“No railroad in the country has been so mercilessly plundered, madam,” says the gentleman, sternly. “Ever since the war, it has been in the hands of rogues and swindlers, who have stolen every thing but the road-bed—which could not conveniently be made away with.” “I should not be surprised if you were one of the defrauded contractors,” I think; but there is not much opportunity for conversation on the great grievance of Western North Carolina. We have begun the ascent of the mountain, and to say that the road is stony would convey but a poor idea of its actual state. It is my settled conviction that no one knows what stones really are until he or she has traveled from Old Fort to the top of the Blue Ridge. The road is covered with them, of every size, shape, and variety, and the constant rolling, jolting, and pitching of the coach baffle description. A ship at sea in a stiff gale is steady compared to it. We settle ourselves grimly to our fate; endeavor to keep ourselves steady by straps or any thing else that is convenient; gasp a brief “Excuse me!” when we are hurled against each other; and, in the intervals of being tossed about the coach, lean out of the windows to admire the wild beauty which surrounds us. At least I do. Nobody else pays much attention to it. Aunt Markham resigns herself to martyr-like endurance, and preserves a martyr-like silence, until a tremendous lurch, which knocks her bonnet out of shape, also exhausts her patience. “Alice,” she says, severely, “if I had entertained an idea of any thing like this, _nothing_ would have induced me to come.” “There’s worse than this afore us,” remarks the old lady, placidly, “I’ve been over the Gap times and times—for my daughter’s married and living in Buncombe—and my bones always ache for about three weeks afterward.” “If nothing happens worse than a few jolts,” says the gentleman, “we can stand them well enough, but I don’t like the look of this stage. I told Burgin before we left Old Fort that it was a shame to send travelers over the Gap in such a conveyance. He said it had been sent from Asheville. I don’t believe it will go back there without an accident.” “Good Heavens!” says Aunt Markham, turning pale, as she remembers all that she has heard of the precipices that border the road. “If I had suspected that the coach was not safe, I would never have entered it.—Alice, speak to Eric at once.—Dear me! what is that?” _Chorus of children._ “O ma, did you hear something crack?” Something undoubtedly cracked—and that loudly—under the body of the vehicle. A convulsive swaying and jerking is followed by an abrupt halt and the descent of Mr. Pence himself. Clamor immediately ensues. All the passengers thrust their heads out of the windows and request to be told what is the matter. Mr. Pence deigns no reply to their inquiries, but he says a few words to Eric—who has also descended from the top. The latter at once opens the door and tells us that we must alight.