At daybreak I joined Judge Presley, of Summerville, who has spent nine summers here and knows the surroundings perfectly. From an eminence near the hotel, the peaks of the Blue Ridge and its spurs can be counted for tens of miles in both directions, those in the distance resembling in the morning light, parapets of massive castle walls. “Do you see,” said the Judge, pointing in a northeasterly direction, “that oval line [Illustration: BOLD HEADLANDS. Table Rock and Cæsar’s Head.] against the sky? That is King’s mountain, on the border of the state, seventy miles from here. Now, look the other way, between yon pyramid-shaped peaks. There you see what might be a cloud. It is Stone mountain, near Atlanta, Georgia, 110 miles distant. You have overlooked an expanse of 180 miles of country.” It was still clear when, an hour later, our party arrived at the ledge of rock called Cæsar’s Head. A strong imagination is required to see any resemblance in the profile to a man’s head, much less to a Roman’s of the heroic type. We are inclined to believe the story told by a mountaineer. An old man in the vicinity had a dog named Cæsar, whose head bore a striking resemblance to the rock, and being desirous to commemorate his dog, the appellation, “Cæsar’s Head,” was given to the rock. But this is a point not likely to be considered by the tourist, first dizzied by a glance down the precipice into the “Dismal” 1,600 feet below. The view is strikingly suggestive of the ocean. Our standpoint was almost a third of a mile above the green plain of upper South Carolina, its wave-like corrugations extending to the horizon line. Patches of foamy white clouds jostled about the surface, and above them, white caps floated upon the breeze. The breaker-like roar of cataracts, at the base of the mountain, completed the deception. Boldest and most picturesque of the numerous precipitous headlands, is Table Rock, six miles distant. There are several glens and waterfalls in the vicinity of the hotel, numerous walks leading to views of mountain scenery, and drives through solitary glens. The view from the top of Rich mountain is broadest in its scope, taking in the Transylvania valley. The “Dismal,” that is, the apparent pit into which you look from the “Head,” may be reached by a circuitous route, but the labor of getting there will be rewarded only by disappointment. I spent a forenoon climbing down and an afternoon climbing out. It is a good place for bears to hibernate and snakes to sun themselves, nothing more. I was reminded, by this foolish exploit, of a paragraph from Mark Twain: