The summit is a nearly level spot of some thirty or forty feet in extent either way, with a floor of rock and loose stones.  The stunted balsams have been cut away so as to give a view.  The sweep of prospect is vast, and we could see the whole horizon except in the direction of Roan, whose long bulk was enveloped in cloud.  Portions of six States were in sight, we were told, but that is merely a geographical expression.  What we saw, wherever we looked, was an inextricable tumble of mountains, without order or leading line of direction,—­domes, peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere, some in shadow, some tipped with shafts of sunlight, all wooded and green or black, and all in more softened contours than our Northern hills, but still wild, lonesome, terrible.  Away in the southwest, lifting themselves up in a gleam of the western sky, the Great Smoky Mountains loomed like a frowning continental fortress, sullen and remote.  With Clingman and Gibbs and Holdback peaks near at hand and apparently of equal height, Mitchell seemed only a part and not separate from the mighty congregation of giants.

In the center of the stony plot on the summit lie the remains of Mitchell.  To dig a grave in the rock was impracticable, but the loose stones were scooped away to the depth of a foot or so, the body was deposited, and the stones were replaced over it.  It was the original intention to erect a monument, but the enterprise of the projectors of this royal entombment failed at that point.  The grave is surrounded by a low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor adds one, and in the course of ages the cairn may grow to a good size.  The explorer lies there without name or headstone to mark his awful resting-place.  The mountain is his monument.  He is alone with its majesty.  He is there in the clouds, in the tempests, where the lightnings play, and thunders leap, amid the elemental tumult, in the occasional great calm and silence and the pale sunlight.  It is the most majestic, the most lonesome grave on earth.

As we sat there, awed a little by this presence, the clouds were gathering from various quarters and drifting towards us.  We could watch the process of thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests.  I have often noticed on other high mountains how the clouds, forming like genii released from the earth, mount into the upper air, and in masses of torn fragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a rendezvous of witches.  This was a different display.  These clouds came slowly sailing from the distant horizon, like ships on an aerial voyage.  Some were below us, some on our level; they were all in well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, below trailing rain, and attended on earth by gigantic shadows that moved with them.  This strange fleet of battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents, was maneuvering for an engagement.  One after another, as they came into range about our peak of observation, they