one end of which was a store, had a veranda in front, and a back gallery, where there were evidences of female refinement in pots of plants and flowers.  The landlord himself kept tavern very much as a hostler would, but we had to make a note in his favor that he had never heard of a milk punch.  And it might as well be said here, for it will have to be insisted on later, that the traveler, who has read about the illicit stills till his imagination dwells upon the indulgence of his vitiated tastes in the mountains of North Carolina, is doomed to disappointment.  If he wants to make himself an exception to the sober people whose cooking will make him long for the maddening bowl, he must bring his poison with him.  We had found no bread since we left Virginia; we had seen cornmeal and water, slack-baked; we had seen potatoes fried in grease, and bacon incrusted with salt (all thirst-provokers), but nothing to drink stronger than buttermilk.  And we can say that, so far as our example is concerned, we left the country as temperate as we found it.  How can there be mint juleps (to go into details) without ice? and in the summer there is probably not a pound of ice in all the State north of Buncombe County.

There is nothing special to be said about Boone.  We were anxious to reach it, we were glad to leave it; we note as to all these places that our joy at departing always exceeds that on arriving, which is a merciful provision of nature for people who must keep moving.  This country is settled by genuine Americans, who have the aboriginal primitive traits of the universal Yankee nation.  The front porch in the morning resembled a carpenter’s shop; it was literally covered with the whittlings of the row of natives who had spent the evening there in the sedative occupation of whittling.

We took that morning a forest road to Valle Crusis, seven miles, through noble growths of oaks, chestnuts, hemlocks, rhododendrons,—­a charming wood road, leading to a place that, as usual, did not keep the promise of its name.  Valle Crusis has a blacksmith shop and a dirty, flyblown store.  While the Professor consulted the blacksmith about a loose shoe, the Friend carried his weariness of life without provisions up to a white house on the hill, and negotiated for boiled milk.  This house was occupied by flies.  They must have numbered millions, settled in black swarms, covering tables, beds, walls, the veranda; the kitchen was simply a hive of them.  The only book in sight, Whewell’s—­“Elements of Morality,” seemed to attract flies.  Query, Why should this have such a different effect from Porter’s?  A white house,—­a pleasant-looking house at a distance,—­amiable, kindly people in it,—­why should we have arrived there on its dirty day?  Alas! if we had been starving, Valle Crusis had nothing to offer us.