered a rude log cabin without barns or outhouses, and a little patch of feeble corn. The women who regarded the passersfrom their cabin doors were frowzy and looked tired. What with the heatand the road and this discouraged appearance of humanity, we reachedthe residence of Dugger, at Banner's Elk, to which we had been directed, nearly exhausted. It is no use to represent this as a dash acrosscountry on impatient steeds. It was not so. The love of truth isstronger than the desire of display. And for this reason it isimpossible to say that Mr. Dugger, who is an excellent man, lives ina clean and attractive house, or that he offers much that the pamperedchild of civilization can eat. But we shall not forget the two eggs, fresh from the hens, whose temperature must have been above the normal, nor the spring-house in the glen, where we found a refuge from the fliesand the heat. The higher we go, the hotter it is. Banner's Elk boasts anelevation of thirty-five to thirty-seven hundred feet. 

We were not sorry, towards sunset, to descend along the Elk Rivertowards Cranberry Forge. The Elk is a lovely stream, and, though notvery clear, has a reputation for trout; but all this region was underoperation of a three-years game law, to give the trout a chance tomultiply, and we had no opportunity to test the value of its reputation. Yet a boy whom we encountered had a good string of quarter-pound trout, which he had taken out with a hook and a feather rudely tied on it, toresemble a fly. The road, though not to be commended, was much betterthan that of the morning, the forests grew charming in the cool of theevening, the whippoorwill sang, and as night fell the wanderers, inwant of nearly everything that makes life desirable, stopped at the IronCompany's hotel, under the impression that it was the only comfortablehotel in North Carolina. 

II

Cranberry Forge is the first wedge of civilization fairly driven intothe northwest mountains of North Carolina. A narrow-gauge railway, starting from Johnson City, follows up the narrow gorge of the DoeRiver, and pushes into the heart of the iron mines at Cranberry, where there is a blast furnace; and where a big company store, rows oftenement houses, heaps of slag and refuse ore, interlacing tracks, rawembankments, denuded hillsides, and a blackened landscape, are the signsof a great devastating American enterprise. The Cranberry iron is ingreat esteem, as it has the peculiar quality of the Swedish iron. Thereare remains of old furnaces lower down the stream, which we passed onour way. The present "plant" is that of a Philadelphia company, whose enterprise has infused new life into all this region, made itaccessible, and spoiled some pretty scenery. 

When we alighted, weary, at the gate of the pretty hotel, which crownsa gentle hill and commands a pleasing, evergreen prospect of many gentlehills, a mile or so below the works, and wholly removed from all sordidassociations, we were at the point of willingness that the whole countryshould be devastated by civilization. In the local imagination thishotel of the company is a palace of unequaled magnificence, but probablyits good taste, comfort, and quiet elegance are not appreciated afterall. There is this to be said about Philadelphia, --and it will go farin pleading for it in the Last Day against its monotonous rectangularityand the babel-like ambition of its Public Building, --that wherever itsinfluence extends, there will be found comfortable lodgings and theluxury of an undeniably excellent cuisine. The visible seal thatPhiladelphia sets on its enterprise all through the South is a goodhotel. 

This Cottage Beautiful has on two sides a wide veranda, set about witheasy chairs; cheerful parlors and pretty chambers, finished innative woods, among which are conspicuous the satin stripes of thecucumber-tree; luxurious beds, and an inviting table ordered by aPhiladelphia landlady, who knows a beefsteak from a boot-tap. Is it"low" to dwell upon these things of the senses, when one is on a tour insearch of the picturesque? Let the reader ride from Abingdon through awilderness of cornpone and rusty bacon, and then judge. There were, to be sure, novels lying about, and newspapers, and fragments ofinformation to be picked up about a world into which the travelersseemed to emerge. They, at least, were satisfied, and went off to theirrooms with the restful feeling that they had arrived somewhere and nounquiet spirit at morn would say "to horse. " To sleep, perchance todream of Tatem and his household cemetery; and the Professor was heardmuttering in his chamber, "Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd. "

The morning was warm (the elevation of the hotel must be betweentwenty-five hundred and three thousand feet), rainy, mildly rainy; andthe travelers had nothing better to do than lounge upon the veranda, read feeble ten-cent fictions, and admire the stems of the whitebirches, glistening in the moisture, and the rhododendron--trees, twentyfeet high, which were shaking off their last pink blossoms, and lookdown into the valley of the Doe. It is not an exciting landscape, nothing bold or specially wild in it, but restful with the monotony ofsome of the wooded Pennsylvania hills. 

Sunday came up smiling, a lovely day, but offering no church privileges, for the ordinance of preaching is only occasional in this region. The ladies of the hotel have, however, gathered in the valley aSunday-school of fifty children from the mountain cabins. A coupleof rainy days, with the thermometer rising to 80 deg. , combined withnatural laziness to detain the travelers in this cottage of ease. Theyenjoyed this the more because it was on their consciences that theyshould visit Linville Falls, some twenty-five miles eastward, long heldup before them as the most magnificent feature of this region, and on noaccount to be omitted. Hence, naturally, a strong desire to omit it. TheProfessor takes bold ground against these abnormal freaks of nature, andit was nothing to him that the public would demand that we should seeLinville Falls. In the first place, we could find no one who had everseen them, and we spent two days in catechizing natives and strangers. The nearest we came to information was from a workman at the furnace, who was born and raised within three miles of the Falls. He had heardof people going there. He had never seen them himself. It was a goodtwenty-five miles there, over the worst road in the State we'd think itthirty before we got there. Fifty miles of such travel to see a littlewater run down-hill! The travelers reflected. Every country has a localwaterfall of which it boasts; they had seen a great many. One more wouldadd little to the experience of life. The vagueness of information, to be sure, lured the travelers to undertake the journey; but thetemptation was resisted--something ought to be left for the nextexplorer--and so Linville remains a thing of the imagination. 

Towards evening, July 29, between showers, the Professor and the Friendrode along the narrow-gauge road, down Johnson's Creek, to Roan Station, the point of departure for ascending Roan Mountain. It was a ride ofan hour and a half over a fair road, fringed with rhododendrons, nearlyblossomless; but at a point on the stream this sturdy shrub had formeda long bower where under a table might have been set for a temperancepicnic, completely overgrown with wild grape, and still gay with bloom. The habitations on the way are mostly board shanties and mean framecabins, but the railway is introducing ambitious architecture hereand there in the form of ornamental filigree work on flimsy houses;ornamentation is apt to precede comfort in our civilization. 

Roan Station is on the Doe River (which flows down from Roan Mountain), and is marked at 1265 feet above the sea. The visitor will find here agood hotel, with open wood fires (not ungrateful in a July evening), andobliging people. This railway from Johnson City, hanging on the edge ofthe precipices that wall the gorge of the Doe, is counted in this regionby the inhabitants one of the engineering wonders of the world. Thetourist is urged by all means to see both it and Linville Falls. 

The tourist on horseback, in search of exercise and recreation, is notprobably expected to take stock of moral conditions. But this MitchellCounty, although it was a Union county during the war and is Republicanin politics (the Southern reader will perhaps prefer another adverb to"although"), has had the worst possible reputation. The mountainswere hiding-places of illicit distilleries; the woods were full ofgrog-shanties, where the inflaming fluid was sold as "native brandy, "quarrels and neighborhood difficulties were frequent, and the knifeand pistol were used on the slightest provocation. Fights arose aboutboundaries and the title to mica mines, and with the revenue officers;and force was the arbiter of all disputes. Within the year four murderswere committed in the sparsely settled county. Travel on any of theroads was unsafe. The tone of morals was what might be expected withsuch lawlessness. A lady who came up on the road on the 4th of July, when an excursion party of country people took possession of the cars, witnessed a scene and heard language past belief. Men, women, andchildren drank from whisky bottles that continually circulated, and awild orgy resulted. Profanity, indecent talk on topics that even thelicense of the sixteenth century would not have tolerated, and freedomof manners that even Teniers would have shrunk from putting on canvas, made the journey horrible. 

The unrestrained license of whisky and assault and murder had produced areaction a few months previous to our visit. The people had risen up intheir indignation and broken up the groggeries. So far as we observedtemperance prevailed, backed by public-opinion. In our whole ridethrough the mountain region we saw only one or two places where liquorwas sold. 

It is called twelve miles from Roan Station to Roan Summit. The distanceis probably nearer fourteen, and our horses were five hours in walkingit. For six miles the road runs by Doe River, here a pretty brook shadedwith laurel and rhododendron, and a few cultivated patches of ground, and infrequent houses. It was a blithe morning, and the horsemen wouldhave given full indulgence to the spirit of adventure but for theattitude of the Professor towards mountains. It was not with him amatter of feeling, but of principle, not to ascend them. But here layRoan, a long, sprawling ridge, lifting itself 6250 feet up into thesky. Impossible to go around it, and the other side must be reached. TheProfessor was obliged to surrender, and surmount a difficulty which hecould not philosophize out of his mind. 

From the base of the mountain a road is very well engineered, in easygrades for carriages, to the top; but it was in poor repair and stony. We mounted slowly through splendid forests, specially of fine chestnutsand hemlocks. This big timber continues till within a mile and a halfof the summit by the winding road, really within a short distance of thetop. Then there is a narrow belt of scrubby hardwood, moss-grown, andthen large balsams, which crown the mountain. As soon as we cameout upon the southern slope we found great open spaces, covered withsucculent grass, and giving excellent pasturage to cattle. These richmountain meadows are found on all the heights of this region. Thesurface of Roan is uneven, and has no one culminating peak that commandsthe country, like the peak of Mount Washington, but several eminenceswithin its range of probably a mile and a half, where various views canbe had. Near the highest point, sheltered from the north by balsams, stands a house of entertainment, with a detached cottage, lookingacross the great valley to the Black Mountain range. The surface of themountain is pebbly, but few rocks crop out; no ledges of any size areseen except at a distance from the hotel, on the north side, and themountain consequently lacks that savage, unsubduable aspect whichthe White Hills of New Hampshire have. It would, in fact, have beendifficult to realize that we were over six thousand feet above the sea, except for that pallor in the sunlight, that atmospheric thinness andwant of color which is an unpleasant characteristic of high altitudes. To be sure, there is a certain brilliancy in the high air, --it is apt tobe foggy on Roan, --and objects appear in sharp outline, but I have oftenexperienced on such places that feeling of melancholy, which would, of course, deepen upon us all if we were sensible that the sun wasgradually withdrawing its power of warmth and light. The black balsam isneither a cheerful nor a picturesque tree; the frequent rains and mistson Roan keep the grass and mosses green, but the ground damp. Doubtlessa high mountain covered with vegetation has its compensation, but for methe naked granite rocks in sun and shower are more cheerful. 

The advantage of Roan is that one can live there and be occupied for along time in mineral and botanical study. Its mild climate, moisture, and great elevation make it unique in this country for the botanist. Thevariety of plants assembled there is very large, and there are many, wewere told, never or rarely found elsewhere in the United States. At anyrate, the botanists rave about Roan Mountain, and spend weeks at a timeon it. We found there ladies who could draw for us Grey's lily (thenpassed), and had kept specimens of the rhododendron (not growingelsewhere in this region) which has a deep red, almost purple color. 

The hotel (since replaced by a good house) was a rude mountainstructure, with a couple of comfortable rooms for office andsitting-room, in which big wood fires were blazing; for though thethermometer might record 60 deg. , as it did when we arrived, fire waswelcome. Sleeping-places partitioned off in the loft above gavethe occupants a feeling of camping out, all the conveniences beingprimitive; and when the wind rose in the night and darkness, and theloose boards rattled and the timbers creaked, the sensation was notunlike that of being at sea. The hotel was satisfactorily kept, andSouthern guests, from as far south as New Orleans, were spending theseason there, and not finding time hang heavy on their hands. Thisstatement is perhaps worth more than pages of description as to thecharacter of Roan, and its contrast to Mount Washington. 

The summer weather is exceedingly uncertain on all these North Carolinamountains; they are apt at any moment to be enveloped in mist; and itwould rather rain on them than not. On the afternoon of our arrivalthere was fine air and fair weather, but not a clear sky. The distancewas hazy, but the outlines were preserved. We could see White Top, inVirginia; Grandfather Mountain, a long serrated range; the twin towersof Linville; and the entire range of the Black Mountains, rising fromthe valley, and apparently lower than we were. They get the name ofBlack from the balsams which cover the summits. 

The rain on Roan was of less annoyance by reason of the delightfulcompany assembled at the hotel, which was in a manner at home there, and, thrown upon its own resources, came out uncommonly strong inagreeableness. There was a fiddle in the house, which had some of thevirtues of that celebrated in the history of old Mark Langston; theProfessor was enabled to produce anything desired out of the literatureof the eighteenth century; and what with the repartee of bright women, big wood fires, reading, and chat, there was no dull day or evening onRoan. I can fancy, however, that it might tire in time, if one were nota botanist, without the resource of women's society. The ladies stayinghere were probably all accomplished botanists, and the writer isindebted to one of them for a list of plants found on Roan, among whichis an interesting weed, catalogued as Humana, perplexia negligens. Thespecies is, however, common elsewhere. 

The second morning opened, after a night of high wind, with athunder-shower. After it passed, the visitors tried to reach EagleCliff, two miles off, whence an extensive western prospect is had, butwere driven back by a tempest, and rain practically occupied theday. Now and then through the parted clouds we got a glimpse of amountain-side, or the gleam of a valley. On the lower mountains, at wideintervals apart, were isolated settlements, commonly a wretched cabinand a spot of girdled trees. A clergyman here, not long ago, undertookto visit some of these cabins and carry his message to them. Inone wretched hut of logs he found a poor woman, with whom, afterconversation on serious subjects, he desired to pray. She offered noobjection, and he kneeled down and prayed. The woman heard him, andwatched him for some moments with curiosity, in an effort to ascertainwhat he was doing, and then said:

"Why, a man did that when he put my girl in a hole. "

Towards night the wind hauled round from the south to the northwest, andwe went to High Bluff, a point on the north edge, where some rocks arepiled up above the evergreens, to get a view of the sunset. In everydirection the mountains were clear, and a view was obtained of the vasthorizon and the hills and lowlands of several States--a continentalprospect, scarcely anywhere else equaled for variety or distance. Thegrandeur of mountains depends mostly on the state of the atmosphere. Grandfather loomed up much more loftily than the day before, the giantrange of the Blacks asserted itself in grim inaccessibility, and wecould see, a small pyramid on the southwest horizon, King's Mountain inSouth Carolina, estimated to be distant one hundred and fifty miles. Tothe north Roan falls from this point abruptly, and we had, like a mapbelow us, the low country all the way into Virginia. The clouds lay likelakes in the valleys of the lower hills, and in every direction wereranges of mountains wooded to the summits. Off to the west by south laythe Great Smoky Mountains, disputing eminence with the Blacks. 

Magnificent and impressive as the spectacle was, we were obliged tocontrast it unfavorably with that of the White Hills. The rock here is asort of sand or pudding stone; there is no limestone or granite. Andall the hills are tree-covered. To many this clothing of verdure is mostrestful and pleasing. I missed the sharp outlines, the delicate artisticsky lines, sharply defined in uplifted bare granite peaks and ridges, with the purple and violet color of the northern mountains, and which itseems to me that limestone and granite formations give. There are noneof the great gorges and awful abysses of the White Mountains, bothvalleys and mountains here being more uniform in outline. There are fewprecipices and jutting crags, and less is visible of the giant ribs andbones of the planet. 

Yet Roan is a noble mountain. A lady from Tennessee asked me if Ihad ever seen anything to compare with it--she thought there could benothing in the world. One has to dodge this sort of question in theSouth occasionally, not to offend a just local pride. It is certainlyone of the most habitable of big mountains. It is roomy on top, there isspace to move about without too great fatigue, and one might pleasantlyspend a season there, if he had agreeable company and natural tastes. 

Getting down from Roan on the south side is not as easy as ascending onthe north; the road for five miles to the foot of the mountain is merelya river of pebbles, gullied by the heavy rains, down which the horsespicked their way painfully. The travelers endeavored to present adashing and cavalier appearance to the group of ladies who waved good-byfrom the hotel, as they took their way over the waste and wind-blowndeclivities, but it was only a show, for the horses would neithercaracole nor champ the bit (at a dollar a day) down-hill over theslippery stones, and, truth to tell, the wanderers turned with regretfrom the society of leisure and persiflage to face the wilderness ofMitchell County. 

"How heavy, " exclaimed the Professor, pricking Laura Matilda to call herattention sharply to her footing--

 "How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek--my weary travel's end Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend! The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved not speed, being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side; For that same groan doth put this in my mind; My grief lies onward and my joy behind. "

This was not spoken to the group who fluttered their farewells, but poured out to the uncomplaining forest, which rose up inever statelier--and grander ranks to greet the travelers as theydescended--the silent, vast forest, without note of bird or chip ofsquirrel, only the wind tossing the great branches high overhead inresponse to the sonnet. Is there any region or circumstance of life thatthe poet did not forecast and provide for? But what would have been hisfeelings if he could have known that almost three centuries after theselines were penned, they would be used to express the emotion of anunsentimental traveler in the primeval forests of the New World? At anyrate, he peopled the New World with the children of his imagination. And, thought the Friend, whose attention to his horse did not permit himto drop into poetry, Shakespeare might have had a vision of this vastcontinent, though he did not refer to it, when he exclaimed:

 "What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend?"

Bakersville, the capital of Mitchell County, is eight miles from thetop of Roan, and the last three miles of the way the horsemen foundtolerable going, over which the horses could show their paces. Thevalley looked fairly thrifty and bright, and was a pleasing introductionto Bakersville, a pretty place in the hills, of some six hundredinhabitants, with two churches, three indifferent hotels, and acourt-house. This mountain town, 2550 feet above the sea, is saidto have a decent winter climate, with little snow, favorable tofruit-growing, and, by contrast with New England, encouraging to peoplewith weak lungs. 

This is the center of the mica mining, and of considerable excitementabout minerals. All around, the hills are spotted with "diggings. " Mostof the mines which yield well show signs of having been worked before, a very long time ago, no doubt by the occupants before the Indians. Themica is of excellent quality and easily mined. It is got out in largeirregular-shaped blocks and transported to the factories, where it iscarefully split by hand, and the laminae, of as large size as can beobtained, are trimmed with shears and tied up in packages for market. The quantity of refuse, broken, and rotten mica piled up about thefactories is immense, and all the roads round about glisten with itsscales. Garnets are often found imbedded in the laminae, flattened bythe extreme pressure to which the mass was subjected. It is fascinatingmaterial, this mica, to handle, and we amused ourselves by experimentingon the thinness to which its scales could be reduced by splitting. Itwas at Bakersville that we saw specimens of mica that resembled thedelicate tracery in the moss-agate and had the iridescent sheen of therainbow colors--the most delicate greens, reds, blues, purples, andgold, changing from one to the other in the reflected light. Inthe texture were the tracings of fossil forms of ferns and the mostexquisite and delicate vegetable beauty of the coal age. But themagnet shows this tracery to be iron. We were shown also emeralds and"diamonds, " picked up in this region, and there is a mild expectation inall the inhabitants of great mineral treasure. A singular product of theregion is the flexible sandstone. It is a most uncanny stone. A slip ofit a couple of feet long and an inch in diameter each way bends in thehand like a half-frozen snake. This conduct of a substance that we havebeen taught to regard as inflexible impairs one's confidence in thestability of nature and affects him as an earthquake does. 

This excitement over mica and other minerals has the usual effect ofstarting up business and creating bad blood. Fortunes have beenmade, and lost in riotous living; scores of visionary men have beendisappointed; lawsuits about titles and claims have multiplied, andquarrels ending in murder have been frequent in the past few years. Themica and the illicit whisky have worked together to make this region oneof lawlessness and violence. The travelers were told stories of the lackof common morality and decency in the region, but they made no note ofthem. And, perhaps fortunately, they were not there during court weekto witness the scenes of license that were described. This court week, which draws hither the whole population, is a sort of Saturnalia. Perhaps the worst of this is already a thing of the past; for theoutrages a year before had reached such a pass that by a common movementthe sale of whisky was stopped (not interdicted, but stopped), and not adrop of liquor could be bought in Bakersville nor within three miles ofit. 

The jail at Bakersville is a very simple residence. The main building isbrick, two stories high and about twelve feet square. The walls are soloosely laid up that it seems as if a colored prisoner might butt hishead through. Attached to this is a room for the jailer. In the lowerroom is a wooden cage, made of logs bolted together and filled withspikes, nine feet by ten feet square and perhaps seven or eight feethigh. Between this cage and the wall is a space of eighteen inches inwidth. It has a narrow door, and an opening through which the food ispassed to the prisoners, and a conduit leading out of it. Of course itsoon becomes foul, and in warm weather somewhat warm. A recent prisoner, who wanted more ventilation than the State allowed him, found somemeans, by a loose plank, I think, to batter a hole in the outer wallopposite the window in the cage, and this ragged opening, seeming to thejailer a good sanitary arrangement, remains. Two murderers occupied thisapartment at the time of our visit. During the recent session of court, ten men had been confined in this narrow space, without room enough forthem to lie down together. The cage in the room above, a little larger, had for tenant a person who was jailed for some misunderstanding aboutan account, and who was probably innocent--from the jailer's statement. This box is a wretched residence, month after month, while awaitingtrial. 

We learned on inquiry that it is practically impossible to get a jury toconvict of murder in this region, and that these admitted felons wouldundoubtedly escape. We even heard that juries were purchasable here, and that a man's success in court depended upon the length of his purse. This is such an unheard-of thing that we refused to credit it. When theFriend attempted to arouse the indignation of the Professor about thebarbarity of this jail, the latter defended it on the ground thatas confinement was the only punishment that murderers were likely toreceive in this region, it was well to make their detention disagreeableto them. But the Friend did not like this wild-beast cage for men, andcould only exclaim, "Oh, murder! what crimes are done in thy name. "

If the comrades wished an adventure, they had a small one, moreinteresting to them than to the public, the morning they leftBakersville to ride to Burnsville, which sets itself up as the capitalof Yancey. The way for the first three miles lay down a small creek andin a valley fairly settled, the houses, a store, and a grist-millgiving evidence of the new enterprise of the region. When Toe River wasreached, there was a choice of routes. We might ford the Toe at thatpoint, where the river was wide, but shallow, and the crossing safe, and climb over the mountain by a rough but sightly road, or descend thestream by a better road and ford the river at a place rather dangerousto those unfamiliar with it. The danger attracted us, but we promptlychose the hill road on account of the views, for we were weary of thelimited valley prospects. 

The Toe River, even here, where it bears westward, is a very respectablestream in size, and not to be trifled with after a shower. It graduallyturns northward, and, joining the Nollechucky, becomes part of theTennessee system. We crossed it by a long, diagonal ford, slipping andsliding about on the round stones, and began the ascent of a steep hill. The sun beat down unmercifully, the way was stony, and the horses didnot relish the weary climbing. The Professor, who led the way, not forthe sake of leadership, but to be the discoverer of laden blackberrybushes, which began to offer occasional refreshment, discouraged by theinhospitable road and perhaps oppressed by the moral backwardness ofthings in general, cried out:

 "Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, -- As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily foresworn, And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. "

In the midst of a lively discussion of this pessimistic view of theinequalities of life, in which desert and capacity are so often putat disadvantage by birth in beggarly conditions, and brazen assumptionraises the dust from its chariot wheels for modest merit to plod alongin, the Professor swung himself off his horse to attack a blackberrybush, and the Friend, representing simple truth, and desirous of gettinga wider prospect, urged his horse up the hill. At the top he encountereda stranger, on a sorrel horse, with whom he entered into conversationand extracted all the discouragement the man had as to the road toBurnsville. 

Nevertheless, the view opened finely and extensively. There are fewexhilarations comparable to that of riding or walking along a highridge, and the spirits of the traveler rose many degrees above the pointof restful death, for which the Professor was crying when he encounteredthe blackberry bushes. Luckily the Friend soon fell in with a liketemptation, and dismounted. He discovered something that spoiled hisappetite for berries. His coat, strapped on behind the saddle, hadworked loose, the pocket was open, and the pocket-book was gone. Thiswas serious business. For while the Professor was the cashier, andtraveled like a Rothschild, with large drafts, the Friend representedthe sub-treasury. That very morning, in response to inquiry as to thesinews of travel, the Friend had displayed, without counting, a roll ofbills. These bills had now disappeared, and when the Friend turned backto communicate his loss, in the character of needy nothing not trimm'din jollity, he had a sympathetic listener to the tale of woe. 

Going back on such a journey is the woefulest experience, but retraceour steps we must. Perhaps the pocket-book lay in the road not half amile back. But not in half a mile, or a mile, was it found. Probably, then, the man on the sorrel horse had picked it up. But who was the manon the sorrel horse, and where had he gone? Probably the coat workedloose in crossing Toe River and the pocket-book had gone down-stream. The number of probabilities was infinite, and each more plausible thanthe others as it occurred to us. We inquired at every house we hadpassed on the way, we questioned every one we met. At length it beganto seem improbable that any one would remember if he had picked up apocketbook that morning. This is just the sort of thing that slips anuntrained memory. 

At a post office or doctor's shop, or inn for drovers, it might beeither or neither, where several horses were tied to the fence, and agroup of men were tilted back in cane chairs on the veranda, we unfoldedour misfortune and made particular inquiries for a man on a sorrelhorse. Yes, such a man, David Thomas by name, had just ridden towardsBakersville. If he had found the pocket-book, we would recover it. Hewas an honest man. It might, however, fall into hands that would freezeto it. 

Upon consultation, it was the general verdict that there were men inthe county who would keep it if they had picked it up. But the assemblymanifested the liveliest interest in the incident. One suggested ToeRiver. Another thought it risky to drop a purse on any road. But therewas a chorus of desire expressed that we should find it, and in thisanxiety was exhibited a decided sensitiveness about the honor ofMitchell County. It seemed too bad that a stranger should go away withthe impression that it was not safe to leave money anywhere in it. Wefelt very much obliged for this genuine sympathy, and we told them thatif a pocket-book were lost in this way on a Connecticut road, therewould be felt no neighborhood responsibility for it, and that nobodywould take any interest in the incident except the man who lost, and theman who found. 

By the time the travelers pulled up at a store in Bakersville theyhad lost all expectation of recovering the missing article, and werediscussing the investment of more money in an advertisement in theweekly newspaper of the capital. The Professor, whose reform sentimentsagreed with those of the newspaper, advised it. There was a group ofidlers, mica acquaintances of the morning, and philosophers in front ofthe store, and the Friend opened the colloquy by asking if a man namedDavid Thomas had been seen in town. He was in town, had ridden in withinan hour, and his brother, who was in the group, would go in search ofhim. The information was then given of the loss, and that the rider hadmet David Thomas just before it was discovered, on the mountain beyondthe Toe. The news made a sensation, and by the time David Thomasappeared a crowd of a hundred had drawn around the horsemen eager forfurther developments. Mr. Thomas was the least excited of the group ashe took his position on the sidewalk, conscious of the dignity of theoccasion and that he was about to begin a duel in which both reputationand profit were concerned. He recollected meeting the travelers in themorning. 

