e and violet color of the northern mountains, and which it
seems to me that limestone and granite formations give. There are none
of the great gorges and awful abysses of the White Mountains, both
valleys and mountains here being more uniform in outline. There are few
precipices and jutting crags, and less is visible of the giant ribs and
bones of the planet.

Yet Roan is a noble mountain. A lady from Tennessee asked me if I
had ever seen anything to compare with it--she thought there could be
nothing in the world. One has to dodge this sort of question in the
South occasionally, not to offend a just local pride. It is certainly
one of the most habitable of big mountains. It is roomy on top, there is
space to move about without too great fatigue, and one might pleasantly
spend 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 on
the north; the road for five miles to the foot of the mountain is merely
a river of pebbles, gullied by the heavy rains, down which the horses
picked their way painfully. The travelers endeavored to present a
dashing and cavalier appearance to the group of ladies who waved good-by
from the hotel, as they took their way over the waste and wind-blown
declivities, but it was only a show, for the horses would neither
caracole nor champ the bit (at a dollar a day) down-hill over the
slippery stones, and, truth to tell, the wanderers turned with regret
from the society of leisure and persiflage to face the wilderness of
Mitchell County.

"How heavy," exclaimed the Professor, pricking Laura Matilda to call her
attention 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 in
ever statel