We are all silent. This shadow of death seems to obscure something of the beauty of the wide prospect. We have paused, attracted not only by the gentle loveliness of the spot, but by the magnificence of the far stretching view. Immediately in front of us sweeps westwardly the great range of Craggy, its spurs shutting off Asheville from our view. Beyond, Pisgah lifts its crest, with its surrounding mountains, while behind these, range after range melts into illimitable distance, and more than half the counties of the western part of the State lie spread before us. Eric takes his cherished companion—a large field-glass—from its case and brings it to a proper focus, then hands it to me. “Look,” he says, “at that cloud-like table-land lying near the South Carolina line— do you see what I mean? That is the upper valley of the French Broad in Transylvania, and it is nearly on a level with the summit of the Blue Ridge.” The glass passes from hand to hand, for we all alight here, since the rest of the ascent can best be made on foot. The saddles are taken from the horses, and they are turned loose to graze until morning. “Suppose they should run away?” suggests Mr. Lanier, a little aghast at this proceeding; but our guide only laughs. “They’ll not run fur,” he says. “If they did, we should have to walk down the mountain,” says Sylvia. “That would be capital fun!” “Fun which I had rather be spared,” says Mrs. Cardigan, taking off her water-proof, which has served as a riding-skirt, and throwing it over her arm. Only the pack-horse is led to the summit of the peak. We follow, glad to be spared the ascent of the steep and rocky way on horseback. The climbing is laborious, but fortunately short. Before long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest is—the grave. Here the friends of the dead professor laid him down, to await the resurrection morning. At his feet the pines sigh their mournful requiem, and the majestic glory of that Nature to which he was so devoted lies spread around. With this loftiest peak of the great Appalachian chain his name is linked effectually. The dome is not likely to be called by any other name than “Mount Mitchell” so long as the first sight which greets those who ascend it is Mitchell’s grave. Beside the grave, the summit is entirely bare. A few yards down its sides the balsam growth begins; but the firs are stunted, and round the crest of the knob half at least of them are dead and look like white spectres of trees. A small cabin stood here a year or two ago, but is now burned down—only its chimney remaining. “Where is the cave? I don’t see any cave,” says Mrs. Cardigan, looking blankly around as we seat ourselves in an exhausted condition on the scattered rocks that abound.