{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_50952/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_50952","id":"gutenberg_50952","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50952","summary":null,"tags":["Allegheny Mountains","Category: History - American","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Category: Travel Writing","North Carolina -- Description and travel"],"text":"[Illustration: VALLEY OF THE NOON-DAY SUN.\n\n                            (See page 98.)]\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n\n                       HEART OF THE ALLEGHANIES\n\n                                  OR\n\n                        WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA\n\n                              COMPRISING\n\n              ITS TOPOGRAPHY, HISTORY, RESOURCES, PEOPLE,\n            NARRATIVES, INCIDENTS, AND PICTURES OF TRAVEL,\n                  ADVENTURES IN HUNTING AND FISHING.\n\n                                  AND\n\n                     LEGENDS OF ITS WILDERNESSES.\n\n                                  BY\n\n                 WILBUR G. ZEIGLER AND BEN S. GROSSCUP\n\n                     _WITH MAP AND ILLUSTRATIONS_\n\n                            RALEIGH, N. C.\n                         ALFRED WILLIAMS & CO.\n\n                             CLEVELAND, O.\n                          WILLIAM W. WILLIAMS\n\n                            Copyright, 1883\n               By WILBUR G. ZEIGLER AND BEN S. GROSSCUP\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS.\n\n\n _INTRODUCTION._\n\n The Culmination of the Alleghanies--Area--The Grand Portal--The Blue\n Ridge--The Smokies--Transverse Ranges of the Central Plateau--Ancient\n Mountains.....7\n\n\n _THE NATIVE MOUNTAINEERS._\n\n The \u201cMoon-eyed\u201d People--Ottari and Erati--Musical Names--Legendary\n Superstitions--The Devil\u2019s Footprints--His Judgment Seat--A Sacred\n Domain--Cherokee\u2019s Paradise Gained--Aboriginal Geography--Sevier\u2019s\n Expedition--Decline of the Tribe--Younaguska--A White Chief--The\n Qualla Boundary--A Ride Through the Reservation--Yellow\n Hill--Constitution and Faith of the Band--Characteristics--An Indian\n Maiden--Soco Scenery.....15\n\n _IN THE HAUNTS OF THE BLACK BEAR._\n\n Bruin\u2019s \u201cUsin\u2019-Places\u201d--Pointers--A Hunting Party--Stately\n Forests--Wid Medford--Sticking a Bear--Trials of Camping-Out--A\n Picture--Frosted Mountains--Amid the Firs--Natural History--In\n Close Quarters--Scenic Features--The Drive Begins--An Ebon\n Mountain--Judyculla Old Field--Calling In the Drivers--A Snow\n Storm--The Vale of Pigeon--A Picturesque Party--Through Laurel\n Thickets--At Bay--The Death Shot--Sam\u2019s Knob--Bear Traps--An Old\n Hunter\u2019s Observation.....45\n\n _THE VALLEY OF THE NOON-DAY SUN._\n\n The Nantihala--Woodland Scenes--Monday\u2019s--Franklin--Evening on the\n Little Tennessee--The Alleghanies\u2019 Grandest Highway--The Valley\n River Range--Lonely Wilds--The Prince of Sluggards--Murphy--A Swiss\n Landscape--An Animated Guide-post--At the \u201cHoe-Down\u201d--Apprehensions\n of Harm--A Jug in My Hands--Pine Torches--The Shooting\n Match--\u201cHoss-Swoppers\u201d--Discouraging Comments--The Fawning\n Politician--Cat-Stairs--The Anderson Roughs--Campbell\u2019s Cabin--No\n Wash-Basin--The Devil\u2019s Chin--Soapstone and Marble Quarries--A\n Stinging Reception--Deer--A \u201cCorn-cracker\u201d--Robbinsville.....79\n\n\n _WITH ROD AND LINE._\n\n The Tow-head Angler--The Brook Trout--Points--The\n Paragon Month for Fishing--Artificial Ponds--Trip to the\n Toe--Anti-Liquor--Rattlesnakes--Mitchell\u2019s Peak--A Ghost Story--In\n Weird Out-lines--Burnsville--Pigeon River--Cataluche--Mount Starling\n and its Black Brothers--Whipping the Stream--Striking a Bargain--An\n Urchin\u2019s Ideas--Swain County Trout Streams--In Jackson and\n Macon--A Grand Cataract--Trout, Buck and Panther--In the Northwest\n Counties.....107\n\n\n _AFTER THE ANTLERS._\n\n The Heart of the Smokies--Clingman\u2019s Dome--Prospect from the\n Summit--Mounted Sportsmen--A Mountain Bug-Bear--Charleston--The\n Dungeon--A Village Storekeeper--Beautiful River Bends--At the\n Roses\u2019--A Typical Mountain Cabin--Quil\u2019s Wolf story--A Quick\n Toilet--The Footprints of Autumn--Knowledge from Experience--The\n Ridge Stand--Buck Ague--On Long Rock--A Superb Shot--The\n Buck Vanishes--Acquitted Through Superstition--The Hunter\u2019s\n Hearthstone.....137\n\n\n _NATURAL RESOURCES._\n\n The \u201cTar-Heel\u201d Joke--Tobacco--Favorable Conditions for Gold Leaf--A\n Ruinous Policy--Hickory--Shelby--In Piedmont--Old Field Land--General\n Clingman\u2019s Story--Watauga County--Unequalled Pastures--Prices\n of Lands--Stock Raising--The French Broad Tobacco Slopes--Fair\n Figures--Henderson and Transylvania--The Pigeon Valley--The Extreme\n Southwest Portion--Character of Wild Range--Horticulture--The\n Thermal Zone--Forests for Manufacturers--The Gold Zone--Mica\n Mines--Corundum--Iron Deposits--The Cranberry Ore Bank--Copper, Lead,\n Tin, and Silver--Precious Stones.....167\n\n\n _HISTORICAL RESUME._\n\n Early Emigration--Daniel Boone--The \u201cPennsylvania\n Dutch\u201d--Conservatism--The Revolutionary Forces--The King\u2019s Mountain\n Battle--\u201cNollichucky Jack\u201d--The Prisoner\u2019s Escape--The State of\n Franklin--The Pioneers--Formation of Counties--The Western North\n Carolina Railroad--During the Late War--Restless Mountains--Scientific\n Explorations--Calhoun\u2019s Observation--The Tragedy of the Black\n Mountains--Later Surveys--Representatives of the Mountain\n People.....213\n\n\n _IN THE SADDLE._\n\n Mounting in Asheville--A Surly Host--Bat Cave--Titanic Stone\n Cliffs--Chimney Rock Hotel--The Pools--A Sunset Scene--The Shaking\n Bald--The Spectre Cavalry Fight--A Twilight Gallop Through McDowell\n County--Pleasant Gardens--The Catawba Valleys--On the Linville\n Range--Table Rock and Hawk-Bill--The Canon--Innocents Abroad--The\n Fox and the Pheasant--Linville Falls--A Dismal Woodland--Traveling\n Families--Grandfather Mountain--The Ascent--A Sunday Ride--Blowing\n Rock--Boone--Valle Crucis--Elk River--The Cranberry Mines--On\n the Roan--Cloud-Land Hotel--A Hermit\u2019s History--Above a Thunder\n Storm--Bakersville--Traces of a Prehistoric People--The Sink-Hole and\n Ray Mica Mines--Cremation--Drawing Rein.....237\n\n\n _BEYOND IRON WAYS._\n\n Stage Riding--The Driver\u2019s Story--Waynesville--Court\n Week--Prescriptions for Spirit. Frument.--Before the Bar--An Out-Door\n Jury Room--White Sulphur Springs--A Night\u2019s Entertainment--The\n Haunted Cabin--A Panther Hunt--The Phantom Millers--Light on\n the Mysteries--Micadale--Recollections--Soco Falls--Webster--An\n Artist\u2019s Trials--Above the Tuckasege Cataract--Hamburg--A Cordial\n Invitation--Cashier\u2019s Valley--Whiteside--A Coffee Toper--Horse\n Cove--Golden Sands--Ravenel\u2019s Magnificent Site--Hints for the Mounted\n Tourist--The Macon Highlands--A Demon of the Abyss--A Region of\n Cascades and Cataracts--Through Rabun Gap--Clayton, Georgia--The Falls\n of Tallulah--An Iron Way.....279\n\n\n _A ZIGZAG TOUR._\n\n The Mountains as a Summer Resort--On the Western North\n Carolina Railroad--Sparkling Catawba Springs--Glen\n Alpine--Marion--Asheville--Romantic Drives--Turnpike--Arden\n Park--Hendersonville--Flat Rock--The Ante-War Period--C\u00e6sar\u2019s\n Head--Brevard--A \u201cMoonshine\u201d Expedition--A Narrow Escape--How\n Illicit Whisky is Sold--Along the French Broad--An Excited\n Countryman--Marshal--Warm Springs--Shut-in Gap--Paint Rock--A Picture\n of the Sublime.....333\n\n Tables of Altitude, Population, Area of counties, and\n Temperature.....371\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n                                                                    PAGE.\n\n1. VALLEY OF THE NOON-DAY SUN                               Frontispiece.\n\n2. UNAKA KANOOS                                                       13\n\n3. A SOCO LASS                                                        37\n\n4. MOUNT PISGAH                                                       43\n\n5. THE FINAL STRUGGLE                                                 74\n\n6. THE WARRIOR BALD                                                   82\n\n7. A NARROW WATER-WAY                                                102\n\n8. A GLIMPSE OF THE TOE                                              119\n\n9. ON THE CATALUCHE                                                  128\n\n10. OCHLAWAHA VALLEY FROM DUN CRAGIN                                 135\n\n11. ON THE LITTLE TENNESSEE                                          145\n\n12. SILVER SPRINGS                                                   173\n\n13. THE FRENCH BROAD CANON                                           182\n\n14. SWANNANOA HOTEL                                                  211\n\n15. SPARKLING CATAWBA SPRINGS                                        235\n\n16. THE WATAUGA FALLS                                                266\n\n17. MACON HIGHLANDS                                                  293\n\n18. THE JUNALUSKAS                                                   316\n\n19. THE CULLASAJA FALLS                                              329\n\n20. UP THE BLUE RIDGE                                                338\n\n21. BOLD HEADLANDS                                                   354\n\n22. CASCADES OF SPRING CREEK                                         369\n\nDR. W. C. KERR\u2019S MAP OF WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA (used by permission of\nState Board of Agriculture).\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n    Oh, holy melody of peace!\n      Oh, nature in thy grandest mood!\n      I love thee most where ways are rude\n    Of men, and wild the landscape\u2019s face.\n\n\n[Illustration: The great mountain system that begins in that part of\nCanada south of the St. Lawrence, and under the name of the Alleghanies,\nor Appalachians, extends southward for 1,300 miles, dying out in the\nGeorgia and Alabama foot-hills, attains its culmination in North\nCarolina. The title of Appalachians, as applied by De Soto to the whole\nsystem, is preferred by many geographers. Alleghany is the old Indian\nword, signifying \u201cendless.\u201d It is ancient in its origin, and in spite of\nits being anglicized still retains its soft, liquid sound. It was not\nuntil a comparatively late year that Western North Carolina was\ndiscovered to be the culminating region. Until 1835 the mountains of New\nHampshire were considered the loftiest of the Alleghanies, and Mount\nWashington was placed on the maps and mentioned in text books as the\nhighest point of rock in the eastern United States. It now holds its\ntrue position below several summits of the Black, Smoky, and Balsam\nranges. From the barometrical measurements of trustworthy explorers, no\nless than 57 peaks in Western North Carolina are found to be over 6,000\nfeet in altitude. The more accurate observations being taken by means of\nlevels, by the coast survey, may slightly reduce this number.\n\nIt was John C. Calhoun who, in 1825, first called particular attention\nto the southern section of the system. His attention had been turned to\nit by observing the numerous wide rivers, and tributaries of noble\nstreams, which, like throbbing arteries, came forth from all sides of\nthe North Carolina mountains, as from the chambers of a mighty heart. He\nsaw the New river flowing towards the Ohio; the Watauga, the Nolechucky,\nthe French Broad, the Big Pigeon, the Little Tennessee, the Hiawassee,\nand their thousand tributaries, pouring from the central valleys through\nthe deep gaps of the Smokies into the western plains, and uniting with\nthe branches from the Cumberland mountains to form the stately\nTennessee; the Yadkin, the Catawba, the Broad, the Chatooga, and the\nheadwaters of the greatest streams south of Virginia that empty into the\nAtlantic. From these observations he reasoned rightly that between the\nparallels of 35 degrees and 36 degrees and 30 minutes, north latitude,\nlay the highest plateau and mountains of the Atlantic coast.\n\nThe region, as measured in a bee line through the center of the plateau\nfrom Virginia to Georgia, is 200 miles in length. Its breadth, from the\nsummits of the parallel rampart ranges of the Blue Ridge and Smokies,\nvaries from 15 to 65 miles, and includes within this measurement a\nplateau expanse of 6,000 square miles, with an altitude of from 2,000 to\n4,000 feet. Inclusive of the eastern slope, the off-shooting spurs of\nthe Blue Ridge and the South mountains, the average breadth is 70 miles.\nA portion of the piedmont section, properly a part of the mountain\ndistrict, would be taken in the latter measurement. The counties are 25\nin number, reaching from Ashe, Alleghany, and Surrey in the north to\nMacon, Clay, and Cherokee in the south.\n\nAfter the bifurcation of the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountains in Virginia,\nembracing with a wide sweep several counties of that state and Ashe,\nAlleghany, and Watauga of North Carolina, they almost meet again in the\nnortheastern limit of Mitchell county. Here, in collosal conjunction,\nthrough their central sentinel heads, the two ranges seem holding\nconference before making their final separation. The Grandfather, the\nhighest peak of the Blue Ridge and the oldest mountain of the world,\nstands on one side; the majestic Roan of the Smokies, on the other,\nconnected by the short transverse upheaval known as Yellow mountain.\nThis spot is poetically spoken of as the grand portal to the inner\ntemple of the Alleghanies; the Grandfather and the Roan being the two\npillars between which hangs, forever locked, the massive gate of Yellow\nmountain. The high table-land of Watauga forms the green-carpeted step\nto it. Trending southwest, between the two separating ranges,--the Blue\nRidge bending like a bow, and the Smokies resembling the\nbow-string,--lies wrapped in its robe of misty purple, the central\nvalley, comprising 13 counties.\n\nThe western rampart range, bearing the boundary line between North\nCarolina and Tennessee, lifts its crest much higher than the Blue Ridge;\nis more massive in its proportions; less straggling in its contour; but\nwith lower gaps or gorges, narrow and rugged, through which flow all the\nrivers of the plateau. Generically known as the Smoky mountains, it is\nby the river gorges divided into separate sections, each of which has\nits peculiar name. The most northerly of these sections is termed the\nStone mountains; then follow the Iron, Bald, Great Smoky, Unaka, and the\nFrog mountains of Georgia. Twenty-three peaks of the Smoky mountains are\nover 6,000 feet in altitude, the loftiest being Clingman\u2019s Dome, 6,660\nfeet. The deepest gap is that of the Little Tennessee, 1,114 feet.\n\nThe eastern rampart range--the Blue Ridge--trends southward with the\nconvolutions of a snake; its undulations rising seldom above a mile in\naltitude and sinking sometimes so low that, in passing through its wide\ngaps, one is not aware that he is crossing a mountain range, the fact\nbeing concealed by the parallel spurs rising, in many instances, to a\nhigher altitude than their parent chain. In spite of its depressions,\nand, when compared with the Smoky mountains, the low average elevation\nof its crest, it is the water-shed of the system. Not a stream severs\nit. On the east every stream sweeps toward the Atlantic. On the west the\nwaters of its slopes are joined at its base line by those flowing down\nthe east or south side of the Smoky mountains; and, mingling with the\nlatter, pour through the deep passes of the loftier range into the\nvalley of the western confluent of the Tennessee.\n\nFrom the Blue Ridge is thrown off many short ranges, trending east and\nsouth across the submontane plateau. In character of outline they are\nsimilar to the parent chain. This plateau, known as the Piedmont, walled\non the west by the Blue Ridge, diversified by mountains and hills, and\nseamed by the Yadkin, Catawba, and Broad rivers and their affluents,\nincloses in its limits many beautiful and fertile valleys. The outer\nslope of the Blue Ridge, overlooking Piedmont, is abrupt in its descent\nand presents wild and picturesque features; cascades marking the\nchannels of the streams. Further south, where the range bends around the\nSouth Carolina and Georgia lines, bold escarpments of rock and ragged\npine-set declivities, seamed by cataracts, and beaten on by a hot and\nsultry sun, break sheer off into the southern plains. The inner slope of\nthe Blue Ridge throughout its entire length from Virginia to Georgia, as\ncontrasted with the outer slope, is more gentle in its descent; is\nheavily wooded and diversified with clearings. The Smoky mountains\npresent similar characteristics--richly wooded descents toward the\ncentral valley; rocky and sterile fronts toward Tennessee.\n\nThe reader must not imagine that the central valley or plateau, of which\nwe have been speaking, is a level or bowl-shaped expanse between the\nranges described. On the contrary, its surface is so broken by\ntransverse mountain ranges and their foot-hills that, by means of vision\nalone, the observer from no one point can obtain a correct idea of the\nstructural character of the region. From the loftiest peaks, he can see\nthe encircling ranges and the level lands beyond their outer slopes; but\nbelow him is rolled an inner sea of mountains, which, when looked upon\nin some directions, seems of limitless expanse. The transverse chains,\ncomprising the Yellow mountain, the Black, Newfound, Balsam, Cowee,\nNantihala, and Valley River mountains, hold a majority of the highest\nsummits of the Alleghanies.\n\nThe Black mountain chain, the highest of these ranges, is only 20 miles\nlong, and has 18 peaks in altitude over 6,000 feet; the highest of\nwhich, Mitchell\u2019s Peak, 6,711 feet above sea-level, is the sovereign\nmountain of the Alleghanies. The Balsam range, the longest of the\ntransverse chains, is 45 miles in length and crested by 15 wooded\npinnacles over 6,000 feet high. The parallel cross-chains have, nestling\nbetween their slopes, central valleys, varying in length and width, and\nopening back into little vales between the foot-hills and branching\nspurs. Through the lowest dip of each great valley, sweeps toward the\nSmokies a wide, crystal river fed by its tributaries from the mountain\nheights.\n\nThe great valleys, or the distinct regions drained each by one of the\nrivers which cut asunder the Smokies, are six in number. The extreme\nnorthern part of the state is drained by the New river and the Watauga.\nBetween the Yellow mountain and the Blacks lies that deeply embosomed\nvalley region watered by the head-springs of the Nolechucky. Next comes\nthe widest and longest plain of the mountain section--the valley of the\nFrench Broad. The Big Pigeon winds through the high plateau between the\nNewfound and Balsam mountains. The region of the Little Tennessee\ncomprises not only the wide lands along its own banks, but those along\nits great forks--the Tuckasege, Nantihala, and Ocona Lufta. West of the\nValley River mountains the country is drained by the Hiawassee.\n\nGeologically speaking, the mountains of North Carolina are the oldest in\nthe world. During the period of general upheavals and subsidences of the\ncrust of the earth, these mountains were the only lands remaining\nthroughout firm above the surface of the ocean. Rocks of the Arch\u00e6an or\nearliest age are exposed, and with their edges turned at a high angle\nlie upon the beds of later periods of formation. North of the southern\nboundary of Virginia, the structural character of the mountains is\ndifferent.\n\nThe entire region is mantled with forests to the summit of every peak;\nthe valleys and many of the adjacent coves are cleared and inhabited by\na happy, healthy, and hospitable people. It is rich in picturesque\nscenery--romantic rivers, luxuriant forests, majestic mountain heights,\nvalleys of exquisite beauty, quaint villages, cliffs, and waterfalls. It\nis rich in a life-giving climate, brilliant skies, fertile lands,\npastured steeps, and timber and mineral wealth.\n\nIt is of this country--the Heart of the Alleghanies--that in the\nfollowing pages we have treated in as full, concise, and entertaining a\nmanner as we could conceive and carry into execution.\n\n[Illustration: UNAKA KANOOS.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE NATIVE MOUNTAINEERS.\n\n    All kinds of creatures stand and fall\n      By strength of prowess or of wit;\n    \u2019Tis God\u2019s appointment who must sway,\n      And who is to submit.\n         --_Wordsworth._\n\n\n[Illustration: W]e are excluded from a knowledge of ancient American\nhistory by an impenetrable veil of mystery and silence. The past has\nleft us only relics--relics of things and relics of races--which are\ninterpreted by an unreined imagination. Before Europeans set foot on the\nwestern shore of the Atlantic, before the Indians occupied the forest\ncontinent, there dwelt on all the sunniest plains and fertile valleys a\nrace well advanced in mechanical and \u00e6sthetic art, skilled in war and\nconsecrated in religion. It came and flourished and perished, leaving\nonly monuments of its existence in the form of works of earth, and works\nof stone--mounds, forts, and pottery. The old mounds scattered\neverywhere are the sepulchres of illustrious dead, and because of their\nnumber, the race has been designated the \u201cMound Builders.\u201d They\ninhabited, among other places, the southern Alleghanies, the largest\nnumber of mounds being found in the upper valley of the Little\nTennessee. Most of the rich mica dikes bear evidence of having been\nworked centuries ago. The marks of stone picks may still be seen upon\nthe soft feldspar with which the mica is associated, and tunnels and\nshafts show some knowledge of mining. The fact that a great many ancient\nmounds all over the country contain skeletons, encased in mica plates,\nassociates these diggings with the builders of the mounds.\n\nThe earliest traditional knowledge we have of the habitation of the\nsouthern highlands has been handed down by the Cherokees. They say that\nbefore they conquered the country and settled in the valleys, the\ninhabitants were \u201cmoon-eyed,\u201d that is, were unable to see during certain\nphases of the moon. During a period of blindness, the Creeks swept\nthrough the mountain passes, up the valleys, and annihilated the race.\nThe Cherokees in turn conquered the Creeks, with great slaughter, which\nmust have occurred at a very ancient date, for the country of their\nconquest and adoption is the seat of their religious legends and\ntraditional romances.\n\nNo definite boundaries can be assigned to the land of any Indian tribe,\nmuch less a nation of proud and warlike mountaineers who were happy only\nwhen carrying bloodied tomahawks into an enemy\u2019s country. The tribe was\ndistinguished by two great geographical divisions, the Ottari,\nsignifying \u201camong the mountains,\u201d and the Erati, signifying \u201clowland.\u201d\nProvincial historians have designated them as \u201cIn the Valley\u201d and\n\u201cOverhill\u201d towns, the great highland belt between the Blue Ridge and\nSmoky mountains being designated as a valley. The ancient realm of the\ntribe may, in a general way, be described as the headwater valleys of\nthe Yadkin and Catawba on the east; of the Keowee, Tugaloo, Flint, Etowa\nand Coosa on the south, and the several tributaries of the Tennessee on\nthe west. There were 60 towns, and 6,000 fighting men could at any time\nbe called by the grand chief to the war path. It was the military\nprowess of these warriors that gave to the nation the most picturesque\nand most secure home of all the American tribes. A keen and delicate\nappreciation of the beautiful in nature, as associated with the grandeur\nof their surroundings, inspired them to unparalleled heroism in its\ndefense against intrusion. They successfully withstood neighboring\ntribes, but their contest with the whites was a contest with destiny, in\nwhich they yielded only after a long and bloody struggle. The ancient\nnation of the mountains, expelled from its home, crippled and enervated,\nbut improved in some respects, has found a home in the less picturesque\nand distant west; but has left a dissevered and withered limb which,\nlike a fossil, merely reminds us of a bygone period of history.\n\nIf any one doubts that the Cherokees possessed an appreciative love of\ncountry and a genuine sympathy with nature, let him turn to his map, and\npronounce those Indian names which have not been cruelly, almost\ncriminally, displaced by English common-places. Let him remember too\nthat there is a meaning in their euphony, and a suggestiveness in their\nmelody. It is a grievous fault, the more grievous because it is\nirreparable, that so many of the bold streams which thunder down forest\nslopes and through echoing ca\u00f1ons, have lost those designations whose\nsyllables glide from the tongue in harmony with the music of the crystal\ncurrents. Of many natural features the names are preserved, but their\nmeanings have been lost.\n\nEast of the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, very few geographical names\nof Indian origin have survived. In the valley of the French Broad there\nis also a barrenness of prehistoric nomenclature. From this circumstance\nit is argued, and the argument is well sustained, that there was no\npermanent habitation of Indians in these two localities. The villages\nwere located in valley, and were known by the name of the streams. In\nsome instances, traditions became associated with the name, and in them\nwe have a key to an unwritten scroll. A village, furthermore, gave to a\nregion an importance which made its name widely known, not only in the\ntribe but among traders and other white adventurers, and thus made it a\nfixture. There is the additional negative evidence of no permanent\nhabitation, in the fact that mention is no where made, in the annals of\nmilitary expeditions against the Indians, of villages east of the Balsam\nmountains. Hunters and warriors penetrated the forests for game, and\ncarried the tomahawk to every frontier, frequently making the Upper\nCatawba and French Broad valleys their camping ground. While we know\nnothing about the facts, the presumption is reasonable that at least all\nthe larger rivers and their tributaries were given names by the Indians,\nwhich perished with the change of race and ownership.\n\nCatawba is not of Cherokee origin. The river takes its name from the\ntribe which inhabited its valley until a recent date; South Carolina. It\nwas a species of vandalism to substitute French Broad for Agiqua and\nTocheeostee, the former being the name applied by the Erati, or \u201cover\nthe mountain\u201d Cherokees, to the lower valley, and the latter by the\nOttari, or \u201cvalley\u201d towns, to the upper or North Carolina section below\nAsheville. \u201cRacing river\u201d is a literal translation of the term\nTocheeostee. Above Asheville, where the stream is placid and winds\nsnake-like through the wide alluvions, it took the name Zillicoah.\n\nSwanannoa is one of the most resonant of Indian names, though in being\naccommodated to English orthography it has lost much of its music. It\nwould be impossible to indicate the original pronunciation. I can,\nperhaps, tell you nearer how to utter it. Begin with a suppressed sound\nof the letter \u201cs,\u201d then with tongue and palate lowered, utter the vowel\nsound of \u201ca\u201d in swan four times in quick succession, giving to the\nfirst as much time as to the second two, and raise the voice one note on\nthe last. The word is said to have been derived from the sound made by a\nraven\u2019s wing as it sweeps through the air. Before white settlers came\ninto the country that species of bird was very plentiful along all the\nstreams, and at their points of confluence were its favorite roosting\nplaces, whence, aided by the scent of the water, it sallied up stream in\nsearch of food. Hundreds collected at the mouth of the Swanannoa, and\nthe name was the oft repeated imitation, by the voice, of the music of\ntheir wings, as they whizzed past the morning camp-fire of the hunter or\nwarrior bands, on the bank of the stream. The hungry, homely, and hated\nraven is indeed an humble origin for a name so beautiful, applied to an\nobject so much applauded for its beauty.\n\nIf the upper tributaries of the French Broad ever had names worthy of\ntheir character which have been displaced by such colloquialisms as\nCathey\u2019s creek, Davidson\u2019s river, Mills\u2019 river, and Little river, they\nperished with the race more in sympathy with nature than the inhabitants\nof the last century. By some chance that gentle stream which snakes\nthrough the flat valley of Henderson county, has preserved an Indian\ndesignation, though it is probably a borrowed one. Ocklawaha is the name\nwhich we find in old legal documents, and its tributary, which gives the\ncounty\u2019s capital a peninsular situation, is designated the Little\nOcklawaha--a barbarous mixture of Indian and English. The word is of\nSeminole origin, and means \u201cslowly moving water.\u201d It was applied to a\nriver in Florida by the natives, and to this Carolina stream by the \u201clow\ncountry\u201d people who found summer homes beyond the Blue Ridge, because of\nthe applicability of the name and its resemblance in some other respects\nto the original Ochlawaha. Reverence of antiquity and the geographical\ngenius of the red race, can not be claimed as an argument in favor of\nthe re-substitution of the Indian designation for the present\nuniversally used colloquialism, \u201cMud creek,\u201d as homely as it is false in\nthe idea it suggests. Ochlawaha is not only more pleasing to the ear,\nbut gives a much more faithful description of the landscape feature\ndesignated, and hence has sufficient claims to the public recognition\nwhich we take the lead in giving it.\n\nGoing southward, and crossing the Blue Ridge and Green river, which\nderives its name from the tint of its water, we come to the Saluda\nrange, the fountain of a river of the same name. The word is of Catawba\norigin, as is also Estatoa. Toxaway, or more properly spelled Tochawha,\nis Cherokee, but we have no satisfactory interpretation of its meaning.\n\nThe Balsams are rich in legendary superstitions. The gloom of their dark\nsolitudes fills even the hurried tourist with an unaccountable fear, and\nmakes it impossible for him to suppress the recollection of tales of\nghosts and goblins upon which his childish imagination was fed. The\nmountains assume mysterious shapes, projecting rocks seem to stand\nbeckoning; and the echo of cascades falls upon the ear like ominous\nwarnings. No wonder then, that it was a region peopled by pagan\nsuperstition, with other spirits than human. It is the instinct of the\nhuman mind, no matter what may be its degree of cultivation, to seek an\nexplanation of things. When natural causes can not be discovered for the\nphenomena of nature, the supernatural is drawn upon. The Cherokees knew\nno natural reason why the tops of high mountains should be treeless, but\nhaving faith in a personal devil they jumped at the conclusion that the\n\u201cbald\u201d spots must be the prints of his horrid feet as he walked with\ngiant strides from peak to peak.\n\nNear the Great Divide, between the waters of Pigeon river and French\nBroad, is situated the Devil\u2019s Court-house, which rises to an altitude\nof 6,049 feet. Near it is Court-house mountain. At both places his\nSatanic majesty was believed to sit in judgment, and doom to punishment\nall who had been wayward in courage, or had departed from a strict code\nof virtue, though bravery in war atoned for a multitude of sins.\n\nThe devil had besides these a supreme court-house, where finally all\nmankind would be summoned for trial. This was one of the great\nprecipices of the Whiteside mountain, situated in Jackson county, at the\nsouthern terminus of the Cowee range. There is no wonder that the simple\nminded pagans supposed that nature had dedicated this structure to\nsupernatural use, for it excels in grandeur the most stupendous works of\nhuman hands. It consists of a perpendicular wall of granite, so curved\nas to form an arc more than a mile long, and rises 1,800 feet from the\nmoss-blanketed rocks which form the pavement of an enclosed court. About\nhalf way up there is a shelf-like projection, not more than two feet\nwide, which leads from one side to a cave. This was supposed to be the\ninner room of the great temple, whence the judge of human conduct would\ncome to pronounce sentence at the end of the world. That this important\nbusiness should be entrusted to Satan is a mythological incongruity. A\ncertain sorcerer, or medicine-man, taking advantage of the popular\nsuperstition about the place, made the cave his home, going in and out\nby the narrow shelf. He announced that he was in league with the spirits\nof the next world, and consequently could go in and out with perfect\nsafety, which fact caused him to be recognized as a great man. There\nhave been found, in the vicinity of Whiteside, Indian ladders--that is,\ntrees with the limbs trimmed so as to form steps. What they could have\nbeen used for we are unable to conjecture; certainly not to scale the\nmountain sides, for such a thing would be impossible.\n\nOld Field mountain, in the Balsam range, derives its name from the\ntradition that it was Satan\u2019s bed-chamber. The Cherokees of a recent\ngeneration affirm that his royal majesty was often seen by their\nforefathers, and even some of the first white settlers had knowledge of\nhis presence. On the top of the mountain there is a prairie-like tract,\nalmost level, reached by steep slopes covered with thickets of balsam\nand rhododendron, which seem to garrison the reputed sacred domain. It\nwas understood among the Indians to be forbidden territory, but a party\none day permitted their curiosity to tempt them. They forced a way\nthrough the entangled thickets, and with merriment entered the open\nground. Aroused from sleep and enraged by their audacious intrusion, the\ndevil, taking the form of an immense snake, assaulted the party and\nswallowed 50 of them before the thicket could be regained.\n\nAmong the first whites who settled among the Indians and traded with\nthem, was a party of hunters who used this superstition to escape\npunishment for their reprehensible conduct. They reported that they were\nin league with the great spirit of evil, and to prove that they were,\nfrequented this \u201cold field.\u201d They described his bed, under a large\noverhanging rock, as a model of neatness. They had frequently thrown\ninto it stones and brushwood during the day, while the master was out,\nbut the place was invariably as clean the next morning \u201cas if it had\nbeen brushed with a bunch of feathers.\u201d\n\nBut there is another legend of the Balsams more significant than any of\nthese. It is the Paradise Gained of Cherokee mythology, and bears some\ndistant resemblance to the Christian doctrine of mediation. The Indians\nbelieved that they were originally mortal in spirit as well as body, but\nabove the blue vault of heaven there was, inhabited by a celestial race,\na forest into which the highest mountains lifted their dark summits. It\nis a fact worth noticing that, while the priests of the orient described\nheaven as a great city with streets of gold and gates of pearl and fine\ngems, the tribes of the western continent aspired to nothing beyond the\nperpetual enjoyment of wild nature.\n\nThe mediator, by whom eternal life was secured for the Indian\nmountaineers, was a maiden of their own tribe. Allured by the haunting\nsound and diamond sparkle of a mountain stream, she wandered far up into\na solitary glen, where the azalea, the kalmia, and the rhododendron\nbrilliantly embellished the deep, shaded slopes, and filled the air with\ntheir delicate perfume. The crystal stream wound its crooked way between\nmoss covered rocks over which tall ferns bowed their graceful stems.\nEnchanted by the scene she seated herself upon the soft moss and\novercome by fatigue was soon asleep. The dream picture of a fairyland\nwas presently broken by the soft touch of a strange hand. The spirit of\nher dream occupied a place at her side, and wooing, won her for his\nbride.\n\nHer supposed abduction caused great excitement among her people, who\nmade diligent search for her recovery in their own villages. Being\nunsuccessful, they made war upon the neighboring tribes in the hope of\nfinding the place of her concealment. Grieved because of so much\nbloodshed and sorrow, she besought the great chief of the eternal\nhunting grounds to make retribution. She was accordingly appointed to\ncall a council of her people at the forks of the Wayeh (Pigeon) river.\nShe appeared unto the chiefs in a dream, and charged them to meet the\nspirits of the hunting ground with fear and reverence.\n\nAt the hour appointed the head men of the Cherokees assembled. The high\nBalsam peaks were shaken by thunder and aglare with lightning. The\ncloud, as black as midnight, settled over the valley; then lifted,\nleaving upon a large rock a cluster of strange men, armed and painted as\nfor war. An enraged brother of the abducted maiden swung his tomahawk,\nand raised the war whoop; but a swift thunderbolt dispatched him before\nthe echo had died in the hills. The chiefs, terror-stricken, fled to\ntheir towns.\n\nThe bride, grieved by the death of her brother and the failure of the\ncouncil, prepared to abandon her new home and return to her kindred in\nthe valleys. To reconcile her the promise was granted that all brave\nwarriors and their faithful women should have an eternal home in the\nhappy hunting ground above, after death. The great chief of the forest\nbeyond the clouds became the guardian spirit of the Cherokees. All\ndeaths, either from wounds in battle or disease, were attributed to his\ndesire to make additions to the celestial hunting ground, or on the\nother hand, to his wrath which might cause their unfortunate spirits to\nbe turned over to the disposition of the evil genius of the mountain\ntops. Plagues and epidemics were sometimes supposed to be the work of\nsorcerers, witches and monsters, human and superhuman. Once during an\nepidemic of smallpox, so says a traditional tale, a devil in human form\nwas tracked to the headwaters of Tusquittee, where he was apprehended in\na cave. They saluted him with a volley of poisoned arrows, which he\ntossed back with derisive laughter. After several repetitions with the\nsame result, a bird spoke to the disheartened warriors, telling them\nthat their enemy was invulnerable, except one finger which, if hit,\nwould cause his instant death. As in the case of Achilles, of Troy, the\nvulnerable spot received a fatal shot, and the plague ceased its\nravages. The bird was of the variety of little yellow songsters--a\nvariety protected as sacred down to within the memory of the man from\nwhom the writer received this legend.\n\nWe return now to the discussion of Indian names, with which the\nnarration of incidents, connected with the geographical nomenclature of\nthe Balsam mountains has slightly interfered. The Indian names of the\nFrench Broad have already been given. The present name has an historical\nsignification to commend its continued use, if nothing more. Prior to\nthe treaty made between England and France in 1763, the latter nation\nclaimed all the country drained by the Mississippi, the ground of this\nclaim being actual settlement near the mouth of that river and at\nseveral places along its course. International customs gave the claim\nvalidity, though the English never admitted it. Adair, an early\nhistorian, says: \u201cLouisiana stretched to the head-springs of the\nAlleghany and Monongahela, of the Kenawha and Tennessee. Half a mile\nfrom the southern branch of the Savannah is Herbert\u2019s spring, which\nflows into the Mississippi. Strangers who drank of it, would say they\nhad tasted of _French_ waters.\u201d In like manner, traders and hunters from\nthe Atlantic settlements, in passing from the headwaters of Broad river\nover the Blue Ridge, and coming to the streams with which they\ninosculate, would hear, as Adair did, of the French claim, and call it\nmost naturally \u201cFrench Broad.\u201d\n\nWatauga and Nollichucky are Cherokee designations, but the latter should\nbe spelled Nouachuneh. We are unable to learn the original name of New\nriver. Estatoa, flowing from the Black mountains, has been shortened to\n\u201cToe.\u201d The Pigeon was originally Wayeh, which has been simply\ntranslated.\n\nThe reader should be reminded before going further into this subject\nthat absolute accuracy in the importation of the Cherokee into our\nlanguage cannot be attained. In the first place no combination of\nEnglish letters can be made to represent the original sounds, nor can\nthey be uttered by the English mouth. Then again, the same syllables\nwith different inflections have different meanings. The English spelling\nis merely an attempt at imitation, and the meanings, given by those who\nprofess to know, are sometimes only guesses. In spelling, uniformity is\nchiefly to be sought. One rule, however, should be followed implicitly:\nnever use a letter whose sound requires closing the lips. A Cherokee\nsaid everything with his mouth open. \u201cTsaraghee\u201d would come nearest a\ncorrect pronunciation of the name of the tribe, yet in its application\nto a mountain in Georgia it is \u201cCurrahee.\u201d\n\nThe country occupied by the Cherokees down to within the memory of men\nstill living, embraced the valleys west of the Balsam mountains. The\nfirst white settlers adopted the geographical nomenclature of the\nnatives, which is still retained. Junaluska, the name of the picturesque\nmountain group overlooking the Richland and Scott\u2019s creek valleys, was\napplied by white settlers in honor of the intrepid war chief who\ncommanded the Indian forces in Alabama, belonging to Jackson\u2019s army in\nthe war of 1812. He was an exemplary man, honored by his people and\nrespected by the whites. The State, in recognition of his military\nservices, granted him a boundary of land in the Cheowah valley, known as\nthe Junaluska farm, on which he was buried in 1847.\n\nTennessee, the name of the largest river in upper Carolina, is of Indian\norigin, but was written by the first explorers, \u201cTennasee.\u201d Kalamutchee\nwas the name of the main stream formed by the Clinch and Holston. The\nFrench named the whole river Cosquinambeaux which happily perished with\nthe old maps.\n\nThe principal tributary of the Little Tennessee above the Smoky\nmountains is spelled differently on almost every map. The best\nauthority, however, derived from the Indians themselves, through\nintelligent citizens, makes it a word of three syllables, spelled\nTuckasege. Most old maps give it an additional syllable by doubling the\nfinal \u201ce.\u201d The English signification of the word is \u201cterrapin.\u201d There\nwas a town of the same name above the site of Webster, and near it a\npond which abounded in the water species of that reptile. The shells\nwere much sought and highly prized by the Indians for ornaments. The\ncouplet of mountains which divide the Tuckasege from Cashier\u2019s valley,\nare locally known by the English signification \u201cTerrapin,\u201d but the\noriginal, \u201cTuckasege,\u201d should be restored.\n\nOcona Lufta, the name of the pearly stream which flows through the\nIndian settlement, is derived from its having been a nesting place for\nducks and other water fowls. One of its affluents, the Colehmayeh, is\nderived from Coleh, \u201craven,\u201d and Mayeh, \u201cwater.\u201d The English \u201cRaven\u2019s\nfork\u201d is in common use among the whites. Soco, the name of another\ntributary of the Lufta, means \u201cone.\u201d\n\nCharlestown, in Swain county, occupies the ancient site of the Indian\nvillage of Younaahqua or Big Bear. Wesuh, meaning \u201ccat,\u201d has taken the\ncolloquialism Conley\u2019s creek for its name. The post hamlet of Qualla\ntown, in the present Cherokee settlement, is an English name modified to\nsuit the Indian tongue. A white woman named Polly, familiarly \u201cAunt\nPolly,\u201d opened a small store. Her Indian customers, unable to give the\nsound of \u201cp,\u201d their speech being open-mouthed, substituted the \u201cq\u201d\nsound, which came into general use and finally changed the word. Qualla\nis a very common name for Indian women.\n\nThe euphonious name Nantahala seems to be little understood. The most\ncommonly given interpretation is \u201cmaiden\u2019s bosom,\u201d though that meaning\ncan only be derived by a stretch of metaphor. If the word, as supposed\nby some interpreters, is compounded of _Nantaseh_ and _Eylee_, it means\n\u201cbetween ridges,\u201d whence by far-fetched simile \u201cmaiden\u2019s bosom.\u201d But it\nis more probably compounded of _Nantaseh_ and _Eyalee_, which literally\nmeans \u201cThe sun between,\u201d or \u201chalf way,\u201d hence \u201cnoonday sun.\u201d\n\nThe Hiawassee was known among the earliest explorers as the Euphrasee,\nwhich was perhaps the name applied by a more southern tribe. The largest\naffluent of the Hiawassee is the Valley river, known by the Cherokees as\nAhmachunahut, meaning \u201clong stream.\u201d\n\nCullasaja is the old name of that tributary of the Little Tennessee\nwhich heads in the Macon highlands, and is noted for the beauty of its\ncascades. The English signification of the word is \u201csweet water.\u201d Sugar\nfork is the local designation, though the maps preserve the old and rich\nsounding original.\n\nSatoola, the name of a high peak overlooking the upper Macon plateau,\nhas been mercilessly pruned to \u201cStooley.\u201d Horse Cove is the homely\nappellation of a parquet-shaped valley within the curved precipice which\nleads from Satoola to Whitesides. Sequilla, the old Indian name, has a\nmuch better sound. Cowee, the designation of the great transverse chain\nwhich divides the Tuckasege from the Tennessee is a corruption of Keowe,\nthe form which still attaches to the river. It means \u201cnear\u201d, or \u201cat\nhand.\u201d\n\nThe writers regret that they are unable to give the meaning of all the\nwords of Indian origin which appear upon the map. They regret still more\nthat they are unable to restore to all places of general interest the\nrich accents of the Cherokee tongue. It is a subject which will require\nlong and patient study. Public interest must also be aroused, so that\ndesignations long since laid aside, when made known, will be locally\napplied.\n\nWe will now trace the rapid decline of the most warlike of all the\nIndian tribes, and conclude with an account of the remnant band known as\nthe Eastern Cherokees. One of the first white invasions of the\npicturesque dominion of the ancient tribe was made by slave traders,\nlate in the seventeenth century, in the interest of West India planters.\nHundreds of strong warriors were bound and carried from Arcadia and\nfreedom to malarious swamps and bondage, where they soon sank under the\nburden of oppressive labor. Cherokees made better slaves than any other\nIndians, on account of their superior strength and intelligence, and\nconsequently were the most sought. Neighboring tribes were incited to\nmake war upon them by the offer of prizes for captives. After long\nsuffering and much bloodshed, the governor of Carolina, in response to\nthe solicitations of the head men of the tribe, interposed the authority\nof his government. The Cherokee nation in return acknowledged Great\nBritain as its protector, and permitted the erection of British forts\nwithin its territory. Emissaries of France attempted to win the\nallegiance of these Indians with presents of gaudy blankets, and arms\nfor the chase. While their affections vacillated between the two\nnations, the tribe proved loyal in the end to its first vow. In the\nFrench war in the year 1757, the Cherokees bore arms against France,\nwith which nation most of the red race were in alliance. On their return\nfrom the forks of the Ohio, after the fall of Fort Duquesne, being\npoorly fed, they raided the settlements and carried away a large number\nof negro slaves. These taught their masters the elements of farming.\n\nThe Cherokees remained loyal to the king during the Revolution, and,\nassociated with tory guerrillas, engaged in many acts of bloody\nviolence. The transmontane settlement, on the Holston in East Tennessee,\nwas the chief object of the tribe\u2019s malignant jealousy. For six years,\nthe little band of settlers held their lives in their hands, struggling\nincessantly with blood-thirsty foes and slowly devouring poverty.\n\nThe Indians themselves suffered incursions from both sides of the\nmountains. Their villages on the Tuckasege, Little Tennessee and the\nHiawassee were frequently destroyed, the country pillaged, corn burned\nand ponies led away. Ramsey thus describes an expedition of Tennesseeans\nunder command of Colonel John Sevier, the lion of the western border:\n\n\u201cThe command, consisting of 120 men, went up Cane creek (from the\nHolston), crossed Ivy and Swanannoa,\u201d thence through Balsam gap to the\nTuckasege. \u201cHe entered and took by surprise the town of Tuckasege. Fifty\nwarriors were slain, and fifty women and children taken prisoners. In\nthat vicinity the troops under Sevier burnt 15 or 20 towns and all the\ngraneries of corn they could find. It was a hard and disagreeable\nnecessity that led to the adoption of these apparently cruel measures.\u201d\nThe lower and valley towns afterwards suffered a similar fate.\n\nAn incident illustrative of the times is associated with the naming of\nFine\u2019s creek in Haywood county. The Indians were in the habit of making\nsallies down the Pigeon into the Tennessee settlements, then returning\nto their mountain fastnesses. On one of these expeditions they were\nrouted and followed by Peter Fine and a company of plucky militia. The\nIndians were overtaken in camp beyond the mountains, one killed and the\nproperty recovered. The whites were in turn followed by the Indians,\nand, while sustaining a night attack, Vinet Fine, the major\u2019s brother,\nwas killed. A hole was cut in the ice, and, to conceal the body from the\nsavages, it was dropped into the creek. It is appropriate, therefore,\nthat the stream should be called Fine\u2019s creek.\n\nSoon after the Revolution the Cherokees made a session of all their\nlands between the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers. More than 12,000\nIndians were present at the council. Monnette\u2019s History gives the\nprophetic speech of an old chief--Oconnastotee. He began by describing\nthe flourishing condition of his nation in the past, and the\nencroachments of the whites upon the retiring and expiring tribes of\nIndians, who left their homes and the seats of their ancestors to\ngratify the insatiable thirst of the white people for more land. Whole\nnations had melted away, and had left their names only as recorded by\ntheir enemies and destroyers. It was once hoped that they would not be\nwilling to travel beyond the mountains so far from the ocean on which\ntheir commerce was carried on. That fallacious hope had vanished, for\nthe whites had already settled on the Cherokee lands, and now wished to\nhave their usurpations sanctioned by treaty. When that shall have been\ndone new sessions will be applied for, and finally the country which the\nCherokees and their forefathers occupied will be applied for. The small\nremnant which may then exist of this once great and powerful nation will\nbe compelled to seek a new home in some far distant wilderness.\n\nBut a few years elapsed before the beginning of the fulfillment of this\nprophesy. Emigration after the Revolution became a mania. The Watauga\npasses were filled with teams _en route_ for the Holston valley, and\nroads were constructed up the Blue Ridge to the garden valley of the\nupper French Broad.\n\nThe Indians were soon forced to retire beyond the Balsams, into the\nvalley of the Little Tennessee and its upper branches. Tennessee\nacquired, by purchase and otherwise, most of the Cherokee territory in\nthat state, while Georgia adopted a harsh and oppressive policy,\ncalculated to produce discontent. As early as 1790, a band of low\ncountry Cherokees emigrated beyond the Mississippi, from which time, as\nthe hunting grounds became more and more contracted, discouragement and\na desire to go west, became general among the clans below the Smoky\nmountains and Blue Ridge. Several treaties ceding portions of their\ndomain were made, and finally a faction representing themselves as\nagents of the tribe, in 1835 surrendered \u201call rights, title, and\npossession to all the lands owned and occupied by the Cherokee Indians,\u201d\nin exchange for lands west of the Mississippi. The North Carolina\nIndians and a portion of those in Georgia and Tennessee protested\nvigorously against the terms of the treaty. Under the leadership of the\nproud warrior Junaluska, they were among the most valiant of General\nJackson\u2019s soldiers in the second war with Great Britain. They now vainly\nappealed to the same General Jackson as President of the United States,\nfor the privilege of remaining in the land of their fathers.\n\nBy a treaty made in 1819 the Cherokees had ceded all their lands,\n\u201csaving and reserving one section for each family who chose to remain.\u201d\nThe clans that desired to emigrate were given lands and transportation.\nThe treaty of 1835 provided for an exchange of all the eastern\nreservations for lands in the west, without discretion; but through the\ninfluence of Colonel W. H. Thomas, the treaty was so modified that\ncertain towns were to have money compensation for their reservations\nunder the treaty of 1819, with which to purchase new homes in their\nnative land. These were to be held in fee simple by as many as chose to\nremain.\n\nA large percentage of the tribe denied the validity of the treaty\naltogether, and only yielded when the force of General Scott\u2019s army was\nbrought to bear, in 1837. It is in those who accepted the advice and\noffices of Colonel Thomas, and remained in North Carolina, we are\nchiefly interested. Their kin who voluntarily emigrated or were driven\nwest of the Mississippi have progressed steadily in the useful arts,\nhave schools, churches, farms and cattle.\n\nThe Eastern Band, as those who remained and purchased farms, and their\ndescendants are known, has been steadily decreasing in numbers, there\nbeing at present but slightly above 1100 souls.\n\nColonel Thomas, who was, until recent years, the chief of the band, was\nborn in the Pigeon river valley, and, at a very early age, left an\norphan. Felix Walker, the Congressional representative from the Western\nNorth Carolina district, had two stores, one at Waynesville and one in\nthe Indian country, on Soco, in which latter store young Thomas was\nplaced as clerk. Most of the customers being Indians, he soon learned to\nspeak and write Cherokee. These linguistic attainments made him\ninvaluable to the tribe for the transaction of public and private\nbusiness. Younaguska (Drowning Bear), the reigning chief, adopted the\nlad into his family and tribe, and gave him entire clerical charge of\npublic affairs.\n\nThe chief, Younaguska, was an extraordinary Indian. He was acute,\nvigorous, and determined; qualities which made him both respected and\nfeared by his people. He knew how to control their weaknesses and use\ntheir superstitions.\n\nThe Cherokees, like all Indians who come in contact with the whites,\nbecame intemperate. Younaguska, though himself addicted to the use of\nwhisky to excess, determined upon a reformation of his people. He sank\ninto a trance, so heavy that the whole town supposed him to be dead,\nthough some signs of life remained. Anxiously they watched and waited\nfor fifteen days, when it was determined to perform the funeral rites\naccording to their ancient usages. The tribe assembled. The plaintive\nnotes of the funeral song began to mingle with the roll of the Lufty.\nThey marched and counter-marched, 1,200 of them, around the prostrate\nbody of their chief. Then came a sudden pause and fright, for the dead\nhad returned to life! An old familiar voice was summoning their\nattention. He spoke with deep feeling, telling his people that he had\nbeen in a trance; that he had communed with the great spirit; that his\nlong service for his people was not yet ended; he was to remain with\nthem as many years as he had been days in the \u201chappy hunting ground.\u201d\n\nHaving thus given to his speech the authority of inspiration, he\nproceeded to tell them that he had served them upwards of 40 years\nwithout any pecuniary consideration whatever. His sole aim had been to\npromote their good. Their happiness in the future was his chief concern.\nHe was convinced that intemperance was the cause of the extermination of\nthe Indian tribes who lived in contact with the whites. As an example\nhe referred to the previous and present condition of the Catawbas, with\nwhom they were acquainted. He deplored the scenes of dissipation so\ncommon among his own people, and closed by directing Mr. Thomas, from\nwhom this account has been derived, to write the following pledge: \u201cThe\nundersigned Cherokees, belonging to the town of Qualla, agree to abandon\nthe use of spirituous liquors.\u201d The old chief signed first and was\nfollowed by the whole town. This pledge was enforced with the rigor of a\nwritten law, its violation in every instance being punished at the\npublic whipping post. Younaguska expressed pleasure in the knowledge\nthat his people confided in him. He advised them to remain where they\nwere, in North Carolina, a State more friendly and better disposed\ntoward the red man than any other. Should they remove west they would\nthere too soon be surrounded by the whites and perhaps included in a\nState disposed to oppress them.\n\nYounaguska\u2019s influence over them was well nigh omnipotent, and was\nexerted uniformly with a view to their improvement. Colonel Thomas,\nwhose acquaintance with public men was extensive, has declared that this\nold Indian was the intellectual peer of John C. Calhoun. There is\ncertainly a place in history for the individual, whatever be his race,\nwho can elevate a band of warriors and hunters into a community of\nagriculturists, capable of raising their own food and manufacturing\ntheir own clothing.\n\nBefore Younaguska died he assembled his people and publicly willed the\nchieftainship to his clerk, friend and adopted son, W. H. Thomas, whom\nhe commended as worthy of respect and whom he adjured them to obey as\nthey had obeyed him. He was going to the home provided for him by the\ngreat spirit; he would always keep watch over his people and would be\ngrieved to see any of them disobey the new chief he had chosen to rule\nover them. It was therefore under the most auspicious circumstances\nthat Colonel Thomas became chief of the Eastern Band of the Cherokees.\nHe had been with them long enough to know their character. He made\nhimself absolute in everything, and required the strictest obedience. He\nkept constantly in their minds the injunction of Younaguska, and warned\nthem at every critical juncture of the danger of incurring the\ndispleasure of the spirit of their old chief. Councils were held\naccording to the ancient usages of the tribe, but they did little more\nthan confirm the transactions of the chief.\n\nColonel Thomas, as provided by the treaty of 1835, used the funds of the\nIndians in the purchase of homes. He provided for their education and\nencouraged religious exercises among them. When the war broke out he led\nfour companies into the Confederate army. They showed capacity for\ndiscipline and were not wanting in courage; but like a great many of\nthese highlanders, they had no interest in the cause, and employed the\nfirst opportunity to desert, some of them joining the Federal army and\nmany finding their mountain homes. During the war the tribe\u2019s internal\naffairs were in chaos, its councils were without a head, and its members\nlapsed into dissipation and laziness. The ban of an adverse fatality\nseemed to rest over these unfortunate pilgrims on their way from\nbarbarism to civilization.\n\nTheir chief was stricken with nervous disease when his services were\nmost needed, and years of confusion and imposition followed. There were\nrival pretenders to the chieftainship, who divided the band into\nfactions and threatened at one time a contest at arms. The animus of\nthis whole affair was the avarice of several white adventurers who were\nseeking to control the business of the tribe in order to get into their\nown hands the claims due the Indians from the United States. Even under\nsuch circumstances these people demonstrated their capacity for self\ngovernment. One of the contestants, whose English name was John Ross,\nwas forced to abandon his pretensions, and Lloyd Welsh, his competitor,\nsoon after died. A written constitution had in the meantime been\nadopted, which is still in force. Nimrod Jarrett Smith, an intelligent\nand educated member of the tribe, was elected by popular vote to the\nchieftainship for the term of four years, and has since been re-elected.\n\nThe Eastern Band of Cherokees have title in fee simple to 50,000 acres\nof land on the Ocona Lufta and Soco creek, known as the Qualla boundary.\nA few small tracts belonging to individual Indians are included. Besides\nthis boundary, there are belonging to the band and individuals 1,521\nacres in detached tracts lying in the counties of Cherokee, Graham,\nJackson, and Swain. According to the census of 1880, there were living\nin the Qualla reserve, 825; in Cherokee county, 83; in Graham county,\n189, and in Macon county, 12, making a total of 1,109. This number is\nten per cent. less than in 1870. The Graham county Indians live along\nthe head branches of the Cheowah, those in Cherokee county on Valley\nriver.\n\nThe Indians have no towns, nor does their manner of life differ in many\nparticulars from that of the white people among whom they reside. A\nstranger, unless he sees the inmates, does not distinguish an Indian\ncabin from a white man\u2019s, nor, with few exceptions, an Indian\u2019s little\ncove farm from one of its class cultivated by a white man.\n\nThe valley of Soco is the locality of densest Indian population. The\nfields, originally of average fertility, are worn out by bad farming.\nThere is an abundance of fruit--apples, peaches and plums. The\npredominant crop is corn, which is reduced to meal by the simple little\nmills common to the mountain country. Small herds of ponies are\nfrequently seen by the wayside. These, and a few cattle, are the main\nsources of revenue upon which the people rely for what money they need.\nTaxes and expenses incident to their government, including schools is\nthe extent of cash demands made upon them. They manufacture their own\nclothing. The primitive dress of the warriors and hunters consisted of\ndeer skin leggins and moccasins, a highly colored shirt, and a kind of\nturban ornamented with feathers. The moccasins alone survive, the dress\nof an Indian in all other respects being like that of his white\nneighbor. The Cherokee women of the present generation are unattractive.\nSome of the young children who attend school are clean and neat in\nperson and dress, which is more than can be said of many of the mothers.\nThe women are seldom seen upon the road without burdens, though the men\nrarely carry anything. The lower valley of the Soco is barren of scenic\ninterest, yet these metamorphosed representatives of a primitive\npopulation cannot fail to occupy the attention of the tourist. You may\nbe interested in some of the details of our trip from the mouth of the\nOcona Lufta to Soco gap.\n\n[Illustration: A SOCO LASS]\n\nThe loquacious innkeeper at Charleston started us off with a comfortable\nbreakfast and the information that the distance to Yellow Hill, the\nresidence of Chief Smith and Cherokee seat of government, was about\neleven miles, and from there to Waynesville, through Soco gap, was\ntwenty-five. Two hours\u2019 ride through the sandy, but well cultivated\nvalley of the Tuckasege brought us to the Ocona Lufta. From this point\nthe road follows the general course of the stream, but, avoiding its\ncurves, is at places so far away that the roar of the rapids sounds\nlike the distant approach of a storm. At places the road is almost\ncrowded into the river by the stern approach of precipices, and then\nagain they separate while crossing broad, green, undulating bottoms.\nOvertaking an old squaw and a girl probably ten years old, we inquired\nthe distance to Yellow Hill. The old woman shook her head and gave us an\nexpressionless look, indicating that she did not understand. The girl in\ngood English gave us intelligible directions. We learned subsequently\nthat nearly all the Cherokee children can speak and write English. Many\nof the old folks can understand our language, but will not admit it. I\nbegan asking some questions of a stoop-shouldered, heavy-set fellow\nabout the country. He stood dumb, but when I told him I wanted to buy a\nfew peaches his eye brightened, and the words \u201cHow many?\u201d were\ndistinctly uttered.\n\nWe arrived at Yellow Hill about 11 o\u2019clock. Chief Smith resides in a\ncomfortable house of four rooms, situated on top of an elevation in the\nmidst of a plain of considerable extent. In an open yard near the house\nis a frame building used for a school-house, meeting-house, and\ncouncil-house. We found Chief Smith in his residence, writing at a table\ncovered with books, pamphlets, letters, and manuscripts. The room is\nneatly papered and comfortably furnished. The chief received us with\ncordiality. He was dressed in white starched shirt, with collar and\ncuffs, Prince Albert coat, well-fitting black pantaloons, and calf-skin\nboots shining like ebony. He is more than six feet tall, straight as a\nplumb line, and rather slender. His features are rough and prominent.\nHis forehead is full but not high, and his thick, black hair, combed to\nperfect smoothness, hung down behind large protruding ears, almost to\nthe coat collar. He has a deep, full-toned voice, and earnest,\nimpressive manner. His wife is a white woman, and his daughters, bright,\nintelligent girls, have been well-educated. One of them was operating a\nsewing-machine, another writing for her father.\n\nUnder the present constitution the chief\u2019s term of office is four years.\nHis salary is $500 a year, and $4 a day additional when on business in\nWashington. No one but a Cherokee of more than 35 years of age is\neligible to the chieftainship. There is an assistant chief who receives\n$250 yearly. He is one of the council, and in the absence of the chief\nperforms his duties. There are in addition three executive advisers. The\ncouncil consists of two delegates to every 100 persons. It is presided\nover by the chief, who has the veto power, but who is not at liberty to\nact in any matter of public policy without the authority of the council.\nEvery male Indian over sixteen years old, and every white man who has an\nIndian wife, is allowed to vote. No one is eligible to office who has\never aided and abetted, or in any way joined the whites in defrauding\nthe tribe; neither can any one hold office who denies the being of a\nGod, or of a future state of rewards and punishments. There is general\nsatisfaction with the present government, and Mr. Smith declares there\nis entire loyalty in all the settlements.\n\nA public school is maintained, and even the old and middle-aged are\nbetter educated than the whites in many communities. The young are\ntaught in both Cherokee and English. It is unfortunate that no public\nfund is provided for the advanced education of the more intelligent of\nthem, that they might become teachers. Others should be placed in shops\nwhere they would become artisans. Finely engraved pipes, ornaments, and\nwell made baskets show their capacity in this direction. Their industry\nat present is not commendable.\n\nThe christianization of the Cherokees was begun in 1801, by Moravian\nmissionaries. It was easy to adapt their old faith to the new creed, and\nmany were converted. Other churches have since taken up the work,\nBaptists deserving the most credit, and next to them the Methodists.\nThey are naturally devout, and most of them are in regular communion\nwith the church, thereby imposing marriage laws and other social\nregulations. Christianity has strengthened and solemnized the marriage\ntie, which in the prouder but more barbarous condition of the tribe was\na very weak relation. Boys used to choose their wives at sixteen to\neighteen years of age, live with them a few years and then abandon them\nand their families. It not unfrequently happened that after rioting with\nstrange women for a period, they came back to their first choice, unless\ntheir places had been taken by others. Prostitution was common, though\nconsidered the most disgraceful of crimes, and punished by shearing the\nhead. This punishment has been discontinued. Although there has been a\nhealthy change in social morals there is room for improvement.\n\nRigid seriousness is a marked element of Indian character, and is\nwritten in unmistakable lines upon their faces. The Cherokee language is\nnot capable of expressing a witticism, and anything like a joke is\nforeign to their nature. They have a great many so-called dances, but\nnone of them, like the dance of the negro, is the effervescence of\nirrepressible joy. The Indian dances as a preparation for some coming\nevent; he never celebrates. It seems to be a legacy of his heathen ideas\nof making sacrifice to the great spirit, apparently involving much\npainful labor. In the primitive days the whole tribe danced before\nmaking war, and the warriors danced before going into battle. It is\nstill their custom to go through these melancholy perambulations before\nevery contest of strength, such as a game of ball or a wrestling match.\nThe funeral dance and the wedding dance are performed with the same\nstern immobility of features.\n\nFrom Yellow Hill our party started to Qualla post-office, a collection\nof a half-dozen unattractive houses, inhabited by whites, but at one\ntime the council house of the band. The Ocona Lufta crossed our path at\nthe beginning. The purity of the stream seemed to forbid the intrusion\nof a dirty hoof, but there was no time to indulge sentiment. The ford is\nshallow, and angles down stream. My horse mistook a canoe landing,\nalmost opposite, for his place of destination, his rider\u2019s attention\nbeing absorbed in the blocks of many colored granite and transparent\ncrystals of quartz, which form the bottom pavement. Three-fourths way\nacross, the water was smooth and touched the horse\u2019s neck. Another\nlength, a plunge, and the horse was swimming; still the lustrous bottom\nshone with undiminished distinctness.\n\nOn our way through Quallatown to Soco creek, we passed numerous\nwayfarers carrying corn, fruit, baskets, and babies. One woman had a\nbushel of corn tied in a sack around her waist, a basket of apples on\nher head, and a baby in her arms. A slouchy man was walking at her side\nempty-handed and scolding, probably because she was unable to carry him.\nUnder a peach tree before a cabin stood a witch-like squaw and half a\ndozen unattractive children. \u201cIs this the Soco road?\u201d was asked.\n\u201cSatula\u201d issued from her grim old mouth, and her finger pointed at the\npeaches.\n\n\u201cNo, Soco; is this Soco?\u201d nervously urged our companion, pointing up the\nstream.\n\n\u201cUh,\u201d she grunted out, and handed him one peach, from which we inferred\nthat \u201csoco\u201d means \u201cone.\u201d A white woman in the vicinity confirmed our\nguess, and told us that \u201csatula\u201d is equivalent to the phrase \u201cdo you\nwant it?\u201d\n\nPause, and look at an \u201cIndian maiden\u201d by the road side. We did. Who,\nthat has read Longfellow, and Cooper, and Irving, could pass without\nlooking? She certainly could not have been the inspiration of\nLongfellow\u2019s Hiawatha. She stands, in my recollection, with fishing rod\nin hand--about five feet tall, and 140 pounds in weight. Black, coarse,\nknotted hair hangs down her back to the waist. Under her low forehead is\na pair of large, black eyes, which, unfortunately, are devoid of\nexpression. Her cheek bones are wider than her forehead and almost touch\nthe level of her eyes. A flat nose, straight mouth, and small ears,\ncomplete the physiognomy which showed no sign of thinking. Her neck is\nshort and thick, and her shoulders broader than her broad hips. Her\nwaist is almost manly. A gown of homespun, patched and dirty, half\nconceals her knees. With a glance at a large, but clumsy, pair of\nankles, and flat feet, we pass on out of the Indian settlement along the\nrapids of Soco. We had not been approached by a beggar, or asked to buy\na penny worth of anything during the whole day.\n\nThe scenery along the torrents of Soco creek, down the western slope of\nthe Balsams, rivals in variety and picturesque effect that of any place\nin the Appalachians. There are no grand chasms, nor grand cascades.\nThere is nothing, indeed, which calls for superlative adjectives,\nunless, possibly, we except the immensity of the trees, the unbroken\ncarpeting of moss, and the perfect grace of tall ferns. There is, in the\ncurves of the torrent, as it bounds over precipices and down rapids,\ncompelling us to cross its noisy channel at least twenty times; in the\nconformation of the glens through which we rode; in the massiveness and\ntowering height of the great chain, up whose side we were climbing; in\nthe white fragments of rock, which reflect the sun light from the\nstream\u2019s channel and the highway; in the rounded cliffs, so modest that\nthey keep themselves perpetually robed in a seamless vesture of moss; in\nthe ferns, the shrubs, the trees, in the absolute solitude and\nloneliness of the place,--there is something so complex in its effect\nupon the interested student of nature that he is unwearied by the two\nhours and a half required to make the ascent.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT PISGAH.\n\nWest Asheville in the Foreground.]\n\n\n\n\nIN THE HAUNTS OF THE BLACK BEAR.\n\n                  The bear, with shaggy hide\n    Red-stained from blood of slaughtered swine, at night\n    Slain by him on the mountain\u2019s lower side,\n                  Roused by the breaking light,\n                  Comes growling to his lair.\n    Distant, the baying of an eager pack,\n    Like chiming bells, sweeps thro\u2019 the chilly air\n                  Above the scented track.\n\n\n[Illustration: T]he black bear, native to North America, still exists in\nlarge numbers on the wildest ranges of the southern mountains. The work\nof extermination pursued by hunter and trapper proceed more slowly\nagainst him than against his fellow inhabitant of the wilderness--the\ndeer, in which every faint halloo of mountaineer, or distant bay of the\nhounds, strikes terror; and whose superior fleetness of limb only serves\nto carry him to the open river--his slaughter ground.\n\nBruin\u2019s usual haunts are in those melancholy forests which hood the\nheads of the Black, Smoky, and Balsam ranges, and deck a few summits of\nthe Blue Ridge, resorted to either from liking, or to avoid his enemies;\nand it is only when pushed by hunger or when his tooth has become\ndepraved by a bait of hog, taken during one of these starving periods,\nthat he appears on the lower slopes or in the cultivated valleys.\nHowever, there are some localities, much lower than those mantled by\nthe fir forests, where the black bear still roams. In some sections of\nthe lower French Broad he is occasionally seen. The region of the Great\nHog-back, Whiteside, Satoola, and Short-off, afford some sport in this\nline for the hunter; while among the Nantihalas frequent successful\nhunts are undertaken.\n\nFor bear-driving in the Black mountains, the best place for a stranger\nwho really wishes to kill a bear, and who feels himself equal to so\narduous a tramp, is \u201cBig Tom\u201d Wilson\u2019s, on Cane river. To reach it, you\ntake the stage from Asheville to Burnsville, and then ride or walk from\nthe village 15 miles to the home of the old hunter. He is familiar with\nevery part of the mountains. He it was that discovered the body of\nProfessor Mitchell. Another good starting point would be from some cabin\non the Toe river side, reaching it by leaving the main traveled road at\na point, shown you by the native, between Burnsville and Bakersville. A\nstart might be made on the Swannanoa side; but the guides close at the\nbase of the mountains have become perverted by too much travel from\nabroad, and will show more anxiety about securing pay for their\naccommodations and services than interest in driving up a bear. Judging,\nhowever, from the number of traps set in the latter locality, one would\nform the idea that bears pay frequent visits to the cornfields.\n\nFor a drive in the Smoky mountains, read the sketch on deer hunting. The\nregion of the Cataluche, 22 miles north of Waynesville, is an excellent\nplace to visit. The log-cabin of Tyre McCall on the head-waters of the\nFrench Broad, and near Brevard, would afford fair headquarters for him\nwho wished to rough it. Deer and bear roam on the Tennessee Bald within\nfive miles of the cabin. Tyre is a horny-handed but hospitable host, and\nwould hunt with you in earnest.\n\nIn the Nantihalas, Alexander Mundy\u2019s is the point from which to start\non a bear hunt. Further into the wilderness, on the far boundary of\nGraham county, rise the Santeelah and Tellico mountains. At Robbinsville\ninformation can be obtained regarding the best hunter with whom to\nremain for a week\u2019s sport.\n\nWith this slight introduction, the writer proposes to convey to the\nreader some idea of what bear hunting in the heart of the Alleghanies is\nlike; what one must expect to encounter, and what sort of friends he is\nlikely to make on such expeditions. Besides the usual equipments carried\nby every hunter, it would be well to take a rubber blanket and have the\nguide carry an ax.\n\nIt was one night about the 1st of December that we were in camp; eight\nof us, huddled together under a low bark roof, and within three frail\nsides of like material. Around the camp lay seventeen dogs. The ground\nbeneath us was cold and bare, except for a thin layer of ferns lately\nbundled in by some of the party. Before the front of the shelter, lay a\ngreat fire of heavy logs, heaped close enough for a long-legged sleeper\nto stick his feet in, while his head rested on the bolster log. The hot\nflames, fanned by a strong wind, leaped high and struggled up into the\ndarkness. On long sticks, several of the group were toasting chunks of\nfat pork; others were attending to black tin pails of water boiling for\ncoffee, while the remaining few were eating lunches already prepared.\nThe wood crackled, and occasionally the unseasoned chestnut timber\nsnapped, sending out showers of sparks. Around and within the circle of\nfire-light, stood the trees with stripped, gaunt limbs swaying in the\nwind. Above, clouds rolled darkly, concealing the face of the sky.\n\nThe temporary camp of a party of mountaineers on the hunt for Bruin, as\nviewed by night, presents a scene of unique interest. It is a shelter\nonly for the time being; no one expects to return to it, for by the\nfollowing night the hounds may be 20 miles away, and the drivers and\nstanders toasting bear steaks in their cabins, or encamping on some\ndistant height preparatory to resuming on the morrow the chase of a\nbruin who had through one day eluded their pursuit. The mountain\nstraggler often sees by the trail which he follows, the ashes and\nscattered black brands of an extinguished fire, and the poles and birch\nbark of an abandoned camp. At this view he imagines he has some idea of\na hunter\u2019s camp; but it is like the conception of the taste of an oyster\nfrom a sight of the empty shell.\n\nSituated as above described, we were improving an opportunity afforded\nfor devouring the whole oyster. Our encampment was on Old Bald; not the\nfamous shaking mountain, but of the Balsams, eight miles south of\nWaynesville. A few days previous, a denizen of Caney Fork, while\ncrossing the mountain by the new dug road, came face to face with a\nblack bear, gray about the nose and ears, and of enormous size, as he\nsaid. Did you ever hear a tale where the bear was not of size too large\nto swallow? The denizen of the valley had no fire-arms with him, so\nboth, equally frightened, stood staring at each other, until the denizen\nof the mountain shuffled into the beech woods. This report considerably\ninterested the Richland settlers. They laid their plans for an early\nhunt, and had them prematurely hatched by information brought in by the\nhighest log-chopper on the creek, that his yard had been entered the\nlast past night by some \u201cvarmint,\u201d and a fine hundred-pound hog\n(otherwise known as a mountain shad) killed and eaten within the\npig-pen. The log-chopper had followed the trail for some distance, but\nwithout avail.\n\nThat same afternoon our party climbed the mountain by an old\nbridle-path, arriving just before sunset at a place admirably suited for\na camp. Two steep ridges, descending from the main mountain top, hold\nbetween them the channel of a sparkling brook. Its water is crystal in\nclearness and icy cold. The wood, principally beech, is green with\ncasings of moss, and the cold rocks in the brook\u2019s bed and on the slopes\nabove it are covered with a like growth. Where the trail enters the\nwater the ground is level on one bank, and here we decided to kindle our\nfire, and, as the air was quite chilly, bearing indications of a storm,\nto erect a light shelter.\n\nDry leaves and twigs make excellent tinder for a flint\u2019s spark to settle\nand blaze in, and enough seasoned logs, bark, and limbs always lie\nscattered through this forest to afford campfires. Our\u2019s was soon\nflaming. The loosened bark of a fallen beech furnished us the material\nfor the roof and sides of a shelter, which we built up on four forked\nlimbs driven into the ground and covered with long poles. It was secured\nagainst wind assaults by braces.\n\nNear where we encamped, and below on the Beech Flats, stand trees as\nstately and magnificent as any ever touched by woodman\u2019s ax. We noticed\nseveral cherries measuring four and a half feet through, and towering,\nstraight as masts, 70 feet before shooting out a limb; poplars as erect\nand tall to their lower branches and of still greater diameter;\nchestnuts from 15 to 33 feet in circumference, and thousands of sound,\nlofty linns, ashes, buckeyes, oaks, and sugar maples. A few hemlocks\nconsiderably exceed 100 feet in height. A tree called the wahoo, grows\nhere as well as on many of the ranges. It bears a white lily-shaped\nflower in the summer. Numerous cucumber trees are scattered on the\nslopes. These with the beech, water birch, black birch or mountain\nmahogany, black gum, red maple, and hickory, form the forests from the\nmountain bases to the line of the balsams. On the Beech Flats there is\nno underbrush, except where the rhododendron hedges the purling streams.\nIn places the plain path, the stately trees, and the level or sloping\nground, covered only with the mouldering leaves of autumn, form parks\nmore magnificent than those kept in trim by other hands than nature\u2019s.\n\nThe best hounds, known as the \u201cleaders,\u201d were fastened to poles stuck in\nthe ground at the corners of our lodge. This was done to prevent them\nstarting off during the night on the trail of a wolf, raccoon, or\nwildcat, thereby exhausting themselves for the contemplated bear hunt.\nThe rest of the pack were either standing around, looking absently into\nthe fire, or had already stretched themselves out in close proximity to\nit.\n\n\u201cThe way them curs crawl up to the blaze,\u201d said Wid Medford, \u201cis a shore\nsign thet hits goin\u2019 ter be cold nuff ter snow afore mornin\u2019.\u201d\n\nNo one disputed his assertion, and so, relative to this subject, he spun\na story of how one of his hounds, one night many years since, had crept\nso close to the camp fire that all of his hair on one side was burnt\noff, and Wid awoke to detect the peculiar scent and to feel the first\nflakes of a snow storm that fell three feet deep before daylight. As\nthough this story needed something to brace it up, Wid continued:\n\u201cWhatever I talk of as facts, you kin count on as true as Scriptur.\u201d\n\nIsrael Medford, nicknamed Wid, the master-hunter of the Balsam range, is\na singular character, and a good representative of an old class of\nmountaineers, who, reared in the wilderness, still spend most of their\ntime in hunting and fishing. He possesses a standard type of common\nsense; an abundance of native wit, unstrengthened by even the slightest\n\u201cbook-larnin\u2019;\u201d is a close observer, a perfect mimic, and a shrewd judge\nof character. His reputation as a talker is wide-spread; and, talking to\nthe point, he commands the closest attention. His conversation abounds\nin similes; and, drawn as they are from his own observation, they are\nalways striking. He is now sixty-five years old, and has been all his\nlife a resident of Haywood county.\n\nThat night as he sat cross-legged close to the fire, turning in the\nflames a stick with a slice of fat pork on it, with his broad-brimmed\nhat thrown on the ground, fully exposing his thick, straight, gray\nlocks, and clear, ruddy, hatchet-shaped face, bare but for a red\nmustache, lighted up with youthful animation, he kept shaking the index\nfinger of his right hand, while in his talk he jumped from one subject\nto another with as much alacrity as his bow legs might carry him over\nthe mountains.\n\n\u201cWhat I don\u2019t know about these mountings,\u201d said he, directing his keen\nblue eyes upon one member of the group, \u201chaint of enny profit to man or\ndevil. Why, I\u2019ve fit bars from the Dark Ridge kentry to the headwaters\nof the French Broad. I\u2019ve brogued it through every briar patch an\u2019\nlaurel thicket, an\u2019 haint I bin with Guyot, Sandoz, Grand Pierre, and\nClingman over every peak from hyar to the South Caroliny an\u2019 Georgy\nlines? Say?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean by \u2018brogued it\u2019?\u201d was asked.\n\n\u201cCrawled, thets what hit means; just as you\u2019d hev to do ef you perused\nevery pint o\u2019 the mountings; ef you went through Hell\u2019s Half Acre; ef\nyou slid down the Shinies, or clim the Chimbleys.\u201d\n\n\u201cHit\u2019s rough thar,\u201d remarked a broad-shouldered, heavy-mustached young\nfellow, named Allen.\n\n\u201cRough?\u201d resumed Wid, \u201cwal, I reckon hit is.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut a man can git in rough places right on this slope, can\u2019t he?\u201d some\none inquired.\n\n\u201cIn course,\u201d remarked another hunter, \u201cWid, you cum powerful nigh\npeeterin\u2019 out nigh hyar, wunct, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Wid, now devoting his attention partly to a boiling pot of\ncoffee, \u201cThet day war a tough un. Hit war a hot summer day. We,--thet\nis, Bill Massey who\u2019s awmost blind now, Bill Allen who gin up huntin\u2019\nlong ye\u2019rs ago, my brother El, me, an\u2019 sev\u2019ral others,--we started a bar\non the Jackson county line nigh Scotts creek in the mornin\u2019. We driv\ntill arter-noon, an\u2019 in the chase I got below hyar. I heered the dogs up\non Ole Bald, an\u2019 abearin\u2019 down the ridge-top I was on. Powerful soon I\nseed the bar comin\u2019 on a dog-trot under the trees. He war a master\nbrute!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow big, Wid?\u201d\n\n\u201cFour-hunderd an\u2019 fifty pound, net. Thinks me to myself, \u2018Gun fust,\nknife next\u2019; fer, you see, I war clean played out with the heat and long\nrun, an\u2019 I war in favor o\u2019 bringin\u2019 the thing to a close; so I brought\nmy ole flint-lock to my shoul\u2019er. This is the very gun I hed then,\u201d and\nhe tapped the battered stock of a six-foot, black-barreled, flint-lock\nrifle.\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t hev your cap arrangements. This kind never misses fire; an\u2019\nrain never teches hit, fer this \u2019ere kiver, ter put over the pan, keeps\nhit as dry as a tarripin hull.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on with the story,\u201d exclaimed an interested auditor.\n\n\u201cJist tend ter brilin\u2019 your bacon, Jonas, an\u2019 let me travel ter suit my\nown legs. I fetched my gun to my shoul\u2019er an\u2019 fired. The brute never\nstopped, but I knowed I\u2019d hit him, for I hed a dead sight on his head;\nan\u2019, like blockade whisky, a ball outer thet black bore allus goes to\nthe spot. He\u2019s a thick-skulled varmint, I thought. I dropped my gun, an\u2019\npulled my knife. On he cum. He didn\u2019t pay no more tenshun to me then ef\nI\u2019d bin a rock. I drew back a step, an\u2019 as he brashed by me, I bent over\nhim, grabbin\u2019 the ha\u2019r o\u2019 his neck with one hand, an\u2019 staubed him deep\nin the side with the knife in the other. Thet\u2019s all I knowed for hours.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you faint?\u201d some one asked.\n\n\u201cFaint?\u201d sneered Wid, sticking out his square chin and showing his\nteeth. \u201cYou ass! You don\u2019t reckon I faint, do you? Women faint. I fell\ndead! You see all the blood in me jumped over my heart into my head, an\u2019\nov course hit finished me fer a time.\u201d\n\n\u201cA dead faint,\u201d was suggested.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t like thet word, stranger. But, the boys an\u2019 dogs cum on me a\nsecond arter. Bill Allen cut my veins an\u2019 in a short time I cum round,\nbut I war sick fer a week.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about the bear?\u201d\n\n\u201cHit lay dead by the branch below, staubed clean through the heart.\u201d\n\nBefore the story ended, a noise like thunder came rolling to us through\nthe forests. Owing to the strange time of the year for a thunder storm,\nwe were slow in realizing that one was brooding, but repeated peals and\nlong rumbling echoes, preceded by vivid flashes of light in the northern\nsky, soon convinced us of this fact. The wind changed, grew stronger,\nand soughed dismally through the trees. Rain began pattering on the bark\nroof: it came in slight showers, ceasing with each gust and flaw, then\ndescending in torrents. The fire grew fiercer under these attempts to\nsmother it, and with the shifting of the wind, much to our discomfiture,\nsmoke and sparks were driven under the roof. Occasionally, a strong\nblast would make us draw up our feet as the flames, leveled to the\nground, whirled in on us.\n\nThe situation became unendurable, and in a lull of the storm we crawled\nout in the open air; tore down our camp, and changed it around with its\nback wall towards the wind. This occupied but a few minutes, and we were\nsoon ensconced again. It was a wretched night. We lay tight together,\nlike spoons, the six middle men being well protected from cold, but not\nfrom leaks in the roof. The two end men fared less comfortably with one\nside exposed. No one slept unless it was the gray-headed Medford,\nhardened by 1001 nights of like experience. The rain ceased before\nmorning, but the temperature was considerably below the freezing point,\nand icicles had formed on the end of the roof fartherest from the fire.\nAll night we had shifted and changed our positions, and the gray light\nof dawn found us in the ashes, seemingly close enough to the fire to\nblister our faces, suffering in martyr-like submission with smoke in our\neyes and backs cold.\n\nI never saw a man with a good appetite for breakfast after a night of\nwakefulness beside a camp fire. After a long tramp, you can eat the\nroughest food with relish, but there is nothing tempting about hot\ncoffee without sugar and cream, dry cornbread and fat meat, in the\nashes, on a cold, raw morning before the stars have paled in the sky.\nHowever, on the unpleasant prospect of seven hours elapsing before\nanother snack, on this occasion we did stuff down some solid food, and\ndrank copiously of the coffee.\n\nAt this time an artist, seated at some distance up the brook, would have\nseen a spectacle of striking interest for the subject of a painting. In\nthe center of his canvas he would have placed a huge fire with blaze,\nten feet high; behind it, half hidden by smoke and flame, the outlines\nof a rude shelter; around it, their rugged features brightly lighted up,\na group of shivering mountaineers, some wrapped to their hat rims in\nblankets, others with closely buttoned coats, and all squatting on the\nground or standing leaning on their rifles; the dogs in all imaginable\npostures, either crouched close to the fire, or, outside the human\ncircle, struggling for the possession of a dry crust; the great, mossed\ntrunks of trees springing from the ferny rocks and slopes on which moved\nfantastic shadows. He could have shown the stillness of the air by the\nstraightness of the column of ascending smoke, and the winter chill by\nthe gaunt branches encased in ice. But the sounds of camp life--striking\ncharacteristics of the scene--would have eluded him. No brush could have\nconveyed to the canvas the snarling of the dogs, the laugh of a\nstrong-lunged hunter, or Wid\u2019s startling imitation of the hoot of the\nowl, awakening the echoes of the gorges and responses from the\nnight-bird just repairing to his roost.\n\nWe ascended Old Bald by a trail termed the \u201cwinds.\u201d It was icy\nunderfoot, and some of the party had severe falls before we issued, from\nthe dwarf beeches, upon the bare backbone of the range. Although no\nbreeze was stirring that morning on the north side of the mountain, a\nbitter, winter blast was sweeping the summit. It cut through our\nclothing like wizard, sharp-edged knives that left no traces except the\ntingling skin. This blast had chased off every cloud, leaving clear,\nindigo-blue depths for the sun, just lifting over Cold Spring mountain,\nto ride through. As we reached the bare, culminating point of the narrow\nridge between Old Bald and Lone Balsam, the sun had cleared himself from\nthe mountain tops; and, red and round, doubly increased in size, he was\nshedding his splendor on a scene unsurpassed in beauty and wild\nsublimity. The night rain, turning to sleet on the summits of the\nmountains, had encased the black balsam forests, covering the Spruce\nRidge and Great Divide, in armors of ice. They glistened like hills and\npinnacles of silver in the sunlight. Below the edges of these iced\nforests, stood the deciduous trees of the mountains, brown and bare. No\ntraces of the storm clung to them. The hemlocks along the head-prongs of\nthe Richland were green and dark under the shadows of the steep\ndeclivities. No clouds were clinging to the streams through the valleys,\nand visible in all the glory of the frosty morn, lay the vale of the\nRichland, with its stream winding through it like an endless silver\nribbon. The white houses of Waynesville were shining in the sunlight\npouring through the gap towards the Pigeon. No smoke was circling above\ntheir roofs. The quiet of night apparently still pervaded the street.\nHigh, and far behind it, rose the mystic, purple heights of the\nNewfound.\n\nOn the side towards the south the scene was different. Mountains are\nhere rolled so closely together that the valleys between them are hidden\nfrom sight. There are no pleasant vales, dotted with clearings or\nanimated by a single column of cabin smoke. No evergreens are to be seen\nbeyond the slope of the Balsams. That December morning the vast ranges\nlooked black and bare under the cutting wind, and far off, 30 miles on a\nbee-line through space, rose Whiteside and its neighboring peaks,\nveritably white from snow mantling their summits.\n\nMedford had been right in his prediction; snow had fallen, but not in\nour immediate vicinity. Before noon, as we had good reasons to believe,\nthe wintry character of the scene would be changed under the influence\nof the sun in an unclouded sky. As we descended into the low gap between\nLone Balsam and the next pinnacle of the Balsams, Ickes, who had started\nin advance, came out in sight, on the ridge top, at a point some\ndistance below us. Just at the moment he appeared, a turkey rose, like a\nbuzzard, out of the winter grass near him, and was about to make good\nits flight for the iced forests beyond, when his gun came to his\nshoulder, a flash and a report succeeded, and the great bird whirled and\nfell straight downward into the firs. The mountaineers yelled with\ndelight. Shot-guns being little used in this section, shooting on the\nwing is an almost unheard of art. Not one of those bear hunters had ever\nseen a shot of like nature, and the unostentatious young sportsman was\nraised to a high notch in their estimation. When we reached him, he had\nalready descended into the grove and returned with his game. It was\nsomewhat bruised, and feathers considerably ruffled from falling through\ntree-tops upon a rocky ground.\n\nA mountain turkey is no small game. This one was a magnificent specimen;\na royal turkey-gobbler, that by stretching his brilliant neck would have\nstood four feet high. Stripped of his green and blue bronzed plumage,\nand prepared for the oven, he weighed 24 pounds. In the neighborhood of\nWaynesville I have bought the same birds about Christmas time for 50\ncents a piece, and the hunter, who, with heavy rifle, had ranged the\ncold mountain top before day-break, and then brought his game eight\nmiles down the winding trail, felt satisfied with this sum (all he had\nasked) as compensation for his labor and skill as a sportsman. Perhaps\nhe weighed the fun of killing the bird on his side of the scales.\n\nWe now reached the edge of the great forests of the balsam\nfirs,--forests which mantle nearly every peak above 6,000 feet in\naltitude in North Carolina. The balsam is one of the most beautiful of\nevergreens. When transplanted, as it is occasionally, to the valleys of\nthis region, it forms an ornamental tree of marked appearance, with its\ndark green, almost black, foliage, its straight, tapering trunk and\nsymmetrical body. In the rich dark soil in some of the lofty mountain\ngaps it attains to a height of 150 feet, and in certain localities\ngrowing so thickly together as to render it almost impossible for the\nhunters to follow the bear through its forests. It is of two sorts,\ndiffering in many particulars, and termed the black and white or male\nand female balsams. Every grove is composed of both black and white\nbalsams, and no single tree is widely separated from its opposite sex.\nThe black balsam has a rougher bark, more ragged limbs, and darker\nfoliage than the white. The latter is more ornamental, with its\nstraight-shooting branches and smooth trunk; it bears blisters\ncontaining an aromatic resinous substance of peculiar medicinal\nproperties. A high price is paid for this balsam of firs, but it seems\nthat the price is not in proportion to the amount of time and labor\nnecessary to be expended in puncturing the blisters for their contents,\nfor very little of it is procured by the mountaineers. It covers every\nhigh pinnacle of the Balsam mountains. On some slopes, however,\nextending only a few hundred yards down from the top before blending,\nand disappearing into the deciduous forests; but on other slopes, like\nthose descending to the west prongs of the Pigeon, it reaches downward\nfor miles from the summit of the mountains, forming the wildest of\nwooded landscapes.\n\nAlthough the observer, from the outer edge of this sombre wood-line,\nfails to see any foliage but that of the balsam, when he enters the\nshadows he discovers a number of trees and shrubs, peculiar to the firs\nforests of the extreme mountain heights. Of the trees indigenous to the\nvalleys, the wild cherry and hawthorn appear to be the only species\ngrowing here. The most ornamental of the trees of the firs forests is\nthe Peruvian, with its smooth, slender trunk, and great branches of\nbrilliant red berries, which appear in the early fall and hang until the\nseverest frosts. Its bark and berries taste like the kernel of a\npeach-pit, and are frequently mixed by the mountaineers in their whisky,\nas a bitters having the flavor of peach brandy. Here also spring the\nservice tree, with its red, eatable berry, ripe in August; the balsam\nhaw, with its pleasant tasting black fruit; the Shawnee haw; the Peru\ntree; the small Indian arrow wood; and thick in some of the most darkly\nshaded localities, hedges of the balsam whortle-berry, a peculiar\nspecies of that bush, bearing in October a jet black berry, juicy and\npalatable, but lacking the sweetness of the common whortle-berry, which\nis also found on heights above 6,000 feet in altitude.\n\nScattered near these hedges, are great thickets of blackberry bushes. It\nis a fortunate thing for the hunters obliged to break through them\n(sometimes for hundreds of yards), that they are singularly free from\nbriers. While the berries are ripe in July in the valleys, these are\ngreen, and it is not until September and October that they become\nmature. The bears grow fat in such gardens. Peruvian berries are a great\ndelicacy for them. That day, on the Spruce Ridge, Wid Medford called my\nattention to a small tree of this kind, no more than four inches through\nat the base, with branches broken on its top about 15 feet from the\nground. Deep scratches of an animal\u2019s claws were visible in the bark. It\nhad been climbed by a bear a month since; and a good-sized bear at that,\njudging from the distance he had reached from where his claws had left\ntheir imprint to the highest broken branch. The wonder was how so heavy\nan animal had climbed a tree so slender.\n\nIn this connection, I had with the old hunter an interesting talk\ncontaining considerable information concerning the habits of the black\nbear. Whatever Wid Medford says on natural history can be accepted as\ntruth gained by him through long years of experience, close observation,\nretained by a good memory, and imparted, as such matters would be,\nwithout any incentive for exaggeration. His quaint vernacular being the\nmost fitting medium for the conveyance of the sense of his remarks, it\nis not necessary to clothe it in the king\u2019s English.\n\n\u201cWid,\u201d I asked, \u201cdo bears sleep all winter?\u201d\n\n\u201cThet calls fer more o\u2019 an answer than a shake or nod o\u2019 the head. Bears\ngo inter winter quarters \u2019tween Christmas an\u2019 New Ye\u2019r. The ole he bats\nfast his eyes an\u2019 never shuffles out till about the fust o\u2019 May. The\nbearing she has cubs in Feb\u2019ry, an\u2019 then she comes out fer water an\u2019\ngoes back till April fust, when she mosies out fer good.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are their winter quarters?\u201d\n\n\u201cCaves, holler trees, or bray-sheaps cut by them and piled high \u2019ginst a\nlog. When they git it high nuff, they dig a tunnel from the furder side\no\u2019 the log, an\u2019 then crawl through an\u2019 under the brashe.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo they quarter together?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sar\u2019ee; every one alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is their condition when they come out?\u201d\n\n\u201cFat as seals.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would be the best time to kill them, wouldn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, but you\u2019d hev to be quick about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn jist a few days they grow ez lean ez a two-acre farmyer\u2019s hoss,\narter corn hez been a dollar an\u2019 a half a bushel fer three month, an\u2019\nroughness can\u2019t be got fer love or money. Jist figger to yerself the\nweight of an animal under sich sarcumstances. The fust thing they eat is\ngrasses, weeds, an\u2019 green stuff fer a physic, an\u2019 hit has a powerful\neffec\u2019 on runnin\u2019 \u2019em down to skin an\u2019 bone. They\u2019re mighty\ntender-footed tho\u2019 when the daylight fust hits \u2019em sq\u2019ar in the eyes,\nan\u2019 hit don\u2019t take long fer the dogs ter git \u2019em ter stan\u2019 an\u2019 fight.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow are their hides in April and May?\u201d\n\n\u201cFine; the ha\u2019r is thick, long, an\u2019 black; but they soon begin ter shed,\nan\u2019 hit\u2019s not till cold weather agin thet they make fit skins fer\ntannin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do they sell at?\u201d\n\n\u201cThree dollars is a fa\u2019r price fer a prime hide.\u201d\n\nIt is a fact worth mentioning, that these same hides are sold at $10,\nand even as high as $15 in the cities.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d I inquired with considerable interest, \u201cwill a black bear attack\na man?\u201d\n\n\u201cHit \u2019pends on sarcumstances. He wouldn\u2019t tech the illest human, \u2019les he\nwar cornered an\u2019 hed to fight his way out, or he war wounded, or hit war\nan ole she with cubs. In sich cases, look out, I say! I memorize one\ntime thet I war in a tight box. Hit war down on Pigeon, whar the laurel\nis too thick fer a covey o\u2019 patridges ter riz from. Thar war one\nstraight trail an\u2019 I war in it. My gun war empty. I heered the dogs\na-comin\u2019 an\u2019 knowed without axin\u2019 thet the bar war afore \u2019em. I never\nhed no objections ter meetin\u2019 a varmint in a squar, stan\u2019-up fight,--his\nnails agin my knife, ye know; so without wunct thinkin\u2019 on gittin\u2019\nouter the way, I retched fer my sticker. The tarnal thing war gone, an\u2019\nthar war me without a weepin\u2019 big enuff to skin a boomer. I run along\nlookin\u2019 at the laurel on both sides, but thar warn\u2019t a place in it fer a\nman ter git even one leg in. Ticklish? You\u2019re sound thar! I didn\u2019t know\nwhat the devil ter do, an\u2019 I got all in a sweat, an\u2019 drawin\u2019 nigher,\nnigher, up the windin\u2019 trail I heerd the varmint comin\u2019. Wal, I drapped\non my elbows an\u2019 knees squar across the narrer path, so narrer thet I\nhed ter hump myself up. I kinder squinted out one side, to see the\npercession, ye know. Hit cum: a big monster brute, with a loose tongue\nhangin\u2019 out, an\u2019 red eyes. He war trottin\u2019 like a stage-hoss. He never\nstopped, even to sniff me, but puttin\u2019 his paws on my back, as tho\u2019 I\nwar a log, he jist leaped over me an\u2019 war out o\u2019 sight in a jerk. The\ndogs war clus on his heels, a snappin\u2019 away, an\u2019 every one o\u2019 \u2019em jumped\nover me as kerless like as him, an\u2019 raced along without ever stoppin\u2019\nter lick ther master\u2019s han\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you like hunting?\u201d I asked, as he finished.\n\n\u201cGood law!\u201d\n\nThat was his sole answer, but with the astounded look on his face, it\nexpressed everything.\n\n\u201cWid, your life has been one long, rough experience. If you had it to\nlive over again, knowing as much as you do now, how would you live?\u201d\n\nAs though the question was one he had thought over again and again,\nwithout hesitating a moment, he laid his hand on my shoulder and said:\n\n\u201cI\u2019d git me a neat woman, an\u2019 go to the wildest kentry in creation, an\u2019\nhunt from the day I was big nuff to tote a rifle-gun, ontil ole age an\u2019\nroomaticks fastened on me.\u201d\n\nJust after shooting the wild turkey we prepared to separate. The hounds\nwere all leashed with ropes and fresh bark straps. Four of the hunters\nheld them in check. This was done to prevent them starting on the track\nof a wild cat or wolf. The Judyculla drive was the first one to be\nundertaken. It is a wild, tumbled forest of balsams, matted laurels and\nbriers, on the south slope of the Spruce Ridge. When a bear is started\nin the valleys, or on the slopes above it, he always climbs the\nmountain, crossing through one of its lowest gaps, and then plunges down\nthe rugged heights into the wilderness lying on the opposite side.\n\nThe stands for the Judyculla drive are on the backbone between the\nSpruce Ridge and the Great Divide. Through some one of them Bruin always\npasses on his way to the waters of Richland creek. The drivers with\nfourteen dogs now descended the ridge, and four of us, designated as\nstanders, with three dogs, entered the forest of balsams. The three dogs\nwere to be held in check by one of the standers, and only to be loosened\nto take up the fresh trail when Bruin should cross, as he might, through\none of the mountain gaps. At fifteen steps one seems to be in the heart\nof the woods. The light, so strongly shed on the open meadows beyond the\noutskirts, is lost; the thickly set trees intercept it and one\u2019s sight\nfrom detecting that an open expanse lies so near.\n\nThe transition from the broad daylight of the meadows to the darkness of\nthe fir forests is not always as sudden. The approach from the Cold\nSpring mountain side is entirely different. For the first few square\nrods the trees--straight, beautiful evergreens--are set widely apart. A\ngreen, closely-cut sward, soft for the foot, covers the rounded mountain\nside. The few rocks lying here are so green and thick-grown with moss\nand lichens that they appear like artificial mounds. Over all broods a\nslumberous silence, unbroken but for the march of the forces of the\nstorm, the tinkling bells of lost cattle, the voice of an occasional\nhunter, the singing of the mountain boomer, or the howl of wolves. It\nseems like a vast cemetery.\n\nAlthough in December, a luxuriant greenness mantled everything, except\nwhere beds of ferns had found root and then faded with the approach of\nautumn, or the yellow leaves of the few scattered hard wood trees lay\nunder foot. The rich, black soil was well grown with that species of\ngrass that dies during the summer and springs up heavy and green in the\nfall. Mosses, with stems and leaves like diminutive ferns, covered every\nledge of rock and crag, and formed for the trail a carpet soft and\nspringy. This trail is as crooked as a rail fence, and as hard to follow\nas it would be to follow closely the convolutions of a rail fence, where\nevery corner had been used as a receptacle for gathered rocks, and left\nfor nature to plant with the hazel and blackberry. It was hard enough to\ncrawl up and down the moss-mantled rocks and cliffs, and over or under\nan occasional giant balsam that, yellow with age, had fallen from its\nown feebleness; but, along the narrow backbone approaching the Great\nDivide, a recent hurricane had spread such devastation in its path as to\nrender walking many times more difficult.\n\nFor two miles, along this sharp ridge, nearly every other tree had been\nwhirled by the storm from its footing. They not only covered the path\nwith their trunks bristling with straight branches; but, instead of\nbeing cut off short, the wind had torn them up by the roots, lifting\nthereby all the soil from the black rocks, and leaving great holes for\nus to descend into, cross and then ascend it was a continual crawl and\nclimb for this distance.\n\nThere were only three stands, and Wid and I, with the three dogs,\noccupied one of these. It was a rather low dip in the ridge. We seated\nourselves on a pile of rocks, upholstered with mosses, making an easy\nand luxurious couch. A gentle hollow sloped down toward where lay the\ntangles of the Judyculla drive. A dense, black forest surrounded us.\nWhere the hollow reached the center line of the ridge it sunk down on\nthe other side rather abruptly toward the Richland. This was the\nwildest front of the mountain. At one point near the stand an observer\ncan look down into what is called the Gulfs. The name is appropriate. It\nis an abyss as black as night. Its depth is fully 2,000, possibly 2,500\nfeet. No stream can be seen. It is one great, impenetrable wilderness.\n\nThe bear-hunters are the only men familiar with these headwaters of the\nRichland. At the foot of the steep, funereal wall lies one spot known as\nHell\u2019s Half-acre. Did you ever notice, in places along the bank of a\nwide woodland river, after a spring flood, the great piles of huge\ndrift-logs, sometimes covering an entire field, and heaped as high as a\nhouse? Hell\u2019s Half-acre is like one of these fields. It is wind and\ntime, however, which bring the trees, loosened from their hold on the\ndizzy heights and craggy slopes, thundering down into this pit.\n\nThe \u201cChimbleys and Shinies,\u201d as called by the mountaineers, form another\nfeature of the region of the Gulfs. The former are walls of rock, either\nbare or overgrown with wild vines and ivy. They take their name from\ntheir resemblance to chimneys as the fogs curl up their faces and away\nfrom their tops. The Shinies are sloping ledges of rock, bare like the\nChimneys, or covered with great thick plats of shrubs, like the\npoisonous hemlock, the rhododendron, and kalmia. Water usually trickles\nover their faces. In winter it freezes, making surfaces that, seen from\na distance, dazzle the eye.\n\nThe trees began to drip as we sat there, and the air grew warm. With\nthis warmth a little life was awakened in the sober and melancholy\nforest. A few snow-birds twittered in the balsams; the malicious\nblue-jay screamed overhead, and robins, now and then, flew through the\nopen space. The most curious noise of these forests is that of the\nboomer, a small red squirrel, native to the Alleghanies. He haunts the\nhemlock-spruce, and the firs, and unlike the gray squirrel, the presence\nof man seems to make him all the more noisy. Perched, at what he\nevidently deems a safe distance, amid the lugubrious evergreen foliage\nof stately balsams, he sings away like the shuttle of a sewing-machine.\nThe unfamiliar traveler would insist that it was a bird thus rendering\nvocal the forest.\n\nWid had been silent for several minutes. Suddenly he laid his hand\nsoftly on my knee, and without saying a word pointed to the dogs. They\nlay at our feet, with ropes round their necks held by the old hunter.\nThree noses were slightly elevated in the air, and the folds of six long\nears turned back. A moment they were this way, then, as a slight breeze\ncame to us from the south, they jumped to their feet, as though\nelectrified, and began whining.\n\n\u201cThar\u2019s suthin\u2019 in the wind,\u201d whispered Wid. \u201cI reckon hits the music o\u2019\nthe pack. Sh----! Listen!\u201d\n\nA minute passed, in which Wid kicked the dogs a dozen times to quiet\nthem, and then we heard a faint bell-like tinkle. The likening of the\nbaying of a pack of hounds to the tinkling of bells is as true in fact\nas it is beautiful in simile. There is every intonation of bells of all\ndescriptions, changing with distance and location. It was a mellow,\ngolden chiming at the beginning; then it grew stronger, stronger, until\nit swung through the air like the deep resonant tones of church bells.\nDid you ever hear it sweeping up a mountain side? It would light with\nanimation the eyes of a man who had never pulled a trigger; but how\nabout the hunter who hears it? He feels all the inspiration of the\nmusic, but mingled with it are thoughts of a practical nature, and a\nsportsman\u2019s kindling ardor to see the \u201cvarmint\u201d that rings the bells.\n\nIt steadily grew louder, coming with every echo right up the wooded\nslope.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re on the trail now, shore,\u201d remarked Wid, \u201can hit-\u2019ll keep the\nbar hoppin\u2019 ter climb this \u2019ere mounting without whoppin\u2019 some o\u2019 \u2019em\noff. I reckon I\u2019d better unlimber my gun.\u201d\n\nSuiting the action to the word, the old hunter laid his flintlock rifle\nacross his knees, and with deliberation fixed the priming anew in the\npan. As he did so, he kept talking; \u201cHark sharp, an\u2019 you kin hear my\nslut\u2019s voice like a cow-bell. She\u2019s the hound fer ye tho\u2019. Her legs are\nshort, her tail stubby an\u2019 her hide yaller, but thar\u2019s no pearter hound\nin the kentry.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre they likely to wind and overtake the bear coming up the mountain?\u201d\nI asked.\n\n\u201cYes, sar; a dog travels the faster comin\u2019 up hill, but when wunst the\nvarmint turns ter go down hill, the pack mought ez well try ter ketch a\nlocomotion an\u2019 keers. I\u2019ve heered tell thet them things go sixty mile an\nhour. Wal, a bar is trumps goin\u2019 down hill. They don\u2019t stop fer nuthin\u2019.\nThey go down pricipises head-fust, rollin\u2019 an\u2019 jumpin\u2019. Now a dog hez to\npick his way in sich places.\u201d\n\nWe waited; the baying was bearing towards the east below us. Then it\nseemed ascending. An expression of astonishment spread over Wid\u2019s face.\n\u201cHits cur\u2019ous!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy them dogs is racin\u2019 like deer. Thet proves thet the bar is fur\nahead, an\u2019 they\u2019re close to the top o\u2019 the ridge at Eli\u2019s stan\u2019. The bar\nmust hev crossed thar. But Good Jim! why aint he shot? Come, lets git\nout o\u2019 this.\u201d\n\nThe three dogs tugged on ahead of us. We traveled through a windfall for\na quarter of a mile, and then came into the stand to find it vacant, and\nthe hounds baying on the slopes, towards the Richland. They had crossed\nthe gap, hounds and hunters, too; for a moment after we heard the\nmusical notes from a horn wound by some one in the lower wilderness. It\nwas wound to tell the standers to pass around the heights to the lofty\ngaps between the Richland and the waters of the Pigeon.\n\nAs was afterwards related, the bear had passed through Eli\u2019s stand, but\nEli was not there on account of his mistaking and occupying for a\ndrive-way a gully that ended in a precipice on either side of the ridge.\nHe, with the other stander, soon joined us and we pushed along the\ntrail, towards the summit of the Great Divide.\n\nThis mountain stands 6,425 feet above the sea, and is the loftiest of\nthe Balsams. Among the Cherokees it is known as Younaguska, named in\nhonor of an illustrious chief. Except when the king of winter, puffing\nhis hollow cheeks, wraps the sharp summits in the pure white mantle of\nthe snow, or locks them in frosted armor, the Great Divide with its\nblack, unbroken forests of fir, ever rises an ebon mountain. Its fronts\nare gashed, on the east, south and north sides, by the headwaters of the\nPigeon, Caney Fork and Richland. For the reason of the two\nlast-mentioned streams springing here, the mountain is termed by some\ngeographers the Caney Fork or the Richland Balsam mountain.\n\nThree distinct spurs of mountains, forming portions of the great Balsam\nchain, lead away from it as from a hub. One, trending in a due west\ncourse, splits into various connected but distinct ranges; and, after\nleaping a low gap, culminates in a lofty cluster of balsam-crowned\npeaks, known as the Junaluska or Plott group, seven of which are over\n6,000 feet in altitude. The spur towards the north terminates in\nLickstone and its foot-hills; while the one bearing east, a long,\nmassive black wall, holding six pinnacles in altitude above 6,000 feet,\nbreaks into ranges terminating in the Cold mountain, Pisgah, and far to\nthe south, the Great Hogback.\n\nFrom this description the reader may have some conception, however\nfaint, of the majesty of the Balsam range, the longest of the transverse\nchains between the Blue Ridge and the Smokies, and forming with its high\nvalleys, numerous mountains and those lofty summits of the Great Smoky\nchain towards which it trends, the culminating region of the\nAlleghanies.\n\nOn the south brow of the Great Divide, only a few feet lower than the\nextreme summit, lies an open square expanse of about 20 acres embosomed\nin the black balsams. It has every feature peculiar to a clearing left\nfor nature to train into its primitive wildness, but in all its\nabandonment the balsams have singularly failed to encroach upon it; and,\nas though restrained by sacred lines which they dare not pass, stand\ndense and sombre around its margin. Its gentle slope is covered thick\nwith whortleberry bushes, in this instance, contrary to the nature of\nthat shrub, springing from a rich, black soil. Only one small clump of\ntrees, near the upper edge, mars the level surface of the shrubs. It is\ncalled the Judyculla old field, and the tradition held by the Indians is\nthat it is one of the footprints of Satan, as he stepped, during a\npre-historic walk, from mountain to mountain.\n\nWe were informed by mountaineers that flint arrow heads and broken\npieces of pottery have been found in this old field, showing almost\nconclusively that some of the Cherokees themselves, or the nation that\nbuilt the many mounds, laid the buried stone walls and worked the\nancient mica mines, occupied it as an abiding place for years.\n\nThere are other bare spots on these mountains known as scalds, and like\nthis old field, situated in the heart of fir forests. They are grown\nwith matted ivy, poisonous hemlock and briers, but traces of the fire,\nthat at recent date swept them of their timber, are to be seen. In a few\nyears the wilderness will have reclaimed them; but the Judyculla old\nfield will remain, as now, a mysterious vistage, which the mutilations\nof time cannot efface.\n\nThrough a dark aisle, leading from the summit of the Great Divide, we\ndescended to the Brier Patch gap, and here one of our number was\nstationed, while the rest of us toiled up a nameless black spur, crossed\nit and dropped slowly down to Grassy gap. It was past noon, and while we\nlistened to the low baying of the hounds in the depths, we munched at a\nsnack of corn bread and boiled corned beef. In the meantime, Wid was\nexamining the trail from one slope to the other. He would peer closely\ninto every clump of briers, pulling them apart with his hands, and bend\nso low over the grasses along the path, that the black strip in his\nlight colored trousers, hidden by his brown coat tails when he walked\nerect, would be exposed to view.\n\nAt length he paused and called us to him. The branch of a whortleberry\nbush, to which he pointed, was freshly broken off, and in the black soft\nsoil, close to the trail, was the visible imprint of a bears\u2019 paw. Bruin\nevidently had a long start on the pack, and having climbed up from the\ngulf, had passed through Grassy gap, and descended to the Pigeon. We now\nall fired our guns in order to bring the hunters and hounds as soon as\npossible to us.\n\nIt was 4 o\u2019clock, and the shadows were growing bluer, when up through\nthe laurel tangles, out from under the service-trees, hawthornes, and\nbalsams, came the pack,--one dog after another, the first five or six,\nin quick succession, and the others straggling after. Wid seemed to\ndeliberate a moment about stopping them or not; but, as they raced by,\nhe cut the thongs of the three dogs which we had kept all day,\nremarking: \u201cLet \u2019em rip. Hits too late fer us to foller, tho\u2019. We\u2019ll hey\nter lay by at the Double spring till mornin\u2019. I\u2019d kep\u2019 \u2019em in check,\ntoo, but hit may snow to-night and thet wud spile the scent an\u2019 hide the\ntrack. They\u2019ll cum up with \u2019im by dark, an\u2019 then badger \u2019im till\ndaylight an\u2019 we\u2019uns git thar.\u201d\n\n\u201cWon\u2019t they leave the trail at dark?\u201d was asked.\n\n\u201cNever! Why, I\u2019ve knowed my ole hounds ter stick to hit fer three days\nwithout nary bite o\u2019 meat, \u2019cept what they peeled, now an\u2019 then, from\nthe varmint\u2019s flanks.\u201d\n\nAll the hunters soon came straggling in; and as a soft, but cold evening\nbreeze fanned the mountain glorified with the light of fading day, and\nthe vales of the Pigeon grew blue-black under the heavy shadows of the\nBalsam range, we filed into the cove where bubbles the Double spring,\nand made preparations for supper and shelter similar to the previous\nnight.\n\nAs it grew darker the breeze entirely died away, leaving that dead,\nawful hush that oftentimes precedes a heavy snow storm. The branches of\nthe mountain mahogany hung motionless over the camp. Around, the\nstripped limbs of ancient beeches, and the white, dead branches of\nblasted hemlocks, unswayed and noiseless, caught the bright light of the\nfire. The mournful howl of the wolves from points beyond intervening\ndismal defiles, now and then came through the impenetrable darkness to\nour ears.\n\nSnow began steadily falling,--that soft, flaky sort of snow, which seems\nto descend without a struggle, continues for hours, and then without\nwarning suddenly ceases. All night it fell, sifting through our\nill-constructed shelter, burying us in its white folds and extinguishing\nthe fire. Notwithstanding the presence of this unwelcome visitant, we\nslept soundly. Sleep generally finds an easy conquest over healthy\nbodies, fatigued with a late past night of wakefulness, and an all day\u2019s\ntravel through rugged mountains.\n\nI awoke to find my legs asleep from the weight of a fellow-sleeper\u2019s\nlegs crossed over them. As I sat up, leaning my elbows on the bodies of\ntwo mountaineers packed tight against me, I saw the old hunter, on his\nhands and knees in the snow, bending over a bed of coals surrounded by\nsnow-covered fire-logs. Some live coals, awakened by the hunter\u2019s\nbreath, were glowing strong enough for me to thus descry his dark form,\nand the clear features and puffed cheeks of his face. He had a struggle\nbefore the flames sprung up and began drying the wet timbers. It was\nstill dark around us, but a pale, rosy light was beginning to suffuse\nthe sky, from which the storm-clouds had been driven.\n\nWhile part of the company prepared breakfast, the rest of us picked our\nway through the shoe-mouth-deep snow to the summit of Cold Spring\nmountain. It was the prospect of a sunrise on mountains of snow that\ncalled us forth. The sky was radiant with light when we reached the\ndesired point; but the sun was still hidden behind the symmetrical\nsummit of Cold mountain, the terminal peak of the snowy and shadowed\nrange looming across the dark, narrow valley of the upper Pigeon. Light\nwas pouring, through an eastern gap, upon the wide vale of the river far\nto the north. In its bottom lay a silver fog. Snow-mantled mountains\nembosomed it. It resembled the interior of a great porcelain bowl, with\na rim of gold appearing round it as day-light grew stronger. Fifty miles\naway, with front translucent and steel-blue, stood the Black mountains.\nApparently no snow had fallen on them. Their elevated, rambling crest,\nlike the edge of a broken-toothed, cross-cut saw, was visible.\n\nAfter breakfast we started on the backbone of the Balsam range for the\nRich mountain, distant about eight miles. It was a picturesque body of\nmen, that in single file waded in the snow under the burdened balsams,\nand crawled over the white-topped logs. The head youth from Caney Fork\nhad his hat pulled down so far over his ears, to protect them from the\ncold, that half of his head, flaunting yellow locks, was exposed above\nthe tattered felt, and only the lower portion of his pale, weak face\nappeared below the rim. His blue, homespun coat hardly reached the top\nof his pantaloons; and his great, horny hands, and arms half way to the\nelbows protruded from torn sleeves. There was no necessity for him to\nroll up his pantaloons; for so short were they that his stork-like legs\nwere not covered by fifteen inches from the heels. Next behind him came\nWid, with his face as red as ever, and his long hair the color of the\nsnow. Then followed Allen, a thick-set, sturdy youth from the Richland.\nHe gloried in his health and vigor, and to show it, wore nothing over\nhis back but a thin muslin shirt. He whistled as he walked, and laughed\nand halloed till the forests responded, whenever a balsam branch\ndislodged its snow upon his head and shoulders. Noah Harrison, another\nvalley farmer, who likes hunting better than farming, came next. He was\na matter-of-fact fellow, and showed his disrelish to the snow by\npicking, with his keen eyes, his steps in the foot-prints of those\nahead. Jonas Medford, a stout, mustached son of the old hunter, followed\nbehind the three young fellows who wore store clothes and carried\nbreech-loading shot-guns, instead of the rifles borne by the natives.\n\nWhen half-way round the ridge, we caught faint echoes from the hounds\nbelow. The sound was as stirring in tone as the reveille of the camp. A\nminute after, our party was broken into sections, every one being left\nto pick his way as best he could to the scene of the fight between the\ndogs and bear. Naturally, the three young fellows in store clothes\nstayed together. A balsam slope is the roughest ever trodden by the foot\nof man. The rhododendrons and kalmias are perfect net-works. In them a\nman is in as much danger of becoming irrecoverably entangled unto death\nas a fly in a spider\u2019s web; but, in the excitement caused by that faint\nchiming of the hounds, no one seemed to think of the danger of being\nlost in the labyrinths.\n\nLuckily, before we three had proceeded 100 yards down a steep declivity,\nwe struck the channel of a tiny brook. Hedges of rhododendron grow\nrankly along it, on both sides, and almost meet over the clear, rushing\nwater. It would be impossible for a man to penetrate these hedges for\nany great distance, unless time was of no object whatever. The path of\nthe torrent affords the path for the hunter. We had on rubber boots, and\nso waded in, following it down a devious course. It was an arduous walk.\nAt times slippery rocks sent us floundering; boulders intercepted us,\nand the surface of deep pools rose higher than our boot-tops. For two\nmiles we pushed on, our ardor being kept aflame by the increasing noise\nof the pack, and a few minutes later, we reached the scene of the\nstruggle.\n\nThe fight between two dogs on a village street affords great interest to\nthe mixed crowd that gathers around it; cocks pitted against each other\ncollect the rabble, and the bull fight of Spain furnishes a national\namusement; but of all fights that between a pack of ravenous dogs and a\nfrenzied bear is the most exciting. But few persons are ever accorded a\nsight of this nature. It can never be forgotten by them. This is what we\nsaw on issuing from the laurel: A white wintry expanse, free from\nundergrowth, on which the trees were set a little further apart than\nusual; back of us the stream; while across the open expanse, at the\ndistance of twenty yards, a leaning cliff with the wild vines on its\nfront sprinkled with snow, and its top hidden from view by the giant\nhemlocks before it. Close at the base of one of these hemlocks, reared\non his haunches, sat a shaggy black bear. He was licking his chops; and,\nholding his fore paws up in approved pugilistic style, was coolly eyeing\nten hounds, which, forming a semi-circle, distant about ten feet before\nhim, were baying and barking with uplifted heads and savage teeth\nexposed. One poor hound, with skull cracked by Bruin\u2019s paw, lay within\nthe circle. At the foot of a hemlock near us sat two bleeding curs, and\none with a broken leg began dragging himself toward us.\n\nBy exposing ourselves we lost our chances for a shot; for, as soon as we\ncame in view, the hounds, encouraged by the sight\n\n[Illustration: THE FINAL STRUGGLE.]\n\nof men, sprang at their antagonist with redoubled fury and increased\nyelping. It would have been impossible for us to have made a shot with\nour shotguns without having killed or disabled several of the hounds; so\nwith triggers cocked we bided our time and with interest watched the\ncombat. Judging by his methods of defense, Bruin was an adept in that\nline. He had had time for experience, for he was a great, shaggy fellow\nwith gray tufts of hair on his head. He showed his teeth and growled as\nthe dogs kept jumping at him. A twelve hour fight, in which several of\nthe pack had been rendered incapable of attack, had given caution to the\nremainder, and they were extremely wary about taking their nips at him.\n\nDuring the melee that for the next minute ensued, one savage hound was\ncaught in the clutches of the bear and hugged and bitten to death;\nwhile, taking advantage of the momentary exposure of his sides, the\nothers of the pack fell upon old Bruin until he was completely hidden\nunder the struggling mass. He had just shaken them off again and\nrecovered his balance, when a rifle shot sounded, and a puff of white\nsmoke arose from under a spruce at the edge of the laurel thicket. The\nnoise of the fight had prevented us hearing the approach of Wid, the old\nhunter. I looked from him at the group. Bruin had fallen forward on his\nface. Every dog was on his body, now writhing in its death throes.\n\n\u201cToo bad ye didn\u2019t git a chance to kiver him,\u201d said the old man, \u201cbut\nhit wouldn\u2019t done to kill the dogs no way.\u201d\n\nIf I had had any idea of the game being thus easily taken from me, I\nwould have availed myself of the minute before Wid\u2019s appearance by\nkilling the bear, and several dogs with him if necessary to that end. My\ncompanions were of the same mind. One by one the hunters straggled in.\nThe animal was skinned where he lay; and then, packed with hide, meat,\nblankets and our guns, we descended the middle prong of the Pigeon to\nthe road through the picturesque valley.\n\nIt was fortunate for us that the bear stopped to rest on the middle\nprong. Had he continued on a sharp trot he would have escaped us; for,\nwhen closely hounded, Bruin travels directly toward Sam\u2019s Knob, a peak\nlying between the Rich and Cold mountains. It is the most inaccessible\nmountain of the range, and few persons have ever scaled its summit. The\nwildest woods and laurel, interlocked with thorns and briers, spring\nfrom its precipitous sides; while the voices of cascades and cataracts\narise from its shadowy ravines. It is the safe retreat of Bruin. But\nwhat cannot be accomplished on this mountain by rifle and hound is\nattempted by traps. The true hunter is not prone to pursuing any other\nthan open warfare against the black bear. While the sale of their hides\nand meat nets him a respectable sum each year, his chief incentive for\nslaying them is his passionate love for the chase.\n\nTwo kinds of traps are used. The common steel trap is familiar to nearly\nevery one. Its great springs seem strong enough to splinter a man\u2019s leg.\nThey are carefully set on bear trails in the densest labyrinths, and\ncovered with leaves and grasses to conceal them from the luckless\n\u201cvarmint\u201d that walks that way. No bait is required. On some of the peaks\nthere is far more danger to be apprehended by the mountain straggler\nfrom these steel traps than from rattlesnakes. One must be careful how\nhe ventures into close paths through the lofty mountain thickets.\nHowever, the neighboring mountaineers are aware where these traps are\nset.\n\nThe wooden trap is used in some localities. It consists of a wide half\nlog, about twelve feet in length, with level face up. With this log for\na bottom, a long box is formed by using for the sides two similar half\nlogs, fastened with flat sides facing each other along the edges of the\nbottom log. Into one end of this box is pinned a heavy timber inclined\nat an angle over the bed of the box, and supported by sticks constructed\nlike a figure four, baited with bread and honey, or meat. Rocks are\nfastened to its elevated end to increase its weight. The bear, attracted\nby the sweet smell of the honey, ventures in, pulls the figure four to\npieces, and is crushed down by the fallen cover. If not killed he is\neffectually pinned until the merciless trapper unintentionally shows\nsome mercy by ending his struggles.\n\nAs the white-haired Wid said: \u201cTraps is good fer \u2019em ez hunts rabbits,\nan\u2019 rabbit huntin\u2019 is good fer boys; but fer me gim me my ole flint-lock\nshootin\u2019-iron, an\u2019 let a keen pack o\u2019 lean hounds be hoppin\u2019 on ahead;\nan\u2019 of all sports, the master sport is follerin\u2019 their music over the\nmountings, an\u2019 windin\u2019 up, with bullet or sticker, a varminous ole\nbar!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE VALLEY OF THE NOON-DAY SUN.\n\n     It is one of those numerous _chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of creation which God\n     has scattered over the earth, but which He conceals so frequently\n     on the summit of naked rocks, in the depth of inaccessible ravines,\n     on the unapproachable shores of the ocean, like jewels which He\n     unveils rarely, and that only to simple beings, to children, to\n     shepherds, or fishermen, or the devout worshippers of\n     nature.--_Lamartine._\n\n\n[Illustration: I]n Macon county, North Carolina, is a section of country\nso seldom visited by strangers, that few persons living beyond its\nlimits are aware of its existence, except as they find it located on the\nmap. In pomp of forest, purity of water, beauty of sky, wildness of\nmountains, combining in a wonderful wealth of sublime scenery, the\nvalley of the Nantihala river is not surpassed by any region of the\nAlleghanies. While a great portion of Macon and of other counties have\nhad attention occasionally called to them by magazine articles, and by a\nfew novels with plots laid in the familiar picturesque sections, the\nNantihala and the mountains mirrored on its surface, have to this day\nremained an unrolled scroll. This is not strange, from the fact of the\nwild and rugged nature of the mountains, its few inhabitants, its\nremoteness from railroads, and the roughness of the highways and trails\nby which it is traversed. Even the ambitious tourist who enters Western\nNorth Carolina with the purpose of seeing all the points of picturesque\ninterest, finds his summer vacation at a close before he has completed a\ntour of those scenic sections lying within a radius of fifty miles from\nAsheville.\n\nThe musical name of Nantihala, as applied to the river, is a slight\nchange from the Cherokee pronunciation of it--Nanteyaleh. Judging from\nthe fact of different interpreters giving different meanings for the\nname, its signification is involved in obscurity. By some it is said to\nmean Noon-day Sun, from the fact of the mountains hugging it so closely\nthat the sunlight strikes it only during the middle of the day. The\nother meaning is Maiden\u2019s Bosom.\n\nThe river is wholly in Macon county. Rising near the Georgia boundary,\namid the wilds of the Standing Indian and Chunky Gal mountains--peaks of\nits bordering eastern and western ranges--it flows in a northerly and\nthen north-easterly direction, and after a swift course of fifty miles,\nempties its waters into the Little Tennessee. The ragged, straggling\nrange, sloping abruptly up from its eastern bank, takes the name of the\nriver. This range breaks from the Blue Ridge, in Georgia, and trends\nnorth, with the Little Tennessee receiving its waters on one side, and\nthe Nantihala, those on the other. The Valley River mountains, forming\nthe Macon county western boundary, run parallel with the Nantihala\nrange. It is in the narrow cradle between these two chains that the\nriver is forever rocked.\n\nThrough most of the distance from its sources to where it crosses the\nState road, the river flows at the feet of piny crags, under vast\nforests, and down apparently inaccessible slopes. Its upper waters teem\nwith trout, and its lower, with the gamiest fish of the pure streams of\nlevel lands. The red deer brouses along its banks, and amid the laurel\nand brier thickets which shade its fountain-heads, the black bear\nchallenges the pursuit of hounds and hunters. Near the State road are\ngems of woodland scenery, where all the natural character of the\nstream--its wildness--is absent; and under the soft sunlight and cool\nshadows of quiet woods, beside a swift, noiseless stretch of water, on\nwhich every leaf of the red-maple and birch is mirrored, and along which\nthe gnarled roots of the whitened sycamore offer inviting seats, the\nstroller is vividly reminded of some lowland river, familiar, perhaps,\nto his boyhood. At these places, the basin is just such a one as you\nwould like to plunge headlong into. The grass is green and lush along\nthe banks, and the interlacing hedges, and brilliant vines drooping from\nthe over-arching trees, would render concealment perfect. If you are not\nafraid of ice-cold water, a swim here would be most enjoyable, but even\nat noon in July or August, the temperature of the stream is near the\nfreezing point.\n\nFrom the leaning beech, one can look down into the trout\u2019s glassy pool,\nand see him lying motionless in the depths, or catch a glimpse of his\ndark shape as he shoots over the waving ferny-mossed rocks, and\ndisappears under the cover of the bank. The king-fisher is not an\nunfamiliar object. His sharp scream as he flies low over the waters will\nattract the attention of the observer. Ungainly herons may be startled\nfrom their dreaming along the stream; and flocks of plover, seemingly\nout of their latitude, at times go wheeling and whistling high above the\nwoods.\n\nMonday\u2019s has a place on the map. Why? It is a cheerful, home-like\ncountry tavern. Extensive cleared lands stretch back to the green forest\nlines. A board fence fronts the neatly-kept lawn, on whose elevated\ncenter rises a two-story weather-beaten frame house. The steep, mossy\nroof is guarded at either end by a grim, stone chimney. Large windows\nlook out upon a crooked road, and a long porch with trellised railing is\njust the place to tip back in a hard-bottomed chair, elevate your feet,\nand enjoy a quiet evening smoke. The river is out of sight below the\nhill, but at times the music of its rapids can be distinctly heard. The\nranges of the Nantihala and Valley River rise on either side the valley.\nThe only wagon-ways to this point are across these ranges, from Franklin\non the east and Murphy on the west.\n\n[Illustration: THE WARRIOR BALD.]\n\nFranklin, the county seat of Macon, is situated in the heart of one of\nthe most fertile sections of the mountains--the valley of the Little\nTennessee. Its site is on a great hill on the west bank of the river. As\nthe traveler, approaching from the east, winds through the lands lying\nalong the banks of the slow-flowing stream, he will be attracted by the\nbroad, level farms, and, if in summer or early fall, by the wealth of\nthe harvest. One of the most charming views of the village and the\nmagnificent valley is on the road coming from Highlands. You will halt\nyour horse. Let it be on a summer evening, just as the shadows have\ncrept across the landscape. The green and yellow fields will lie in the\nforeground pervaded with a dreamy quiet. Below, you see the covered\nbridge, and the red road, at first hidden behind the corn, at some\ndistance beyond, climbing the hill and disappearing amid dwellings,\nbuildings, and churches whose spires rise above the cluster. Far in the\nbackground looms the dark, bulky form of the Warrior Bald, of the\nNantihalas, and further to the south, the long, level-topped\ncontinuation of the range. If old Sol is far down, the bright green\nglow that marks the last moment of the day will crown the summit of his\nsentinel peak. A moment later the stars are seen, and as you ride on and\nascend the hill, the faint mists of the river will be visible, gathering\nas if to veil the scene.\n\nYou are on the village streets. A few shop lights gleam across the way,\nbut there is no bustle before any of them, and you will imagine that the\nvillagers, careful of their health, retire at sundown. Some of them\ncertainly do, but it is no unusual thing to hear laughter on the hotel\nporch even as late as midnight, and no deaths or arrests chronicled the\nnext morning. The hotel keeper, Cunningham, is a queer character. He is\na good-natured landlord, an excellent story-teller, and a shrewd horse\ntrader. The first two accomplishments are appreciated by travelers. The\ncuriosity about the hotel porch is the chairs. They are too high for a\nshort man to get into without climbing, and so large that he will feel\nlost in them. At sight of these great chairs ranged about the hotel\ndoor, the traveler will imagine that he has dropped into a colony of\ngiants.\n\nFranklin is a growing town. This is due to the fact of its being in the\ncenter of a farming and mining country. It is a market for grain, and in\npast years for the mica taken from several paying mines in the vicinity.\nIt is 71 miles distant in a southwest course from Asheville, and about\n30 miles from Clayton, the seat of Rabun county, Georgia. A fine brick\ncourt-house has lately been built in the village center.\n\nFrom Franklin the State road toward the Nantihalas leads across hills\nand through valleys to the Savannah, whose meanderings it follows under\nheavy foliaged forests. The road from the eastern base of this range\nacross the summit to the opposite base, winds through a lonely\nwilderness. It is the grandest highway of the mountains. At the\ncommencement of the ascent stands a primitive toll-gate, one of the\nmany obnoxious guardians to state roads. A quarter will be demanded\nbefore passage is permitted. The house of the toll-gate keeper is on one\nside. There is moss on its roof and green vines on its front. The\nskeleton of a venerable saw-mill, whose straight, perpendicular saw is\nallowed to rust through a great part of the time, stands on the opposite\nside below a beaver-like dam. The sound of crashing waters continually\nbreaks the silence of the great woods.\n\nThe distance over the mountain is 12 miles, and but one house, a log\ncabin, empty and forlorn, almost hidden in a dark cove, is to be seen.\nThe woods are as dense as those of the lowlands, and so well trimmed by\nnature, so fresh and green are they, so invigorating the air that\ncircles through them, that one, if he ever felt like retiring to some\nvast wilderness, might well wish his lodge to be located here. All the\nmountains of the Nantihala range are exceedingly steep. To ascend this\none, the road winds back and forth in zigzag trails, so that in reaching\none point near the summit, you can clearly see three parallel roads\nbelow you. The view from the top of the pass is one never to be\nforgotten. Higher spurs of the Nantihalas shoot up in rugged\nmagnificence across the gorge that falls away from the brow of the peak\non which the highway winds. In spite of the rocky and perpendicular\ncharacter of the slopes of these neighboring peaks, black wild forests\ncover them from bases to summits. Dazzling white spots on the front of\nthe nearest mountain show where some enterprising miner had worked for\nmica. In one direction there is a valley view. It is toward the east.\nIts great depth renders one dizzy at the prospect. White specks on\nyellow clearings in the green basin mark the few farm houses. A streak\nof silver winds through it, vanishing before the eye strikes the bases\nof the Cowee mountains, which wall the background.\n\nAll along the lofty pass, the road is crossed by little sparkling\nstreams pouring over the mossed rocks, under the birches and pines. By\none of these roadside rivulets is an enchanting spot for a noonday\nlunch.\n\n    \u201cHere twilight is and coolness: here is moss,\n     A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.\n     Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart\n     Be innocent, here, too, shalt thou refresh\n     Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,\n     Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring bees!\u201d\n\nThe western slope is less precipitous than the eastern, and after a\ndescent through an unbroken forest, the traveler arrives at Monday\u2019s.\nThe most direct course to Charlestown, Swain county, is down the river;\nbut for the next ten or twelve miles the mountains so crowd the stream\nthat no road is laid. A bridle-path winds through the forbidding\nfastnesses, occasionally in sight of the stream. From Brier Town, a\nscattered settlement, the falls of the river can be reached by a walk of\nfour miles. These falls, on account of their inaccessibility, are seldom\nvisited, except by the cattle herder and hunter. They pour over the lip\nof a ragged cliff in a wild gorge, hidden by lofty and precipitous\nmountains.\n\nThe State road crosses the river on a bridge just below the fork of the\nroad to Hayesville, the county seat of Clay. A mill and several houses\nare clustered near the bridge; but a moment after passing them you\nascend the Valley River mountains. It is a well graded road, through\nchestnut and oak woods, for five miles to the lowest dip in the\nmountains. There is no view to be had, except of one wild valley that\npresents no striking features, but in the utter loneliness brooding over\nit. Down the slope you go through one of the densest and most luxuriant\nforests of the mountain region. It is a tremendous labyrinth of monarch\nhemlocks and balsams, so heavily burdened with foliage that their\ngreenness approaches blackness, and renders the air so cold that the\ntraveler riding through them, even in the middle of the morning, shivers\nin his saddle. The laurel grows to twice its customary height, affording\nsafe coverts for the bear and wolf. The ground is black. A stream flows\nalong by and in the road, the only noisy occupant of the solitude\nvisible and audible at all times.\n\nWild scenes appear as the base of the mountain is neared. As you advance\nunder the shadows, around the foot of a steep ridge, bounded by a stream\nmaking mad music over the boulders, suddenly before you will tower a\nvine-mantled wall with top ragged with pines, cleaving the blue sky.\nThen, after lingering along the foot of this wall, as though loath to\nleave the cool greenness of its mossed rocks and woods, the road issues\ninto a small circle of cleared land, where the ranges, drawing apart for\na short distance, have allowed man to secure a foothold. In most of\nthese confined dells it is, however, a feeble foothold; due,\nprincipally, to the indolence of the occupant. These homes are pictures\nof desolation;--a miserable log cabin with outside chimney crumbled to\none-half its original height, and the end of the house blackened and\ncharred from the flames and smoke poured upward along it; the roof\nheaped with stones to keep it in place; the door off its wooden hinges;\nthe barn an unroofed ruin, and the clearing cultivated to the extent of\none small patch of weed-strangled corn. The family who live in such a\nplace will be alive, however, and outside as you go by. The man on the\nbench before the door will shout \u201chowdy,\u201d and continue smoking his pipe\nwith as much complacency as if he had a hundred acres of golden wheat\nwithin his sight, a well filled granery, and cows weighing 1,200 instead\nof 500 pounds. From four to ten children, all about the same size,\nclustered along the fence, will excite wonder as to how they have lived\nso long.\n\nLazy men can be found in all countries; but no lazier specimen of\nhumanity ever lived than one existing at present near the Tuckasege in\nJackson county. We heard of him one night at a dilapidated farm-house of\nan ex-sheriff of that county. It can better be told in the exact words\nof the conversation through which we learned of the specimen\u2019s\nexistence; but, in order for you to fully appreciate it, it will be\nnecessary to give an idea of the appearance of the house and its\nsurroundings. The farm of level land was first owned by an enterprising\nfarmer. The house, a large, log one, was built by him 40 years ago. It\nnow consists of a main building of two stories, with a wing in the rear.\nIt first struck us that the house had never been completed; for on\nriding toward it we found ourselves under a long roof extending from the\nmain building. The loft and roof overhead were intact, and were\nsupported by posts at the two corners out from the house. It was\napparently a wing that had never been sided or floored.\n\nAfter supper as we sat by the moonlight-flooded window, on inquiring of\nour host why the large wing had never been finished, he answered:\n\n\u201cFinished? Why, it war finished, but when the old man died, his son and\nheir, one of the no-countist fellows what ever lived, moved in. Wal, ye\nsee them woods, yander?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot more \u2019en fifty yard away.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust about that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWal, do you know thet thet man war too cussed lazy to go to them woods\nfor fire wood, and so tore down thet wing, piece by piece, flooring,\nsidings, window sashes, doors--everything but the loft and roof, and\nhe\u2019d a took them ef he hadn\u2019t been too lazy to climb up stairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cWonder he didn\u2019t take the whole house.\u201d\n\n\u201cI spect he would ef I hadn\u2019t bought him out when I did. Why, man! this\nwhole farm-yard was an apple orchard then. How many trees do you see\nnow?\u201d\n\n\u201cThree.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all. Chopped down, every damned one of \u2019em, for the fire-place.\nLazy, why, dog my skin!--\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere is he now?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe lives in a poor chunk of a cabin over in them woods, close enough\nnow to fire-wood, shore.\u201d\n\nDown further on the Valley river the landscape grows more open, and the\nrugged mountains become softened down to undulating hills, drawn far\nback from the stream, and leaving between them wide vales, rich in soil,\ngenerous in crops, and in places over three miles in width. This is in\nCherokee, the extreme southwest county of North Carolina. Murphy, the\ncounty-seat, is a small, weather-worn village, located in nearly the\ncenter of the county. The Western North Carolina Railroad, as projected,\nwill, on its way to Ducktown, soon intersect it.\n\nJust before reaching Valley river, the traveler will notice a large,\nwhite house, situated in a fine orchard. Mrs. Walker\u2019s is known through\nthe western counties as a place of excellent accommodation. At this\npoint, the road to the lower valley of the Nantihala, turns abruptly to\nthe right. It is a rough way through an uninviting country, thinly\ninhabited, poor in farming lands, and devoid of scenery. After miles of\nweary travel, the road disappears from the sunlight into a deep ravine.\nA stream disputes passage with the swampy road, which is fairly built\nupon the springy roots of the rhododendrons. It seems to be the bottom\nof some deep-sunk basin, which at one time was the center of a lake,\nwhose waters, finding a way out, left a rich deposit for a luxuriant\nforest to spring from. The trunks of the trees are covered with\nyellowish-green moss. Matted walls of living and dead rhododendrons and\nkalmias line the way. Your horse will stumble wearily along, especially\nif it is soon after a rain; and if a buggy is behind him, it will take\na good reinsman to keep it from upsetting in the axle-deep ruts, over\nlow stumps and half-rotten logs. Keep up your spirits, and think little\nof the convenience of the place for the accomplishment of a dark deed.\nSoon it comes to an end, and a firmer, though rough, road leads into an\nopen forest, and gradually descends a narrow valley between prodigiously\nhigh mountains.\n\nThe passage of Red Marble gap is now made, and the valley of the\nNantihala again entered twelve miles below where the State road crosses\nat Monday\u2019s. The first view of it will cause you to rise in your\nstirrups. It is a narrow valley, with one farm-house lying in the\nforeground. Around it rise massive mountain walls, perfectly\nperpendicular, veiled with woods, and in height fully 2,000 feet.\nDirectly before you is a parting of the tremendous ranges, and through\nthis steep-sided gap, purple lines of mountains, rising one behind\nanother, bar the vision. The picture of these far-away ranges, in the\nsubdued coloring of distance, is of inspiring grandeur. The river is\nunseen at this point; but, if the Cheowah Mountain road is ascended, its\nwhite line of waters will be visible, as it issues from the wild gorge\nat the head of the valley; and; bickering along between wood-fringed\nbanks, by the farm-house, under and out from under the birches, at\nlength disappears in the wilderness leading toward the great gap.\n\nWidow Nelson lives in the only visible farm-house,--a low,\nill-constructed, frame dwelling with a log cabin in the rear, and small\nbarn near by. It is a hospitable shelter or dinner-place for the\ntraveler. On the widow\u2019s porch is always seated a fat old man named\nReggles. He is short in stature, has red, puffed, smooth-shaven cheeks,\nand appears like \u201ca jolly old soul.\u201d You will hear his sonorous voice,\nif you draw rein at the fence to make inquiries concerning distances;\nfor he is an animated, universal guide-post, and answers in a set manner\nall questions.\n\nSo few settlers live along the Nantihala that the strongest friendship\nbinds them together; and every one considers all the people surrounding\nhim, within a radius of ten miles, his neighbors. The social ties\nbetween the young folks are kept warm principally by the old-fashioned\n\u201choe-downs.\u201d During a week\u2019s stay in the valley, we improved an\nopportunity to attend one of these dances. Satisfactory arrangements\nbeing made, one evening before dark we started with Owenby, a guide. A\nbranch road led to our destination,--a path, that, though a faint cattle\ntrail in the beginning, had grown, after being traveled over by the\nmountaineers\u2019 oxen and their summer sleds, into a road. As is usually\nthe case, it followed up an impetuous little torrent. At a small, log\ncabin, where we stopped after proceeding a mile on one journey, we were\njoined by a party of twenty young men and women; and with this body we\nbegan the ascent to Sallow\u2019s, where the dance was to be held. Still\nenough twilight remained for us to find our way without difficulty. All\nwalked with the exception of three men, who, each with his respective\nyoung lady seated behind him, rode mules, and led the way. After a\nsteady climb for several miles we halted before the dim outlines of\nanother little cabin. The mounted ones dismounted and fastened their\nsteeds.\n\n\u201cI reckon we\u2019ll surprise \u2019em, fer it \u2019pears they\u2019ve all gone to roost,\u201d\nremarked Owenby, as we silently stepped over the leveled bars of the\nfence into the potato patch bordering the road. Not a streak of light\nshone through a crack of the cabin, not a sound came from the interior.\nOne of our party pushed the puncheon door, which easily swung open with\na creak of wooden hinges.\n\n\u201cCome to life in hyar! Up an\u2019 out! Hi, yi, Dan and Molly!\u201d he yelled,\nwhile following his lead we all crowded into the single room. The fire\nhad smouldered until only a few coals remained, and those were\ninsufficient to throw any light on the scene.\n\n\u201cGood Lord! what does this mean?\u201d growled, from a dark corner, some one\nwho was evidently proprietor of the premises.\n\n\u201cHit means we\u2019re hyar for a dance, ole man; so crawl out,\u201d laughingly\nreturned our self-constituted spokesman.\n\n\u201cWell, I reckon we\u2019re in fer it,\u201d continued the disturbed, as we heard a\nbed creak, and bare feet strike the floor. \u201cPitch some pine knots on the\nfire, and face hit an\u2019 the wall while wife an\u2019 me gits our duds on.\u201d\n\nA few seconds after, the host and hostess were ready to receive company,\nand a blazing pine fire illuminated a room 20 \u00d7 25 feet in dimensions.\nThe beds were one side and the frowsy heads of eight children stuck with\nwondering faces out from the torn covers. Two tables and a few chairs\nwere on the middle floor, and numerous garments and household articles\nhung on the walls. The light from the great, gaping fire-place, in one\nend of the room, showed the party off to advantage. The girls were\nattired in their best garments; some of light yellow, though blue\ndresses preponderated. The characters of most interest to all present\nwere two good-natured-looking young men dressed in \u201cbiled\u201d shirts, green\nneckties, \u201cstore-boughten\u201d coats, and homespun pantaloons. With\nself-important airs they accepted and immediately covered two chairs\nbefore the blazing hearth. One of the twain had a home-made banjo on his\nknee; the other, a violin. The necessary scraping and twanging to get\nthe instruments in tune took place; and then the older musician\nannounced that the ball was open.\n\n\u201cTrot out yer gals,\u201d said he; \u201cThere mustn\u2019t be enny hangin\u2019 back while\nthese \u2019ere cat-gut strings last. Git up an\u2019 shine!\u201d\n\nAfter some hesitation four couples stepped into the center of the floor,\nforming two sets. Each one separated from and stood facing his partner.\nThen the music struck up, and such music! The tune was one of the\nliveliest jigs imaginable, and the musicians sang as they played. The\ndancers courtesied and then began a singular dance. There was no calling\noff; it was simply a jig on the part of each performer. The girls danced\nwith arms akimbo, reeling sideways one way, and then sideways the other.\nTheir partners, with slouched hats still on their heads, hair swinging\nloosely, every muscle in motion and all in time with the music, careered\naround in like manner. The rest of the party stood silent and interested\nlooking on; and on the whole scene blazed the pine knots.\n\nAt intervals, parties of two, three, or more, of the men slipped out of\nthe door, then in a few minutes returned, apparently refreshed by a\ndraught of the night air, or something else. After the finish of one of\nthe dances, in which we strangers engaged, a fierce-mustached\nmountaineer tapped me on the shoulder, whispering as he did so: \u201cCome\noutside a minnit.\u201d\n\nI hesitated for a moment, hardly knowing whether I would better follow\nor not; then I stepped after him. As the light shone through the open\ndoor, I saw that three men were outside with him. The door shut behind\nme. It was intensely dark, every star was blotted out, and a damp,\nchilly wind was sweeping down the mountain. We walked a few steps from\nthe house.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d I asked in an apprehensive tone.\n\nNo one spoke. I attempted to repeat the question, but before I could do\nso, the man who had invited me out, said: \u201cWe don\u2019t know your\nprinciples, but we seed you \u2019aint got the big-head, an\u2019 like yer way o\u2019\njoinin\u2019 in. We want to do the fair thing, an\u2019 no offence meant, we hope,\nwhichever way you decide.--Won\u2019t you take a drink?\u201d\n\nI had feared some harm was intended, possibly for dancing with the girl\nof one of the fellows. I felt relieved. In the darkness I felt a small\njug placed in my hands, and heard the corn-cob stopper being drawn from\nit.\n\nFor several hours longer the dancing kept up, and so did the outside\ndrinking, the motions of the drinkers growing wilder as they joined in\non the floor. It was two o\u2019clock when the musicians\u2019 powers failed them.\nPreparations were made for departure.\n\n\u201cHits blacker outside \u2019en the muzzle o\u2019 my old flint-lock,\u201d remarked\nSallow, as he opened the creaking door; \u201cI reckon ye\u2019d best light some\npine knots ter see yer way down the mounting.\u201d\n\nEach man selected a knot from a pile near the fire-place; lighted it,\nand with flaming torch filed out into the night. The mules were mounted,\neach animal carrying double, as spoken of above; and then into the dark,\nstill forest we went. The scene was striking. Those in front were close\nin one body, the torches, with black smoke curling upwards, being held\nhigh in air, rendering the carriers visible, and lighting up the woods\nwith a strange glare. The lights wavered and danced in circles, as if\nthose who held them were unsteady on their feet. Now and then, one of\nthe boisterous mountaineers would fire off his pistol, giving rise to\nshrill screams from the fair sex, loud laughs from their partners, and\ncausing the mules to jump in a manner terrifying to their riders.\nHowever, no accidents occurred, and journeying on, we soon reached our\ntemporary quarters, well satisfied with the night\u2019s experience.\n\nOn this occasion the hilarity of a number of the party proved damaging\nto them. Some one gave in evidence of their carrying concealed weapons;\nand, soon after, several arrests were made and convictions followed. The\nlaw against carrying concealed weapons is stringently enforced in the\nmountain section of the State, and with good results.\n\nShooting matches are frequent, in the valley of the western section.\nThe prize is generally a beef. The time is in October, when the cattle,\nin sleek condition, are driven down from the mountain summits. Notice of\nthe proposed match is communicated to the settlers; and, on the stated\nday, the adepts in the use of shooting-irons, assemble, with their cap\nand flintlock rifles, at the place of contest. The gray-haired,\nrheumatic, old settler, with bear scratches, will be there. His eyes are\nas sharp as ever, and the younger men, who have never shot at anything\nlarger than a wild-cat or turkey, must draw fine beads if they excel\nhim. Every beef makes five prizes. The hind quarters form two; the fore\nquarters the next two; and the hide and tallow the last choice.\nSometimes there is a sixth prize, consisting of the privilege of cutting\nout the lead shot by the contestants into the tree forming the\nback-ground for the target. The value of a beef is divided into shilling\nshares, which are sold to purchasers and then shot off. The best shots\ntake first choice, and so on. Three judges preside.\n\nIt is an interesting sight to watch the proceedings of a shooting-match.\nIf it is to be in the afternoon, the long open space beside the creek,\nand within the circle of chestnut trees, where the shooting is to be\ndone, is empty; but, just as the shadow of the sun is shortest, they\nbegin to assemble. Some of them come on foot; others in wagons, or, as\nis most generally the case, on horseback galloping along through the\nwoods. The long-haired denizen of the hidden mountain cove drops in,\nwith his dog at his heels. The young blacksmith, in his sooty\nshirt-sleeves, walks over from his way-side forge. The urchins who, with\ntheir fish-rods, haunt the banks of the brook, are gathered in as great\nforce as their \u201cdaddies\u201d and elder brothers.\n\nA unique character, who frequently mingles with the crowd, is the\n\u201cnat\u2019ral-born hoss-swopper.\u201d He has a keen eye to see at a glance the\ndefects and perfections of horse or mule (in his own opinion), and\nalways carries the air of a man who feels a sort of superiority over\nhis fellow men. At a prancing gait, he rides the result of his last\nsharp bargain, into the group, and keeps his saddle, with the neck of\nhis horse well arched, by means of the curb-bit, until another\nmountaineer, with like trading propensities, strides up to him, and\nclaps his hand on the horse\u2019s mane, exclaiming:\n\n\u201cWhat spavined critter ye got a-straddle ov to-day, Bill?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe aint got nary blemish on \u2019im, you old cross-eyed sinner!\u201d\n\n\u201cBill, thet hoss looks ez tho\u2019 he hed the sweeney, wunct?\u201d remarks a\nlooker-on.\n\n\u201cHits an infernal lie!\u201d returns Bill, emphatically.\n\n\u201cYas,\u201d begins a cadaverous-cheeked, long-drawn-out denizen from over the\nmountain, who has circled clear around the animal and his rider: \u201cHe\u2019s\nthe very hoss-brute ez hed it. Tuk hit when they wuz drivin\u2019 \u2019im in Toe\nEldridge\u2019s sorghum mill.\u201d\n\nThe rider, meanwhile, begins to look discouraged.\n\n\u201cHe kicked Tom Malley powerful bad, ef thet\u2019s the animal Tom uster own,\u201d\nchimes in another observer.\n\n\u201cMebby you thinks this hoss needs buryin\u2019,\u201d remarks Bill, sarcastically;\n\u201cHe\u2019ll hev more life in \u2019im twenty ye\u2019r from now than airy o\u2019 you\u2019uns\nhey ter-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cEf he aint blind on his off side ye kin ride over me,\u201d says one critic;\nturning the horse\u2019s head around, and then dropping the bridle as Bill\nreaches over to strike him.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s a good \u2019un on the go, tho\u2019;\u201d and at this bland remark of a\nfriendly farmer, Bill begins to revive.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d exclaims the rider.\n\n\u201cIs thet so!\u201d thunders a heavy-set fellow, following his utterance by\nclasping Bill around the waist and hauling him off the steed, which\nproves to be old enough to stand still without demurring.\n\n\u201cI reckon I\u2019ll try him myself, Bill,\u201d he says, as he thrusts one foot\ninto the stirrup, and throws a long leg over the saddle, \u201cand ef he\u2019s\ngot a fa\u2019r gait I mought gin ye a swap. Look at yan mule, while I ride\nhim sorter peert for a few rod.\u201d\n\nAn examination on the part of both swappers always results in a trade,\nboot being frequently given. A chance to make a change in horseflesh is\nnever let slip by a natural-born trader. The life of his business\nconsists in quick and frequent bargains; and at the end of a busy month\nhe is either mounted on a good saddle horse, or is reduced to an old\nrack, blind and lame. The result will be due to the shrewdness or\ndullness of the men he dealt with, or the unexpected sickness on his\nhands of what was considered a sound animal.\n\nOne or more of the numerous candidates (Democratic, Republican,\nIndependent, or otherwise) for county or state honors will likely\ndescend on the green before the sport is over. He will shake hands with\nevery full-fledged voter present,--shaking with his own peculiar grip,\nwhich one, with some plausibility, might be misled into believing meant\n\u201cGod bless you,\u201d instead of \u201cBe at the November polls for me--and\nliberty.\u201d Most of the men understand the soft solder of the fawning\npolitician, and exchange winks with one another, as in succession each\none is button-holed by the aspirant.\n\nIt is generally an orderly crowd, and arrangements are soon made for the\nfirst shot. At sixty yards from the white piece of black-centered paper,\nthe shooter lays himself flat on the ground; and, with his rifle\n(covered with a long tin shade to keep out the glaring sunlight) resting\nover a rail, he takes deliberate aim and pulls the trigger. A center\nshot meets with applause. Thus the day goes by, until every share has\nbeen blazed away, the beef is butchered and divided, and the lucky\nmarksmen stagger homeward, each with his quarter in a sack on one\nshoulder and his rifle on the other. If daylight still remains, some of\nthe crowd often engage in a squirrel hunt. It is no trouble to kill gray\nsquirrels in any of the woods. The crack marksman with a rifle generally\nbarks his squirrel. Barking a squirrel is one of the fine arts. The\nhunter takes aim and fires at the upper edge of the limb on which the\nsquirrel sits, instantly killing him from concussion created by the\nsplintered bark.\n\nBut let us pursue the river from the Cheowah mountain to the Little\nTennessee. It is a distance of twelve miles, and not once do the road\nand stream part company. At Widow Nelson\u2019s it is a white winding-sheet\nof rapids, as far as the eye can reach. A hundred yards by the house,\nand the mountains draw themselves together again. The road straggles\naround the foot of a cliff. The waters roar and splash beside it.\nOverhead, the foliage is of a brilliant green, and the sky usually a\ntransparent blue. By the dilapidated dwelling of Widow Jarett you soon\npass. There is a cleared tract of land here. Across the river, with its\nfoot in the water, one of the Nantihala range towers 2,000 feet above\nthe valley. You must lean back to look upward along its green face and\nsee the edge of the summit. Up one steep ravine is a trail leading to\nBrier Town. It is termed the Cat\u2019s Stairs. Your mule must be dragged by\nthe bridle if you attempt the ascent.\n\nThree miles down the stream, as you issue from the forest on the brow of\na gentle declivity, a wild picture lies spread before the eyes. You are\nlooking across a long pent-in vale. On one side the Anderson Roughs,\nlofty and impending, with steep ridges, one behind the other, descending\nto the river, reach away to where the blue sky dips in between them and\nthe last visible perpendicular wall that frowns along the valley\u2019s\nopposite border. The wildness of the scene is heightened instead of\nsoftened by the vision of Campbell\u2019s lowly cabin in the center of the\nnarrow corn-fields. You see the smoke above its blackened roof; several\nuncombed children tumbling in the sunshine; the rail fence close by its\nfrail porch; and, beyond it, the limpid Nantihala, smooth and turbulent\nalternately, and filling the ears with its loud monotone. (See\nFrontispiece.)\n\n\u201cBuck\u201d Campbell is a whole-souled fellow; his wife, a pleasant woman. If\nyou have time, stop here. Excepting the good-natured bearing of the\nmountaineer and his wife, you will see nothing inviting about the place,\nuntil the table is set for supper, out in the open air, at one end of\nthe cabin. The meal will be an appetizing one. Between each bite you\ntake of a smoking piece of corn-dodger, you can look up at the shadowed\nfront of the Anderson Roughs (for long since the western wall has\nintercepted the sunlight from pouring on it), and watch how the shadows\nthicken, while still the sky is bright and clear above. The\nsignification of noon-day sun, as applied to the river, will strike you\nforcibly. Late in the morning and early in the evening the valley is in\nshade. There is but one room in the cabin, consequently you will all\nsleep together, and awake in the morning feeling that there is something\nin the humblest path of life to keep a man happy.\n\nEvery morning, except in winter, a heavy fog fills the valley. This is\nunfavorable for the cultivation of small grain, consequently corn is the\nonly profitable production on the Nantihala. Issuing from the cabin, you\njump the fence and go to the river to perform your ablutions. A tin\nbasin is not one of Campbell\u2019s possessions. You are sure of clean water,\nhowever; and, leaning over the river\u2019s bosom, you have something to act\nas a mirror, while you comb your hair with your fingers. If you yell for\nit, a towel will be brought by one of a pair of black-eyed youngsters,\nfondly called \u201cDutch\u201d and \u201cCurly\u201d by their father. Campbell says he\nbelieves in nicknaming his children; for he does not see why they should\ngo by their proper names any more than people should call him \u201cBuck,\u201d\ninstead of Alexander.\n\nBy 9 o\u2019clock the mist has rolled itself in clouds and drifted up the\nheights, a belt of sunshine is half way down the mountain on the west,\nand day has fairly dawned. If it is in the early fall, the drum of the\npheasant may be heard from the near woods. The quail has ceased his\npiping for the season, but he has by no means migrated, as one might\ninfer from his silence; for if you stroll through the fields, great\nbevies will frequently rise from your feet and start in all directions\nwith such a whirr of wings that you will jump in spite of yourself. I\nhave started wood-cock in the wet tangles of the mountain streams, but\nthey are rare birds.\n\nOnly two houses are between Campbell\u2019s and the mouth of the river, ten\nmiles below. This sort of a solitude is not infrequent on a highway\nacross a mountain range, but the like is seldom seen along a river. Rich\nforests are entered just below Campbell\u2019s. The trees grow to an unusual\nheight. With underbrush they cover all the landscape, except the few\ncliffs on the summits of the peaks, and at the water\u2019s edge. The variety\nis something remarkable. I counted twenty-three distinct species of\ntimber in one woodland. The road, at times, winds around the mountain\n100 yards above the river. It sparkles directly below through the trees.\nAcross the gorge the Nantihalas lift their shaggy heads, at some points,\nlike that of the Devil\u2019s chin, exposing bare rocks above the clambering\nforests. Storms through this section are fierce, but of short duration.\nWith the wind bearing down the river, a flash of lightning in the clear,\nnarrow strip of sky will be the first premonitor of the storm. Then a\nblack shroud will drift over half the strip; and with it comes, along\nbetween the valley\u2019s green walls, thin clouds like smoke that fling\nthemselves upon the piny spurs of the mountains, hiding them from view.\nImmediately you hear the rain drops pattering through the leaves, and\nthe trees swaying beneath a blast that soon carries off the rack.\nFrequently not a drop of rain will touch you, while close by, the\nmountain steeps are drenched. The waters of the river grow deeper, roar\nlouder, and a few minutes after the last rain drop fell, a sullen flood\nis sweeping between the banks. It is strange in how short a time a flood\nis created in a mountain valley, and how soon it wears itself away. At\nyour stand far down the valley, you may not even know that a storm has\nbeen visiting the sources of the stream, for the black clouds rolled\nover the summits of the lofty mountains have escaped your observation.\nBut a few minutes elapse, and the fords are impassible. Wait patiently,\nhowever, and you can see the waters subside and the landmarks appear as\nbefore.\n\nBetween Campbell\u2019s and the next farm there is an exposed vein of\nsoap-stone. From all indications it is inexhaustible, but at present it\nis unworked. Wherever cliffs are exposed, huge marble slabs, white and\nvariegated, extend into the river. Where these slabs cross the road,\ntheir angular corners make a road-bed of the roughest character. At\nevery road-working the gaps between the rocks are filled up, but the\nnext freshet carries away the filling. It is not advisable to attempt a\njourney over it, except on horseback or a-foot. The Western North\nCarolina railroad will occupy the larger portion of this road. The\nquestion is, Where will they lay, for the mountaineers, a road in place\nof the one they have taken? The requirements of the statute will not be\ncomplied with, unless a miracle is performed.\n\nMiller\u2019s is a frame house that, from the fact of loose clapboards\nhanging to it, looks well ventilated. If it was ever painted, there is\nno evidence to show it; for the sides are as dingy as twenty years could\nmake them. A two-story porch is in front, and before that a treeless,\ngrassless yard. Miller looks like Rip Van Winkle. The last time we\npassed, he was carrying an armful of fodder to some starved-looking\ncows. It was 2 o\u2019clock, and we had had no dinner. On inquiring whether\nour wants could be satisfied, he directed us to his \u201cold woman.\u201d\n\nOne of our number unfastened the rickety gate, and walked towards the\nhouse. A vicious dog came forth with loud barking from a hole under the\nporch, where he had been premeditating an onslaught. The sight of a\nstone in the hand of the new-comer caused him to defer operations until\na more convenient season.\n\n\u201cCan we get something to eat here?\u201d was asked of the woman who had\nappeared to call the dog under shelter.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll see,\u201d she said, and turned to go in.\n\nA line of bee gums on the sagging upper porch had already been observed\nby our forager, and consequently he was not taken by surprise when a\nswarm of bees alighted on his head and shoulders. Nevertheless, he was\ndiscomforted, and without waiting for the returns he struck in a\nstraight line for the fence. The dog, with considerable alacrity,\nfollowed suit, and succeeded in securing a nip as he scaled the rails.\nThe bees reached us all just at that time, and turning up the collars of\nour flannel shirts, we started our horses up the road like racers\nbearing down on the winning pole. This was our only attempt to call at\nMiller\u2019s.\n\nThe scenery for the next four miles is a series in close succession of\nviews wilder than any on the French Broad. There is nothing like it\nelsewhere in the Alleghanies. The valley between the mountains, through\nwhich the Nantihala pours, is much deeper than that of any other\nmountain river. The only passage-way that equals it in narrowness alone\nis the ca\u00f1on of Linville river, lying below the falls, and between the\ncraggy steeps of Jonas Ridge and Linville mountains. At the most\npicturesque points the waters sweep in thundering rapids over great\nmarble ledges. The road is stone-paved at the feet of broken-fronted\ncliffs, dripping with icy water, green with mosses, or brown in\nnakedness of rock. Across the narrow channel, brilliant leafed birches\nlean over the agitated current. At the margin of the stream the slope of\nthe opposite mountains begins, which, with impending forests on their\nprecipitous fronts, lift themselves to dizzy altitudes. At times\nwhimpering hawks, circling above the crags, may be heard and seen; but\nrarely will any other evidences of life be manifest. In two places\nabandoned clearings lie by the road. They are over-run with wild\nblackberry bushes and clumps of young forest trees. Two roofless cabins\nare in their centers; and a few apple trees rise above the rank growth\nof briers. From appearances, one would judge it to be a score of years\nsince last a barking dog raced back and forth behind the scattered fence\nrails concealed by the thickets; or its owner, from the entrance to the\ncabin, saluted the passing traveler.\n\n[Illustration: A NARROW WATER-WAY]\n\nAbout one mile below Miller\u2019s is a spot eminently characteristic of the\nNantihala\u2019s scenery. The valley has narrowed to a ca\u00f1on. The road runs\nthrough a dense wood. Not a rock is exposed under the trees, or on the\nperpendicular faces of the mountains. You seem to be in a great, deep\nwell. Only a small circle of sky is visible.\n\nIn the course of its windings, the road at length is crowded into the\nriver and fording is necessary. There is no danger, unless the water is\nhigh from a freshet; and there is nothing to dread in the passage,\nunless you are on foot. In the latter case you must wade. The water is\ntoo deep for rolling up your pantaloons, but your upper garments may be\nkept on and dry, unless the swift current and slippery rocks conspire to\ngive you a gentle ducking. The river is quite wide at this only ford on\nthe valley road. From mid-stream a long stretch of river is visible.\nUsually a shimmer of sunlight lies on the ripples down its center, while\ncool shadows darken its surface by the banks. The green trees lean\nlovingly over it, and a soft breeze, as constant in its blowing as the\nflowing of the water, will fan your face. A fascinating solitariness\npervades the picture; and this was enhanced, when we saw it, by a group\nof three deer, a buck and two does, which, with the antlered monarch in\nthe lead, had just left the forest and were standing knee-deep in the\nicy water at some distance from our point of observation. A moment they\nstood there with erected heads looking toward us; and then, with quick\nmovements, regained the nearest bank and disappeared into the wild wood.\n\nIf the traveler is observant, he will notice, soon after passing the\nford, a long dug-out fastened to the bank at the end of a beaten path;\nand between the trees see a lonely cabin on the opposite side of the\nriver. The dug-out and a slippery ford near by, are the only links\nconnecting the cabin\u2019s occupants with a road. The spot appears too\nisolated to be either pleasant or romantic. One of the many fish traps\nseen in all the mountain rivers is near this cabin. It is built, like\nthey all are, in a shallow reach of the river. It consists of a low V\nshaped dam, constructed of either logs or rocks, with angle pointing\ndown stream. The volume of the water pours through the angle where is\narranged a series of slats, with openings between, large enough to admit\nthe passage of a fish into a box set below for its receptacle. Every day\nits owner paddles his canoe out to the angle of the dam, and empties the\ncontents of the box into the boat. This method of fishing is\nunsportsmanlike, to say the least.\n\nNear the head of one of the islands of the Nantihala, the road from over\nStecoah mountain appears on the opposite bank, and by a wide ford\nreaches the main road. By the Stecoah mountain highway, it is twenty\nmiles to Robbinsville in the center or Graham county. There are no\nscenes of striking grandeur along the route, but the traveler will be\ninterested in way-side pictures. A primitive \u201ccorncracker\u201d at one point\nis likely to produce a lasting impression. It is a tall, frail structure\nwith gaps a foot wide between every two logs. Through these cracks can\nbe seen the hopper, and the stones working at their daily bushel of\ngrain, deposited therein at dawn by the miller, and left, without\nwatching, to be converted into meal by his return. One would conceive\nthat other mills than the gods\u2019 grind slowly. It is a small volume of\nwater that pours through the flume, by means of a race,--a long, small\ntrough, made of boards, rotten and moss-grown, and elevated on log\nfoundations, about ten feet above the ground. Reaching back toward the\nwooded hill-side, fifty yards away, it receives the waters of a mountain\nstream. I have seen mills in the mountains, forming with roof, hopper,\nand all, a structure no larger than a hackney coach.\n\nAlong the road to Robbinsville, for fifteen miles, the predominating\nfamily is Crisp. It is Crisp who lives in the valley, on the mountain\nside, in the woods, by the mill, on the bank of Yellow creek, and in\nnumerous unseen cabins up the coves. In fact Crisp seems ubiquitous.\nRobbinsville has eight or ten houses, one of which serves for a hotel; a\nstore; a court-house, church, and school-house. Near it flows Cheowah\ncreek, through fertile valleys. The finest tract of land in the county\nis owned by General Smythe, of Newark, Ohio, and is called the Junaluska\nfarm. It is situated near the village, on the banks of Long creek, and\nconsists of 1,500 acres, 400 or 500 acres of which are cleared valley\nland of rich, loamy soil. In this locality a number of Indian families\nown homes.\n\nAfter this slight digression, let us turn to the Nantihala. A short\ndistance from the Stecoah highway ford, the river empties into the\nLittle Tennessee. Just before reaching that point, the road diverges\nfrom beside the crystal current; the valley widens out; a deeper roar of\nmightier waters arises; and, soon after, having reached the bank of the\nLittle Tennessee, you enter its ford, and, turning in the saddle, take a\nparting look at the closely parallel mountain ranges, and the narrow\nspace between them, known as the valley of the Noon-day Sun.\n\n\n\n\nWITH ROD AND LINE.\n\n    Blest silent groves, O, may you be,\n    Forever, mirth\u2019s best nursery!\n        May pure contents\n        Forever pitch their tents\n    Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains!\n    And peace still slumber by these purling fountains,\n        Which we may every year\n        Meet, when we come a-fishing here.\n         --_Sir Henry Wotton._\n\n\n[Illustration: S]treams, from which the angler can soon fill his basket\nwith trout, are not wanting in these mountains. It is the cold, pure\nwaters, that spring from the perpetual fountains of the heights, that\nthis royal fish inhabits. Show me a swift and amber-colored stream,\nbabbling down the mountain slope under dense, luxurious forests, and,\nbetween laureled banks, issuing with rapids and cascades into a\nprimitive valley, and I will insure that in it swims, in countless\nnumbers, the prized fish of the angler. You or I may not be able to\ndemonstrate this assertion; but the urchin with smiling face, yellow\nhair, torn shirt, suspenderless pantaloons, bare feet, and legs nude to\nhis knees--this untaught boy, who lives in yonder homely hut amid the\nchestnut trees--will soon convince you of the truth of what I say, and\nbesides, give you a few points, impossible to secure from piscatorial\nbooks, on how to catch the trout. I do not mean to say that the angler\nwill meet with success at every point on one of these streams; for along\nits lower stretches, as the primeval character of the valley vanishes,\nas the water grows warmer under frequent floods of sunshine, and, losing\nits resinous color, flows with glassy surface between more open banks,\nthe sport becomes less captivating, until only the chub and shiner rise\nto the fly.\n\nThe best trout-fishing, like the best hunting, is to be found in the\nwildest sections. The advance of civilization lessens the sport as\nrapidly as it thins the herds of deer along the wooded margins of the\nstreams. Whether it be the disturbance of the waters by the line of\nactive saw-mills, that with each year reaches deeper into the mountain\nsolitudes, and the receding of the forests beneath the woodman\u2019s axe; or\nthe advent of the barefoot angler, that effects this change, makes no\ndifference with my statement; for it is advancing civilization that\nbrings them both.\n\nBut few persons are unfamiliar with the trout. What they have not\nlearned from actual experience concerning its habits and appearance, has\nbeen obtained from books. The trout has been a standing theme for poets,\nand more has been written about it than any other fish. That honest and\nenthusiastic old angler, Isaak Walton, thus sums up, in a few words, his\nnature and habits:\n\n     \u201cThe trout is a fish highly valued in this and foreign nations. He\n     may be justly said, as the old poet said of wine, and we English\n     say of venison, to be a generous fish: a fish that is so like the\n     buck, that he also has his seasons; for it is observed that he\n     comes in and goes out of season with the stag and buck. Gesner says\n     his name is of German offspring, and says he is a fish that feeds\n     clean and purely, in the swiftest streams, and on the hardest\n     gravel; and that he may justly contend with all fresh-water fish,\n     as the mullet may with all sea-fish, for precedency and daintiness\n     of taste, and that, being in right season, the most dainty palates\n     have allowed precedency to him.\u201d\n\nThe brook trout of the North Carolina mountains seldom exceeds a foot in\nlength, and weighs from a few ounces to three-quarters of a pound. It is\nof a brown color on its back with darker brown, reticulated stripes. Its\nsides are of a lighter color and speckled with bright pink and golden,\nround dots, while its belly is silver white or light yellow. The dorsal\nfins are reddish; the first row of fins behind the gills and those on\nits belly are generally edged with white and black. This is its usual\nappearance, but trout caught in the same pool often vary in their\ncolors. Different waters also change the shade of the body-coloring and\nstrikingly vary the hue of the spots. In deep pools the trout is of a\ndarker shade with deep red spots; while in the shallow ripples it runs\nto the other extreme, showing a silver belly and sides sprinkled with\nbright pink. It has no scales; nor does it require--like its scaleless\nbrothers, the slimy cat-fish and bull-pout--hot water and a scraping\nknife to fit it for the table.\n\nThe mountaineer\u2019s plan of frying it with its head on in butter and\ncorn-meal is the best for the palate. The color of the trout when cooked\nis generally salmon-yellow, but frequently it is as white as the flesh\nof a bass. It would require a finely tempered palate to discover any\ndifference between the two varieties. As you buy them of the native\nfish-boy, at the rate of a cent a piece, it takes a long string to make\na respectable meal for a man with a mountain appetite. The quaint\npronunciation of \u201cmounting\u201d for mountain might better be used, in this\nconnection, to convey an exact but wider meaning. I have knowledge, from\nseeing the feat performed, of one man who, in a single meal, devoured\ntwenty-seven of these fish, and that without apparent discomfiture.\nHowever, he probably picked out the smallest of the fry.\n\nFor fishing in the mountain brooks, the most important thing required is\na pair of rubber boots. Those knee-high will suit the purpose; for,\nalthough in the wildest streams a man is compelled to wade almost all\nthe time, he can avoid the deepest holes by springing from rock to rock.\nThe kind used for marsh, duck hunting, which reach to the hips, would be\ntoo burdensome to wear for miles down an impetuous current. As far as\nrods are concerned, a slender birch cut from the bank of the stream will\nanswer every purpose of a ringed and jointed rod; for reels with lines\nof fifty or more yards can not be used with any advantage. A silk or\nhair line, as long as the pole, is all the length required. If the\nsportsman, however, wishes to indulge in fishing for bass, salmon, or\nperch in the broad creeks or rivers, it would be well to have the\nangler\u2019s complete outfit. In many sections he can take a turn at this\nsport in connection with what is considered the higher branch of the\nart. As for artificial flies, have a supply with you, and use the one\nnearest like the one in season; or, what is better, let the tow-head\nurchin give you a suggestion. It makes a great difference in the choice\nof your flies whether the stream is crystal in clearness, or is slightly\ndiscolored by a recent rain; and whether you have ventured out before\nbreakfast, or the day is drawing to a close. It would be strange if at\nthe latter hour a white or yellow fly, like those dropping on the\nsurface of the stream, could not be used with pleasing returns.\n\nThe best fishing I ever saw done was by a mountaineer, one day in early\nJune, who used a green-winged, yellow-bodied, artificial fly with a\nstick-bait worm strung on the hook. As we followed down the current, at\nevery cast of his line he pulled a speckled trout from the water. The\nstick-bait is a small, white worm found in tiny bundles of water-soaked\ntwigs along the edges of the stream. The twigs seem glued together, and\nwhen opened, reveal an occupant. In early spring, with a light sinker on\nyour line, the common, red angle-worm on a featherless hook can be used\nwith advantage.\n\nA great deal has been written on how to catch trout, but these kindly\nsuggestions are of about as much value as rules on how to swim without\npractice in the water. It requires a knack to catch trout; it is really\nan art; and no one can ever succeed in bringing into camp a long string\nof the speckled beauties, until after a novitiate of several days actual\nfishing,--or unless he meets and strikes a bargain with a small boy who\nhas had a successful morning sport.\n\nMay is the paragon of months for the angler. Take it in the middle of\nthe month, and if the tourist following and whipping some well-known\ntrout stream, fails to catch fish, let him neither condemn the stream or\nthe season, but with reason draw the conclusion that he is a bungler in\nthe art of trout-fishing. The genial breezes and soft skies should draw\nevery genuine lover of nature to the mountains. The deciduous forests of\nthe valleys are again beautiful with their fresh foliage, destroying the\ncontrast of the winter between their dun outlines and the green fronts\nof the higher pine groves, or the bodies of the giant hemlocks scattered\nin their midst. Winter\u2019s traces, however, are not fully concealed; for\nthere is still a line of bare woods between the green line slowly\ncreeping up the slopes and the lower edges of the lofty, black balsam\nwildernesses. But every day, new sprouts of leaves appear, and soon the\nentire body of the wood-lands will have donned its summer mantle. The\ngrass is of a bright green on the hill-sides; in the orchards, the apple\ntrees are in full bloom; while the blossoms of the cherry are being\nscattered on the wings of breezes from the aromatic balsams. The\nvalleys, on either side the narrow woods lining the banks of the\nstreams, are dark green with sprouting fields of wheat and rye, or of\nlighter shade where the tender blades of the corn are springing.\n\nIn the forests which belt the streams, the bell-wood is white with\nblossoms, and every dog-wood white with flowers. \u201cWhen the dog-wood is\nin bloom, then is the time to catch trout,\u201d is a true, though trite,\nobservation. At the same time the sassafras is yellow with buds, and the\nred maple, purple. A straggler along the wood-land path, between hedges\nof the budding kalmia, or ivy as the mountaineers term it, will be\nregaled with the delicious fragrance of the wild-plum and crab-apple\nwhose white and pink blossomed trees are often entirely hidden by the\nclumps of alder or the close sides of the hedges. The wild grape also\nsheds an unequalled perfume. The path occasionally issues from the\nshrubbery, and pursues its way under the open trees, with the hurrying\nstream on one hand, and pleasing glades on the other. The woodland is\nvocal with the robin, red-bird and oriole, and the liquid murmur of the\nstream. The early violet still graces the sides of the path, and the\ncrimson-tipped daisy is to be found in sunny spaces.\n\nLet the evening come. At its approach, the keen-piped \u201cbob-white\u201d of the\nmale quail grows less and less frequent in the fields, and after its\ncall has entirely ceased, and the mountains grow gray, then finally\nresolve to black, formless masses, the cry of the whip-poor-will rings\nwild and peculiar out of the darkness above the meadows. If the night is\nfree from rain, the forests and clearings will be ablaze with\nfire-flies. Millions of these insects spring into life with the dusk.\nEvery yard of air is peopled with them; and for one who has never\nventured into the country at night, their bright bodies flashing above\nthe road, and under and amid the branches of the trees, would certainly\nfill him with profound astonishment.\n\nAs has been described in the geographical sketch, in this volume,\nWestern North Carolina is a mountainous expanse, measuring about 200\nmiles in length by an average breadth of mountain plateau of 30 miles,\nyet in all this area there is not one lake. This seems a singular fact\nwhen contrasted with what is known of the waters of other mountain\nregions. There is no lack of water, however, in the Carolina mountains.\nIt gushes up from thousands of springs in every valley, on every\nmountain slope and summit; but nowhere does it find a deep, wide basin\nin which to rest itself before hurrying to the sea. There are a few\nponds in some of the valleys, but they are small, and are all\nartificial. Many are stocked with trout, from which the owners\u2019 tables\nare easily supplied. One of these ponds is at Estes\u2019 place near Blowing\nRock. Trout are, at intervals, bagged in the brooks near by, and then\nfreed in its waters. The tourist can be paddled in a boat over the clear\nsurface, under which the standing trunks of the flooded trees are\nvisible, and may be fortunate enough to pull out a few fish; but the\nfascination of killing the game in the mountain torrents is wholly lost.\n\nColonel Hampton, of Cashier\u2019s valley, has a well stocked trout pond\nformed by the dammed up waters of Cashier creek. A screen fastened into\nthe dam allows the escape of nothing but the water. The spawn is\ndeposited high up the channels of the limpid streams, which empty into\nthis pond. A fortune could be made in fish culture in the Carolina\nmountains. The valley of Jamestown, six miles east of Cashier\u2019s valley,\nis admirably suited for an enterprise of this kind. A lake of six square\nmiles could be formed here by damming, at a narrow gorge, a fork of\nToxaway.\n\nThe headwaters of all the rivers may be whipped with success for trout.\nAn exception to this general statement must be made of the slow-flowing\nLittle Tennessee; the headwaters of its tributaries, however, teem with\nspeckled habitants. Those streams most widely known as trout streams,\nwhile they, in fact, afford fine sport, are not to be compared with many\nloud-roaring little creeks, almost wholly unknown, even by the denizens\nof the vales into which they descend. Let the angler go to the loneliest\nsolitudes, strike a stream as it issues from the balsams; and,\nfollowing it to its mouth through miles of laurel tangle, he will cover\nhimself with glory. It will be a well filled basket which he carries;\ntherefore his wet clothes, his bruised body, tired legs, and depleted\nbox of lines and flies left behind him on the branches of the trees,\nought not to discourage him from trying it again.\n\nFor the angler of adventurous spirit and fond of the picturesque, that\nprong of the Toe river which flows between the Black mountains and the\nBlue Ridge, would be the stream for him to explore. With its North fork,\nthis fork unites to form a wide and beautiful river, which flows along\nthe line between Yancy and Mitchell counties, and empties into the\nNolechucky. Its course is due north. Along its upper reaches, for mile\nafter mile, not a clearing is to be seen; not a column of smoke curls\nupward through the trees, unless it be from the open fire before the\ntemporary shelter of a benighted cattle-herder, or a party of\nbear-hunters; not an echo from the cliffs of dog or man; only the\nsombre, mossy woods, the rocks, crags and the stream beside the\nprimitive path; the loud roar of rapids and cascades, or the low murmur\nof impetuous waters, sweeping under the rich drapery of the vines. One\nis not only outside the pale of civilized life, but is widely separated\nfrom visible connections with humanity. Let him shout with all the\nstrength of his lungs, no one will hear him or the deep, sepulchral echo\nthat comes up from the black-wooded defiles. A jay from out a wild\ncherry may answer him, or an eagle, circling high over-head, scream back\nas if in defiance to the intruder.\n\nHere are the trout. Every few yards there are deep, clear pools, whose\ndark-lined basins make the surface of the waters perfect mirrors, strong\nand clear; so that the handsome man, for fear of the fate of Narcissus,\nwould better avoid leaning over them. Such pools are the haunts of trout\nof largest size. They dwell in them as though protected by title-deeds;\nand old fishermen say that every trout clings to his favorite pool with\nsingular tenacity. Natural death, the delusive hook, or larger fish that\nhave been ousted from their own domains, are all the causes that can\ntake the trout from his hereditary haunts. Here, in the still waters\nunder a bridging log, or in some hole amid the exposed water-sunk roots\nof the rhododendron, lie the king trout, during the middle of the day,\non the watch for stray worms, or silly gnats, and millers which flit\nabove, then drop in the waters, with as much wisdom and facility as they\nhover around and burn up in the candle flame.\n\nMy presumption, in the following suggestions, is that the angler is\nable-bodied, not disinclined to walking, and of the male gender. Leave\nthe railroad at Black Mountain station. From the station it is six miles\nto the foot of the Black mountains. The walking is good along the roads,\nif no rain is falling. One board nailed to a post on the bank of the\nSwannanoa, will inform you that in the direction you have come is \u201cBlack\nMt. deepo 4 mi.\u201d This will convince you that some one in the\nneighborhood believes in the phonetic system of spelling. The Swannanoa\npresents a few beautiful pictures along the roadside. The farm-houses,\nwith great chimneys on the outside at both gable ends, will look queer\nto the Northerner; and to one who lives in a marshy, sandy, or prairie\nsection of country, the old fences along some stretches of road, made\nwholly of boulders gathered from the fields, will excite interest. Many\nof them are overrun with vines, and in sections are as green as the\nhedge that lines the side of the rocky road nearest the stream. There\nare a number of foot-logs on the route, but it requires no skill to\ncross them, even if rude railings are not at their sides. It might be\nadvisable to state that there is a house in the vicinity where pure\nwhisky and apple-jack can be bought, for it is a wise thing to have a\nlittle liquor in one\u2019s _pocket_, on a mountain excursion. It is an\nantidote for the bite of a rattle-snake; and simply to provide for such\na dread emergency, should it be carried. There is a prevalent idea that\nwhisky drank during a mountain climb is a help to a man. It is the worst\nthing a person can use at such a time. Water only should be drank; and,\nif that does not help the exhausted climber, it takes no wise head to\nadvise an hour\u2019s rest under a forest monarch beside the path.\n\nNow, as there has been a casual mention made of rattle-snakes, a few\nwords on that subject is suggested. There are few of them in the\nmountains, the numbers varying according to the condition of the\ncountry. From most sections they have disappeared, and it is only by\nsingular mischance that the traveler stumbles across one. During four\nsummers, in which the writer traversed all of the mountain section, he\nsaw but one live rattle-snake, and only four dead ones. However, he\nheard many snake stories; but he knows of only two men who were bitten\nby the venomous reptiles. The mountaineers say that in one of the summer\nmonths the snakes undertake a pilgrimage, crossing the valleys from one\npeak to another. This report conflicts with the stories of their\nhereditary dens. Perhaps they return after the flight of the summer.\nFrom the same source, we learn that in August the snake is blind, and\nstrikes without the customary warning whirr of his buttoned tail.\nPublished natural histories are silent on this subject, and too close\nobservation from nature is dangerous. Also, at night in summer, the\nrattle-snake forsakes the grass and rocks, and pursues its way along the\nbeaten paths. There is nothing particularly startling in this latter\nstatement, except to the trafficker in \u201cmoon-shine,\u201d and the love-lorn\nmountain lad. Still, if one who is at all timid, desires or is required\nto take an evening walk, he can avoid all danger by taking to the grass\nhimself.\n\nThere are well-known cures for snake-bite, applied externally, but this\ndoes not detract one particle from the fact of their efficacy. They\nconsist in binding the opened body of the snake itself to the wound; or,\nif a live chicken can be caught, cutting that open in front and applying\nit to absorb the poison. All these means will fail, however, if a\nleading artery has been directly struck; otherwise, a man with strong\nconstitution can struggle through.\n\nBefore you reach the mountain, engage the services of a guide to the\nsummit of Mitchell\u2019s Peak, and then down the east side to the Toe. Do\nnot allow this senseless name to prejudice you against the stream. It is\nas beautiful as the name is barbarous. The original name, as given by\nthe Indians, was Estatoe, pronounced with four syllables. Before you\nengage any one\u2019s services determine on the price. If you intend to scale\nMitchell\u2019s Peak only, and then descend again to the valley of the\nSwannanoa, as the path is a plain one, you might as well go alone as pay\n$2.50 per day to the professional guide. That is their regular charge.\n\nThe climb up the Black mountains is arduous, and a half-day is required\nto complete it. Along the path is a wealth of timber that will one day\nentice into the forest depths something livelier than the perpendicular\nsaw and its overshot wheel. After a five mile tramp, the second base of\nthe Black is reached. Here, on an open, grassy tract, once stood the\nsummer residence of William Patton, of Charleston, South Carolina. All\nthat remains of it are the loose stones of its foundation, and a few\nmouldering timbers. Cattle, grazing in this common pasture, will ring\ntheir bells and low in notice of your arrival. Ravens croak from the\nbalsams, and sail with wings expanded overhead. Close before the vision,\nappalling in its funereal coloring and immensity of height, rises the\nfront of the Black mountain, the king of the Appalachians, arrayed in\nthose forests which scorn to spring elsewhere but on the loftiest of\nranges.\n\nFor the next five miles the bridle-path leads through woods similar to\nthose described at length in the sketch on bear hunting. If thin puffs\nof cloud are scurrying through the trees and brushing against you, do\nnot betray your ignorance by asking the guide where the smoke comes\nfrom. They have every appearance of smoke, and it is the most natural\nthing in the world for you to ask this question. On Mitchell\u2019s Peak it\nis advisable to remain all night, and a shelving rock, a short distance\ndown from the summit, will furnish excellent quarters after wood is\nbrought for a great fire before it. Eat your cold snack, drink a cup of\nclear, hot coffee, and, rolling up in your blanket dream of trout\nfishing in the Toe. Most likely they will be waking dreams; for a high\nold fire blazing in your eyes, and a cold rock under you, are not\nconducive to slumber. Even in May your back will almost freeze while\nyour front grows hot enough to crackle.\n\nIf no clouds wrap the pinnacle of Mitchell\u2019s Peak, this, the highest\nmountain east of the Mississippi, will afford to the enthusiastic angler\nthe grandest of prospects,\n\n              \u201cWhen heaven\u2019s wide arch\n    Is glorious with the sun\u2019s returning march.\u201d\n\nNo two mornings will present the same panoply of cloud over the eastern\nmountainous horizon, the coloring will vary, the mists will cling in\ndiffering silver folds in the hollows of the hills, but changeless in\nits outlines will lie the soft purple mountain ocean.\n\nMitchell\u2019s Peak rises to an elevation of 6,711 feet, and forms one of\nthe spurs in the short, lofty backbone of a range termed, from the\nsomber forests covering its upper slopes, the Black mountains. The range\nis about twenty miles in length. It is wholly in Yancy county, and\ntrends due north toward the Iron mountains. A wide gap, filled with low\nmountains and the valleys of the Toe, stretches between its northern\nterminal point, Bowlen\u2019s Pyramid, and the Smokies. On the summit of\nMitchell\u2019s Peak is the solitary grave of Professor Elisha Mitchell,\npiled round with stones, and at present bare of monument.\n\nThe descent to the Toe is a difficult journey down the east slope of the\nmountain. The exact distance in miles is unknown. You can guess at it as\nwell as the guide, and most likely there will be no difference between\nhis and your figures; for his will be stretched by exaggeration, and\nyour\u2019s by the tediousness of the descent. As soon as you reach the\nstream pay and dismiss him, and pursue your way, casting your flies\nwhere the water is most inviting. There is no reason why 100 trout\nshould not grace the angler\u2019s string by the time he has finished for the\nday, and, at some humble cabin far below, is snugly ensconsed for the\nnight.\n\n[Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE TOE.]\n\nThere are many spots of rare, sylvan beauty in the region of the upper\nToe; many spots of wild and melancholy magnificence,--dells that seem\nthe natural haunts for satyrs and fawns, and where a modern Walter Scott\nmight weave and locate some most fascinating fictions. The mountaineer\nis apparently devoid of superstition; and, as far as the writer could\nascertain, no legends, like those of the Catskills, shed their hallowed\nlight on any portion of the solitude. In lieu of a legend let him tell a\nghost story.\n\nOne ghost has no known grave; the other\u2019s lies beside the stream in an\numbrageous dale high up in the mountains. The careless stranger passing\ndown the mountain would not perceive it. It is a low mound scarcely\nrising above the level ground. Covering it are light-green mosses, as\nancient apparently as the lichens which decorate the trunk of the\ntwo-hundred-year-old water birch standing in lieu of a headstone at one\nend of it. There are no rocks or stones to be seen, except on the\nopposite side of the tree where its roots are exposed. The stream is\nnoisy; but it could not be otherwise in so rocky a channel, and so is\nexcusable for disturbing the quiet of the grave. There are other trees\nshadowing the circle, but beside the monarch birch they sink into\ninsignificance. In the grave was once placed the cold form of a\nwhite-haired old man; but half a century has passed since then, and what\nwas flesh and bone has long ago resolved to natural dust.\n\nThis dust was Daniel Smith. He came from Tennessee, up the Nolechucky\nand the Toe to this dale. His widowed daughter and her baby boy were\nwith him when he built a log cabin, and formed a clearing. On the same\nside of the creek, fifty steps from the grave, there is a space of\nseveral acres grown with trees of fewer years and lesser height than the\nsurrounding pristine forest. In the center of this fresh wood, amid the\nbrambles and briers, the straggler, by pulling them aside, will perceive\na few crumbling stones piled in a heap like the ruin of a chimney. If\nthere is a single timber concealed under the bushes, the foot will sink\nthrough it without resistance. It is the site of Smith\u2019s cabin. A lofty\nlocust with wide-spread branches springs, from where once was the\nhearth-stone. Where the babe crept on the puncheon floor, tree-sprouts,\nwith thorns and thistles, are entangled. It is a desolate spot rendered\ndoubly so by the knowledge, had from sight of the chimney stones, of\nwhat once was there; and by the black balsams which appear along the\nsteep above it. It seems that Hood had seen it before he wrote the\nverse:\n\n    \u201cFor over all there hung a cloud of fear,\n       A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,\n     And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,\n       The place is haunted!\u201d\n\nThe old man showed no liking for outside associations, and scarcely ever\nappeared at the cabins of the settlers far below him. This disposition\nbecame more marked after the death of his daughter when the boy was\nabout ten years old. He was a bright, blue-eyed, curly-haired, little\nfellow, and always went a-fishing with the old man, who was an ardent\nangler. Never was father more wrapped up in his child, than this\nvenerable fisherman in his grandson. He was never seen without the boy;\nand the stray hunter coming down the trail, often saw their forms before\nhim,--the silver-haired man with his fishing rod, and the merry,\nlaughing boy with his hand clasping his grandsire\u2019s. But Death came.\nDuring a heavy flood the boy was accidentally drowned, and his body was\nnever recovered.\n\nThe old man was now thought to be crazy. He allowed no one to enter his\ncabin, and some said he fished from morning till night, in the insane\nhope of catching his boy, whom he imagined, was transformed to a trout.\nOne who had watched him from his concealment in a thicket, said that\nevery fish the old man caught, he examined carefully, as if searching\nfor some peculiar mark, and mumbled to himself: \u201cNo, no, not Will this\ntime. Strange where the boy is!\u201d\n\nOne day Daniel Smith\u2019s dog, cowed apparently by hunger, appeared at a\nToe river cabin. The fierce nature of the animal was gone; he begged\npiteously with his eyes and voice, and then ate ferociously all that\nwas given him. The settlers, suspecting the worst, went to Smith\u2019s\ncabin; forced in the door, and found the occupant dead. They buried him\nunder the water birch, where the mound marks the place. The same figures\nwhich attracted the attention of the stray hunter fifty years ago, are\nseen by the hunter and traveler to-day; but while they interested then,\nthey frighten now; and no one, familiar with the story, passes through\nthe dale without turning his head in dread and hurrying on. At night,\nwhen the moon bathes in golden light the dark forests, the straggler\nprofesses often to have seen before him, in plainly visible, but weird,\nout-lines, the stooped figure of the old angler and his blithe,\nbare-foot companion.\n\nThere is good fishing in Cane river, on the west slope of the Black\nmountains. If the angler prefers to try the latter stream, instead of\nthe Toe, he can, at a point a short distance before reaching the summit\nof Mitchell\u2019s Peak, turn to the left and follow down a plain trail,\nfishing as he descends, to \u201cBig Tom\u201d Wilson\u2019s. From Wilson\u2019s it is\nfifteen miles to Burnsville. It is a small, country village, amid\nsublime surroundings. From the high knoll, where stands the academy, a\npleasant prospect can be obtained. In the morning, as it opens over the\nrolling peaks in the east; or, as the sun descends behind the receding\nlines of purple ranges, the scenes presented in their glory of\ncloud-coloring, their brilliant effect of light and shade, and the soft,\npoetic splendor of the mountains, are of beauty too divine, and of\nduration too transient, to be caught by the painter.\n\nThirty miles west of Asheville, fine sport can be had along the Pigeon.\nLeave the railroad at Pigeon River station. No teams can be procured\nhere; so if you are disinclined to walking ten or twelve miles, continue\nyour trip to Waynesville, and then drive to the desired point. It is an\ninviting walk up the river. The stream flows broad, deep, and clear,\nthrough rich valleys, affording fine farming land. The level fields are\ngreen with oats, corn and wheat; the farm houses are painted white, the\nyards neat in appearance, and everything in keeping with the fertility\nof the soil. The valley views are extremely picturesque; for you are\namid some of the loftiest mountains of the system. The Balsams lie\ntoward the south; and if you follow up the right fork, you will be\nexalted by the sight of these mountains looming along the horizon. The\nfishing is excellent, but the east prong is generally preferred.\n\nUp the east prong, the wild beauty of stream and woods cannot be\nsurpassed. There is such a richness about the foliage, such a purity in\nthe waters, such an inspiration of atmosphere, that too long-continued\ncompanionship might be disastrous to your outside, worldly connections.\nCold mountain rises on the west; Pisgah on the east. This latter peak is\na famous height for the sight-seer. It is easily accessible, and from\nits summit the view is almost boundless. The broad valleys, watered by\nthe Hominy and French Broad, stretch toward the eastern limit. The vales\nof the Pigeon lie on the west and north. All around, the skirts of the\nplateau are pinned by mountains loftier than the one beneath your feet.\nTo the south and west the Balsams; to the north and northwest the\nSmokies; and on the other verges of the horizon, the Blue Ridge, Saluda,\nSwannanoa, Craggy, Black, Iron, and Newfound ranges. Your standpoint is\none of the most symmetrical of peaks, and is always marked out by the\nobserver on the streets of Asheville and Hendersonville.\n\nThere are agreeable people living on the Pigeon, and among them you will\nfare well, especially if you are an expert angler. Explore the wildest\nramblings of the stream, and whip every pool from the white falls down\nto the valley known as the old Lenoir farm, where there is such a\npleasant mingling of wild and rugged mountain scenery, with rich\npastoral landscape, that one can never weary of viewing it.\n\nA famous fishing ground is that section of the great Smokies watered by\nthe Cataluche. Besides the trout-fishing, there is enough in this region\nto allure into it not only the angler, and hunter, but the painter and\npoet. It is wildly romantic in every feature. By the well-traveled road\nthat leads from Waynesville to Knoxville, Tennessee, the tourist can\nreach it by a 22 mile drive from the former village. The country along\nJonathan\u2019s creek is as fine as that along the Pigeon. An air of\nprosperity pervades; and as one rattles on over the pebbled road, by the\npink and white flowering hedges on one side, and the green fields on the\nother, the friendly salutations received by him from every man, woman,\nand child, will convince him that he is not in a land of strangers, and\nthat, if any accident befall him, kind and willing hands will be ready\nto render assistance. Besides the farm dwellings and their\nout-buildings, noisy mills are situate along the stream; and in cleared\nspaces amid the woods, at intervals, can be seen country churches and\nlog and frame school-houses. Leaving the valley, the road ascends Cove\nCreek mountain, whereon can be obtained a wide-sweeping view of nestling\nvales and receding mountain ranges. Now follows a long ride around\nmountain brows, until at length you draw rein before a small, unpainted,\nframe house, hanging between the highway and the abrupt edge of a deep\nvalley, on whose steep side a road, like a great yellow snake, winds\ndownward to the river. If it is at the close of a bright afternoon, the\ngolden streaks of light, gleaming from the gaps and across the\npine-capped tops of Mount Starling and its black, brother peaks of the\nSmokies, will set in indescribable splendor the mountains to the east;\nand darker will lie the shadows filling the ca\u00f1on, within whose depths,\n1,000 feet below you, glistens the waters of Cataluche.\n\nIn spite of the steepness of the ca\u00f1on\u2019s side, lofty woods cover it, and\nare as thickly planted along the descending road that, after leaving the\nmain highway at the frame dwelling just mentioned, no glimpses can be\nhad of the lower landscape. If the angler has not brought a jointed rod\nwith him, before he has traveled far down this winding way, he can\nsecure from the roadside an excellent pole in the shape of a long, lithe\nbirch. There is a tumultuous ford of the river to cross just after\nreaching the narrow valley, and then the road leads up stream.\n\nOur party of sixteen ladies and gentlemen, which, on a fishing\nexcursion, visited the Cataluche river in the early part of June, 1879,\nput up at Mr. Palmer\u2019s, the first farm house reached after passing the\nford. At that time a high, pine picket fence enclosed the yard\nsurrounding a roomy house, with large, open hall through its center, and\na long, wide porch in the rear. In spite of our numbers, the farmer and\nhis wife volunteered to accommodate us all, and did so in a satisfactory\nmanner.\n\nThe river is no more than 100 yards from the house, and soon after our\narrival that day two of us, with our rods, started for its banks. It was\njust before dusk, and white millers and gnats were fluttering above and\ndropping on the rapid water. The stream seemed perfectly alive with\ntrout, coming up in sight with a splatter to secure these dainty\nmorsels. The hour was propitious, and we improved it. Without moving\nfrom a line of smooth, deep-flowing pools, we secured a mess of forty\ntrout before it became too dark to cast our lines. Even if you have no\nfishing tackle with you, it is interesting at evening to sit beside a\nstream and watch the trout secure his prey. A miller drops on the water,\nthe swift current carries it for a few feet; then there is a splash and\nthe insect has vanished. If you had looked sharp, you would have seen a\nwary trout dart through the water, rise to the surface, slap the miller\nwith his tail to kill it, and almost with the same movement suck it into\nhis mouth. For the very reason that the live fly floats down stream\nthis ought to instruct the angler to let his artificial fly drift in the\nsame manner; and then, as the quick jerk informs him that a trout has\nstruck, pull the line up the current. You must be as quick in your\nmovements as the fish is in his, or you will lose him.\n\nAfter brushing through the weeds and briers and climbing a rambling,\nrail fence, we came out on the road beside one of our friends and a\nsmall boy, who appeared to be striking a bargain over a long string of\ntrout. The boy \u201ccounted on\u201d there being a hundred fish in the lot, and\njust at our arrival he had accepted seventy-five cents for them, and was\nmaking the transfer. We signified our perfect willingness to keep dark\nto the rest of the party on how he had secured them. The young angler\nwas a bright-looking little fellow, with the clearest of complexions,\nruddy cheeks and dark hair. He was barefooted and wore a straw hat,\nhomespun pantaloons, jacket, and tattered shirt; and, as we stood with\nhim in the road, he regaled us as follows:\n\n\u201cDid you catch all those trout yourself?\u201d was asked.\n\n\u201cYes, sir; an\u2019 all ov \u2019em sence dinner. I heerd you\u2019uns war comin\u2019, an\u2019\nI knowed some o\u2019 you all cud\u2019nt ketch trouts by yourselfs, so I reckoned\non arnin\u2019 a little by fetchin\u2019 in a string.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you catch them with?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis \u2019ere.\u201d\n\nHe exhibited a hair line and a fly made of a crooked pin, wound with a\nsmall piece of red flannel and a black and white feather. \u201cI hid the\npole up yander,\u201d he continued, pointing behind him.\n\n\u201cWhat, all with a pin hook?\u201d exclaimed the purchaser of the trout.\n\n\u201cLaw! yes. Why not? A pin hook\u2019ll do ef you haint got enny other; but\nI\u2019d like powerful well to hev one o\u2019 them store hooks you\u2019uns hev.\u201d\n\nWe gave him one forthwith, and then asked: \u201cWhen is the best time to\nfish, son?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the signs air in the head; the signs in the awmanac, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes. When you haven\u2019t fly hooks, what bait is the best?\u201d\n\n\u201cYoung hornets.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat baits do you use for young hornets?\u201d was next asked, and rightly\ndeemed a very important question under the circumstances.\n\n\u201cRob a nest,\u201d he answered, and continued: \u201cGrasshoppers is good, too; so\nis stickbaits. I don\u2019t keer much which I hev; they\u2019re all good.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you\u2019re an expert, my son. Why, I believe he could catch trout\nwithout hook, line, or bait,\u201d remarked the purchaser, with a laugh.\n\n\u201cIn course, I could,\u201d returned the boy in a matter-of-fact voice; \u201cI\ndon\u2019t need no hooks or bait, I don\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, buddy; no fish stories now.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d use a snare. They\u2019re fust-rate tricks whar the water is still an\u2019 a\nlittle riley. You see I make a runnin\u2019 noose in a long horse ha\u2019r, or\ntwo or three ov \u2019em tied together on the end o\u2019 a pole. I watch behind a\nlog till I see a big trout, an then I drap the noose over his head, an\u2019,\nwith a quick jerk, snake him out. I\u2019ve caught lots that a way.\u201d\n\nThis method of fishing, as described by the boy, is often practiced. It\nis an outrage that nets are used in some of the trout streams. Hundreds\nof fish are frequently killed in a few hours by this unsportsman-like\npractice. In some counties (and it ought to be in all) it is a direct\ninfringement of the law; and such practices should be exposed on every\noccasion, and punished to the full extent of the statute.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE CATALUCHE.]\n\nWhip-poor-wills whistled their shrillest that June night, and the air\nwas ablaze with millions of fire-flies. A grand scene was revealed when\nthe round, yellow moon came creeping up from behind the ragged ridge\nthat walls the eastern bank of Cataluche. The pines along the summit of\nthe ridge, stood out like black skeletons. A light, almost as bright as\nday, flooded the shut-in valley, casting dark shadows on the stony\nground under the giant forest trees, silvering their tall tops, and\nwhitening the bare, mast-like pines, standing girdled in the fields of\nsprouting corn. The valley was resonant with the roar of the river. A\nrefreshing evening breeze swept the porch of the old farm-house,\ncarrying with it a sleepy influence which knocked the props out from\nunder the drowsy eye-lids of our party, and caused one after another to\nsteal away to bed.\n\nThe more enterprising and enthusiastic anglers were out and fishing\nbefore breakfast; but after that meal we all went. We pursued every bend\nof the romantic stream, catching trout at every cast of our flies. One\nday in particular is to be remembered. A soft, warm shower had fallen,\nand then cleared brightly by 9 o\u2019clock. The best of breezes, one from\nthe south, was blowing through the hemlocks. The current of the stream\nwas slightly riled; thus everything being propitious for the sport.\nFrom one pool alone, ten gold and pink-spotted trout were taken that\nmorning. It was a spot where a steep cliff, festooned with vines, lifted\nitself from the water on one side. On the other, was a wide curve of the\nbank, and along it grew azaleas and rhododendrons under the pines. The\nRhine-wine colored waters lay dark in this picturesque basin; and from\nthem were lifted trout after trout, beguiled by the treacherous fly.\nBetween four and five hundred fish were brought in that evening.\n\nThere are many other streams in the Great Smoky mountains about equal in\nexcellence to Cataluche. Among these are the Ocona Lufta, Forney, Hazel\nand Eagle creeks in Swain county. Soco is a natural trout stream; but,\nflowing as it does through the Cherokee reservation, its waters have\nbeen so whipped by the aboriginal fishermen that it can not be\nrecommended to the angler. On its banks the angler, starting from\nWaynesville, will travel to reach the Ocona Lufta. The waters of the\nOcona Lufta, even at its mouth in Tuckasege river, are of singular\npurity, and through some portions of its course, from racing over a\nmoss-lined bed, appear clear emerald green. Above the Indian town the\nvalley grows narrow, and prosperous farmers live along its banks. The\nforests are rich in cherry and walnut trees, and all necessary water\npower is afforded by the river. Joel Conner\u2019s is a pleasant place to\nstop.\n\nForney creek empties into the Tuckasege at some distance below\nCharleston. The ride to its mouth will interest even the most practical\nof travelers. At times, the waters create a tumultuous uproar over a\nbroken channel; then with startling silence they run smooth and swift\nfor a hundred yards, and, making a bold sweep around a craggy mountain,\ndisappear as though the earth had swallowed them. There are several\nislands in the stream; and at one place there is a twin pair lying close\ntogether in a channel wider than usual. Wild ducks will often be seen\nkeeping their unwavering flight around the bends; and frequently from\nthe water edge of a clump of alders, spice-wood and thunderberry bushes,\na blue heron, with lank neck outstretched, will sail lazily out over the\nriver. The mail man, mounted on a cadaverous horse, with leather\nmailbags upon his saddle, is apt to meet the tourist; but, differing\nfrom the general run of the natives, he travels on time and is loath to\nstop and talk. Not so with the man who, with a bushel of meal over his\nshoulders, is coming on foot from the nearest \u201ccorn-cracker.\u201d At your\nhalt for a few points in regard to your route, he will answer to the\nbest of his ability; and then, if you feel so inclined, he will continue\nplanted in the road and talk for an hour without once thinking of\nsetting down his load. The fishing in Forney creek is excellent. It is\nin a rugged section, and at its mouth the scenery is wild enough to hold\nforth fine inducements. Hazel and Eagle creeks empty into the Little\nTennessee in a still more lonely and less inhabited section, a number of\nmiles below the mouth of the Tuckasege.\n\nThe Nantihala river is prolific in trout near its pure sources; and,\nalong its lower reaches, is alive with other fish, among which the gamey\nblack-bass is enough to allure the angler. A man may be an expert bass\nfisher, but a veritable failure at trouting. When one discovers this\nfact, with a sound pole, long line and reel, try the minnow and\ntrolling-hook at the mouth of the Nantihala. In the Tuckasege his\nefforts may be rewarded with a salmon. A number of these royal fish were\nplaced in this stream a few years since, and are now frequently landed.\nNearly every creek that empties into the Tuckasege teems with trout.\nAmong these are the north fork of Scott\u2019s creek, Dark Ridge creek, and\nCaney Fork, all in Jackson county. A gentleman of undoubted veracity,\nwho has whipped nearly every stream in the mountains, pronounces the\nDark Ridge creek to be the best of any he ever cast a fly in. Its\nhead-waters can be struck by turning from the State road about seven\nmiles from Waynesville, and pursuing a left-hand, unfrequented road,\ninto the wilderness. There are no farms along its banks. Great, silent\nforests, in which the locust and hickory attain enormous size, embosom\nit. Its edges are wild with tangled rhododendron and kalmia; its waters,\nsmall in volume, but cold and crystal.\n\nFourteen miles south of Webster, the county-seat of Jackson, is the most\nstupendous waterfall of the mountains. It is said that on certain\nevenings, when that dead quiet, prophetic of a storm, dwells in the\nvalley, the dull roar of the falls can be heard eight miles down the\nriver. It is on the Tuckasege, about 20 miles below its sources. There\nare three ways to reach it; two from above, on either bank, and one from\nbelow, on the west bank. The one way by the east bank is exceedingly\narduous. To approach it from the west bank, the traveler journeys up the\nCullowhe road from Webster. It is a delightful ride, over a picturesque\nhighway, to where the river is struck at Watson\u2019s. By dismounting there,\nyou can follow, without difficulty, on foot down stream to the desired\npoint. This latter approach is preferable to the one undertaken by our\nparty. We left the highway about three miles below Watson\u2019s. It is a\nrough walk of two miles to the waters, half a mile below the falls.\nThere is no trail to follow, and it requires some activity to scale the\nrocks, jump the logs, and crawl through the thickets. Hard by the river,\nover a cliff 200 feet high, Rough-running brook pours its waters in rain\nand mist. If a certain guide\u2019s story is to be believed, over this cliff,\nthree deer, closely followed by an eager pack of hounds, once plunged\nunwittingly.\n\nAlong this part of the river the trout are thick and hungry enough to\nafford all the sport you wish; and, if there is a dark sky and dark\nwater, it will be a gala-day. The scenery of the falls is as\ninteresting as the fishing. On the left rises a gray, granite cliff,\nperfectly plumb with its base, 150 feet above the river. It is somewhat\nmantled with green vines and mosses, and a few shaggy cedars cling to\nits front. On the right, the cliff is less precipitous, and on it the\nforest and its undergrowth springs dense and rank. In front pours the\nwater, a great sparkling cloud. For 60 or 70 feet down, it is a\nperpendicular, unbroken sheet; then a projecting ledge catches and\nbreaks it into two columns, to fall through the last 25 feet of space.\nThe frowning cliffs, primeval pines, gigantic boulders, and the vista of\nblue sky sighted through the ca\u00f1on, form a picture of striking\nsublimity. If you do not object to getting wet from the mist and rain\ncreated by the cataract, you can stand on a great rock in the whirling\npool and fish for trout and salmon, with success, for hours. The cliff\non the right can be scaled by a boy or man, and the river ascended for a\nmile to Watson\u2019s house on the road. However, before reaching the road,\nthe upper falls are to be passed. Here the scene is different. For\nseveral hundred feet the waters pour over a bare mountain\u2019s face, whose\nslant is several degrees from a perpendicular. At its base the stream\nwidens out, for there are no cliffs to hem it in, and huge boulders\nbeing absent, a level, little lake lies buried in the forests. A fine\npoint from which to view this fall is half way up the mountain on the\nopposite side of the river.\n\nFair fishing is still to be found in the Cullasaja. It can be reached\nfrom either Franklin or Highlands. In a beautiful valley, close by the\nbank of this stream, stands the homestead of a pioneer settler of the\ncountry, Silas McDowell. It is only a few years since he ended his\npilgrimage. In his old age he took great delight in narrating his early\nexperiences in the wilderness. The first trout fishing expedition\nundertaken by him in 1839, and told by him to the writer, will serve as\nan illustration of what the primitive angler had to encounter.\n\nOne bright morning, he, with two young companions, started up the\nCullasaja. As a matter of course, they had excellent sport, and met with\nno adventure, until, in the ravines of Lamb mountain, a magnificent,\nantlered buck, startled by their sudden appearance, leaped up from\nbehind a cliff and started up the stream. There was no outlet for him on\neither side, for the walls of the gorge are perpendicular. A short\ndistance ahead, a cliff, over which the water tumbled, would stop his\ncareer. They had no guns with them, and, although the game was securely\nbagged, their only way to kill him was with stones. They pushed on\npelting him with these. At length, maddened with the stoning, the old\nstag turned and rushed by them, breaking the narrator\u2019s fishing rod as\nhe passed. Just then he fell between two large boulders, and one of the\nyoung men, springing on the animal\u2019s back, soon dispatched him with his\nknife. They sank the carcass in the cold, rushing water; fished until\nnoon, catching several hundred trout, and then returned home to send two\nservants with a pack-horse after the game. The return of the servants\nwas expected that evening, but it was not until the following afternoon\nthat they appeared. They related that they had found the deer, but it\nwas dark before they were ready to start. Thinking it was best to wait\nfor the moon to rise, they placed the deer on a large, flat rock in mid\nstream, and then laid down beside it to sleep until that time. An\nunusual sound awoke them, and by the moonlight they saw an immense\npanther crossing the foot-log toward them. He had scented the fresh\nmeat, and was about to investigate, but on the unexpected awakening of\ntwo human beings, he fled, as much startled as they were. The night was\nintensely cold, and finding it impossible to start, and also being\nafraid of wild animals along the lonely way, they remained on the rock\nuntil the sun had risen and warmed their numbed bodies. Thus they\naccounted for their long absence.\n\nA few miles from Brevard, the headwaters of the French Broad, and\nfarther south, on the Jackson county side, the streams hidden in the\nwilderness of the Hog-back and emptying into the Toxaway, and the\nhead-waters of the Chatooga, can be recommended to the followers of\nIsaak Walton. The writer does not know from actual experience of any\ntrout inhabiting the Linville waters, but there are sign-boards on the\nbanks prohibiting fishing.\n\nClose on the Mitchell and Watauga county boundary, is the Elk river, a\nfamous trout stream. The best approach is from Tennessee, up the\nnarrow-gauge railroad, through Carter county, to the Cranberry mines.\nFrom the old forge to Louis Banner\u2019s, or Dugger\u2019s, the distance is eight\nmiles. The road winds upward along a clear, dark stream, rushing over\nlight-colored rocks. Steep mountain sides, heavy with wild, brilliant\nforests, darken the highway with their shadows. In the morning and\nevening, the woods are filled with melodious birds. Logging camps are\nnumerous in this neighborhood, the solitudes resounding with the crash\nof falling timbers and the songs, or more likely the oaths, of the\nlumbermen. Besides catching trout in the Elk, there is a good chance for\nkilling deer along its margin, or in some of the vast hemlock forests in\nwhich the high valleys of the southwest corner of Watauga are embosomed.\nIn Ashe county, the tributary creeks to the North fork of New river rise\namid picturesque mountains, and teem with trout.\n\n[Illustration: OCHLAWAHA VALLEY, FROM DUN CRAGIN.]\n\n\n\n\nAFTER THE ANTLERS.\n\n    Rise! Sleep no more! \u2019Tis a noble morn;\n    The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,\n    And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,\n    Under the steaming, steaming ground.\n    Behold where the billowy clouds flow by,\n    And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!\n    Our horses are ready and steady.--So, ho!\n    I\u2019m gone, like the dart from the Tartar\u2019s bow.\n    _Hark! Hark! Who calleth the maiden Morn\n    From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?\n            The horn,--the horn!\n    The merry sweet ring of the hunter\u2019s horn._\n         --_Barry Cornwall._\n\n\n[Illustration: T]he Smoky chain, whose summit bears the long boundary\nline of North Carolina and Tennessee, attains its culmination between\nthe deep, picturesque gaps of the French Broad and Little Tennessee, and\nis known as the Great Smoky mountains. For the distance of sixty-five\nmiles it forms a mighty barrier, affording, with the exception of the\nBig Pigeon, no passage-way for mountain waters, and broken, except\ntoward its southern end, by no gaps less than 5,000 feet in altitude.\nNineteen peaks of over 6,000 feet in altitude, and 14 more within 400\nfeet of these figures, connected by massive ridges and interspersed by\npeaks but little lower than those just mentioned, make a marked cluster\nof massive mountains.\n\nClingman\u2019s dome, 6,660 feet high, the most elevated summit in the range,\nis 372 feet higher than Mount Washington of the White Mountains, and\nonly 47 feet lower than the loftiest peak of the Appalachian system.\nFrom its dome-shaped summit, in close communion with the clouds, and\nencircled by a dense grove of balsams, high above the line of scrubby\noak and beech, and higher still above the majestic forests of cherry,\nlocust, chestnut and the walnut, which clothe its lower slopes, the\nobserver, as from the basket of a balloon, looks down upon a varied\nworld spread wide and rolling beneath his feet. To the north lies that\nlevel and fertile portion of East Tennessee, watered by the French Broad\nand the Holston. Villages dot the plains; and, afar, the crests of the\nCumberland mountains and their spurs form with the transparent sky a\npurple horizon. On the other hand, the lofty heights of the Bald, Black,\nBlue Ridge, Balsam, Cowee and Nantihala ranges, with lapping ends and\nstraggling summits, make a distant, circling, boundary line to a central\nocean of rolling mountains. Directly south, one obtains a wide-spread\nprospect of the most wild and picturesque portion of the eastern United\nStates--that land embraced by the counties of Swain and Macon--the once\nromantic habitation and hunting ground of the Cherokee Nation. Here lies\nthe fertile valley of the upper Little Tennessee, and its picturesque\nbut almost uninhabited lower reaches; the emerald green Ocona Lufta with\nits rich lands; the Indian reservation on the banks of the Soco; the\nbeautiful Tuckasege, and the narrow and wildly romantic vale down which\ncourses the Nantihala.\n\nA noticeable feature of these mountains is their smooth, bald summits;\nnot a sterile baldness like that of ranges higher or in more rigorous\nclimates, but only bald as far as concerns the growth of trees and\nunderwood. Atmospheric forces have played their parts on the pinnacles.\nWhat once must have been sharp crowns of rock, have, with time, storm,\nand frost, become rounded hillocks. Due, perhaps to the sweeping winds,\nthe dense balsam forests--the characteristic tree of the loftier heights\nof the Smoky, Black, Balsam and Blue Ridge--stop around the brows of the\nextreme tops, leaving, oftentimes, perfectly level tracts of treeless\nland, in some instances of 1,000 acres in extent. The soil is a black\nloam. A heavy sward, green, even in winter, covers these meadows. On\nthem, around occasionally exposed surfaces of rock, the scarlet,\nblossom-bearing rhododendron, and clumps of heather, similar to that on\nthe Scottish hills, are found. Every spring, thousands of cattle,\nbranded, and sometimes hung with bells, are turned out on these upland\npastures. It is an unequalled grazing land. Water wells forth even from\nthe extreme higher edges of the forests, and on every slope are crystal\nstreams.\n\nThe same striking difference, between the slopes of the Blue Ridge, is\nseen in the Great Smoky mountains. On the Tennessee side, the soil is\nsterile, in comparison with the North Carolina side. Bare, rocky faces\nare exposed to a stronger sun-light; the streams flow through slaty\nchannels, heaped with gigantic boulders, and a sultry air pervades at\nthe mountains\u2019 base; still, flourishing forests cover the winding\nhollows, secluded coves, and even the craggy heights. One notable\nmountain cluster, the Chimneys, terminate in sharp, thin spurs of rock,\ndiffering in this particular from all the peaks of the Alleghanies\nsouth.\n\nThe North Carolina side is a luxuriant wilderness, where, not content\nwith spreading overhead an unbroken roof of branches, brilliant with a\nfoliage like that of tropical forests, Nature has carpeted the ground\nwith mosses and grasses, and planted in vast tracts impenetrable tangles\nof the rhododendron and kalmia. These tangles are locally called\n\u201cHells,\u201d with a proper noun possessive in remembrance of poor\nunfortunates lost in their mazes. There is no better timbered country in\nthe United States. The wild cherry, of large growth, is found here in\nabundance, and other hard woods of a temperate clime attain majestic\nheights. The arrowy balsam shoots up to 150 feet, and the mast-like\ncucumber tree dangles it red fruit high above the common forest top.\n\nThe valleys are cleared and filled with the pleasant homes of hardy\nmountaineers. These farms, to the careless observer, appear to be the\nonly marks of civilized life on the Smokies; but high above the main\ntraveled roads, amid vast forest solitudes, beside small mountain\nstreams, and in rich coves under sheltering ridges, are located many\nquiet cabins with no approach except by trail ways and known only to the\ntax-collector and cattle-herder.\n\nSome of these trails, or poorly-worked roads lead the unsuspecting\ntourist into thickly-settled localities. Such a surprise awaits him if,\nat the ca\u00f1on of the Cataluche, he leaves the highway leading from\nHaywood county to Knoxville. It is the most picturesque valley of the\nGreat Smoky range. The mountains are timbered, but precipitous; the\nnarrow, level lands between are fertile; farm houses look upon a\nrambling road, and a creek, noted as a prolific trout stream, runs a\ndevious course through hemlock forests, around romantic cliffs, and\nbetween laureled banks.\n\nBut, to the observer from Clingman\u2019s Dome, the clearings on the slopes\nof the Smokies are hidden from the eye. On all sides stretch wild, black\nforests, funereal in their aspect, wakened only by the cry of the raven,\nor the tinkle of the bell of some animal lost in their labyrinths. The\ngreat wildernesses of the deciduous trees lie below, mantling the ridges\nand hollows. In vain the eye endeavors to mark their limit: it is\nblanked by the misty purple into which the green resolves itself. Here,\nfor the bear, deer, wolf, and panther, appears the natural home.\nNowhere is there a more perfect roaming ground for these animals; but\nthe hound, rifle, and trap, brought into active use by the Indians and\nmountaineers, have greatly thinned out the game; still, no better\nhunting is to be found east of the Mississippi.\n\nSwain county, along the Graham county line, appeared the least inhabited\nsection; and when, in the early part of October, we contemplated a deer\ndrive, the above information regarding the skirts of the Great Smokies\ntended to drift us down the Little Tennessee. Our approach lay from that\npoint in Haywood county which was then the terminus of the Western North\nCarolina Railroad, via Waynesville, Webster, and Charleston. We were\nmounted on stout horses, and were dressed in a manner anything but\nconspicuous; still, a party of four men, each with a Remington rifle or\na breech-loading shot-gun, strapped for easy carrying across his back,\nforms a cavalcade of striking interest to denizens of mountain ways and\nthe citizens of quiet villages.\n\nHad we paid any attention to the opinion that, in the wilderness, we\nwould be taken for revenue officers, and, as such, shot on sight by\nblockaders, we would have ridden uneasily. There is bravery in numbers,\nand then we knew better than to give countenance to such fears.\nBlockading, or \u201cmoonshining\u201d as it is sometimes called, because the\ndistiller works by the light of the moon, is not as prevalent in these\nmountains as is generally supposed; and, besides, it is growing less\nwith every year. That an unobstrusive stranger stands in danger of being\nshot down by a blockader on suspicion of any kind, is a bug bear, in\nspite of its prevalence, almost too absurd for consideration. For the\ncommission of a crime of this nature, it would take a strange\ncombination of circumstances: a distiller with a murderous cast of mind;\na tourist representing himself to be a United States officer, and the\npresence of an illicit still. Now, the blockader, like the majority of\ndrinking men, is a good-natured fellow, who, while he deems himself a\ncitizen of the United States, confounds natural with civil liberty, and\nbelieves he has the right to manufacture, drink and sell whisky in\nwhatever manner he pleases so long as he does not interfere with the\nprivate rights of his neighbors. The tourist is generally a voluble\nfellow, anxious to make friends as he travels, and showing stronger\ninclination to have his bottle filled than to burst copper boilers or\nsmash any barrels of mash. The still is hidden in retreats where a\nstranger would be as likely to stumble upon it as he would to finding\nthe philosopher\u2019s stone.\n\nThe tourist, traveling the lonely mountain highways, need have no fears\nas to the safety of his person or his pocket. It is true that murder\ncases are often on the county dockets, but these are the results of\nheated blood, and not of cupidity. Honesty is a strong trait of the\nmountain people.\n\nCharleston, the county-seat of Swain,--a pleasant little village, whose\nexistence dates only from the formation of the county in 1871,--is\nsituated by the Tuckasege river, and at the foot of Rich mountain. It is\nin the midst of a new country. The two most conspicuous buildings,\nstanding directly opposite each other at one end of the village street,\nare the new and old court-houses. The former is a substantial brick\nstructure, likened by a wag, who draws his comparisons from homely\nobservations, to the giant hopper of a mill, turned upside down. The\nold, frame court-house has its upper story used as a grand jury room,\nand its lower floor, as formerly, holds the jail. The dark interior of\nthe \u201ccage,\u201d used for petty misdoers, can be seen under the front outside\nstairs, through a door with barred window. An apartment fitted up for\nthe jailer is on the same floor, and, by a spiked, open slit, about six\ninches by two feet in dimensions, is connected with the \u201cdungeon.\u201d For\nits peculiar purposes this dungeon is built on a most approved pattern.\nIt is a log room within a log room, the space between the log walls\nbeing filled up with rocks. It is wholly inside the frame building.\nBesides the opening where the jailer may occasionally peek in, is\nanother one, similar to that described, where a few pale rays of\ndaylight or moonlight, as the case may be, can, by struggling, filter\nthrough clapboards, two log walls, spikes, and rocks, to the gloomy\ninterior. A pad-locked trap-door in the floor above is the only\nentrance. The daily rations for ye solitary culprit, like all our\nblessings, come from above--through the trap-door. Here, suspected\nunfortunates of a desperate stripe awaiting trial, and convicted\ncriminals, biding their day of departure for the penitentiary or\ngallows, are confined in dismal twilight, and in turn are raised by a\nsummons from above, and a ladder cautiously lowered through the opening\nin the floor. This invitation to clamber is always responded to with\nalacrity by the occupant below. As Swain county is particularly\nfortunate in having few crimes committed within its borders which call\nfor capital or very vindictory and exemplary punishment, the dungeon is\nseldom put in use.\n\nAlong the main thoroughfare, and on the few side streets, are neat white\ndwellings; well-stocked stores, where a man can buy anything from a\nneedle to an axe; and two good village hotels. Like all communities,\nthey have churches here, and possibly (for the writer does not speak on\nthis point from observation) on some grassy knoll, under the silence and\nshadows of noble forest monarchs, may be found a few head-marked graves\nforming the village cemetery.\n\nThe post-office is a good place, at the arrival of the mailhorse, to\nsurvey and count the male population of Charleston; or, after papers and\nletters are distributed, to meet, in the person of Postmaster Collins,\nan intelligent man who will vouchsafe all information desired on matters\nof local and county interest. In the middle of the day, you can sit on\nthe counter in any of the stores and discuss politics or religion with\nthe merchant, who, in his shirtsleeves, and perched on a pile of muslins\nand calicoes with his feet on a coal-oil barrel, smokes a pipe of\nhome-cured tobacco, and keeps his eyes alternately on the ceiling and\nthe road, as though expectant along the latter for the white or Indian\ncustomer.\n\nHere we heard how a few years since a deer was hounded into the river,\nand then in deep water was easily lassoed by a native, towed to shore,\nand, rendered docile through fright, was led like a lamb through the\nvillage street. This story heightened our ardor to be on the hunt; so,\nleaving the village early on a foggy morning, we that day accomplished\nthirty-five miles of travel and arrived at our destined quarters on the\nheight of the Smoky mountains.\n\nThe character of a river can not be known by a single view of its\nwaters. One must follow it for miles to know its peculiarities, and\nwherein its picturesqueness differs from other streams. The mountain\nrivers are admirably suited for investigations of this nature. The\nlevelest and oftentimes the only accessible way for a road is close\nalong the streams. The Little Tennessee is, through many of its\nstretches, looked down upon from winding highways; but it is not until\nthe traveler leaves Charleston and strikes the banks some few miles\nbelow, that the grandeur of its scenery is manifest. Here begins the\nclose companionship between river and road, that is not broken until by\nthe impetuous waters the heart of the Smoky mountains is cut asunder.\n\nThe scenery is similar to the French Broad, but the scale is\nconsiderably enlarged. There is a greater volume of water, and a wider\nreach between the banks; the mountains, whose wood-adorned fronts rise\nfrom the sounding edge of the current, are loftier in height, and in\nsome places, like that before the farm house of Albert Welsh, present a\ndistinctive feature in their steep, rocky faces. In the vicinity of the\nmouth of the Tuckasege, some charming pictures are to be found. Take it\nat the hour preceding an October sunset, when the shadows thrown by wall\nand forest lie dark and heavy on the slopes and levels; when the\nsunlight is strong, and an evening serenity pervades the scene: the\nsteep mountains flame with the gorgeous coloring of autumn, mingled with\nthe changeless green of the pines; crimson vines gleam in the sunlight\nsmiting the cliffs which they festoon; and, in shadow, at the feet of\nthe mountains, \u201clike some grave, mighty thought threading a dream,\u201d\nglides the silent river.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE LITTLE TENNESSEE.]\n\nOccasionally, the stream makes a long, straight sweep; then again,\nabrupt bends throw it in zigzag course. A few flocks of teal and wood\nducks, apparently even wilder than when in marsh-water, rose\noccasionally from placid faces of the river. They were out of gun-shot\nat the start, and before settling, never failed to put the next lower\nbend between them and their disturbers. The mountains so encroach on the\nriver that little arable land is afforded; houses are consequently far\napart, in some places miles of road being devoid of a clearing.\n\nEagle creek rises in Ecanetle gap. A narrow trail winds on the wild\nbanks along its waters. At its mouth we turned from the Little\nTennessee, and for ten miles pursued this trail without passing a house.\nThe forest was lifeless and unbroken throughout. Twilight came as we\ntraveled, and just after it became dark enough to see a phosphorescent\nlog that glowed, like a bed of burning lime, across our path, through\nthe laurel appeared a vista of cleared land embosomed in a dark forest.\nThe starlight revealed it. In the center stood a double log house, with\na mud-daubed stone chimney at each low gable, above which flying sparks\nmade visible a column of smoke. The two doors were open, and through\nthese streamed the lights from the fire-places. No windows marred the\nstructure; but chinks, through which one might easily stick his rifle to\nblaze away at a wild turkey in the corn field, or at a revenue officer\nbeyond the fence, made the exterior of the hut radiant with their\nfiltration of light. Several low outbuildings were in the enclosure.\n\nAs Sanford\u2019s horse struck against an intact row of bars which closed the\ntrail, the savage yelping of a body of unseen dogs startled the quiet of\nthe scene. In an instant a bare-headed woman, with a pan in her hand,\nappeared at one door, and at the other a bushy-headed man leaned\noutward.\n\n\u201cHow are you?\u201d yelled Sanford. \u201cDo Jake and Quil Rose live here?\u201d\n\n\u201cShet up, ye hounds, ye!\u201d addressing his dogs; then to us, \u201cI reckon\nthey do. Who be you uns?\u201d\n\nBy that time both doors were crowded with young and old heads, and two\nmen came toward us. After a parley, in which we explained who we were,\nand the object of our visit, the bars rattled down, our horses stepped\nafter each other into the clearing, and in succession we grasped the\nhands of the Rose brothers.\n\n\u201cEf yer hunters,\u201d said one, \u201cwe\u2019re only too glad to see ye; but at fust\nwe didn\u2019t know whether ye war gentlemen or a sheriff\u2019s posse, the\nroad-boss or revenue galoots. Now lite, go to the house, and take cheers\nwhile we stable the nags.\u201d\n\nAs directed, we entered one of the two rooms of the cabin, leaving\nbehind us the night, the quieted dogs and the October chill that comes\nwith the darkness. A hot log fire, leaping in the chimney place, around\nwhich were ranged four children and a woman preparing supper, threw on\nthe walls the fantastic shadows of the group, and enabled us to mark\nevery object of the interior. On the scoured puncheon floor furtherest\nfrom the chimney, were three rough bed-steads, high with feather ticks\nand torn blankets. Against the walls above the bed-steads were long\nlines of dresses, petticoats and other clothing. No framed pictures\nadorned the smoky logs, but plastered all over the end where rose the\nchimney, was an assortment of startling illustrations cut from Harper\u2019s\nWeeklies, Police Gazettes, and almanacs, of dates (if judged by their\nyellowness) before the war. A few cooking implements hung against the\nchimney. Over half the room reached a loft, where one might imagine was\nstored the copper boiler and other apparatus of a still, slowly\ncorroding through that season immediately preceding the hardening and\ngathering in of the corn. A table, with clean spread on it, and set with\nsweet potatoes, corn-dodger, butter and coffee, stood in the center of\nthe room. At this board, on the invitation of the brother known as Quil,\nwe seated ourselves to a repast, rude to be sure, but made delicious to\nus from a long day\u2019s travel. The wife of the mountaineer, as if out of\nrespect to her visitors, and following a singular custom, had donned her\nbonnet on sight of us; and, keeping it on her head, poured out the\ncoffee in silence, and, although seated, partook of no food until we had\nfinished.\n\nIn the lines preceding these, and in those which immediately follow, the\nwriter has attempted to present to the reader a true picture of an\nextreme type of mountain life,--that of a class of people, hidden in\nmountain fastnesses, who, uneducated and unambitious, depend for scanty\nsubsistence upon the crops of cramped clearings and the profits of the\nchase. Their state of perfect contentment is not the singular, but\nnatural result of such an uncheckered existence.\n\nThe Rose brothers, are known as men good-natured, but of desperate\ncharacter when aroused. They have been blockaders. Living outside of\nschool districts, and seemingly of all State protection, they refuse to\npay any taxes; having only a trailway to their door, they pay no\nattention to notices for working the county roads. Thus recognizing no\nauthority, they live in a pure state of natural liberty, depending for\nits continuance upon their own strength and daring, the fears of county\nofficers, the seclusion of their home, and their proximity to the\nTennessee line. Only one and a half mile of mountain ascent is required\nto place them beyond the pursuit of State authorities. One of them once\nkilled his man, in Swain county, and to this day he has escaped trial.\nThey are men of fine features and physique. Both wear full, dark beards;\nlong, black hair; slouch hats; blue hunting shirts, uncovered by coats\nor vests, and belted with a strap holding their pantaloons in place.\nHigh boots, with exposed tops, cover their feet and lower limbs. They\nare tall and broad-shouldered. Thus featured, figured, and accoutered,\nthey appeared to our party.\n\nAll the children had been covered with feather beds, when we six men and\ntwo women formed a wide circle before the fire that evening. Naturally,\nour conversation was on hunting, and Kenswick opened the ball by\ninquiring about the state of deer hunting.\n\n\u201cWe allers spring a deer when we drive,\u201d responded Jake.\n\n\u201cDo you never fail?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever; but sometimes we miss killin\u2019 \u2019im.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey must be thick around here,\u201d remarked Sanford.\n\n\u201cNot so powerful. Why, just a few ye\u2019r ago, Brit Mayner killed nine in\none day. He couldn\u2019t do hit now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cGittin\u2019 scurce; every man on the Smokies owns dogs, an\u2019 they\u2019re bein\u2019\nhounded to death.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about bears?\u201d asked Kenswick.\n\n\u201cGittin\u2019 scurce, too. We generally kill eight or ten now in the season\nagin twenty a short time back.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen is the best season for bear,\u201d began Kenswick, but Sanford, who had\nstepped to the door, interrupted him.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said he, \u201clet information about bears rest until we hunt for them,\nand let me ask if that is a wolf I hear howling. Listen!\u201d\n\n\u201cBy George!\u201d exclaimed Kenswick, \u201cit does sound rather wolfish.\u201d\n\n\u201cHit\u2019s one, shore enough,\u201d returned Quil. \u201cWe hear \u2019em every winter\nnight from the door.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey must do damage to your sheep.\u201d\n\n\u201cReckon they do; but not much worser \u2019en dogs.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you destroy them?\u201d\n\n\u201cTrap \u2019em, an\u2019 shoot \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill they fight a pack of hounds well?\u201d\n\n\u201cPrime fighters, you bet! But, dog my skin, I got the holt on one the\nother day that he didn\u2019t shake off!\u201d\n\n\u201cHold of one! How was that?\u201d two of us asked together.\n\nJake threw a rich pine knot on the fire; Kenswick ceased puffing his\npipe for an instant; Sanford came from the door, and, leaning against\nthe chimney, stuck one of his feet toward the blaze; Mrs. Jake Rose with\nher sister-in-law exchanged compliments in the shape of a tin snuff box,\nin which the latter dipped a chewed birch stick and then rubbed her\nteeth; and Quil began:\n\n\u201cThis day war four weeks ago when I went down on Forney creek to see\nBoodly about swoppin\u2019 our brindled cow-brute fer his shoats, want hit?\u201d\nnodding to his wife.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\u201cWal, I hed my rifle-gun an\u2019 the dogs fer company, countin\u2019 on gittin a\ncrack at some varmint along the way. On Bear creek, the dogs trottin\u2019 by\nmy side got ter snuffin\u2019 in the rocks an\u2019 weeds, an\u2019 all o\u2019 a sudden,\nbarking like mad, broke hell-bent through the laurel and stopped right\nsquar\u2019 at the branch. Thar was cliffs thar, and the water, arter slidin\u2019\ndown shelvin\u2019 rocks fer a piece, poured over a steep pitch. I clumpt hit\nup an\u2019 down the bank, lookin\u2019 sharp fer deer-signs, but seed nuthin.\nThen thinks me ter myself, I\u2019ll cross the stream, an\u2019 call the dogs\nover. The nighest way to cross war across the shelvin\u2019 rock above the\nfall. I waded in thar. Do ye know, the blamed thing was so slick and\nslimy that my feet slipped, an\u2019 I cum down ker splash in the waters. I\ntried to clutch the rocks, but couldn\u2019t, an\u2019 as quick as ye can bat yer\neyes, over the short fall I went, strikin\u2019 bottom on sumthin\u2019 soft an\u2019\nha\u2019ry.\u201d\n\n\u201cA wolf?\u201d some one asked.\n\n\u201cYes, dog my skin! Hit was the dry nest of a master old varmint under\nthet fall. He war as fat as a bar jist shufflin\u2019 out o\u2019 winter quarters,\nan\u2019 he only hed three legs. One gone at the knee. Chawed hit off, I\nreckon, to get shet o\u2019 a trap.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, will they eat off the leg that is fastened to free themselves\nfrom a trap?\u201d asked Kenswick, excitedly.\n\n\u201cIn course they will, an\u2019 so\u2019ll a bar,\u201d continued Quil. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t\nfind this all out until arterwards. Thar I war astraddle o\u2019 thet\nvarmint\u2019s back, an\u2019 my fingers in the ha\u2019r o\u2019 his neck.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a pretty stiff story, Quil,\u201d remarked Sanford.\n\n\u201cStiff or not, hits the truth, so help me Gineral Jackson!\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on, go on!\u201d\n\n\u201cWal, the wolf snarled and struggled like mad, but I hed the holt on\n\u2019im. I didn\u2019t dar\u2019 to loose my holt ter git my knife, so I bent \u2019im down\nwith my weight, and, gittin\u2019 his head in the water, I drowned \u2019im in a\nfew minutes. Then I toted and drugged \u2019im out to the dogs.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas it an old sheep-killer?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cThet\u2019s jist what he war. He hed been livin\u2019 nigh the settlement fer\nmonths, till he war too fat ter fight well.\u201d\n\nQuil\u2019s story was a true one, with the exception that in the narration he\nhad taken the place of the actual hunter. After it was finished,\nconversation lagged, and hanging our coats for screens over the backs of\nchairs, we jumped upon and sank from sight into the feather beds.\n\nEarly the following morning, some little time before daylight had sifted\nthrough the chinks of the cabin, when all out-doors was wrapped in the\ngloom of night, and but one premature cock-crow had sounded in my ears,\nI heard the feet of the occupant of an adjoining bed strike flat on the\nfloor, followed by the noise of thrusting of legs into pantaloons. Then\nthere was a noise at the chimney-place, and soon a fire was in full\nblaze, crackling and snapping in a spiteful way, as it warmed and filled\nthe room with its glow. As soon as this light became strong enough, and\nI was sufficiently aroused to distinguish objects about me, I saw that\nQuil Rose was up and stirring; and, a minute after, I perceived the\nwhite, night-capped head of the lady of the house shoot, like a\njack-in-the-box, up above the bed-clothes. I thought of Pickwick and the\nlady in curl-papers, so I laid quiet. It is curious in what a short\nspace of time a mountain woman will make her toilet; for that covered\nhead had not appeared above the bed more than one minute before Mrs.\nRose was in morning dress complete, even to her shoes; and quietly\nrolling up her sleeves, was making active preparations for an early\nbreakfast.\n\nCorn-meal, water, and salt were soon stirred up for the dodger; the\nsmall, round skillet with cover (Dutch oven they call it) was set over a\nbed of coals; the tea-kettle was singing on the fire, and some chunks of\nvenison boiling in the pot.\n\nWhile Mrs. Rose was thus engaged, one by one we began crawling out, but\nnot before Quil had come to my bed, stooped down at the head, thrust his\nhand under, and lo! by the light of the snapping logs, we saw him draw\nforth a gallon jug without a handle.\n\n\u201cI reckon we\u2019ll have a dram afore breakfast,\u201d said he, with a jolly\ntwinkle in his eye, and smack of his lips, as he poured out a glass of\nliquor as clear as crystal, and handed it around.\n\n\u201cHit costs us jist one dollar a gallon, an\u2019 I\u2019ll \u2019low hit\u2019s as pure as\nmounting dew,\u201d remarked the head of the family, as he drained off a\nfour-finger drink.\n\nBy the time we were dressed, breakfast was ready, and we moved around\nthe neatly-spread table. Coffee and buttermilk were poured; the corn\ndodger was broken by our fingers, and these, together with stewed-apples\nand venison made up our morning\u2019s repast.\n\n\u201cThe sooner we\u2019re off now, the better,\u201d said Quil, as he took down his\nrifle from the buck-prongs fastened in the cabin wall, and drew his\nbullet-pouch and powder-horn over his head and arm.\n\nWe stepped from the cabin\u2019s door into the gray light of the morning. The\npeaks of the Smoky, through which winds Ecanetle gap, were black in\nshade, while the jagged rim of mountains, toward the east, was tipped\nwith fire, and above was an azure sky without a speck of cloud upon its\nface. Below us, as seen from the edge of the rail fence, looking far\ndown across red and yellow forests, the fogs of the lower valleys, lying\nalong the stream, appeared like great rivers of molten silver. This\neffect was caused by the sunlight streaming through the gaps of the\nmountains, upon the dense masses of vapor. The glory was beyond\ndescription.\n\n    The kindled Morn, on joyous breezes borne,\n    Breathed balmy incense on the mountains torn\n        And tumbled; dreamy valleys rolled\n        In Autumn\u2019s glowing garments far\n            Below; and cascades thundered\n        Sparkling down the cedared cliff\u2019s bold\n        Faces: peaks perpendicular\n    Shot up with summits widely sundered.\n\nThe best time to visit this country is in October. The tourist who,\nafter several months\u2019 sojourn among the mountains, leaves for his\nlowland home, loses, by only a few weeks, the most pleasant season of\nthe year. In this month is fully realized the truth of Shelley\u2019s words:\n\n                \u201cThere is a harmony\n          In autumn and a lustre in its sky,\n    Which through the summer is not heard nor seen,\n    As if it could not be, as if it had not been!\u201d\n\nThe skies are intensely blue, seldom streaked with clouds, and the\nrain-fall is the least of the year. The atmosphere is free from the\nhaze, that through a great part of the summer pervading the air, renders\nthe view less extended. In it one can distinguish tree-top from tree-top\non the heights thousands of feet above him; and the most distant\nmountains are brought out in bold relief against the sky. The days are\nmild and temperate.\n\nThen it is that Autumn begins to tint the woodlands. Strange to say,\nalthough the forests on the summits are the last to bud and leaf in the\nspring, their foliage is the first scattered underfoot. Along the\nextreme heights on the northern slopes, the foot-prints of Autumn are\nfirst perceived. This is not because of stronger sunlight or deeper\nshade, but is due to the difference of forest growth between the north\nand south sides of the ranges. She earliest changes to a dull russet and\nbright yellow the upland groves of buckeye and linn, above whose margin\nthe balsams remain darker and gloomier by the contrast; and touches into\nscarlet flame the foliage of the sugar-maple scattered widely apart amid\nthe sturdier trees.\n\nAs the days go by, in the valleys the buckeye drops its leaves; the\nblack-gum, festooned by the old gold leaves of the wild grape, gleams\ncrimson against the still green poplars; the hickory turns to a\nbrilliant yellow amid the red of the oaks; of a richer red appears the\nsour-wood; the slender box elder, with yellow leaves and pods, shivers\nabove the streams; the chestnut burrs begin to open, and drop their\nnuts; acorns are rattling down through the oak leaves, while on the\nhill-sides from the top of his favorite log, the drum of the pheasant\nresounds, as though a warning tattoo of coming frosts.\n\nOn the farms the scene is all animation. Although some corn-fields have\nalready been stripped of their blades, leaving the bare stalks standing\nwith their single ears, others are just ripe for work, and amid their\ngolden banners, are the laborers, pulling and bundling the fodder.\nStubble fields are being turned under and sown with grain for next\nyear\u2019s wheat. The orchards are burdened with rosy fruit; and at the\nfarm-houses, the women are busy paring apples, and spreading them on\nboard stages for drying in the sun.\n\nAt this time the cattle, turned out in the spring to pasture on the bald\nmountains, are in splendid condition, and no more tender and juicy\nsteaks ever graced a table than those cut from the hind quarters of one\nof these steers. The sheep, just clipped of their wool (they shear sheep\ntwice a year in these mountains) afford the finest mutton in the world.\nBut let us return to the hunt.\n\nThere was a sharp tingle of frost in the atmosphere. Our breath made\nitself visible in the clear air, and even Kenswick\u2019s naturally pale face\ngrew rubicund.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll swear,\u201d said he, blowing upon his fingers, \u201cthis is colder than I\nbargained for. A man must keep moving to keep warm. No stand for me this\nmorning. I\u2019m going in the drive. Why, I\u2019d freeze to sit still for even\nhalf an hour waiting for a deer.\u201d\n\n\u201cHit\u2019s powerful keen, I\u2019ll \u2019low,\u201d returned Quil, \u201cbut hit\u2019ll be warmer\ndirectly the sun done gits up. You cudn\u2019t stand the drive no how, an\u2019\nyer chances wud be slim fer a shot. Ef ye want to keep yer breath, and\nthe starch in yer biled shirt, ye\u2019d better mind a stan\u2019. Yeh! Ring; Yeh!\nSnap; Hi! boys.\u201d\n\nAt the latter calls, three hounds came leaping around the corner of the\ncabin, joining the four which were already at our heels. It was a\nmongrel collection of half starved curs. Two of them, however, were full\nblooded deer dogs. Their keen noses, clear eyes, shapely heads, and\nlithe limbs, put us in high hopes of the successful result of the day\u2019s\nhunt. By tying ropes around the necks of the two old deer dogs, Quil\ncarried into execution his proposition to \u201cyoke up\u201d the leaders; and,\nforthwith, explained that, at the instant of springing the first deer,\nhe would loosen one hound, whom three of the other dogs would follow.\nThe next plain scent he would reserve for the remaining leader and two\nfollowers.\n\nSome of the old hunters of the Smokies have reduced dog training to a\nfine art. They keep from three to eight hounds, who in a drive, hold\nthemselves strictly to their master\u2019s orders. None of them need to be\n\u201cyoked,\u201d or leashed, and simply at his word, when a scent is sprung, one\nhound so ordered will leave the pack and follow alone, and so on, giving\neach hound a separate trail. This plan of training the hounds does not\nprevail to as great an extent as it did a few years since when the game\nwas more plenty.\n\nBrushing through the wet weeds and rusty, standing stalks of\nblade-stripped corn, we climbed a rail fence and entered a faint trail\nalong the laureled bank of a trout stream. This stream we crossed by\nleaping from rock to rock, while the hounds splashed through the cold\nwaters. The forest we were in was gorgeous under the wizard influence of\nautumn; chestnut and beech burrs lay thick under foot, and the acorn\nmast was being fed upon by droves of fierce-looking, bristled hogs,\nrunning at large on the mountain.\n\nThe long blast of a horn, and a loud barking, arrested our attention,\nand soon after we were joined by a short, thick-set young man, whom Quil\nintroduced as Ben Lester. He was the picture of a back-woods hunter. The\nrent in his homespun coat strapped around his waist, looked as though\ndone by the claws of a black bear. His legs were short, and just sinewy\nenough to carry him up and down ridges for 40 miles per day. A\ngood-natured, honest, and determined face, bristling with a brown\nmoustache, and stubble beard, of a week\u2019s growth, surmounted his broad\nshoulders. His hands were locked over the stock of a rifle as long as\nhimself. The ram\u2019s horn, that signaled us of his presence, hung at his\nside, and three well-fed, long-eared hounds, were standing close by him;\none between his legs.\n\nThe plan for the hunt was as follows: Lester and the Rose brothers were\nto do the driving, taking in a wild section, lying far above and north\nof the Little Tennessee; we four city boys were to occupy drive-ways,\nand watch for, halt, and slay every deer that passed. Lester volunteered\nto show me to my proposed stand. He proved himself to be an intelligent\nand educated fellow, but of taciturn disposition. I succeeded in\nstarting him, however, and it was this way he talked:\n\n\u201cNovember is the prime time for hunting deer, but this month is very\ngood. You see, the deer, owing to the thinness of hair, are red in the\nsummer. As the weather gets cooler, their hair grows longer, and their\ncolor gets blue. If you shoot a deer in the deep water before the middle\nof October, he\u2019s liable to sink, and you lose him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy is that?\u201d\n\n\u201cHis hair is what buoys him up. He\u2019d sink like a stone, in the summer or\nearly fall.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere are the most deer killed?\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the river. Sometimes they steer straight for the water. If the day\nis hot, they\u2019re sure to get there in a short time. On cool days, they\u2019ll\nsometimes race the hounds from morning till night; and then, as a last\nhope, with the pack on their heels, they\u2019ll break for the river.\n\n\u201cDo the hounds follow by the ground scent?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. The best hounds leap along snuffing at the bushes that the deer has\nbrushed against.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen, where, and on what do they feed?\u201d\n\n\u201cHere, I know, where the deer have become timid on account of so much\ndriving, they doze in the day-time, and feed at night. The heavy woods\nalong the upper streams afford excellent coverts for their day dreams.\nIn summer picking is plenty; in winter they brouse on the scanty grass,\nthe diminished mast, and the green but poisonous ivy.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoisonous ivy?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. It is singular, but it has no effect on them. It will kill\neverything else. Why, one buck, killed here several winters since, had\nbeen living on ivy, and every dog that fed on his entrails was taken\nwith the blind staggers and nearly died.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s a slink?\u201d\n\n\u201cA year-old deer. When past a year old, the male deer is called a\nspike-buck. It is said that, with every year, a prong is added to their\nantlers, but it\u2019s a mistake. I never saw one with more than six prongs;\nand in these mountains there\u2019s a certain deer, with short legs, known as\nthe \u2018duck-legged buck,\u2019 that has been seen for the last fifteen years,\nand in some unaccountable manner, on every drive he has escaped. Now he\nhas only six prongs.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you ever seen him?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; once five years ago, and again last fall.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you ever hear of a stone being found in a deer?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, the mad stone. People believe it will cure snake-bite and\nhydrophobia. Here\u2019s one. It was found in the paunch of a white deer that\nI shot this fall was a year ago; and, mind you, the deer with a\nmad-stone in him is twice as hard to kill as one of the ordinary kind.\u201d\n\n\u201cA fact?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Five bullets were put in the buck that carried this.\u201d\n\nThe stone he showed was smooth and red, as large as a man\u2019s thumb, and\nwith one flat, white side. The peculiar properties attributed to it are,\nin all probability, visionary. The idea of its being a life preserver\nfor the deer which carries it, savors of superstition.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Lester, coming to a halt on the ridge; \u201chere\u2019s your stand.\nYou must watch till you hear the dogs drop into that hollow, or cross\nthe ridge above you. In such case, the deer has taken another drive-way,\nand it\u2019s no use for you to wait any longer. Start on the minute, as fast\nas you can go it, down this ridge a quarter of a mile to a big, blasted\nchestnut; then turn sharp to the right, cross the hollow and follow\nanother leading ridge till you strike the river. You know where the Long\nrock is?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, make right for it, and stand there.\u201d\n\nHe disappeared with his hounds, leaving me alone in a wooded, level\nexpanse. It was then full morning, and the ground was well checkered\nwith light and shadow. My seat was a mossy rock at the base of a beech\ntree, and with breech-loading shot-gun, cocked, and lying across my\nknees, I kept my eyes fixed on the depths of forest, and waited for the\nbark which would announce the opening of the chase.\n\nSoon it came,--a loud, deep baying, floating, as it seemed, from a long\ndistance, across steeps, over the trees, and gathering in volume. One of\nthe deep-mouthed hounds had evidently snuffed something satisfactory in\nthe dewy grasses or on the undergrowth. His baying had been reinforced\nby several pairs of lungs, and the drive was under full head-way. Now it\nwould be faint, telling of a ravine, rhododendrons, and trees with low\numbrageous branches; then would come a full burst of melody, as the\nnoses of the pack gained the summit of a ridge, or swept through an open\nforest. But, all in all, it grew louder. It was still far above me, on\nthe spurs of the Smokies, and seemed bearing across the long ridge on\nwhich I rested. Then again it turned, and, in all its glorious strength,\nswept below me, through the deep hollow. My excitement reached its\nclimax just then, for suddenly there was a discord in the music, and\nevery hound was yelping like mad.\n\n\u201cYip, yip, yip!\u201d they rang out.\n\nThe quick barks told a new story,--the hounds had sighted the game, and,\nfor the moment, were close on its haunches. It was manifest that the\ndrive-way I was on was not to be taken. The guide\u2019s instructions for\nseeking the river were now to be followed. Starting on a quick pace\nthrough the woods, I traveled as directed, and was soon on the leading\nridge. One rifle shot startled the forest as I ran; and, in the evening,\nat Daniel Lester\u2019s pleasant fireside, by the Little Tennessee, Kenswick\ntold the following story:\n\nJake Rose had selected for him an excellent stand; admonished him to\nkeep his eyes peeled, his gun cocked, and not take the \u201cbuck-ague\u201d if a\ndeer shot by him. He heard the chorus, and watched and panted. Suddenly,\nunder the branches of the wood, appeared a big, blue buck, making long\nleaps toward him. Just as he was about to pass within 20 steps, Kenswick\njumped out from behind his tree, and yelled like a Cherokee. The buck\nstopped, as though turned to stone, in his tracks, and gazed in\namazement at the noisy Kenswick, who already had his gun at his\nshoulder. He tried to draw a bead, but his hands shook so, that he\ncould not cover the animal by a foot. The buck snuffed the air, made a\nleap, and was away as Kenswick, in utter despair, pulled the trigger,\nand sent a ball from his Remington whistling through the oak leaves.\n\n\u201cWhy!\u201d he exclaimed, in the excitement of telling it, \u201clook at my arm.\u201d\nHe held it out as steady as a man taking sight in a duel. \u201cIsn\u2019t that\nsteady? Now why the devil couldn\u2019t I hold it that way then?\u201d\n\n\u201cBuck ague,\u201d answered Ben Lester, quietly; and then the old and young\nhunters, around that fireside, laughed uproariously.\n\nThe barking of the hounds, like my pace, stopped for a moment at the\nreport of Kenswick\u2019s gun. Ten minutes after, I was on the Long rock on\nthe bank of the Little Tennessee. This stand merits a description, for\nfrom it probably more deer have been killed than at any other single\npoint in the mountains of Western North Carolina. It is at the Narrows.\nHere, in the narrowest channel of its course, from below where it begins\nto merit the name of a river, this stream, of an average width of 150\nyards, pours the whole drainage of the counties of Swain, Jackson,\nMacon, one-half of Graham and a small portion of Northern Georgia,\nbetween banks eighty-five feet apart. The waters are those of the rivers\nTuckasege, Cullasaja, Nantihala, Ocona Lufta, and the large creeks Soco,\nScott\u2019s, Caney Fork, Stecoah, Forney, and Hazel, heading in the\ncross-chains of the Balsam, Cowee, Nantihala, and Valley River\nmountains, and on the southern slope of the Great Smoky.