The Friend said, "I discovered that I had lost my purse just aftermeeting you; it may have been dropped in Toe River, but I was told backhere that if David Thomas had picked it up, it was as safe as if it werein the bank. "

"What sort of a pocket-book was it?" asked Mr. Thomas. 

"It was of crocodile skin, or what is sold for that, very likely it isan imitation, and about so large indicating the size. "

"What had it in it?"

"Various things. Some specimens of mica; some bank checks, some money. "

"Anything else?"

"Yes, a photograph. And, oh, something that I presume is not in anotherpocket-book in North Carolina, --in an envelope, a lock of the hair ofGeorge Washington, the Father of his Country. " Sensation mixed withincredulity. Washington's hair did seem such an odd part of an outfitfor a journey of this kind. 

"How much money was in it?"

"That I cannot say, exactly. I happen to remember four twenty-dollarUnited States notes, and a roll of small bills, perhaps something over ahundred dollars. "

"Is that the pocket-book?" asked David Thomas, slowly pulling the lovedand lost out of his trousers pocket. 

"It is. "

"You'd be willing to take your oath on it?"

"I should be delighted to. "

"Well, I guess there ain't so much money in it. You can count it[handing it over]; there hain't been nothing taken out. I can't read, but my friend here counted it over, and he says there ain't as much asthat. "

Intense interest in the result of the counting. One hundred and tendollars! The Friend selected one of the best engraved of the notes, andappealed to the crowd if they thought that was the square thing to do. They did so think, and David Thomas said it was abundant. And then saidthe Friend:

"I'm exceedingly grateful to you besides. Washington's hair is gettingscarce, and I did not want to lose these few hairs, gray as they are. You've done the honest thing, Mr. Thomas, as was expected of you. Youmight have kept the whole. But I reckon if there had been five hundreddollars in the book and you had kept it, it wouldn't have done you halfas much good as giving it up has done; and your reputation as an honestman is worth a good deal more than this pocket-book. [The Professorwas delighted with this sentiment, because it reminded him of aSunday-school. ] I shall go away with a high opinion of the honesty ofMitchell County. "

"Oh, he lives in Yancey, " cried two or three voices. At which there wasa great laugh. 

"Well, I wondered where he came from. " And the Mitchell County peoplelaughed again at their own expense, and the levee broke up. It wasexceedingly gratifying, as we spread the news of the recovered propertythat afternoon at every house on our way to the Toe, to see whatpleasure it gave. Every man appeared to feel that the honor of theregion had been on trial--and had stood the test. 

The eighteen miles to Burnsville had now to be added to the morningexcursion, but the travelers were in high spirits, feeling the truth ofthe adage that it is better to have loved and lost, than never to havelost at all. They decided, on reflection, to join company with themail-rider, who was going to Burnsville by the shorter route, and couldpilot them over the dangerous ford of the Toe. 

The mail-rider was a lean, sallow, sinewy man, mounted on a sorry sorrelnag, who proved, however, to have blood in her, and to be a fast walkerand full of endurance. The mail-rider was taciturn, a natural habitfor a man who rides alone the year round, over a lonely road, and hasnothing whatever to think of. He had been in the war sixteen months, inHugh White's regiment, --reckon you've heerd of him?

"Confederate?"

"Which?"

"Was he on the Union or Confederate side?"

"Oh, Union. "

"Were you in any engagements?"

"Which?"

"Did you have any fighting?"

"Not reg'lar. "

"What did you do?"

"Which?"

"What did you do in Hugh White's regiment?"

"Oh, just cavorted round the mountains. "

"You lived on the country?"

"Which?"

"Picked up what you could find, corn, bacon, horses?"

"That's about so. Did n't make much difference which side was round, thecountry got cleaned out. "

"Plunder seems to have been the object?"

"Which?"

"You got a living out of the farmers?"

"You bet. "

Our friend and guide seemed to have been a jayhawker and mountainmarauder--on the right side. His attachment to the word "which"prevented any lively flow of conversation, and there seemed to be onlytwo trains of ideas running in his mind: one was the subject of horsesand saddles, and the other was the danger of the ford we were coming to, and he exhibited a good deal of ingenuity in endeavoring to exciteour alarm. He returned to the ford from every other conversationalexcursion, and after every silence. 

"I do' know's there 's any great danger; not if you know the ford. Folksis carried away there. The Toe gits up sudden. There's been right smartrain lately. 

"If you're afraid, you can git set over in a dugout, and I'll take yourhorses across. Mebbe you're used to fording? It's a pretty bad fordfor them as don't know it. But you'll get along if you mind your eye. There's some rocks you'll have to look out for. But you'll be all rightif you follow me. "

Not being very successful in raising an interest in the dangers of hisford, although he could not forego indulging a malicious pleasurein trying to make the strangers uncomfortable, he finally turned hisattention to a trade. "This hoss of mine, " he said, "is just the kind ofbrute-beast you want for this country. Your hosses is too heavy. How'llyou swap for that one o' yourn?" The reiterated assertion that thehorses were not ours, that they were hired, made little impression onhim. All the way to Burnsville he kept referring to the subject of atrade. The instinct of "swap" was strong in him. When we met a yoke ofsteers, he turned round and bantered the owner for a trade. Our saddlestook his fancy. They were of the army pattern, and he allowed that oneof them would just suit him. He rode a small flat English pad, acrosswhich was flung the United States mail pouch, apparently empty. Hedwelt upon the fact that his saddle was new and ours were old, and theadvantages that would accrue to us from the exchange. He did n't careif they had been through the war, as they had, for he fancied an armysaddle. The Friend answered for himself that the saddle he rode belongedto a distinguished Union general, and had a bullet in it that was putthere by a careless Confederate in the first battle of Bull Run, and theowner would not part with it for money. But the mail-rider said he didn't mind that. He would n't mind swapping his new saddle for my old oneand the rubber coat and leggings. Long before we reached the ford wethought we would like to swap the guide, even at the risk of drowning. The ford was passed, in due time, with no inconvenience save that of wetfeet, for the stream was breast high to the horses; but being broad andswift and full of sunken rocks and slippery stones, and the crossingtortuous, it is not a ford to be commended. There is a curious delusionthat a rider has in crossing a swift broad stream. It is that he israpidly drifting up-stream, while in fact the tendency of the horse isto go with the current. 

The road in the afternoon was not unpicturesque, owing to the streamsand the ever noble forests, but the prospect was always very limited. Agriculturally, the country was mostly undeveloped. The travelersendeavored to get from the rider an estimate of the price of land. Notmuch sold, he said. "There was one sale of a big piece last year; theowner enthorited Big Tom Wilson to sell it, but I d'know what he got forit. "

All the way along, the habitations were small log cabins, with one room, chinked with mud, and these were far between; and only occasionallythereby a similar log structure, unchinked, laid up like a cob house, that served for a stable. Not much cultivation, except now and thena little patch of poor corn on a steep hillside, occasionally a fewapple-trees, and a peach-tree without fruit. Here and there was a housethat had been half finished and then abandoned, or a shanty in which acouple of young married people were just beginning life. Generally thecabins (confirming the accuracy of the census of 1880) swarmed withchildren, and nearly all the women were thin and sickly. 

In the day's ride we did not see a wheeled vehicle, and only nowand then a horse. We met on the road small sleds, drawn by a steer, sometimes by a cow, on which a bag of grist was being hauled to themill, and boys mounted on steers gave us good-evening with as much prideas if they were bestriding fiery horses. 

In a house of the better class, which was a post-house, and where therider and the woman of the house had a long consultation over a letterto be registered, we found the rooms decorated with patent-medicinepictures, which were often framed in strips of mica, an evidence ofculture that was worth noting. Mica was the rage. Every one with whomwe talked, except the rider, had more or less the mineral fever. Theimpression was general that the mountain region of North Carolina wasentering upon a career of wonderful mineral development, and the mostextravagant expectations were entertained. Mica was the shining objectof most "prospecting, " but gold was also on the cards. 

The country about Burnsville is not only mildly picturesque, but verypleasing. Burnsville, the county-seat of Yancey, at an elevation of 2840feet, is more like a New England village than any hitherto seen. Most ofthe houses stand about a square, which contains the shabby court-house;around it are two small churches, a jail, an inviting tavern with a longveranda, and a couple of stores. On an overlooking hill is the seminary. Mica mining is the exciting industry, but it is agriculturally a goodcountry. The tavern had recently been enlarged to meet the new demandsfor entertainment and is a roomy structure, fresh with paint andonly partially organized. The travelers were much impressed with thebrilliant chambers, the floors of which were painted in alternatestripes of vivid green and red. The proprietor, a very intelligentand enterprising man, who had traveled often in the North, was fullof projects for the development of his region and foremost in itsenterprises, and had formed a considerable collection of minerals. Besides, more than any one else we met, he appreciated the beauty of hiscountry, and took us to a neighboring hill, where we had a view ofTable Mountain to the east and the nearer giant Blacks. The elevation ofBurnsville gives it a delightful summer climate, the gentle undulationsof the country are agreeable, the views noble, the air is good, andit is altogether a "livable" and attractive place. With facilities ofcommunication, it would be a favorite summer resort. Its nearness to thegreat mountains (the whole Black range is in Yancey County), its finepure air, its opportunity for fishing and hunting, commend it to thosein search of an interesting and restful retreat in summer. 

But it should be said that before the country can attract and retaintravelers, its inhabitants must learn something about the preparation offood. If, for instance, the landlord's wife at Burnsville had traveledwith her husband, her table would probably have been more on a levelwith his knowledge of the world, and it would have contained somethingthat the wayfaring man, though a Northerner, could eat. We have been onthe point several times in this journey of making the observation, buthave been restrained by a reluctance to touch upon politics, that it wasno wonder that a people with such a cuisine should have rebelled. Thetravelers were in a rebellious mood most of the time. 

The evidences of enterprise in this region were pleasant to see, butthe observers could not but regret, after all, the intrusion of themoney-making spirit, which is certain to destroy much of the presentsimplicity. It is as yet, to a degree, tempered by a philosophic spirit. The other guest of the house was a sedate, long-bearded traveler forsome Philadelphia house, and in the evening he and the landlord fellinto a conversation upon what Socrates calls the disadvantage of thepursuit of wealth to the exclusion of all noble objects, and they lettheir fancy play about Vanderbilt, who was agreed to be the richest manin the world, or that ever lived. 

"All I want, " said the long-bearded man, "is enough to be comfortable. Iwould n't have Vanderbilt's wealth if he'd give it to me. "

"Nor I, " said the landlord. "Give me just enough to be comfortable. "[The tourist couldn't but note that his ideas of enough to becomfortable had changed a good deal since he had left his little farmand gone into the mica business, and visited New York, and enlarged andpainted his tavern. ] "I should like to know what more Vanderbilt getsout of his money than I get out of mine. I heard tell of a young man whowent to Vanderbilt to get employment. Vanderbilt finally offered to givethe young man, if he would work for him, just what he got himself. Theyoung man jumped at that--he'd be perfectly satisfied with that pay. And Vanderbilt said that all he got was what he could eat and wear, andoffered to give the young man his board and clothes. "

"I declare" said the long-bearded man. "That's just it. Did you ever seeVanderbilt's house? Neither did I, but I heard he had a vault built init five feet thick, solid. He put in it two hundred millions of dollars, in gold. After a year, he opened it and put in twelve millions more, and called that a poor year. They say his house has gold shutters to thewindows, so I've heard. "

"I shouldn't wonder, " said the landlord. "I heard he had one door inhis house cost forty thousand dollars. I don't know what it is made of, unless it's made of gold. "

Sunday was a hot and quiet day. The stores were closed and the twochurches also, this not being the Sunday for the itinerant preacher. Thejail also showed no sign of life, and when we asked about it, we learnedthat it was empty, and had been for some time. No liquor is sold in theplace, nor within at least three miles of it. It is not much use to tryto run a jail without liquor. 

In the course of the morning a couple of stout fellows arrived, leadingbetween them a young man whom they had arrested, --it didn't appear onany warrant, but they wanted to get him committed and locked up. Theoffense charged was carrying a pistol; the boy had not used it againstanybody, but he had flourished it about and threatened, and theneighbors wouldn't stand that; they were bound to enforce the lawagainst carrying concealed weapons. 

The captors were perfectly good-natured and on friendly enough termswith the young man, who offered no resistance, and seemed not unwillingto go to jail. But a practical difficulty arose. The jail was lockedup, the sheriff had gone away into the country with the key, and noone could get in. It did not appear that there was any provision forboarding the man in jail; no one in fact kept it. The sheriff was sentfor, but was not to be found, and the prisoner and his captors loafedabout the square all day, sitting on the fence, rolling on the grass, all of them sustained by a simple trust that the jail would be open sometime. 

Late in the afternoon we left them there, trying to get into thejail. But we took a personal leaf out of this experience. Our Virginiafriends, solicitous for our safety in this wild country, had urged usnot to venture into it without arms--take at least, they insisted, arevolver each. And now we had to congratulate ourselves that we hadnot done so. If we had, we should doubtless on that Sunday have beenwaiting, with the other law-breaker, for admission into the YanceyCounty jail. 

III

From Burnsville the next point in our route was Asheville, the mostconsiderable city in western North Carolina, a resort of fashion, andthe capital of Buncombe County. It is distant some forty to forty-fivemiles, too long a journey for one day over such roads. The easierand common route is by the Ford of Big Ivy, eighteen miles, the firststopping-place; and that was a long ride for the late afternoon when wewere in condition to move. 

