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 fine, through and over the large heavy pines which cover the face of the mountain; but when near the top, the prospect to the southward was really sublime, of the valley in its whole length that way, finely cultivated and watered, bounded by distant pyramidal mountains, isolated and unconnected with either of the ridges divided by the valley in a long vista, about two miles wide. From the summit of the Tuscarora ridge, the view to the westward, though extensive, was cheerless and gloomy, over a broken and mountainous or rather hilly country, covered with forests, chiefly of the dark and sombre pine, which would have rendered me quite dispirited, if I had not anticipated a speedy journey through it on horseback.

At the western foot of the mountain I stopped at Ramsey's, an innkeeper, farmer, saddler and distiller, who has a fine farm, and a good house (I mean literally, but not as a tavern)—It was noon, Mr. Ramsey with a stranger, seated himself to dinner, while {42} his wife in the patriarchal mode, very common in this country, attended table. I contented myself with a tumbler of egg punch, which I had just swallowed, as my horsemen rode past, calling out that they would await me at the distillery, where I accordingly joined them, drank a dram of new whiskey with the hospitable distiller, mounted my mare, threw away my cudgel, and trotted off briskly with my new companions.

The road was good, but the country broken, thinly inhabited and poor; pine woods on each hand—a red gravelly soil, and a wretched looking log hut at every two or three miles with a few acres cleared round it, but the stumps, or girdled trees still standing. We stopped to feed our horses at one, about six miles from Ramsey's, which was the residence of an old man named Hull, who had removed here from Lancaster a few years ago. The large fire, cleanliness, and air of plenty, which I found within, was the more