“There are hundreds of cattle on it,” says Mr. Brandon. “You’ll see any number of them when you reach the summit.” Presently we strike into a path which leads directly upward, winding through the beautiful world of green and gold. Suddenly we look round with amazement. What is this? Here on this mountain-side, in the midst of the fair, wild forest, we find ourselves in a castle-court—a quadrangular space, enclosed by great rocks of square, massive shape, and soft, gray tint. “The Castle Rock,” says Charley, pointing to the largest of these. “Fine, isn’t it?” It is very fine, and fully as large as a castle, which it strongly resembles. The grandeur of these fragments is heightened by their position and isolation. No other rocks are anywhere near, but so firmly fixed are they that one feels they may have stood since the beginning of time. “When we come back from the summit,” says our host, taking a coil of rope from the front of his saddle and throwing it on the ground, “we can climb to the top of that rock, if you like.” “I don’t clearly see how we can,” says Mrs. Cardigan, who has no relish for adventures in which her neck is absolutely put in jeopardy. “Oh, it’s easy enough,” says Charley carelessly. “You mount on the other side with a rope.” “So that is what the rope is for,” says Sylvia. “I have been wondering who was to be hanged.” From this point the ascent is very steep to the top of the knob which crowns the mountain. Nevertheless, we ride to the summit, then dismount, the horses are fastened, and we go to the verge of a rocky precipice, from which, “broad, extended far beneath,” lies the view. It is lovely in the extreme, and more extensive than can be realized at first. Indeed, no view which is worth anything _can_ be grasped at once—its beauties must grow upon one, its immensity be appreciated by degrees, its charm sink gradually on the spirit. For this reason, one cannot too strongly deprecate such hasty visits to the summits of mountains as most people make, such rapid glances at scenes that one might spend hours—nay, even days—in studying. From the bold crest of Rich Mountain—which is sufficiently elevated for a commanding view, yet not high enough to dwarf all beneath it into insignificance, as one must confess that the Black Mountain does—we overlook all the country south and southeast of it. At our feet lies that upper valley of the French Broad, which is the pride of Transylvania, while a little beyond, embosomed in green hills, the pretty village of Brevard catches the sunlight on its white houses. Around the horizon, one line of blue, waving mountains succeeds another, until the farthest can scarcely be distinguished from clouds as they stand against the sky.