“It is healthy, and the rates of board are, no doubt, cheap,” says Charley. “Many of the people may also lack courage to cross the Gap—those being esteemed lucky who reach the other side whole of life and limb.” This appalling statement is treated with the incredulous contempt which it deserves as we mount the hotel-steps. Hamlet says that “there’s nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so;” and this remark applies with peculiar force to Old Fort. Some people think it a very good place in which to spend weeks and months. Others are averse to spending more time there than the necessary hour which elapses between the arrival of the train and departure of the coach. We belong to the latter class. After dinner we assemble on the piazza and take a vote for going or staying; and it is nearly unanimous to go. “Catawba Falls are in the neighborhood,” says Eric, anxious to fulfill his duties as _cicerone_. “If you stay until to-morrow you may see them, and they are well worth a visit.” “Stay a night—stay two nights—here!” says Aunt Markham. “It is impossible to think of such a thing!” “Are the Falls easily reached?” asks Charley, with his usual air of protest against any exertion. “They are by no means easily reached,” answers Eric; “but they _can_ be reached, which is the point, I take it.” “By no means,” says Sylvia. “The point is to cross the Blue Ridge as soon as possible. Who cares for falls and cascades on _this_ side? They may be pretty enough, but we are bound to the land of the sky—and yonder comes the coach to take us there. How splendid!” It is not the coach which draws forth this commendation, but the six beautiful gray horses which are harnessed to it. We watch them admiringly, and Eric calls our attention to the manner in which they are controlled by their driver, who is no less a person than the renowned John Pence. Of this famous character I have heard so much that I regard him with great interest. My knowledge of stage-drivers in real life being limited, I had drawn a fancy picture of a portly figure in top-boots and a “sprigged vest;” instead, I see a spare, sinewy man, dark as an Indian, with the eye of a hawk, who wears a pair of the brownest and dirtiest of corduroy trousers, a striped shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up above the elbows showing thin, muscular arms, and a hat slouched rakishly over his brow. This is John Pence, who for twenty years has driven back and forth over Swannanoa Gap, and whom his admirers declare to be the best driver on the continent. If success is the test of merit, merit certainly must be his; for during these twenty years no accident has ever happened to a coach driven by him; and those expert in such matters say that one hardly realizes the art of driving until one has seen him handle the ribbons.