The landlord suggested that we take another route, stay that night onCaney River with Big Tom Wilson, only eight miles from Burnsville, crossMount Mitchell, and go down the valley of the Swannanoa to Asheville. Herepresented this route as shorter and infinitely more picturesque. Therewas nothing worth seeing on the Big Ivy way. With scarcely a moment'sreflection and while the horses were saddling, we decided to ride to BigTom Wilson's. I could not at the time understand, and I cannot now, whythe Professor consented. I should hardly dare yet confess to myfixed purpose to ascend Mount Mitchell. It was equally fixed in theProfessor's mind not to do it. We had not discussed it much. But it issafe to say that if he had one well-defined purpose on this trip, it wasnot to climb Mitchell. "Not, " as he put it, --

 "Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, "

had suggested the possibility that he could do it. 

But at the moment the easiest thing to do seemed to be to ride downto Wilson's. When there we could turn across country to the Big Ivy, although, said the landlord, you can ride over Mitchell just as easy asanywhere--a lady rode plump over the peak of it last week, and never gotoff her horse. You are not obliged to go; at Big Tom's, you can go anyway you please. 

Besides, Big Tom himself weighed in the scale more than MountMitchell, and not to see him was to miss one of the most characteristicproductions of the country, the typical backwoodsman, hunter, guide. Sowe rode down Bolling Creek, through a pretty, broken country, crossedthe Caney River, and followed it up a few miles to Wilson's plantation. There are little intervales along the river, where hay is cut and corngrown, but the region is not much cleared, and the stock browse about inthe forest. Wilson is the agent of the New York owner of a tract ofsome thirteen thousand acres of forest, including the greater portion ofMount Mitchell, a wilderness well stocked with bears and deer, andfull of streams abounding in trout. It is also the playground of therattlesnake. With all these attractions Big Tom's life is made lively inwatching game poachers, and endeavoring to keep out the foraging cattleof the few neighbors. It is not that the cattle do much injury inthe forest, but the looking after them is made a pretense for roamingaround, and the roamers are liable to have to defend themselves againstthe deer, or their curiosity is excited about the bears, and lately theyhave taken to exploding powder in the streams to kill the fish. 

Big Tom's plantation has an openwork stable, an ill-put-together framehouse, with two rooms and a kitchen, and a veranda in front, a loft, anda spring-house in the rear. Chickens and other animals have free runof the premises. Some fish-rods hung in the porch, and hunter's geardepended on hooks in the passage-way to the kitchen. In one room werethree beds, in the other two, only one in the kitchen. On the porch wasa loom, with a piece of cloth in process. The establishment had theair of taking care of itself. Neither Big Tom nor his wife was at home. Sunday seemed to be a visiting day, and the travelers had met manyparties on horseback. Mrs. Wilson was away for a visit of a day or two. One of the sons, who was lounging on the veranda, was at last inducedto put up the horses; a very old woman, who mumbled and glared at thevisitors, was found in the kitchen, but no intelligible response couldbe got out of her. Presently a bright little girl, the housekeeper incharge, appeared. She said that her paw had gone up to her brother's(her brother was just married and lived up the river in the house whereMr. Murchison stayed when he was here) to see if he could ketch a bearthat had been rootin' round in the corn-field the night before. Sheexpected him back by sundown--by dark anyway. 'Les he'd gone after thebear, and then you could n't tell when he would come. 

It appeared that Big Tom was a thriving man in the matter of family. More boys appeared. Only one was married, but four had "got their time. "As night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good deal of lively andloud conversation about the stock and the chores, in all of which thegirl took a leading and intelligent part, showing a willingness to doher share, but not to have all the work put upon her. It was time to godown the road and hunt up the cows; the mule had disappeared and mustbe found before dark; a couple of steers hadn't turned up since the daybefore yesterday, and in the midst of the gentle contention as to whosebusiness all this was, there was an alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the girl started off on a run in that direction. It was due to theexecutive ability of this small girl, after the cows had been milked andthe mule chased and the boys properly stirred up, that we had supper. It was of the oilcloth, iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread andhoney variety, distinguished, however, from all meals we had endured orenjoyed before by the introduction of fried eggs (as the breakfast nextmorning was by the presence of chicken), and it was served by the activemaid with right hearty good-will and genuine hospitable intent. 

While it was in progress, after nine o'clock, Big Tom arrived, and, witha simple greeting, sat down and attacked the supper and began to tellabout the bear. There was not much to tell except that he hadn't seenthe bear, and that, judged by his tracks and his sloshing around, hemust be a big one. But a trap had been set for him, and he judged itwouldn't be long before we had some bear meat. Big Tom Wilson, as he isknown all over this part of the State, would not attract attention fromhis size. He is six feet and two inches tall, very spare and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and honest blue eyes. He has areputation for great strength and endurance; a man of native simplicityand mild manners. He had been rather expecting us from what Mr. Murchison wrote; he wrote (his son had read out the letter) that Big Tomwas to take good care of us, and anybody that Mr. Murchison sent couldhave the best he'd got. 

Big Tom joined us in our room after supper. This apartment, with twomighty feather-beds, was hung about with all manner of stuffy familyclothes, and had in one end a vast cavern for a fire. The floor wasuneven, and the hearthstones billowy. When the fire was lighted, theeffect of the bright light in the cavern and the heavy shadows in theroom was Rembrandtish. Big Tom sat with us before the fire and told bearstories. Talk? Why, it was not the least effort. The stream flowed onwithout a ripple. "Why, the old man, " one of the sons confided to usnext morning, "can begin and talk right over Mount Mitchell and all theway back, and never make a break. " Though Big Tom had waged a lifelongwarfare with the bears, and taken the hide off at least a hundred ofthem, I could not see that he had any vindictive feeling towards thevarmint, but simply an insatiable love of killing him, and he regardedhim in that half-humorous light in which the bear always appears tothose who study him. As to deer--he couldn't tell how many of them hehad slain. But Big Tom was a gentleman: he never killed deer for meresport. With rattlesnakes, now, it was different. There was the skin ofone hanging upon a tree by the route we would take in the morning, a buster, he skinned him yesterday. There was an entire absence, ofbraggadocio in Big Tom's talk, but somehow, as he went on, his backwoodsfigure loomed larger and larger in our imagination, and he seemedstrangely familiar. At length it came over us where we had met himbefore. It was in Cooper's novels. He was the Leather-Stocking exactly. And yet he was an original; for he assured us that he had never read theLeather-Stocking Tales. What a figure, I was thinking, he must havemade in the late war! Such a shot, such a splendid physique, suchiron endurance! I almost dreaded to hear his tales of the havoc he hadwrought on the Union army. Yes, he was in the war, he was sixteen monthsin the Confederate army, this Homeric man. In what rank? "Oh, I was afifer!"

But hunting and war did not by any means occupy the whole of Big Tom'slife. He was also engaged in "lawin'. " He had a long-time feud with aneighbor about a piece of land and alleged trespass, and they'dbeen "lawin'" for years, with no definite result; but as a topic ofconversation it was as fully illustrative of frontier life as thebear-fighting. 

Long after we had all gone to bed, we heard Big Tom's continuous voice, through the thin partition that separated us from the kitchen, going onto his little boy about the bear; every circumstance of how he trackedhim, and what corner of the field he entered, and where he went out, andhis probable size and age, and the prospect of his coming again; thesewere the details of real everyday life, and worthy to be dwelt on by thehour. The boy was never tired of pursuing them. And Big Tom was just abig boy, also, in his delight in it all. 

Perhaps it was the fascination of Big Tom, perhaps the representationthat we were already way off the Big Ivy route, and that it would, infact, save time to go over the mountain and we could ride all the way, that made the Professor acquiesce, with no protest worth noticing, inthe preparations that went on, as by a natural assumption, for goingover Mitchell. At any rate, there was an early breakfast, luncheonwas put up, and by half-past seven we were riding up the Caney, --ahalf-cloudy day, --Big Tom swinging along on foot ahead, talking nineteento the dozen. There was a delightful freshness in the air, the dew-ladenbushes, and the smell of the forest. In half an hour we called at thehunting shanty of Mr. Murchison, wrote our names on the wall, accordingto custom, and regretted that we could not stay for a day in thatretreat and try the speckled trout. Making our way through the lowgrowth and bushes of the valley, we came into a fine open forest, watered by a noisy brook, and after an hour's easy going reached theserious ascent. 

From Wilson's to the peak of Mitchell it is seven and a half miles; wemade it in five and a half hours. A bridle path was cut years ago, butit has been entirely neglected. It is badly washed, it is stony, muddy, and great trees have fallen across it which wholly block the way forhorses. At these places long detours were necessary, on steep hillsidesand through gullies, over treacherous sink-holes in the rocks, throughquaggy places, heaps of brush, and rotten logs. Those who have everattempted to get horses over such ground will not wonder at the slowprogress we made. Before we were halfway up the ascent, we realized thefolly of attempting it on horseback; but then to go on seemed as easy asto go back. The way was also exceedingly steep in places, and what withroots, and logs, and slippery rocks and stones, it was a desperate climbfor the horses. 

What a magnificent forest! Oaks, chestnuts, Poplars, hemlocks, thecucumber (a species of magnolia, with a pinkish, cucumber-like cone), and all sorts of northern and southern growths meeting here in splendidarray. And this gigantic forest, with little diminution in size oftrees, continued two thirds of the way up. We marked, as we went on, themaple, the black walnut, the buckeye, the hickory, the locust, and theguide pointed out in one section the largest cherry-trees we had everseen; splendid trunks, each worth a large sum if it could be got tomarket. After the great trees were left behind, we entered a garden ofwhite birches, and then a plateau of swamp, thick with raspberry bushes, and finally the ridges, densely crowded with the funereal black balsam. 

Halfway up, Big Tom showed us his favorite, the biggest tree he knew. Itwas a poplar, or tulip. It stands more like a column than a tree, risinghigh into the air, with scarcely a perceptible taper, perhaps sixty, more likely a hundred, feet before it puts out a limb. 

Its girth six feet from the ground is thirty-two feet! I think it mightbe called Big Tom. It stood here, of course, a giant, when Columbussailed from Spain, and perhaps some sentimental traveler will attach thename of Columbus to it. 

In the woods there was not much sign of animal life, scarcely the noteof a bird, but we noticed as we rode along in the otherwise primevalsilence a loud and continuous humming overhead, almost like the soundof the wind in pine tops. It was the humming of bees! The upper brancheswere alive with these industrious toilers, and Big Tom was always on thealert to discover and mark a bee-gum, which he could visit afterwards. Honey hunting is one of his occupations. Collecting spruce gum isanother, and he was continually hacking off with his hatchet knobs ofthe translucent secretion. How rich and fragrant are these forests! Therhododendron was still in occasional bloom' and flowers of brilliant huegleamed here and there. 

The struggle was more severe as we neared the summit, and the footingworse for the horses. Occasionally it was safest to dismount and leadthem up slippery ascents; but this was also dangerous, for it wasdifficult to keep them from treading on our heels, in their franticflounderings, in the steep, wet, narrow, brier-grown path. At oneuncommonly pokerish place, where the wet rock sloped into a bog, therider of Jack thought it prudent to dismount, but Big Tom insisted thatJack would "make it" all right, only give him his head. The rider gavehim his head, and the next minute Jack's four heels were in the air, andhe came down on his side in a flash. The rider fortunately extricatedhis leg without losing it, Jack scrambled out with a broken shoe, andthe two limped along. It was a wonder that the horses' legs were notbroken a dozen times. 

As we approached the top, Big Tom pointed out the direction, a half mileaway, of a small pond, a little mountain tarn, overlooked by a ledge ofrock, where Professor Mitchell lost his life. Big Tom was the guidethat found his body. That day, as we sat on the summit, he gave in greatdetail the story, the general outline of which is well known. 

The first effort to measure the height of the Black Mountains was madein 1835, by Professor Elisha Mitchell, professor of mathematics andchemistry in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Mr. Mitchell was a native of Connecticut, born in Washington, LitchfieldCounty, in 1793; graduated at Yale, ordained a Presbyterian minister, and was for a time state surveyor; and became a professor at ChapelHill in 1818. He first ascertained and published the fact that the BlackMountains are the highest land east of the Rocky Mountains. In 1844he visited the locality again. Measurements were subsequently made byProfessor Guyot and by Senator Clingman. One of the peaks was named forthe senator (the one next in height to Mitchell is described as Clingmanon the state map), and a dispute arose as to whether Mitchell had reallyvisited and measured the highest peak. Senator Clingman still maintainsthat he did not, and that the peak now known as Mitchell is the one thatClingman first described. The estimates of altitudes made by the threeexplorers named differed considerably. The height now fixed for MountMitchell is 6711; that of Mount Washington is 6285. There are twelvepeaks in this range higher than Mount Washington, and if we add thosein the Great Smoky Mountains which overtop it, there are some twenty inthis State higher than the granite giant of New Hampshire. 

In order to verify his statement, Professor Mitchell (then in hissixty-fourth year) made a third ascent in June, 1857. He was alone, andwent up from the Swannanoa side. He did not return. No anxiety was feltfor two or three days, as he was a good mountaineer, and it was supposedhe had crossed the mountain and made his way out by the Caney River. But when several days passed without tidings of him, a search party wasformed. Big Tom Wilson was with it. They explored the mountain in alldirections unsuccessfully. At length Big Tom separated himself from hiscompanions and took a course in accordance with his notion of that whichwould be pursued by a man lost in the clouds or the darkness. Hesoon struck the trail of the wanderer, and, following it, discoveredMitchell's body lying in a pool at the foot of a rocky precipice somethirty feet high. It was evident that Mitchell, making his way alongthe ridge in darkness or fog, had fallen off. It was the ninth (or theeleventh) day of his disappearance, but in the pure mountain air thebody had suffered no change. Big Tom brought his companions to theplace, and on consultation it was decided to leave the body undisturbedtill Mitchell's friends could be present. 

There was some talk of burying him on the mountain, but the friendsdecided otherwise, and the remains, with much difficulty, were got downto Asheville and there interred. 

Some years afterwards, I believe at the instance of a society ofscientists, it was resolved to transport the body to the summit of MountMitchell; for the tragic death of the explorer had forever settled inthe popular mind the name of the mountain. The task was not easy. Aroad had to be cut, over which a sledge could be hauled, and the hardymountaineers who undertook the removal were three days in reaching thesummit with their burden. The remains were accompanied by a considerableconcourse, and the last rites on the top were participated in by ahundred or more scientists and prominent men from different parts ofthe State. Such a strange cortege had never before broken the silenceof this lonely wilderness, nor was ever burial more impressive than thiswild interment above the clouds. 

We had been preceded in our climb all the way by a huge bear. That hewas huge, a lunker, a monstrous old varmint, Big Tom knew by the size ofhis tracks; that he was making the ascent that morning ahead of us, BigTom knew by the freshness of the trail. We might come upon him at anymoment; he might be in the garden; was quite likely to be found in theraspberry patch. That we did not encounter him I am convinced was notthe fault of Big Tom, but of the bear. 

After a struggle of five hours we emerged from the balsams and briersinto a lovely open meadow, of lush clover, timothy, and blue grass. Weunsaddled the horses and turned them loose to feed in it. The meadowsloped up to a belt of balsams and firs, a steep rocky knob, andclimbing that on foot we stood upon the summit of Mitchell at oneo'clock. We were none too soon, for already the clouds were preparingfor what appears to be a daily storm at this season. 

The summit is a nearly level spot of some thirty or forty feet in extenteither way, with a floor of rock and loose stones. The stunted balsamshave been cut away so as to give a view. The sweep of prospect is vast, and we could see the whole horizon except in the direction of Roan, whose long bulk was enveloped in cloud. Portions of six States were insight, we were told, but that is merely a geographical expression. Whatwe saw, wherever we looked, was an inextricable tumble of mountains, without order or leading line of direction, --domes, peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere, some in shadow, some tipped withshafts of sunlight, all wooded and green or black, and all in moresoftened contours than our Northern hills, but still wild, lonesome, terrible. Away in the southwest, lifting themselves up in a gleam ofthe western sky, the Great Smoky Mountains loomed like a frowningcontinental fortress, sullen and remote. With Clingman and Gibbs andHoldback peaks near at hand and apparently of equal height, Mitchellseemed only a part and not separate from the mighty congregation ofgiants. 

In the center of the stony plot on the summit lie the remains ofMitchell. To dig a grave in the rock was impracticable, but the loosestones were scooped away to the depth of a foot or so, the body wasdeposited, and the stones were replaced over it. It was the originalintention to erect a monument, but the enterprise of the projectors ofthis royal entombment failed at that point. The grave is surrounded bya low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor adds one, and in thecourse of ages the cairn may grow to a good size. The explorer liesthere without name or headstone to mark his awful resting-place. Themountain is his monument. He is alone with its majesty. He is there inthe clouds, in the tempests, where the lightnings play, and thundersleap, amid the elemental tumult, in the occasional great calm andsilence and the pale sunlight. It is the most majestic, the mostlonesome grave on earth. 

As we sat there, awed a little by this presence, the clouds weregathering from various quarters and drifting towards us. We could watchthe process of thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests. I haveoften noticed on other high mountains how the clouds, forming like geniireleased from the earth, mount into the upper air, and in masses of tornfragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a rendezvous of witches. This was a different display. These clouds came slowly sailing from thedistant horizon, like ships on an aerial voyage. Some were below us, some on our level; they were all in well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, below trailing rain, and attended on earthby gigantic shadows that moved with them. This strange fleet ofbattle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, was maneuvering for anengagement. One after another, as they came into range about our peakof observation, they opened fire. Sharp flashes of lightning darted fromone to the other; a jet of flame from one leaped across the intervaland was buried in the bosom of its adversary; and at every discharge theboom of great guns echoed through the mountains. It was something morethan a royal salute to the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for themasses of cloud were rent in the fray, at every discharge the rainwas precipitated in increasing torrents, and soon the vast hulks weretrailing torn fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away shroudsand sails of ships in battle. Gradually, from this long-range practicewith single guns and exchange of broadsides, they drifted intocloser conflict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the individualcombatants in the general tumult of this aerial war. 

We had barely twenty minutes for our observations, when it was timeto go; and had scarcely left the peak when the clouds enveloped it. Wehastened down under the threatening sky to the saddles and the luncheon. Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete arbor, ortunnel, of rhododendrons. This cavernous place a Western writer has madethe scene of a desperate encounter between Big Tom and a catamount, orAmerican panther, which had been caught in a trap and dragged it there, pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly graphic narrative, and isenlivened by the statement that Big Tom had the night before drunk upall the whisky of the party which had spent the night on the summit. NowBig Tom assured us that the whisky part of the story was an invention;he was not (which is true) in the habit of using it; if he ever did takeany, it might be a drop on Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if wehad a flask, he remarked that a taste of it would do him good then andthere. We regretted the lack of it in our baggage. But what inclined BigTom to discredit the Western writer's story altogether was the fact thathe never in his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and neverhad seen one in these mountains. 

Our lunch was eaten in haste. Big Tom refused the chicken he hadprovided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw salt pork, which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and saddled ourhorses, who were reluctant to leave the rich feed, enveloped ourselvesin waterproofs, and got into the stony path for the descent just as thetorrent came down. It did rain. It lightened, the thunder crashed, thewind howled and twisted the treetops. It was as if we were pursued bythe avenging spirits of the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempeston this height had its terrors even for our hardy guide. He preferred tobe lower down while it was going on. The crash and reverberation of thethunder did not trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches inour faces and the horrible road, with its mud, tripping roots, loosestones, and slippery rocks. Progress was slow. The horses were inmomentary danger of breaking their legs. In the first hour there was notmuch descent. In the clouds we were passing over Clingman, Gibbs, andHoldback. The rain had ceased, but the mist still shut off all view, ifany had been attainable, and bushes and paths were deluged. The descentwas more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we were compelled a gooddeal of the way to lead the jaded horses down the slippery rocks. 

From the peak to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass thenight, is twelve miles, a distance we rode or scrambled down, every stepof the road bad, in five and a half hours. Halfway down we came out upona cleared place, a farm, with fruit-trees and a house in ruins. Here hadbeen a summer hotel much resorted to before the war, but now abandoned. Above it we turned aside for the view from Elizabeth rock, named fromthe daughter of the proprietor of the hotel, who often sat here, saidBig Tom, before she went out of this world. It is a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking south, is unquestionably the finest, themost pleasing and picture-like, we found in these mountains. In theforeground is the deep gorge of a branch of the Swannanoa, and oppositeis the great wall of the Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the mostcapricious and inexplicable system) making off to the Blacks. The depthof the gorge, the sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of thescene to the sunny south made this view both grand and charming. Nature does not always put the needed dash of poetry into her extensiveprospects. 

Leaving this clearing and the now neglected spring, where fashion usedto slake its thirst, we zigzagged down the mountain-side through aforest of trees growing at every step larger and nobler, and at lengthstruck a small stream, the North Fork of the Swannanoa, which led us tothe first settlement. Just at night, --it was nearly seven o'clock, --weentered one of the most stately forests I have ever seen, and rode forsome distance in an alley of rhododendrons that arched overhead and madea bower. It was like an aisle in a temple; high overhead was the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic columns. Few widows have such anavenue of approach to their domain as the Widow Patten has. 

Cheering as this outcome was from the day's struggle and storm, theProfessor seemed sunk in a profound sadness. The auguries which theFriend drew from these signs of civilization of a charming inn and aroyal supper did not lighten the melancholy of his mind. "Alas, " hesaid, "Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief: Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss. "

"Loss of what?" cried the Friend, as he whipped up his halting steed. 

"Loss of self-respect. I feel humiliated that I consented to climb thismountain. "

"Nonsense! You'll live to thank me for it, as the best thing you everdid. It's over and done now, and you've got it to tell your friends. "

"That's just the trouble. They'll ask me if I went up Mitchell, and Ishall have to say I did. My character for consistency is gone. Not thatI care much what they think, but my own self-respect is gone. I neverbelieved I would do it. A man ca'nt afford to lower himself in his ownesteem, at my time of life. "

The Widow Patten's was only an advanced settlement in this narrow valleyon the mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a fence, and agate gave it the air of a place, and it had once been better caredfor than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and the art ofentertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into desuetude. Weunsaddled at the veranda, and sat down to review our adventure, make theacquaintance of the family, and hear the last story from Big Tom. Themountaineer, though wet, was as fresh as a daisy, and fatigue in no wisechecked the easy, cheerful flow of his talk. He was evidently a favoritewith his neighbors, and not unpleasantly conscious of the extent ofhis reputation. But he encountered here another social grade. The WidowPatten was highly connected. We were not long in discovering that shewas an Alexander. She had been a schoolmate of Senator Vance, --"ZebVance" he still was to her, --and the senator and his wife had stayed ather house. I wish I could say that the supper, for which we waitedtill nine o'clock, was as "highly connected" as the landlady. It was, however, a supper that left its memory. We were lodged in a detachedhouse, which we had to ourselves, where a roaring wood fire made amendsfor other things lacking. It was necessary to close the doors tokeep out the wandering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that, notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there the sleep ofpeace. 

In the morning a genuine surprise awaited us; it seemed impossible, butthe breakfast was many degrees worse than the supper; and when we paidour bill, large for the region, we were consoled by the thought that wepaid for the high connection as well as for the accommodations. Thisis a regular place of entertainment, and one is at liberty to praise itwithout violation of delicacy. 

The broken shoe of Jack required attention, and we were all the morninghunting a blacksmith, as we rode down the valley. Three blacksmith'sshanties were found, and after long waiting to send for the operator itturned out in each case that he had no shoes, no nails, no iron to makeeither of. We made a detour of three miles to what was represented as aregular shop. The owner had secured the service of a colored blacksmithfor a special job, and was, not inclined to accommodate us; he had noshoes, no nails. But the colored blacksmith, who appreciated the plightwe were in, offered to make a shoe, and to crib four nails from those hehad laid aside for a couple of mules; and after a good deal of delay, we were enabled to go on. The incident shows, as well as anything, thebarrenness and shiftlessness of the region. A horseman with whom we rodein the morning gave us a very low estimate of the trustworthiness ofthe inhabitants. The valley is wild and very pretty all the way down toColonel Long's, --twelve miles, --but the wretched-looking people alongthe way live in a wretched manner. 

Just before reaching Colonel Long's we forded the stream (here ofgood size), the bridge having tumbled down, and encountered a party ofpicnickers under the trees--signs of civilization; a railway station isnot far off. Colonel Long's is a typical Southern establishment: a whitehouse, or rather three houses, all of one story, built on to each otheras beehives are set in a row, all porches and galleries. No one at homebut the cook, a rotund, broad-faced woman, with a merry eye, whose veryappearance suggested good cooking and hospitality; the Missis and thechildren had gone up to the river fishing; the Colonel was somewhereabout the place; always was away when he was wanted. Guess he'd take usin, mighty fine man the Colonel; and she dispatched a child from a cabinin the rear to hunt him up. The Colonel was a great friend of her folksdown to Greenville; they visited here. Law, no, she didn't live here. Was just up here spending the summer, for her health. God-forsaken lotof people up here, poor trash. She wouldn't stay here a day, but theColonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in Greenville. Nobody round here she could 'sociate with. She was a Presbyterian, thefolks round here mostly Baptists and Methodists. More style about thePresbyterians. Married? No, she hoped not. She did n't want to supportno husband. Got 'nuff to do to take care of herself. That her littlegirl? No; she'd only got one child, down to Greenville, just theprettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody. How did she what? reconcilethis state of things with not being married and being a Presbyterian?Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was mighty handyoccasionally, mebbe not all the time. Yes, indeed, she enjoyed herreligion. 

The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial welcome. The fat andmerry cook blustered around and prepared a good dinner, memorable forits "light" bread, the first we had seen since Cranberry Forge. TheColonel is in some sense a public man, having been a mail agent, anda Republican. He showed us photographs and engravings of Northernpoliticians, and had the air of a man who had been in Washington. Thiswas a fine country for any kind of fruit, --apples, grapes, pears; itneeded a little Northern enterprise to set things going. The travelerswere indebted to the Colonel for a delightful noonday rest, and withregret declined his pressing invitation to pass the night with him. 

The ride down the Swannanoa to Asheville was pleasant, through acultivated region, over a good road. The Swannanoa is, however, a turbidstream. In order to obtain the most impressive view of Asheville weapproached it by the way of Beaucatcher Hill, a sharp elevation a milewest of the town. I suppose the name is a corruption of some descriptiveFrench word, but it has long been a favorite resort of the frequentersof Asheville, and it may be traditional that it is a good place to catchbeaux. The summit is occupied by a handsome private residence, and fromthis ridge the view, which has the merit of "bursting" upon the traveleras he comes over the hill, is captivating in its extent and variety. Thepretty town of Asheville is seen to cover a number of elevations gentlyrising out of the valley, and the valley, a rich agricultural region, well watered and fruitful, is completely inclosed by picturesque hills, some of them rising to the dignity of mountains. The most conspicuousof these is Mount Pisgah, eighteen miles distant to the southwest, apyramid of the Balsam range, 5757 feet high. Mount Pisgah, from itsshape, is the most attractive mountain in this region. 

