to get much information about our route into
Tennessee, except that we should go by Paint Rock, and cross
Paint Mountain. Late one morning,--a late start is inevitable
here,--accompanied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the rope
ferry, and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the stream
and tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift water and
overhanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of the
river), to Paint Rock,--six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked precipice
by the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large local
reputation. It is said that its face shows painting done by the Indians,
and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold, crumbling cliff,
innumerable visitors have written their names. We stared at it a good
while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, but could see nothing
except iron stains. Round the corner is a farmhouse and place of call
for visitors, a neat cottage, with a display of shells and minerals and
flower-pots; and here we turned north crossed the little stream called
Paint River, the only clear water we had seen in a month, passed into
the State of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain.
The open forest road, with the murmur of the stream below, was
delightfully exhilarating, and as we rose the prospect opened,--the
lovely valley below, Bald Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountains
rising as we came over the ridge.

Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men, knew
anything of the route, or could give us any information of the country
beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the country and the farms
decidedly improved,--apple-trees and a grapevine now and then.

A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle's, hungry and disposed
to receive hospitality. We passed by an old farm building to a new
two-storied, gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived by
appearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, had nothing to
offer us except some buttermilk. Why should anybody be obliged to feed
roving strangers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby in her
arms declared,

"We've got nothing for stock but roughness; perhaps you can get
something at the other house."

"Roughness," we found out at the other house, meant hay in this region.
We procured for the horses a light meal of green oats, and for our own
dinner we drank at the brook and the Professor produced a few son