“From Beaucatcher, yonder,” says Eric, pointing to a bold hill—the last of a spur running down from the Black—which bounds the prospect on the east, “there is a most extensive view. One hundred and eighty peaks are said to be in sight. I never counted them—but I can believe it.” “Let us go there at once,” says Sylvia. A faint groan proceeds from Charley in the rear. “Not this morning,” I say. “Let us go there for the sunset. Now we are bound to the French Broad.” Charley groans again—evidently this is not much of an improvement on Beaucatcher—but he rises and we descend the hill. A steep street runs along its base. We climb this for some distance, and presently find ourselves in a shady lane, with a stretch of meadow-land before us, and several country-seats in sight. “What a charming place!” says Sylvia, sitting down on the roots of a great oak by the road-side to rest. “We are in the country, and yet not in the country. Alice, had you any idea that Asheville would be like this?” “Not the least,” I answer, looking beyond green meadows and wooded hills to the shadows moving across the distant mountains. “How confidently one draws a mental picture of a place and accepts it for reality!” Sylvia goes on, tracing figures in the sand with the point of her parasol. “I fancied we should find an ordinary village—rather pretty, perhaps—but chiefly remarkable for being twenty-two hundred feet above the sea—” “Twenty-two hundred and fifty,” says Charley. “The people insist on having the credit of every fraction.” “Good as a health-resort, no doubt,” Sylvia proceeds, “but full of the depressing village air and village stagnation one knows so well. Instead, I look round, and what do I see?” “Mountains,” says Eric, literally. “A bright little spa,” the young lady announces, emphatically, “which only needs fashion to make it an American Baden.” “I hope it may be a long time before fashion finds it,” says Eric, dryly. “Then you must hope that it may be a long time before there is a railroad,” I say. “One cannot expect to keep Fashion out when once steam has opened the way for her capricious majesty.” “The place, even now,” says Charley, “might be a great summer-resort—counting its visitors by thousands, instead of by hundreds—if it would arouse to a sense of its own interest, and provide a proper place to lodge them.[A] A modern hotel, with fine grounds—” [A] Since this party were in Asheville, a “proper place” has been provided. “And a band of music,” says Sylvia. “Of course a band of music, a good table, and good servants, would realize your American Baden in short order.” “You are fine Arcadians,” I remark, severely, “to plan deliberately the destruction of all you profess to admire. If I had Mr. Ruskin’s gift of invective, I would wither you with my indignation. Not having it, I exult in the fact that you can neither build your hotel, nor bring your bands of music and army of tourists.”