The sunset light was falling upon the splendid panorama and softeningit. The windows of the town gleamed as if on fire. From the steep slopebelow came the mingled sounds of children shouting, cattle driven home, and all that hum of life that marks a thickly peopled region preparingfor the night. It was the leisure hour of an August afternoon, andAsheville was in all its watering-place gayety, as we reined up atthe Swannanoa hotel. A band was playing on the balcony. We had reachedice-water, barbers, waiters, civilization. 

IV

Ashville, delightful for situation, on small hills that rise abovethe French Broad below its confluence with the Swannanoa, is a sort offourteenth cousin to Saratoga. It has no springs, but lying 2250feet above the sea and in a lovely valley, mountain girt, it has pureatmosphere and an equable climate; and being both a summer and winterresort, it has acquired a watering-place air. There are Southerners whodeclare that it is too hot in summer, and that the complete circuit ofmountains shuts out any lively movement of air. But the scenery is socharming and noble, the drives are so varied, the roads so unusuallypassable for a Southern country, and the facilities for excursions sogood, that Asheville is a favorite resort. 

Architecturally the place is not remarkable, but its surface isso irregular, there are so many acclivities and deep valleys thatimprovements can never obliterate, that it is perforce picturesque. Itis interesting also, if not pleasing, in its contrasts--the enterpriseof taste and money-making struggling with the laissez faire of theSouth. The negro, I suppose, must be regarded as a conservative element;he has not much inclination to change his clothes or his cabin, and hisswarming presence gives a ragged aspect to the new civilization. Andto say the truth, the new element of Southern smartness lacks thetrim thrift the North is familiar with; though the visitor who needsrelaxation is not disposed to quarrel with the easy-going terms on whichlife is taken. 

Asheville, it is needless to say, appeared very gay and stimulating tothe riders from the wilderness. The Professor, who does not even pretendto patronize Nature, had his revenge as we strolled about the streets(there is but one of much consideration), immensely entertained by thepicturesque contrasts. There was more life and amusement here infive minutes, he declared, than in five days of what people calledscenery--the present rage for scenery, anyway, being only a fashion anda modern invention. The Friend suspected from this penchant for the citythat the Professor must have been brought up in the country. 

There was a kind of predetermined and willful gayety about Ashevillehowever, that is apt to be present in a watering-place, and gave to itthe melancholy tone that is always present in gay places. We fanciedthat the lively movement in the streets had an air of unreality. A bandof musicians on the balcony of the Swannanoa were scraping and tootingand twanging with a hired air, and on the opposite balcony of the Eaglea rival band echoed and redoubled the perfunctory joyousness. The gayetywas contagious: the horses felt it; those that carried light burdensof beauty minced and pranced, the pony in the dog-cart was inclined todash, the few passing equipages had an air of pleasure; and the peopleof color, the comely waitress and the slouching corner-loafer, respondedto the animation of the festive strains. In the late afternoon thestreets were full of people, wagons, carriages, horsemen, all with aholiday air, dashed with African color and humor--the irresponsibilityof the most insouciant and humorous race in the world, perhaps morecomical than humorous; a mixture of recent civilization and rudeness, peculiar and amusing; a happy coming together, it seemed, of Southernabandon and Northern wealth, though the North was little represented atthis season. 

As evening came on, the streets, though wanting gas, were still moreanimated; the shops were open, some very good ones, and the whiteand black throng increasing, especially the black, for the negro ispreeminently a night bird. In the hotels dancing was promised--thegerman was announced; on the galleries and in the corridors weregroups of young people, a little loud in manner and voice, --the younggentleman, with his over-elaborate manner to ladies in bowing andhat-lifting, and the blooming girls from the lesser Southern cities, with the slight provincial note, and yet with the frank and engagingcordiality which is as charming as it is characteristic. I do not knowwhat led the Professor to query if the Southern young women were notsuperior to the Southern young men, but he is always asking questionsnobody can answer. At the Swannanoa were half a dozen bridal couples, readily recognizable by the perfect air they had of having beenmarried a long time. How interesting such young voyagers are, and howinteresting they are to each other! Columbus never discovered such alarge world as they have to find out and possess each in the other. 

Among the attractions of the evening it was difficult to choose. Therewas a lawn-party advertised at Battery Point (where a fine hotel hassince been built) and we walked up to that round knob after dark. It isa hill with a grove, which commands a charming view, and was fortifiedduring the war. We found it illuminated with Chinese lanterns; andlittle tables set about under the trees, laden with cake and ice-cream, offered a chance to the stranger to contribute money for the benefitof the Presbyterian Church. I am afraid it was not a profitableentertainment, for the men seemed to have business elsewhere, but theladies about the tables made charming groups in the lighted grove. Manis a stupid animal at best, or he would not make it so difficult for thewomenkind to scrape together a little money for charitable purposes. But probably the women like this method of raising money better than thedirect one. 

The evening gayety of the town was well distributed. When we descendedto the Court-House Square, a great crowd had collected, black, white, and yellow, about a high platform, upon which four glaring torcheslighted up the novel scene, and those who could read might decipher thislegend on a standard at the back of the stage:

 HAPPY JOHN. ONE OF THE SLAVES OF WADE HAMPTON. COME AND SEE HIM!

Happy John, who occupied the platform with Mary, a "bright" yellow girl, took the comical view of his race, which was greatly enjoyed by hisaudience. His face was blackened to the proper color of the stage-darky, and he wore a flaming suit of calico, the trousers and coat stripedlongitudinally according to Punch's idea of "Uncle Sam, " the coat aswallow-tail bound and faced with scarlet, and a bell-crowned whitehat. This conceit of a colored Yankee seemed to tickle all colors inthe audience amazingly. Mary, the "bright" woman (this is the universaldesignation of the light mulatto), was a pleasing but bold yellow girl, who wore a natty cap trimmed with scarlet, and had the assured or pertmanner of all traveling sawdust performers. 

"Oh, yes, " exclaimed a bright woman in the crowd, "Happy John was sureenough one of Wade Hampton's slaves, and he's right good looking whenhe's not blackened up. "

Happy John sustained the promise of his name by spontaneous gayety andenjoyment of the fleeting moment; he had a glib tongue and a ready, rudewit, and talked to his audience with a delicious mingling of impudence, deference, and patronage, commenting upon them generally, administeringadvice and correction in a strain of humor that kept his hearers in apleased excitement. He handled the banjo and the guitar alternately, and talked all the time when he was not singing. Mary (how much harderfeatured and brazen a woman is in such a position than a man of thesame caliber!) sang, in an untutored treble, songs of sentiment, oftenrisque, in solo and in company with John, but with a cold, indifferentair, in contrast to the rollicking enjoyment of her comrade. 

The favorite song, which the crowd compelled her to repeat, touchedlightly the uncertainties of love, expressed in the falsetto patheticrefrain:

 "Mary's gone away wid de coon. "

All this, with the moon, the soft summer night, the mixed crowd ofdarkies and whites, the stump eloquence of Happy John, the singing, thelaughter, the flaring torches, made a wild scene. The entertainment wasquite free, with a "collection" occasionally during the performance. 

What most impressed us, however, was the turning to account by HappyJohn of the "nigger" side of the black man as a means of low comedy, and the enjoyment of it by all the people of color. They appeared toappreciate as highly as anybody the comic element in themselves, and Happy John had emphasized it by deepening his natural color andexaggerating the "nigger" peculiarities. I presume none of them analyzedthe nature of his infectious gayety, nor thought of the pathos that layso close to it, in the fact of his recent slavery, and the distinctionof being one of Wade Hampton's niggers, and the melancholy mirth of thislight-hearted race's burlesque of itself. 

A performance followed which called forth the appreciation of the crowdmore than the wit of Happy John or the faded songs of the yellow girl. John took two sweet-cakes and broke each in fine pieces into a saucer, and after sugaring and eulogizing the dry messes, called for two smalldarky volunteers from the audience to come up on the platform and devourthem. He offered a prize of fifteen cents to the one who should firsteat the contents of his dish, not using his hands, and hold up thesaucer empty in token of his victory. The cake was tempting, and thefifteen cents irresistible, and a couple of boys in ragged shirts andshort trousers and a suspender apiece came up shamefacedly to enter forthe prize. Each one grasped his saucer in both hands, and with face overthe dish awaited the word "go, " which John gave, and started off thecontest with a banjo accompaniment. To pick up with the mouth the drycake and choke it down was not so easy as the boys apprehended, but theywent into the task with all their might, gobbling and swallowing asif they loved cake, occasionally rolling an eye to the saucer of thecontestant to see the relative progress, John strumming, ironicallyencouraging, and the crowd roaring. As the combat deepened and thecontestants strangled and stuffed and sputtered, the crowd went intospasms of laughter. The smallest boy won by a few seconds, holding uphis empty saucer, with mouth stuffed, vigorously trying to swallow, likea chicken with his throat clogged with dry meal, and utterly unable tospeak. The impartial John praised the victor in mock heroics, but saidthat the trial was so even that he would divide the prize, ten cents toone and five to the other--a stroke of justice that greatly increasedhis popularity. And then he dismissed the assembly, saying that he hadpromised the mayor to do so early, because he did not wish to run anopposition to the political meeting going on in the courthouse. 

The scene in the large court-room was less animated than that out-doors;a half-dozen tallow dips, hung on the wall in sconces and stuck on thejudge's long desk, feebly illuminated the mixed crowd of black and whitewho sat in, and on the backs of, the benches, and cast only a fitfullight upon the orator, who paced back and forth and pounded the rail. It was to have been a joint discussion between the two presidentialelectors running in that district, but, the Republican being absent, hisplace was taken by a young man of the town. The Democratic orator tookadvantage of the absence of his opponent to describe the discussionof the night before, and to give a portrait of his adversary. He wasrepresented as a cross between a baboon and a jackass, who would be anatural curiosity for Barnum. "I intend, " said the orator, "to puthim in a cage and exhibit him about the deestrict. " This political hitcalled forth great applause. All his arguments were of this pointedcharacter, and they appeared to be unanswerable. The orator appearedto prove that there wasn't a respectable man in the opposite party whowasn't an office-holder, nor a white man of any kind in it who was notan office-holder. If there were any issues or principles in the canvass, he paid his audience the compliment of knowing all about them, for henever alluded to any. In another state of society, such a speech ofpersonalities might have led to subsequent shootings, but no doubt hisadversary would pay him in the same coin when next they met, andthe exhibition seemed to be regarded down here as satisfactory andenlightened political canvassing for votes. The speaker who replied, opened his address with a noble tribute to woman (as the first speakerhad ended his), directed to a dozen of that sex who sat in the gloom ofa corner. The young man was moderate in his sarcasm, and attempted tospeak of national issues, but the crowd had small relish for that sortof thing. At eleven o'clock, when we got away from the unsavory room(more than half the candles had gone out), the orator was making slowheadway against the refished blackguardism of the evening. The germanwas still "on" at the hotel when we ascended to our chamber, satisfiedthat Asheville was a lively town. 

The sojourner at Asheville can amuse himself very well by walking ordriving to the many picturesque points of view about the town; liverystables abound, and the roads are good. The Beau-catcher Hill is alwaysattractive; and Connolly's, a private place a couple of miles fromtown, is ideally situated, being on a slight elevation in the valley, commanding the entire circuit of mountains, for it has the air of reposewhich is so seldom experienced in the location of a dwelling in Americawhence an extensive prospect is given. Or if the visitor is disinclinedto exertion, he may lounge in the rooms of the hospitable AshevilleClub; or he may sit on the sidewalk in front of the hotels, and talkwith the colonels and judges and generals and ex-members of Congress, the talk generally drifting to the new commercial and industrial lifeof the South, and only to politics as it affects these; and he will bepleased, if the conversation takes a reminiscent turn, with the lack ofbitterness and the tone of friendliness. The negro problem is commonlydiscussed philosophically and without heat, but there is alwaysdiscovered, underneath, the determination that the negro shall neveragain get the legislative upper hand. And the gentleman from SouthCarolina who has an upland farm, and is heartily glad slavery isgone, and wants the negro educated, when it comes to ascendency inpolitics--such as the State once experienced--asks you what you woulddo yourself. This is not the place to enter upon the politico-socialquestion, but the writer may note one impression gathered from muchfriendly and agreeable conversation. It is that the Southern whitesmisapprehend and make a scarecrow of "social equality. " When, during thewar, it was a question at the North of giving the colored people of theNorthern States the ballot, the argument against it used to be statedin the form of a question: "Do you want your daughter to marry a negro?"Well, the negro has his political rights in the North, and there hascome no change in the social conditions whatever. And there is no doubtthat the social conditions would remain exactly as they are at the Southif the negro enjoyed all the civil rights which the Constitution triesto give him. The most sensible view of this whole question was taken byan intelligent colored man, whose brother was formerly a representativein Congress. "Social equality, " he said in effect, "is a humbug. We donot expect it, we do not want it. It does not exist among the blacksthemselves. We have our own social degrees, and choose our ownassociates. We simply want the ordinary civil rights, under which wecan live and make our way in peace and amity. This is necessary to ourself-respect, and if we have not self-respect, it is not to be supposedthat the race can improve. I'll tell you what I mean. My wife is amodest, intelligent woman, of good manners, and she is always neat, and tastefully dressed. Now, if she goes to take the cars, she is notpermitted to go into a clean car with decent people, but is ordered intoone that is repellent, and is forced into company that any refined womanwould shrink from. But along comes a flauntingly dressed woman, of knowndisreputable character, whom my wife would be disgraced to know, andshe takes any place that money will buy. It is this sort of thing thathurts. "

We took the eastern train one evening to Round Nob (Henry's Station), some thirty miles, in order to see the wonderful railway that descends, a distance of eight miles, from the summit of Swannanoa Gap (2657 feetelevation) to Round Nob Hotel (1607 feet). The Swannanoa Summit is thedividing line between the waters that flow to the Atlantic and thosethat go to the Gulf of Mexico. This fact was impressed upon us by theinhabitants, who derive a good deal of comfort from it. Such divides arealways matter of local pride. Unfortunately, perhaps, it was too darkbefore we reached Henry's to enable us to see the road in all its loopsand parallels as it appears on the map, but we gained a better effect. The hotel, when we first sighted it, all its windows blazing with light, was at the bottom of a well. Beside it--it was sufficiently light to seethat--a column of water sprang straight into the air to the height, aswe learned afterwards from two official sources, of 225 and 265 feet;and the information was added that it is the highest fountain in theworld. This stout column, stiff as a flagstaff, with its feathery headof mist gleaming like silver in the failing light, had the most charmingeffect. We passed out of sight of hotel and fountain, but were consciousof being--whirled on a circular descending grade, and very soon theywere in sight again. Again and again they disappeared and came to view, now on one side and now on the other, until our train seemed to bebewitched, making frantic efforts by dodgings and turnings, now throughtunnels and now over high pieces of trestle, to escape the inevitableattraction that was gravitating it down to the hospitable lights at thebottom of the well. When we climbed back up the road in the morning, wehad an opportunity to see the marvelous engineering, but there is littleelse to see, the view being nearly always very limited. 

