“It is one great charm of the Asheville views,” says Eric, without looking round— he is standing in front, with his arms folded—“that they possess such magnificent expanse, and all the effect of farthest distance. It is difficult to exaggerate the advantages of the incomparable situation of the town—especially in the fact that, although surrounded by mountains, it is not overshadowed, but regards them from a sufficient distance, and a sufficient elevation, to behold them like this.” “I see several depressions, like gaps, in the chain,” I observe. “What are they?” “They _are_ gaps,” Eric answers. “That farthest west is the gorge of the French Broad. Yonder is the Hominy Gap—there the Hickory-Nut. Swannanoa is in the east.” “Don’t let us go home,” says Sylvia. “Let us live in this land of the sky forever. It is enchanted.” “I think it is,” says Victor Dupont. “As a Frenchman remarked of Niagara, it is ‘grande—magnifique—very good!’” says Charley. “Do you mean to live just here? Shall we build you a cottage, and call the hill—to the absurd name of which you very justly object—Mount Sylvia?” “The name would suit it very well,” I say. “It is sylvan enough.” “No,” says Eric, “don’t build a cottage here. Wait until I show you the view from McDowell’s Hill. It is finer than this.” _Chorus_: “Finer than this! Impossible!” “Wait and see,” says our leader. But we refuse to entertain such an idea. With the enthusiasm of ignorance, we cannot believe that any thing—not even the view from the Black Mountain itself—can surpass the scene spread before us in softest beauty, to the farthest verge of the dying day. We sit on the fortification and watch the fires of sunset slowly fade, and the lovely dusk of summer steal over the land. Winds laden with the freshness of the great hills come to us from remote distances. Venus gleams into sight like a tremulous diamond in the delicate sky. The immense expanse, the great elevation, seem to embody at once infinity and repose. “This is delightful!” says Charley. “We may fancy ourselves lotus-eaters, ‘propped on beds of amaranth’ far above the world.” Sylvia smiles; and, without turning her eyes from the distant scene, she repeats in the sweetest tone of her sweet voice: “Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow lotus-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.” “That was all very well for the gods,” says Eric, “but we have no nectar, and _your_ golden house is not yet built, Sylvia—therefore we must go down to supper.” _Chorus_: “Not yet. Let us stay a little longer.” “The enchanted hours of life are short,” says Victor Dupont. “Let us enjoy them to the last minute.” “Let me know when the last minute comes,” says Eric, walking away.