was the most unsatisfactory use to which a mountain could be put.  As to White-Top, it was a small mountain, and not worth ascending.  The Friend of Humanity, who believes in mountain-climbing as a theory, and for other people, and knows the value of being able to say, without detection, that he has ascended any high mountain about which he is questioned,—­since this question is the first one asked about an exploration in a new country,—­saw that he should have to use a good deal of diplomacy to get the Professor over any considerable elevation on the trip.  And he had to confess also that a view from a mountain is never so satisfactory as a view of a mountain, from a moderate height.  The Professor, however, did not argue the matter on any such reasonable ground, but took his stand on his right as a man not to ascend a mountain.  With this appeal to first principles,—­a position that could not be confuted on account of its vagueness (although it might probably be demonstrated that in society man has no such right), there was no way of agreement except by a compromise.  It was accordingly agreed that no mountain under six thousand feet is worth ascending; that disposed of White-Top.  It was further agreed that any mountain that is over six thousand feet high is too high to ascend on foot.

With this amicable adjustment we forded the Holston, crossing it twice within a few miles.  This upper branch of the Tennessee is a noble stream, broad, with a rocky bed and a swift current.  Fording it is ticklish business except at comparatively low water, and as it is subject to sudden rises, there must be times when it seriously interrupts travel.  This whole region, full of swift streams, is without a bridge, and, as a consequence, getting over rivers and brooks and the dangers of ferries occupy a prominent place in the thoughts of the inhabitants.  The life necessarily had the “frontier” quality all through, for there can be little solid advance in civilization in the uncertainties of a bridgeless condition.  An open, pleasant valley, the Holston, but cultivation is more and more negligent and houses are few and poorer as we advance.

We had left behind the hotels of “perfect satisfaction,” and expected to live on the country, trusting to the infrequent but remunerated hospitality of the widely scattered inhabitants.  We were to dine at Ramsey’s.  Ramsey’s had been recommended to us as a royal place of entertainment the best in all that region; and as the sun grew hot in the sandy valley, and the weariness of noon fell upon us, we magnified Ramsey’s in our imagination,—­the nobility of its situation, its cuisine, its inviting restfulness,—­and half decided to pass the night there in the true abandon of plantation life.  Long before we reached it, the Holston River which we followed had become the Laurel, a most lovely, rocky, winding stream, which we forded continually, for the valley became too narrow much of the way to accommodate a road and a river.