These are the mountains of which we have already had a partial view, and we see them now in all their grandeur, with the delicate haze wrapping them like smoke, and deepening on each successive height as they recede away. South and east, with counties spread out like pleasure-grounds, and hills standing like mounds, the plains of South Carolina extend and fade into azure distance. There is here no line of trending hills, however remote, to form a boundary upon which the eye can rest. On the contrary, we feel that only the infirmity of our vision keeps us from seeing Charleston itself down by the sea, as our gaze is lost in the glimmering mist where land and sky blend together, while over the whole wide scene a magical blue light hangs like a glamour of enchantment. “It is the dizziest place I ever looked over,” says Mr. Lanier, retreating from the edge of the precipice. “Heavens! if a man were to fall!—Upon my word, Kenyon, unless your life is insured, I would advise you to be a little more cautious.” But Charley—who is seated on the verge, with his legs dangling over—only laughs. “My life is not insured, but I don’t mean to furnish you with a sensation by falling over,” he says.—“I’ve been all through this forest below here deer-hunting,” he goes on, addressing the rest of us. “You can imagine what kind of a place it is from its name—‘The Dismal.’” “All of you stop talking for a minute,” says Eric, “and listen. Do you hear anything like the faint roar of distant waters?” We are all silent for the space of a minute. Then Mrs. Cardigan says: “_I_ hear it—it is wind among the trees below, is it not?” “I hear it also,” says Sylvia, “and it seems to come from there.” She points as she speaks to a deep, dark ravine between the mountains. “You are right,” says Eric. “It _does_ come from there, and it is the voice of the Saluda Falls. In some states of the atmosphere you can hear it much more distinctly than we do now. Yet, as the crow flies, the falls are at least three miles distant.” “And as the crow _doesn’t_ fly, they are considerably farther,” remarks Charley. “I give you all warning that, if you let Eric persuade you to go there, you may prepare for the roughest time you have had yet. The road is dreadful as far as it extends, but after you leave it you have to climb a thousand feet up and seven hundred down before you reach the falls.” “Can’t one go on horseback?” asks Sylvia. “No—the horse was never born that could climb where you have to go!” This does not sound very encouraging; but after all our experiences we do not suffer ourselves to be dismayed by the prospect of a little hard climbing. We only smile, and, seated on our rocky height, with the world spread far below, watch the beautiful evening lights, the wonderful soft shadows, shift and play over the great landscape, with its ineffably distant horizon. [Illustration: “‘It is the dizziest place I ever looked over.’”]