The hotel at the bottom of the ravine, on the side of Round Nob, offerslittle in the way of prospect, but it is a picturesque place, and wecould understand why it was full of visitors when we came to the table. It was probably the best-kept house of entertainment in the State, and being in the midst of the Black Hills, it offers good chances forfishing and mountain climbing. 

In the morning the fountain, which is, of course, artificial, refusedto play, the rain in the night having washed in debris which clogged theconduit. But it soon freed itself and sent up for a long time, likea sulky geyser, mud and foul water. When it got freedom and tolerableclearness, we noted that the water went up in pulsations, which weremarked at short distances by the water falling off, giving the columnthe appearance of a spine. The summit, always beating the air in effortsto rise higher, fell over in a veil of mist. 

There are certain excursions that the sojourner at Asheville must make. He must ride forty-five miles south through Henderson and Transylvaniato Caesar's Head, on the South Carolina border, where the mountainsystem abruptly breaks down into the vast southern plain; where theobserver, standing on the edge of the precipice, has behind him andbefore him the greatest contrast that nature can offer. He must alsotake the rail to Waynesville, and visit the much-frequented WhiteSulphur Springs, among the Balsam Mountains, and penetrate the GreatSmoky range by way of Quallatown, and make the acquaintance of theremnant of Cherokee Indians living on the north slope of CheoahMountain. The Professor could have made it a matter of personal meritthat he escaped all these encounters with wild and picturesque nature, if his horse had not been too disabled for such long jaunts. It is onlynecessary, however, to explain to the public that the travelers are notgormandizers of scenery, and were willing to leave some portions of theState to the curiosity of future excursionists. 

But so much was said about Hickory Nut Gap that a visit to it could notbe evaded. The Gap is about twenty-four miles southeast of Asheville. Inthe opinion of a well-informed colonel, who urged us to make the trip, it is the finest piece of scenery it this region. We were brought up onthe precept "get the best, " and it was with high anticipations that weset out about eleven o'clock one warm, foggy morning. We followed a verygood road through a broken, pleasant country, gradually growing wilderand less cultivated. There was heavy rain most of the day on the hills, and occasionally a shower swept across our path. The conspicuous objecttoward which we traveled all the morning was a shapely conical hill atthe beginning of the Gap. 

At three o'clock we stopped at the Widow Sherrill's for dinner. Herhouse, only about a mile from the summit, is most picturesquely situatedon a rough slope, giving a wide valley and mountain view. The houseis old rambling, many-roomed, with wide galleries on two sides. Ifone wanted a retired retreat for a few days, with good air and fairentertainment, this could be commended. It is an excellent fruit region;apples especially are sound and of good flavor. That may be said of allthis part of the State. The climate is adapted to apples, as the hillypart of New England is. I fancy the fruit ripens slowly, as it does inNew England, and is not subject to quick decay like much of that grownin the West. But the grape also can be grown in all this mountainregion. Nothing but lack of enterprise prevents any farmer from enjoyingabundance of fruit. The industry carried on at the moment at the WidowSherrill's was the artificial drying of apples for the market. Theapples are pared, cored, and sliced in spirals, by machinery, anddried on tin sheets in a patented machine. The industry appears to be aprofitable one hereabouts, and is about the only one that calls in theaid of invention. 

While our dinner was preparing, we studied the well-known pictures of"Jane" and "Eliza, " the photographs of Confederate boys, who hadnever returned from the war, and the relations, whom the travelingphotographers always like to pillory in melancholy couples, and somestray volumes of the Sunday-school Union. Madame Sherrill, who carrieson the farm since the death of her husband, is a woman of strong andliberal mind, who informed us that she got small comfort in the churchesin the neighborhood, and gave us, in fact, a discouraging account of theunvital piety of the region. 

The descent from the summit of the Gap to Judge Logan's, nine miles, israpid, and the road is wild and occasionally picturesque, followingthe Broad River, a small stream when we first overtook it, but roaring, rocky, and muddy, owing to frequent rains, and now and then tumblingdown in rapids. The noisy stream made the ride animated, and anoccasional cabin, a poor farmhouse, a mill, a schoolhouse, a storewith an assemblage of lean horses tied to the hitching rails, gave theProfessor opportunity for remarks upon the value of life under suchcircumstances. 

The valley which we followed down probably owes its celebrity tothe uncommon phenomena of occasional naked rocks and precipices. Theinclosing mountains are from 3000 to 4000 feet high, and generallywooded. I do not think that the ravine would be famous in a countrywhere exposed ledges and buttressing walls of rock are common. It isonly by comparison with the local scenery that this is remarkable. Abouta mile above judge Logan's we caught sight, through the trees, of thefamous waterfall. From the top of the high ridge on the right, a nearlyperpendicular cascade pours over the ledge of rocks and is lost in theforest. We could see nearly the whole of it, at a great height above us, on the opposite side of the river, and it would require an hour's stiffclimb to reach its foot. From where we viewed it, it seemed a slenderand not very important, but certainly a very beautiful cascade, a bandof silver in the mass of green foliage. The fall is said to be 1400feet. Our colonel insists that it is a thousand. It may be, but thevalley where we stood is at least at an elevation of 1300 feet; we couldnot believe that the ridge over which the water pours is much higherthan 3000 feet, and the length of the fall certainly did not appearto be a quarter of the height of the mountain from our point ofobservation. But we had no desire to belittle this pretty cascade, especially when we found that Judge Logan would regard a foot abatedfrom the 1400 as a personal grievance. Mr. Logan once performed thefunctions of local judge, a Republican appointment, and he sits aroundthe premises now in the enjoyment of that past dignity and of the factthat his wife is postmistress. His house of entertainment is at thebottom of the valley, a place shut in, warm, damp, and not inviting to along stay, although the region boasts a good many natural curiosities. 

It was here that we encountered again the political current, out ofwhich we had been for a month. The Judge himself was reticent, as becamea public man, but he had conspicuously posted up a monster prospectus, sent out from Augusta, of a campaign life of Blaine and Logan, in whichthe Professor read, with shaking knees, this sentence: "Sure to be thegreatest and hottest [campaign and civil battle] ever known in thisworld. The thunder of the supreme struggle and its reverberations willshake the continents for months, and will be felt from Pole to Pole. "

For this and other reasons this seemed a risky place to be in. Therewas something sinister about the murky atmosphere, and a suspicion ofmosquitoes besides. Had there not been other travelers staying here, weshould have felt still more uneasy. The house faced Bald Mountain, 4000feet high, a hill that had a very bad reputation some years ago, andwas visited by newspaper reporters. This is, in fact, the famous ShakingMountain. For a long time it had a habit of trembling, as if in anearthquake spasm, but with a shivering motion very different from thatproduced by an earthquake. The only good that came of it was that itfrightened all the "moonshiners, " and caused them to join the church. Itis not reported what became of the church afterwards. It is believed nowthat the trembling was caused by the cracking of a great ledge on themountain, which slowly parted asunder. Bald Mountain is the scene ofMrs. Burnett's delightful story of "Louisiana, " and of the play of"Esmeralda. " A rock is pointed out toward the summit, which the beholderis asked to see resembles a hut, and which is called "Esmeralda'sCottage. " But this attractive maiden has departed, and we didnot discover any woman in the region who remotely answers to herdescription. 

In the morning we rode a mile and a half through the woods and followedup a small stream to see the celebrated pools, one of which the Judgesaid was two hundred feet deep, and another bottomless. These pools, notround, but on one side circular excavations, some twenty feet across, worn in the rock by pebbles, are very good specimens, and perhapsremarkable specimens, of "pot-holes. " They are, however, regarded hereas one of the wonders of the world. On the way to them we saw beautifulwild trumpet-creepers in blossom, festooning the trees. 

The stream that originates in Hickory Nut Gap is the westernmostbranch of several forks of the Broad, which unite to the southeast inRutherford County, flow to Columbia, and reach the Atlantic through thechannel of the Santee. It is not to be confounded with the French Broad, which originates among the hills of Transylvania, runs northward pastAsheville, and finds its way to the Tennessee through the Warm SpringsGap in the Bald Mountains. As the French claimed ownership of all theaffluents of the Mississippi, this latter was called the French Broad. 

It was a great relief the next morning, on our return, to rise out ofthe lifeless atmosphere of the Gap into the invigorating air at theWidow Sherrill's, whose country-seat is three hundred feet higher thanAsheville. It was a day of heavy showers, and apparently of leisure tothe scattered population; at every store and mill was a congregation ofloafers, who had hitched their scrawny horses and mules to the fences, and had the professional air of the idler and gossip the world over. Thevehicles met on the road were a variety of the prairie schooner, longwagons with a top of hoops over which is stretched a cotton cloth. Thewagons are without seats, and the canvas is too low to admit of sittingupright, if there were. The occupants crawl in at either end, sit orlie on the bottom of the wagon, and jolt along in shiftlessuncomfortableness. 

Riding down the French Broad was one of the original objects of ourjourney. Travelers with the same intention may be warned that the routeon horseback is impracticable. The distance to the Warm Springs isthirty-seven miles; to Marshall, more than halfway, the road is clear, as it runs on the opposite side of the river from the railway, and thevalley is something more than river and rails. But below Marshall thevalley contracts, and the rails are laid a good portion of the way inthe old stage road. One can walk the track, but to ride a horse over itssleepers and culverts and occasional bridges, and dodge the trains, is neither safe nor agreeable. We sent our horses round--the messengertaking the risk of leading them, between trains, over the last six oreight miles, --and took the train. 

The railway, after crossing a mile or two of meadows, hugs the riverall the way. The scenery is the reverse of bold. The hills are low, monotonous in form, and the stream winds through them, with many apretty turn and "reach, " with scarcely a ribbon of room to spare oneither side. The river is shallow, rapid, stony, muddy, full of rocks, with an occasional little island covered with low bushes. The rock seemsto be a clay formation, rotten and colored. As we approach Warm Springsthe scenery becomes a little bolder, and we emerge into the open spaceabout the Springs through a narrower defile, guarded by rocks that arereally picturesque in color and splintered decay, one of them beingknown, of course, as the "Lover's Leap, " a name common in every partof the modern or ancient world where there is a settlement near aprecipice, with always the same legend attached to it. 

There is a little village at Warm Springs, but the hotel--since burnedand rebuilt--(which may be briefly described as a palatial shanty)stands by itself close to the river, which is here a deep, rapid, turbidstream. A bridge once connected it with the road on the opposite bank, but it was carried away three or four years ago, and its ragged butmentsstand as a monument of procrastination, while the stream is crossed bymeans of a flatboat and a cable. In front of the hotel, on the slightslope to the river, is a meager grove of locusts. The famous spring, close to-the stream, is marked only by a rough box of wood and aniron pipe, and the water, which has a temperature of about one hundreddegrees, runs to a shabby bath-house below, in which is a pool forbathing. The bath is very agreeable, the tepid water being singularlysoft and pleasant. It has a slightly sulphurous taste. Its good effectsare much certified. The grounds, which might be very pretty with care, are ill-kept and slatternly, strewn with debris, as if everything wasleft to the easy-going nature of the servants. The main house isof brick, with verandas and galleries all round, and a colonnadeof thirteen huge brick and stucco columns, in honor of the thirteenStates, --a relic of post-Revolutionary times, when the house was theresort of Southern fashion and romance. These columns have stood throughone fire, and perhaps the recent one, which swept away the rest ofthe structure. The house is extended in a long wooden edifice, withgalleries and outside stairs, the whole front being nearly seven hundredfeet long. In a rear building is a vast, barrack-like dining-room, witha noble ball-room above, for dancing is the important occupation ofvisitors. 

The situation is very pretty, and the establishment has apicturesqueness of its own. Even the ugly little brick structure nearthe bath-house imposes upon one as Wade Hampton's cottage. No doubtwe liked the place better than if it had been smart, and enjoyed theneglige condition, and the easy terms on which life is taken there. There was a sense of abundance in the sight of fowls tiptoeing about theverandas, and to meet a chicken in the parlor was a sort of guaranteethat we should meet him later on in the dining-room. There was nothingincongruous in the presence of pigs, turkeys, and chickens on thegrounds; they went along with the good-natured negro-service and thegeneral hospitality; and we had a mental rest in the thought that allthe gates would have been off the hinges, if there had been any gates. The guests were very well treated indeed, and were put under no sort ofrestraint by discipline. The long colonnade made an admirable promenadeand lounging-place and point of observation. It was interesting to watchthe groups under the locusts, to see the management of the ferry, themounting and dismounting of the riding-parties, and to study the colorson the steep hill opposite, halfway up which was a neat cottage andflower-garden. The type of people was very pleasantly Southern. Colonelsand politicians stand in groups and tell stories, which are followed byexplosions of laughter; retire occasionally into the saloon, and comeforth reminded of more stories, and all lift their hats elaborately andsuspend the narratives when a lady goes past. A company of soldiers fromRichmond had pitched its tents near the hotel, and in the evening theball-room was enlivened with uniforms. Among the graceful dancers--andevery one danced well, and with spirit was pointed out the young widowof a son of Andrew Johnson, whose pretty cottage overlooks the village. But the Professor, to whom this information was communicated, doubtedwhether here it was not a greater distinction to be the daughter of theowner of this region than to be connected with a President of the UnitedStates. 

A certain air of romance and tradition hangs about the French Broad andthe Warm Springs, which the visitor must possess himself of in order toappreciate either. This was the great highway of trade and travel. Atcertain seasons there was an almost continuous procession of herds ofcattle and sheep passing to the Eastern markets, and of trains of bigwagons wending their way to the inviting lands watered by the Tennessee. Here came in the summer-time the Southern planters in coach and four, with a great retinue of household servants, and kept up for months thatunique social life, a mixture of courtly ceremony and entire freedom, the civilization which had the drawing-room at one end and thenegro-quarters at the other, --which has passed away. It was acontinuation into our own restless era of the manners and the literatureof George the Third, with the accompanying humor and happy-go-luckydecadence of the negro slaves. On our way down we saw on the river-bank, under the trees, the old hostelry, Alexander's, still in decay, --anattractive tavern, that was formerly one of the notable stopping-placeson the river. Master, and fine lady, and obsequious, larking darky, and lumbering coach, and throng of pompous and gay life, have alldisappeared. There was no room in this valley for the old institutionsand for the iron track. 

 "When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, We, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. "

This perverted use of noble verse was all the response the Friend gotin his attempt to drop into the sentimental vein over the past of theFrench Broad. 

The reader must not think there is no enterprise in this sedative andidle resort. The conceited Yankee has to learn that it is not he alonewho can be accused of the thrift of craft. There is at the Warm Springsa thriving mill for crushing and pulverizing barites, known vulgarly asheavy-spar. It is the weight of this heaviest of minerals, and notits lovely crystals, that gives it value. The rock is crushed, washed, sorted out by hand, to remove the foreign substances, then ground andsubjected to acids, and at the end of the process it is as white andfine as the best bolted flour. This heavy adulterant is shipped to theNorth in large quantities, --the manager said he had recently an orderfor a hundred thousand dollars' worth of it. What is the use of thispowder? Well, it is of use to the dealer who sells white lead for paint, to increase the weight of the lead, and it is the belief hereabouts thatit is mixed with powdered sugar. The industry is profitable to thoseengaged in it. 

It was impossible to get much information about our route intoTennessee, except that we should go by Paint Rock, and crossPaint Mountain. Late one morning, --a late start is inevitablehere, --accompanied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the ropeferry, and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the streamand tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift water andoverhanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of theriver), to Paint Rock, --six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked precipiceby the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large localreputation. It is said that its face shows painting done by the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold, crumbling cliff, innumerable visitors have written their names. We stared at it a goodwhile to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, but could see nothingexcept iron stains. Round the corner is a farmhouse and place of callfor visitors, a neat cottage, with a display of shells and minerals andflower-pots; and here we turned north crossed the little stream calledPaint River, the only clear water we had seen in a month, passed intothe State of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain. The open forest road, with the murmur of the stream below, wasdelightfully exhilarating, and as we rose the prospect opened, --thelovely valley below, Bald Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountainsrising as we came over the ridge. 

Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men, knewanything of the route, or could give us any information of the countrybeyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the country and the farmsdecidedly improved, --apple-trees and a grapevine now and then. 

A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle's, hungry and disposedto receive hospitality. We passed by an old farm building to a newtwo-storied, gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived byappearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, had nothing tooffer us except some buttermilk. Why should anybody be obliged to feedroving strangers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby in herarms declared, "We've got nothing for stock but roughness; perhaps you can getsomething at the other house. "

"Roughness, " we found out at the other house, meant hay in this region. We procured for the horses a light meal of green oats, and for our owndinner we drank at the brook and the Professor produced a few sonnets. On this sustaining repast we fared on nearly twelve miles farther, through a rolling, good farming country, offering little for comment, in search of a night's lodging with one of the brothers Snap. But onebrother declined our company on the plea that his wife was sick, and theother because his wife lived in Greenville, and we found ourselvesas dusk came on without shelter in a tavernless land. Between the tworefusals we enjoyed the most picturesque bit of scenery of the day, atthe crossing of Camp Creek, a swift little stream, that swirled roundunder the ledge of bold rocks before the ford. This we learned was afavorite camp-meeting ground. Mary was calling the cattle home at thefarm of the second Snap. It was a very peaceful scene of rural life, andwe were inclined to tarry, but Mary, instead of calling us home with thecattle, advised us to ride on to Alexander's before it got dark. 

It is proper to say that at Alexander's we began to see what thispleasant and fruitful country might be, and will be, with thrift andintelligent farming. Mr. Alexander is a well-to-do farmer, with plentyof cattle and good barns (always an evidence of prosperity), who oweshis success to industry and an open mind to new ideas. He was a Unionistduring the war, and is a Democrat now, though his county (Greene) hasbeen Republican. We had been riding all the afternoon through good land, and encountering a better class of farmers. Peach-trees abounded (thoughthis was an off year for fruit), and apples and grapes throve. It isa land of honey and of milk. The persimmon flourishes; and, sign of abundance generally, we believe, great flocks ofturkey-buzzards--majestic floaters in the high air--hovered about. This country was ravaged during the war by Unionists and Confederatesalternately, the impartial patriots as they passed scooping in corn, bacon, and good horses, leaving the farmers little to live on. Mr. Alexander's farm cost him forty dollars an acre, and yields good cropsof wheat and maize. This was the first house on our journey where atbreakfast we had grace before meat, though there had been many tablesthat needed it more. From the door the noble range of the Big Bald is insight and not distant; and our host said he had a shanty on it, to whichhe was accustomed to go with his family for a month or six weeks in thesummer and enjoy a real primitive woods life. 

Refreshed by this little touch of civilization, and with horses wellfed, we rode on next morning towards Jonesboro, over a rolling, ratherunpicturesque country, but ennobled by the Big Bald and Butt ranges, which we had on our right all day. At noon we crossed the NollechuckyRiver at a ford where the water was up to the saddle girth, broad, rapid, muddy, and with a treacherous stony bottom, and came to thelittle hamlet of Boylesville, with a flour-mill, and a hospitableold-fashioned house, where we found shelter from the heat of the hotday, and where the daughters of the house, especially one pretty girl ina short skirt and jaunty cap, contradicted the currently receivednotion that this world is a weary pilgrimage. The big parlor, with itsphotographs and stereoscope, and bits of shell and mineral, a piano anda melodeon, and a coveted old sideboard of mahogany, recalled rural NewEngland. Perhaps these refinements are due to the Washington College (aschool for both sexes), which is near. We noted at the tables in thisregion a singular use of the word fruit. When we were asked, Will youhave some of the fruit? and said Yes, we always got applesauce. 

Ten miles more in the late afternoon brought us to Jonesboro, the oldesttown in the State, a pretty place, with a flavor of antiquity, setpicturesquely on hills, with the great mountains in sight. People fromfurther South find this an agreeable summering place, and a fair hotel, with odd galleries in front and rear, did not want company. The WarrenInstitute for negroes has been flourishing here ever since the war. 

A ride of twenty miles next day carried us to Union. Before noon weforded the Watauga, a stream not so large as the Nollechucky, and wereentertained at the big brick house of Mr. Devault, a prosperous andhospitable farmer. This is a rich country. We had met in the morningwagon-loads of watermelons and muskmelons, on the way to Jonesboro, andMr. Devault set abundance of these refreshing fruits before us as welounged on the porch before dinner. 

It was here that we made the acquaintance of a colored woman, awithered, bent old pensioner of the house, whose industry (she excelledany modern patent apple-parer) was unabated, although she was by her ownconfession (a woman, we believe, never owns her age till she has passedthis point) and the testimony of others a hundred years old. But agehad not impaired the brightness of her eyes, nor the limberness of hertongue, nor her shrewd good sense. She talked freely about the want ofdecency and morality in the young colored folks of the present day. Itwas n't so when she was a girl. Long, long time ago, she and her husbandhad been sold at sheriff's sale and separated, and she never had anotherhusband. Not that she blamed her master so much he could n't help it;he got in debt. And she expounded her philosophy about the rich, and thedanger they are in. The great trouble is that when a person is rich, hecan borrow money so easy, and he keeps drawin' it out of the bank andpilin' up the debt, like rails on top of one another, till it needs aladder to get on to the pile, and then it all comes down in a heap, andthe man has to begin on the bottom rail again. If she'd to live her lifeover again, she'd lay up money; never cared much about it till now. Thethrifty, shrewd old woman still walked about a good deal, and kept hereye on the neighborhood. Going out that morning she had seen some fenceup the road that needed mending, and she told Mr. Devault that shedidn't like such shiftlessness; she didn't know as white folks was muchbetter than colored folks. Slavery? Yes, slavery was pretty bad--she hadseen five hundred niggers in handcuffs, all together in a field, sold tobe sent South. 

About six miles from here is a beech grove of historical interest, wortha visit if we could have spared the time. In it is the large beech (sixand a half feet around six feet from the ground) on which Daniel Booneshot a bear, when he was a rover in this region. He himself cutan inscription on the tree recording his prowess, and it is stilldistinctly legible:

 D. BOONE CILT A BAR ON THIS TREE, 1760. 

This tree is a place of pilgrimage, and names of people from all partsof the country are cut on it, until there is scarcely room for any morerecords of such devotion. The grove is ancient looking, the trees aregnarled and moss-grown. Hundreds of people go there, and the trees arecarved all over with their immortal names. 

A pleasant ride over a rich rolling country, with an occasional strip offorest, brought us to Union in the evening, with no other adventure thanthe meeting of a steam threshing-machine in the road, with steamup, clattering along. The devil himself could not invent any machinecalculated to act on the nerves of a horse like this. Jack took one lookand then dashed into the woods, scraping off his rider's hat but did notsucceed in getting rid of his burden or knocking down any trees. 

Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little villages, withsome three hundred inhabitants and a forlorn hotel, kept by anex-stage-driver. The village, which lies on the Holston, has nodrinking-water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not a wellnor a spring in its limits; and for drinking-water everybody crosses theriver to a spring on the other side. A considerable part of the laborof the town is fetching water over the bridge. On a hill overlooking thevillage is a big, pretentious brick house, with a tower, the furnitureof which is an object of wonder to those who have seen it. It belongedto the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of Andrew Johnson. The whole family ofthe ex-President have departed this world, but his memory is still greenin this region, where he was almost worshiped--so the people say inspeaking of him. 

Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord's daughters werebeginning to draw the lines in rural refinement. One of them had been atschool in Abingdon. Another, a mature young lady of fifteen, who waitedon the table, in the leisure after supper asked the Friend for a lightfor her cigarette, which she had deftly rolled. 

"Why do you smoke?"

"So as I shan't get into the habit of dipping. Do you think dipping isnice?"

The traveler was compelled to say that he did not, though he had seen agood deal of it wherever he had been. 

"All the girls dips round here. But me and my sisters rather smoke thanget in a habit of dipping. "

To the observation that Union seemed to be a dull place:

"Well, there's gay times here in the winter--dancing. Like to dance?Well, I should say! Last winter I went over to Blountsville to a dancein the court-house; there was a trial between Union and Blountsville forthe best dancing. You bet I brought back the cake and the blue ribbon. "

The country was becoming too sophisticated, and the travelers hastenedto the end of their journey. The next morning Bristol, at first over ahilly country with magnificent oak-trees, --happily not girdled, as thesestately monarchs were often seen along the roads in North Carolina, --andthen up Beaver Creek, a turbid stream, turning some mills. When a closedwoolen factory was pointed out to the Professor (who was still travelingfor Reform), as the result of the agitation in Congress, he said, Yes, the effect of agitation was evident in all the decayed dams and ancientabandoned mills we had seen in the past month. 

Bristol is mainly one long street, with some good stores, but generallyshabby, and on this hot morning sleepy. One side of the street is inTennessee, the other in Virginia. How handy for fighting this would havebeen in the war, if Tennessee had gone out and Virginia stayed in. Atthe hotel--may a kind Providence wake it up to its responsibilities--wehad the pleasure of reading one of those facetious handbills which thegreat railway companies of the West scatter about, the serious humor ofwhich is so pleasing to our English friends. This one was issued by theaccredited agents of the Ohio and Mississippi Railway, and dated April1, 1984. One sentence will suffice:

"Allow us to thank our old traveling friends for the many favors in ourline, and if you are going on your bridal trip, or to see your girl outWest, drop in at the general office of the Ohio and Mississippi Railwayand we will fix you up in Queen Anne style. Passengers for Dakota, Montana, or the Northwest will have an overcoat and sealskin cap thrownin with all tickets sold on or after the above date. "

The great republic cannot yet take itself seriously. Let us hope thehumors of it will last another generation. Meditating on this, we hailedat sundown the spires of Abingdon, and regretted the end of a journeythat seems to have been undertaken for no purpose.