\n\nFor 100 yards the stream shoots along like a mill-race. Brown boulders,\nthe size of horses, coaches and cabins, are piled at the edges of the\ncurrent. At the entrance to the Narrows, a line of rocks forms a broken\nfall of several feet. Over it the waters are white, and the trees wet\nwith spray. Above its roar, no rifle shot, or hound\u2019s bay can be heard a\nfew feet away. Long rock is a dark boulder projecting into the river,\nat its very narrowest point, 100 yards below, and in full sight of the\nwhite rapids. The hunter leaves the road, jumps and clambers over a\nsuccession of immense boulders, and at length seats himself on Long\nrock. The water, close at its edge, is forty feet deep. A steep\nmountain, following the river round every bend, showing square, mossed\nrocks under the heavy autumn-tinted forests on its front, rises close\nalong the river\u2019s opposite edge. A few sand-bars, below the stand, reach\nout from the mountain\u2019s foot. There is one narrow band of sandy bank\ndirectly opposite the stand. Projecting boulders shield it from the rush\nof waters. On this sandy bank the deer, if frightened when swimming down\nmid-stream, will climb out, affording just the shot desired by the\nhunter. If not frightened, they will pass on to the smooth-water\nsand-bars below, and then, leaving the water, disappear up the mountain.\n\nThe drive-way, for which Long rock is a stand, comes down to the river a\nfew yards above the fall described. There are no rapids on the\nTennessee, but what can be swum by the deer. In many instances, to cool\nhis body and baffle the hounds, he keeps the center of the stream for a\nmile or more, sometimes stopping in the water for hours before resuming\nhis course. The hounds, when the deer is in sight, follow him in the\nwater, and generally succeed in drowning him before he reaches the bank.\n\nA deer in the water can be easily managed, but, as seen by the following\nanecdote, there is considerable danger in venturing in after one. Still\nliving in the Smoky Mountain section of the Tennessee, is an old hunter,\nby name, Brit Mayner. In the days when his limbs were more supple, he\nwas brave, even to foolhardiness, and, on one occasion, as told by a\nparticipant in the hunt, he came near losing his life. A deer had been\nrun to the river, and in mid-stream was surrounded by the hounds.\nThrough the great strength and endurance of the deer, the hounds were\nkept in the water until Mayner, becoming impatient, decided to settle\nthe fight by his own hand. He divested and swam out. At his first pass\nat the deer, the hounds took umbrage, and fiercely attacked him. It was\ndeer and dogs against man. All were in earnest, and it was only by his\nexpertness as a swimmer that Mayner escaped being drowned.\n\nThat morning I reached the river, and covered the stand. The sun\u2019s rays,\nstriking the open water, were bright and warm. Only a slight breeze was\nblowing, and the frostiness of the air had disappeared. There was no\nshadow over the rock; and, sweating from my rapid run, to make myself\ncomfortable I threw off my coat, vest and shoes.\n\nA position on the deer stand, when one must keep his eyes on the running\nwater, is most tiresome, even for a few hours. The hunter on Long rock\ncan, however, study his surroundings without much imperiling his\nreputation as a sportsman; for, unless he turned his back entirely on\nthe upper stream, it would be impossible for a deer to reach his point\nunnoticed. The white rapids, the mountains around the distant bend, the\nrich-colored wooded slopes on both sides, the sound of waves dashing\nagainst the banks, and the swash of water among the piles of rock, has,\nin all, something to make him a dreamer, and pass the hours away\nuncounted.\n\nAn hour passed, and then I noticed a dark object amid the white foam of\nthe rapids. A moment later it was in the smooth, swift-flowing waters,\nand bearing down the center of the current. My blood jumped in my veins\nas I saw plainly the outline of the object. There was the nose, the\neyes, the ears, and, above all, a pair of branching antlers, making up\nthe blue head of what was undoubtedly a magnificent buck.\n\nWhen he was within 50 yards of Long rock, I jumped to my feet, hallooed\nat the top of my voice, took off my hat and waved it aloft. The buck\nsaw me. I dropped my hat and leveled my gun. He tried to turn and stem\nthe current, but it was too strong, and bore him to the sand-bank,\ndirectly opposite my stand. What a shot he would have made in the water!\nHis feet touched bottom, and then his blue neck and shoulders appeared,\nbut not before the report of my gun rang out. True, my hand trembled,\nbut, with a fair bead on his head, I had made the shot. Through the\nsmoke, I saw him make several spasmodic efforts to draw his body out of\nthe water, and then, still struggling, he fell back with a splash.\n\nAs I stood there, in my stocking feet, and feeling a few inches taller,\nI had no doubt that the deer was dead, but I was all at once startled by\nthe danger I was in of losing him. The current before the sand-bank kept\nmoving his body, and I saw plainly that in a few minutes it might drift\nhim into swifter waters, where he might sink. To lose the game, at any\nhazard, was out of the question. In a twinkling, my pantaloons and shirt\nwere off, besides the clothes of which I had previously denuded myself,\nand a second after, I had plunged head-first into the Tennessee.\n\nThe current bore me down stream like an arrow, but an accomplishment,\npicked up in truant days, came in good stead, and with a few, strong\nstrokes, I reached and climbed out on a sand-bar, at some distance below\nwhere I had made the plunge. As I rose to my feet, I was dumb-founded to\nsee an antlered head rise from behind the rocks where lay the supposed\nslaughtered deer. Then the whole blue form of a buck appeared in view,\nand leaped from sight, up the rocks, and under the trees on the\nmountain\u2019s steep front. The sight chilled me more than the waters of the\nTennessee. It was the very buck I had shot.\n\nI hurried up the bank, clambered over the cold rocks, and reached the\nsand-bar where my game had fallen. It was bare! I could not convince\nmyself of its being a dream, for there were the imprints of the hoofs. I\npicked up the shattered prong of an antler. It had been cut off by a\ncharge of buckshot. The mystery of the fall and subsequent disappearance\nwas explained. My shot had hit one of his antlers and simply stunned him\nfor a moment. Just then a voice rang from the rocks across the river:\n\n\u201cAre ye taking a swim?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, just cooling off,\u201d I answered.\n\nIt was Ben Lester who spoke, and with him was Sanford and the dogs.\n\n\u201cWhere is the deer that came this way? What luck have you had? Why aint\nyou here watching?\u201d yelled Sanford.\n\nI did not stop to answer his volley of questions, but plunged into the\nriver, and reached the opposite bank. Then, dressing myself, I\nexplained.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Lester, as I finished, \u201cno more could have been expected.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked rather indignantly; for, although I fully realized that I\nhad proved myself a miserable shot, I did not like being accused of it\nin terms like these.\n\n\u201cNo one could have done any better,\u201d he answered.\n\n\u201cNo better?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a bit. It was the duck-legged buck!\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sure?\u201d I asked, feeling like a drowning man sighting a buoy;\nfor here lay the shadow of an excuse for my failure.\n\n\u201cOf course. I saw him leave you. I\u2019ll bet my last dollar that he has\ninside of him a mad-stone as big as your fist!\u201d Then shaking his head,\nand talking half aloud to himself; \u201cStrange, strange, strange! Fifteen\nyears old, and still alive!\u201d\n\nI did not attempt to scatter his superstition by telling that in reality\nI had hit the buck, and that it was wholly due to my poor marksmanship\nthat he escaped. Sanford then told how he had topped a doe at his stand\nand killed her,--the only game secured that day. In the afternoon the\nRose brothers brought it with our horses, as we had directed, to the\nhouse of Daniel Lester.\n\nLester\u2019s is an unpretentious, double log house, situated in the center\nof a tract of cultivated hill-side land on the north or east bank of the\nLittle Tennessee, thirty-three miles from Charleston, North Carolina,\nand three miles from the Tennessee state line. It is approached by a\ngood wagon-road from Charleston, or from Marysville, Tennessee, the head\nof the nearest railroad. The view from the door-way is of exquisite\nbeauty, especially towards evening when the wine-red October sun is\nsinking amid the clouds beyond the mountain summits at the far end of\nthe river, and pours a dying glory over the scene. Daniel Lester is a\nman of prominence in the county. His is a North Carolinian hospitality,\nand we will always hold in pleasant remembrance our short stay at his\nhumble dwelling.\n\nThe most pleasant time of the hunt is the evening of the hunt, when\ndarkness has fallen, all the party is within the same doors, a rousing\nfire roars and leaps in the great, open chimney, and flings its light in\nevery face, the faucet of the cider-barrel is turned at intervals,\nchestnuts are bursting on the hot hearth-stones, and after every man in\nhis turn has recounted his day\u2019s experience, the oldest hunter of the\ngroup tells his most thrilling \u201cvarmint\u201d stories, till the flames die\ndown to glowing coals, and midnight proclaims the end of the day in\nwhich we were after the antlers.\n\n\n\n\nNATURAL RESOURCES.\n\n    \u201cI\u2019d kind o\u2019 like to have a cot\n     Fixed on some sunny slope; a spot,\n       Five acres, more or less,\n     With maples, cedars, cherry-trees,\n     And poplars whitening in the breeze.\u201d\n\n\n[Illustration: T]hat clever humorist, Mark Twain, represents himself as\nonce patriotically telling the Secretary of the Treasury, that his\nannual report was too dry, too statistical; that he ought to get some\njokes into it, wood cuts, at least; people read the almanac for the fun,\netc. The humorist\u2019s idea is not new. It was unintentionally put into\npractice by a much respected old geographer, who wrote the statistical\ntreatise on the earth\u2019s surface, which occupied many long hours of our\npleasure loving youth, in obstinate efforts at memorizing. That\nvenerable book contained, with wood cuts and all, probably the most\nsuccessful joke in school literature. We remember this sentence: \u201cThe\nstaple productions of North Carolina are tar, pitch, resin, and\nturpentine.\u201d The picture represented a gloomy forest, a rude still, and\na group of dirty men. A crowd of later writers of school geographies\nhave thought this canard on a great state, with varied industries, too\ngood to be lost, but remembering that every ounce of fiction, to be\npalatable, must contain a drachm of truth, added lumber. It has now been\nstereotyped, \u201cpitch, tar, turpentine, and lumber.\u201d If anyone has been\nfooled by the books of his youth, six hours travel from the coast\nwestward, during which he will see broad fields of corn and plantations\nof cotton and tobacco, will lead him to an appreciation of the \u201ctar-heel\njoke.\u201d North Carolina does lead all the states in the production of\nresin and turpentine, but that industry does not employ one-thirtieth of\nher active capital, nor constitute one-fifteenth of her gross\nproduction. Her lumber resources constitute a real and important source\nof wealth and will receive some attention in this sketch.\n\nThe state of North Carolina could probably get along without the rest of\nthe world more comfortably than any territory of equal size in the\nwestern hemisphere. With its eastern border dipping into the tropical\ngulf stream and its western border projecting more than a mile skyward,\nthe state possesses a climate almost continental in its range. An old\npoet describing the spread-eagle breadth of his country said that it\nstretched\n\n    \u201cFrom Maine\u2019s dark pines and crags of snow\n     To where Magnolian breezes blow.\u201d\n\nFrom a climatical and botanical point of view North Carolina is as large\nas the country described by the poet\u2019s couplet. But it is not the whole\nstate we propose to discuss. That subject is too long for the prescribed\nbrevity of our paper, which will permit us to do but partial justice to\nthe particular section included in the scope of this volume. We begin\nwith agriculture, the most varied of the three divisions of productive\nindustry.\n\nThe line of 800 feet altitude follows the general direction of the Blue\nRidge, and crosses the counties of Gaston, Lincoln, Catawba, Iredell,\nDavie, Forsyth, and Stokes. The best cotton lands of the State lie east\nof this line, but cotton is successfully raised in all the counties we\nhave named. There was a time when planters chose cotton lands with the\ngreatest regard for soil and climate, but experience has greatly\nincreased the cotton producing area, which, by the aid of improved\nfertilizers, may be still further enlarged. The crop, without the aid of\nartificial stimulants, can not be profitably raised in North Carolina\nabove the line of 800 feet altitude. It has been cultivated for more\nthan home consumption only within the last few years. Most planters have\nrealized profitable returns, though the probabilities are that it is not\nthe most remunerative crop.\n\nPresent tendencies indicate that tobacco will become the chief staple\nagricultural product of Western North Carolina. The value of a crop,\nespecially where transportation is high, does not depend so much on the\nnumber of pounds as on the price of each pound. This is why North\nCarolina has the advantage of all other tobacco producing states. It can\neasily be shown that the piedmont and transmontane table lands have\nadvantages over the other sections of the state in which they are\nincluded. While the crop of Ohio, which produces a heavy dark leaf,\nweighs more than double the crop of North Carolina, yet where estimates\nare made upon the basis of market value the latter state will be found\nto stand first. The heavy leaves of dark soils contain a large\npercentage of nitrogen and are charged with nicotine, rendering them\nunpleasant to the taste and smell, and injurious to the health. Not only\nis the bright yellow leaf of the Southern Alleghanies singularly free of\nthese unpleasant and unhealthful properties, but the golden beauty of\nits color gives it a value far above any American tobacco. \u201cIt is an\nundeniable fact,\u201d says Colonel Cameron in his _Sketch_, \u201cthat North\nCarolina is the producer of tobacco, unequalled even in Virginia; and\nyet, owing to the course trade has taken, she is deprived of her due\ncredit both in quality and quantity. Until within a few years, when she\nhas built up some interior markets, Virginia had absorbed her fame as\nwell as her products.\u201d\n\nIt is the experience of planters, that a soil composed of sand mixed\nwith clay and gravel, is most favorable to the production of the gold\nleaf. The conditions of climate are: cool nights, copious rainfall in\nsummer, and a dry September. These climatic conditions are more\nperfectly filled in Western North Carolina than anywhere in the country.\nSo far as relates to soil, there are portions of every county, with the\npossible exception of Watauga, which is too elevated, admirably adapted\nto the crop. We will briefly speak of localities, beginning with the\npiedmont belt, which consists of an irregular plain, sloping from the\nfoot of the Blue Ridge toward the southeast. The surface is undulating\nand well drained, but even and easily cultivated; except where the South\nmountain chain, and its projecting spurs, have made precipitous slopes.\nThe prevailing timber is yellow pine, post oak, and hickory, and in the\nvalleys and on the foot-hills, poplar, white oak, elm, and other\nhardwoods abound. Large areas are yet in native forest, and smaller\ntracts are covered with what is known as old field growth--scrub oak and\npines. There is too much of that desolation called \u201cold field\u201d to make\nthe landscape attractive to the tourist. Any who are interested in\nagriculture, and those departments of business based upon it, should\nsurvey with care the piedmont belt of counties.\n\nThe valleys of the Broad, Catawba, and Yadkin, offer for all kinds of\nhusbandry an inviting field. The soil is composed of a mixture of sand\nand loam, with an impervious clay sub-soil. The climatic conditions are\nequally auspicious. Abundance of rain, low humidity, cool nights,\ntemperate days, and equable seasons, contribute alike to the luxuriance\nof plants and the health of animals. The headwater valleys of the three\nrivers we have named, resemble each other in all essential particulars.\nThe uplands, which constitute the water-sheds, have in their soil a\nlarger percentage of clay, and are consequently less desirable than the\nbottoms, yet with care and intelligent cultivation, grasses could be\ngrown with profit. The yield of corn, wheat, and oats, will compare\nfavorably with any other locality in the South. It is by no means\nextravagant to say that soil of the more favored localities has, for\ncereals, double its present capacity. Though the region has been settled\nfor a century, no attempt, except on the part of a few individuals, has\nbeen made to reduce agriculture to the basis of an economic science. The\nnative population has been tardy in taking hold of tobacco culture, the\nmost remunerative of all crops. It was indeed left to immigrants to\nexperiment, and prove the adaptability of the soil and climate to the\nplant. The experimental period is now passed, and but a few years remain\ntill the surplus lands are purchased by progressive planters. Prices\nhave already increased. Farms which five years ago begged purchasers at\nthree to five dollars per acre, now sell readily at from eight to\ntwenty. The only danger to a further increase is the disposition, common\nto the human race, to kill the goose which lays the golden egg. A great\nmany localities in Western North Carolina are already suffering from\nthis ruinous policy. Immigration is needed, both for the good of the\ncountry and the advancement of values, but people are not disposed to\nleave all the associations and security of home, without some strong\ninducement. The many tempting inducements which Western North Carolina\noffers, in various fields of enterprise, will quickly and surely be\ndestroyed by a sudden and radical advance of prices. This remark applies\nto the timber and mineral tracts, as well as agricultural lands.\n\nThe growth of the new town of Hickory furnishes an illustration of what\na little leaven of industry will do in one of these old and rather dead\ncommunities. Prior to 1867 there had been nothing more than a country\ntavern at the present site of the town. The completion to, and long rest\nat, that point of the Western North Carolina railroad, brought into\nexistence a small hamlet, which was incorporated as \u201cHickory Tavern.\u201d\nBut a little more than ten years ago, a new air began to blow, which set\nthings astir, and has been keeping them astir ever since. In 1870, the\ntownship had a population of 1,591, the village existing only in a\nscattered street and a name; in 1880, the enumeration showed a\npopulation of 3,071, and the village, itself, has a population of not\nless than 1,400. Its trade is larger than that of any town between\nSalisbury and Asheville, commanding, by its location, several counties.\nTobacco, which can always be relied upon for a cash return, has been the\nmain instrument in stimulating general industry. Business being of a\nproductive character--that is, converting raw material into merchantable\ngoods--is upon a safe and substantial basis. There are two warehouses\nfor the sale of leaf tobacco, four tobacco factories, several saw-mills,\nplaning-and shingle-mills, etc., the Piedmont wagon factory, and an iron\nfoundry. The healthfulness of the climate attracts all the people during\nsummer which two hotels and a number of private boarding-houses can\naccommodate. St. Joseph\u2019s Academy of the Blue Ridge, a Catholic seminary\nof some celebrity, is located in the village. There is also a\nflourishing Protestant institution for women, known as Claremont\nCollege; a third institution of learning, is Highland school; the three,\ntogether with the public school, giving the place unusual educational\nadvantages. The railroad depot stands in the center of the spacious\npublic square, around which most of the mercantile business is done. The\nrailroad cannot be said to have been built through the town, the town\nhas been built around the railroad station. The business\n\n[Illustration: SILVER SPRINGS.\n\nProperty of Hon. J. L. Henry.]\n\nbuildings are mostly of brick, and substantial, while the residences\nshow thrift and taste on the part of their owners.\n\nShelby is the second town in size in the piedmont belt, having a\npopulation of 990 in 1880. It is pleasantly situated in the valley of\nFirst Broad river, and is surrounded by good lands. An experienced\nplanter ranks Cleveland county, of which it is the capital town, first\nin the belt in adaptation to the culture of tobacco. Shelby is likely to\nbe visited by all who review the historic field on Kings mountain. There\nis near the town, one of the oldest health and pleasure resorts in the\nstate.\n\nRutherford and Polk counties, drained by the Broad river, on the west\nand northwest, are elevated to the summit of the Blue Ridge, and are cut\nby its projecting spurs, and by the straggling chain of the South\nmountains. Their southern portions are level, and contain many acres of\ngood land.\n\nThe valley of the Catawba, in Burke and McDowell, is unexcelled in the\npiedmont region for corn, wheat, oats, and vegetables. The soil is a\nclay loam, mixed with sand. The sub-soil is an impervious clay, which\nprevents the filtration of applied fertilizers. Better improvements than\nare found in most localities bespeak thrift. The trade of the upper\nCatawba, and its tributaries, goes to Morganton and Marion. Alexander,\nCaldwell, and Wilkes, are fast taking high rank as tobacco producing\ncounties, though it is probable Catawba will maintain the lead in this\nindustry.\n\nA few words to the intending immigrant may not be amiss. It is not wise\nto select \u201cold field land,\u201d with a view to raising it to a good state of\ncultivation. Most of those footprints of desolation are beyond recovery.\nThose which are not, it will not pay to attempt to recover as long as\nsoils less worn remain purchasable at reasonable figures. A Philadelphia\ncolony made the experiment, against which we warn, in Burke county,\nnear Morgantown, a few years since. Like most Northerners who come\nsouth, they brought with them the ideas of northern farm life, and the\nmethods of northern agriculture. With characteristic egotism, they\nnever, for a moment, doubted their ability to build up what the native\nhad allowed to run down and abandon as worthless. They purchased, at a\nround price, a large tract of old fields, built comfortable frame\nhouses, and furnished them expensively. But much use and abuse had\nexhausted the clay of its substance, and, in spite of deep ploughing and\ncareful seeding, it yielded no harvest. Their furniture was sold at a\nsacrifice, and they returned, to Pennsylvania, disheartened. If they had\nselected the best lands, instead of the worst, and been content to live\neconomically, as poor people must live, the result might have been\ndifferent. The folly which has made old fields, makes trying to\nresuscitate them none the less foolish, though buyers are frequently\nmade to believe the contrary. The question naturally comes up: why are\nthere so many of these ugly blots, marked by scrubby pines, upon the\nface of an otherwise fair landscape? The answer is, indifferent farming,\nresulting, in a great many cases, from the ownership of too much land.\nThere was no object in saving manures, and ploughing deep, when the next\ntract lay in virgin soil, awaiting the axe, plough, and hoe. The writer\nremarked to a farmer, in Burke county, that his corn looked yellow and\ninquired the reason.\n\n\u201cWaal,\u201d said he, \u201cI gin hit up. I\u2019ve worked that thar patch in corn now\nnigh onto forty year, and hits gin worster and worster every year. I\nreckon hits the seasons.\u201d\n\nTo an intelligent planter in Catawba, I explained my inability to\nunderstand how soil, originally good, could be made so absolutely\nunproductive.\n\nEvidently taking my question to imply some doubt as to the virginal\nfertility of which he had been telling me, he pointed significantly to\nan adjoining field, where a woman was plowing, or, more properly\nspeaking, stirring the weeds with a little bull-tongue plow, drawn by a\nfresh cow, while the calf, following after, with difficulty, kept in the\nhalf made furrow. \u201cYou see what kind of work that is,\u201d said my friend,\n\u201cbut in spite of it, they will harvest 15 bushels of wheat to the acre.\u201d\nWhen, a little further along, I saw a wooden-toothed harrow in the fence\ncorner, I was ready to give nature considerable credit.\n\nDuring the same ride, while crossing a sand ridge, we came where some\nmen were making a clearing. The prevailing growth, standing close\ntogether, was a species of pine, uniformly about one foot stumpage, and\nreaching, mast-like, to the altitude of sixty feet. Between these were\nscrub oaks four to six inches in diameter, making the thicket so dense\nthat to ride a horse through it would have been difficult.\n\n\u201cIt strikes me,\u201d said I, \u201cas rather a strange fact, that those pines are\nall the same size. What species are they?\u201d\n\n\u201cThose,\u201d replied my friend, \u201care what we call old field pine. You asked\nme back there how land could be so completely worn out; here we have an\nexample. That piece of land was cleared, may be, 100 years ago. It was\nthen worked in corn, corn, nothing but corn, for may be twenty years, or\nmore; not a drop of anything put on. It was then completely worked out,\nand turned public to grow up in timber again. Now it has been shaded and\ncatching leaves for many a year, and has got some nutriment on top. They\nwill work it in corn or wheat till there\u2019s no substance left. The bottom\nwas all taken out by the first working, and there will be nothing left\nto make a growth of trees a second time. When they get it worked out\nthis time, it\u2019s gone forever; over here on this side is a specimen. That\nfield was cleared a second time ten years ago; now you see it won\u2019t\nhardly raise Japan clover, and never will.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you try to sell these old fields, and old field forests, to men\nwho come in here from abroad to make purchases?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s natural for us to get something out of this waste when we\nget the chance. But you\u2019ve traveled in these parts, and seen large\nbodies of good land to be bought at low figures, and you may say that\nanybody that comes here will be treated right.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuppose,\u201d said I, \u201cthat on these better tracts Yankee methods should be\nadopted--after every few years of cultivation, seed the land down to\ngrass, which feed to stock in barns; feed your corn fodder steamed, and\nuse your wheat and oats straw for stable bedding. In that way almost all\nthe vegetation taken off the soil is returned in a decomposed and\nenriched form.\u201d\n\n\u201cGenerally speaking,\u201d said my companion, \u201cI have little faith in Yankee\nways in the South. I used to have a plantation in the low country, and\nhave seen lots of those fellows come down with nickel-plated harness and\nsteel plows. Most of them would begin to cultivate our friendship by\ntelling us we didn\u2019t know anything about our business. But we noticed\nthat they all had to come to our ways, or sell out. The idea of Northern\nnewspapers, that our plantations before the war were not worked\nsystemically, is a mistake. Still I think your idea of farming in this\nelevated country is correct. You see here, with the exception of long,\nrigid winters, the climate is essentially northern, owing to our\nelevation. Every experiment at improved farming has been successful,\nthough very few have been made.\u201d\n\nWe were reminded by this of a story told by General Clingman, of\nAsheville, at the expense of an intelligent citizen of Buncombe county,\nwhose residence was on Beetree creek, a branch of the Swanannoa. \u201cAs the\nsurface of the stream was almost level with the surface of the ground,\nmy fellow-citizen,\u201d says Clingman, \u201cbeing of good intellect and general\nreading, saw on reflection that he could with little trouble utilize\nits waters. He constructed his stable just as near to it as possible,\nand then cut a slight ditch to the stream, and with the aid of a hastily\nmade gate of boards, he could at will let the water into his stable.\nWhen, therefore, his stable became rather full of manure, he had only to\nturn his horses on the pasture for a day, raise his little gate, and in\na few minutes the stream of water was carrying everything away, and left\nthe stable much cleaner than it would have been had he used a mattock\nand spade. His neighbors all admired his ingenuity in being able to\ndevise such a labor-saving operation.\u201d\n\nWatauga is the highest county of the Appalachians. Few of its valleys\ndip below 3,000 feet above tide level, while a few peaks of its boundary\nchains lift to about 6,000. The spurs projecting into this highland\nbasin are neither high nor abrupt, and the ascent from the interior to\nthe crest of the great chains of the Blue Ridge, the Yellow mountain and\nthe Stone and Iron, is at places so gradual as to be imperceptible. The\nbottoms along the Watagua river and its many branches, and along the New\nriver and its branches in Watauga and Ashe counties, are well adapted to\nalmost all the cereals, to vegetable roots, and to the hardier varieties\nof fruits. Ashe county bears a general resemblance to Watagua, but is\nabout 1,000 feet lower, and consequently warmer. The climate of both\ncounties is almost identical with the famous butter and cheese districts\nof central and western New York. Indeed, few sections of the eastern\npart of the United States are more inviting for stock raising and\ndairying. All the heavy mountain ranges of the southern Alleghanies\nfurnish a large amount of wild vegetation nutritive for almost all kinds\nof domestic animals. The lofty tops are heavily sodded. Being cool and\nwell watered, they are unsurpassed as pastures during at least seven\nmonths in the year. Stock in some localities has been known to subsist\nupon them during the entire year, but no prudent ranger will fail to\nprovide for his cattle and horses at least three months\u2019 feed and two\nmonths\u2019 valley pasture. Sheep cannot with safety be turned out on the\ndistant mountain range, but in most localities they will find abundant\nsubsistance upon the nearer slopes. Almost anywhere on the luxurious\nuplands a goat would think himself in a paradise. A gentleman of large\nexperience in the stock business in Ashe county informed the writer that\nmost failures result from an attempt to keep larger herds than the\nvalleys will sustain. Experience had taught him that it is never safe to\nmultiply the number of horses and cattle beyond the number of acres of\ntillable valley land, while twice that number of sheep can be kept. The\nmountain slopes, however, now almost a waste of woodland, are fertile,\nand might be reduced, at small outlay, to valuable pastures, and thus\nthe capacity of the country increased tenfold. These slopes are not, as\nin most mountain countries, rocky and broken by exposed ledges. To the\nvery top there is a heavy covering of earth, surfaced by a black\nvegetable mold, which only needs the assistance of sunlight to bring\nforth grass in profusion. By simply grubbing out the undergrowth and\ndeadening the large trees, the capacity for stock, of almost any\nlocality of the trans-Blue Ridge portion of North Carolina, could be\nquadrupled. The price of valley land in Ashe, Alleghany and Watauga\ncounties ranges from ten to fifteen dollars per acre. The mountains are\npurchasable at prices ranging from forty cents to three dollars per\nacre, the average price for any large tract being about one dollar.\n\nThe writer knows of only two large ventures having been made in sheep\nraising; one in Haywood county, and the other in Graham. They both\nresulted in total failure, due, however, wholly to the inexperience of\nthe operators, or ignorance of the shepherds employed by them. In the\nfirst instance, inadequate valley pasturage had been provided, upon\nwhich to support a flock of about 500 sheep during the few cold months\nof the winter. The flock, through exposure and scanty feed, became so\nreduced in number, before the opening of an early spring, that its owner\nabandoned his project.\n\nIn Graham county, a northern gentleman having purchased the largest and\none of the finest farms in that locality, discovering that the\nsurrounding range was admirably adapted for sheep raising, on a large\nscale, shipped in a flock of 800 merino sheep. They were ill attended by\nignorant shepherds, and all of them soon died.\n\nThrough care in the purchase of a valley farm, adjacent to fair upland,\nand bald, mountain-summit pastures, and in the matter of selecting\ncompetent hands, together with some personal attention to the business\non the part of the operator, there is no reason why large profits might\nnot flow from a venture in this line.\n\nThe remarks upon stock-raising in Watauga and Ashe counties, will apply\nin general to every other county of the intermontane division of the\nstate, though, of course, some counties are more favored than others,\nand the natural conditions vary in detail in each. Yancey and Mitchell\nhave large tracts adapted to this industry. The experiment of raising\ntobacco has been found successful in the lower and more sandy portions\nof Mitchell. This remunerative crop is no longer an experiment in\nYancey, the soil and climate in the western part being well adapted to\nit.\n\nThe French Broad valley, from an agricultural point of view, is\ndeserving of special attention. The territory embraced is divided into\nfour counties--Madison, Buncombe, Henderson, and Transylvania.\n\nI was riding with a friend one afternoon in September, through the ca\u00f1on\nof the French Broad. We were occupying the steps to the back platform of\nthe last car, feasting, for the twentieth\n\n[Illustration: THE FRENCH BROAD CA\u00d1ON.]\n\ntime, upon the ever-changing display of beauty. \u201cThis,\u201d said my friend,\ninterrupting the silence, \u201cis all very impressive. No one, whose\nfeelings have any communion with nature, can escape the charm of these\nbold precipices, robed with vines, and crowned with golden forest. These\ncurves are the materialization of beauty. That surging, dashing,\nfoaming, torrent, gradually eroding its channel deeper into the\nadamantine granite, is a grand demonstration of the superiority of force\nover matter. The great drawback to this valley is its poverty of useful\nproductions. Western North Carolina, it strikes me, may be compared to a\ngreat picture or poem; we never fail to derive pleasure from it, yet\nthere is nothing in it to make money out of, or even to furnish a\nrespectable living. While the scenery here is all that can possibly be\ndesired, and the climate is almost perfect, this country can never be\nanything more than it is now, except, perhaps, in the number and size of\nits summer hotels. It hasn\u2019t the resources.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the extent of your knowledge of this country?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cOh, merely what I\u2019ve seen from the railroad line, but I suppose it\u2019s\npretty much all alike.\u201d\n\nMy friend was mistaken, in supposing that the wealth of the Southern\nAlleghanies consists wholly in scenery and climate. He was also mistaken\nin supposing that railroad views had afforded him any considerable\nknowledge of the country.\n\nMadison county, back of the river bluffs, is almost wholly a succession\nof hills, coves and narrow valleys, nine-tenths of it timbered with a\nheavy growth of hard and soft woods. The slopes are remarkable for\nfertility, there being small particles of lime percolated through the\nsoil. The cultivated grasses grow rank, and the cereals yield\nsatisfactory harvests. But owing to the limited area of the valleys, and\nthe almost entire absence of level land, ordinary farming can never be\ncarried on in Madison with remunerative results. Too much labor is\nrequired to cultivate an acre of the slopes for the ordinary return in\nwheat or corn. It is in tobacco that the Madison county farmer has found\nhis Eldorado. I know of no industry which offers so much inducement to\nthe poor laborer as the cultivation of this crop. There is no staple\nproduct which derives its value so exclusively from labor, or yields to\nthat labor a larger return. A few figures will serve to illustrate.\nUncleared land can be purchased at an average price of $3 per acre, in\nsmall tracts. About one-third of the purchase will be found adapted to\ntobacco, making the cost of tillable land $9 an acre. Basing our\nestimates upon the production of the last three years, a yield of $200\nfrom each acre planted may be expected. In addition to such other small\ncrops as are needed to yield food for his family, an industrious man and\ntwo small boys can clear, prepare the soil, and cultivate four and\none-half acres a year, which, if properly cured, will bring in the\nmarket $900--money enough to pay for three hundred acres of land.\n\nThe sunny slopes are considered by planters best adapted to the crop.\nSand and gravel is the needed composition of soil, and a forest growth\nof white pine indicates auspicious conditions. The east side of the\nFrench Broad has been found to have more good tobacco land than the\nwest, but the ratio we have given is not too great for either side. The\ncrop leaves the soil in excellent condition for wheat and grass after\nfour years\u2019 cultivation, though at the present prices of land, planters\nwould find it economical to sow in wheat and seed to grass after two\nyears\u2019 cultivation in tobacco. The gross aggregate of the crop of 1882\nin Madison county will probably be $250,000. W. W. Rollins, of Marshall,\nis extensively engaged in the business, the number of his tenant\nfamilies being about sixty.\n\nUp the river, into Buncombe county, the valleys widen, and the acreage\nof comparatively level land increases; the settlement becomes denser,\nand the proportion of cleared land to native forest, is greater than in\nany county west of the Blue Ridge.\n\nThe valleys of Hominy creek, Swannanoa, and Upper French Broad, contain\nseveral thousand acres which could be cultivated with improved\nmachinery. The soil is of average fertility--well adapted to the\ncereals, grasses and tobacco--but in many localities its capacity has\nbeen lowered by use and abuse. Some valleys, naturally fertile, are\nalmost wholly exhausted. There has been, however, marked improvement,\nboth in farming methods and farming machinery, within the last five\nyears.\n\nAbove Buncombe, in the French Broad valley, are Henderson and\nTransylvania counties, embraced within high mountain chains, and formed\nof a basin-like territory, which bears some evidence of having once been\na lake. It is a surprise, to most people, to find, within a few miles\nof the crest of the Blue Ridge, a marsh of such extent as exists in\nHenderson county.\n\nThe French Broad changes its character at Asheville, below which place\nit is a torrent, and above a placid, almost immobile stream, rising to\nthe slightly higher altitude of the upper valley, in terraces, rather\nthan by gradual ascent. Its shallow channel is bordered by alluvial\nbottoms--deposits carried from the mountain slopes--varying in width\nfrom a few rods to five miles, making, with a background of mountains\nrising massively in the distance, a landscape of surpassing beauty. A\nconservative estimate places the number of acres of first bottom land\nalong the upper valley of the French Broad and its tributaries at\n20,000, and twice that number of acres could be cultivated with sulky\nplows and harvested with self-binding reapers. Cane creek, followed by\nthe Henderson and Buncombe county line, drains considerable low land--at\nplaces near its mouth almost marshy. On the opposite side of the French\nBroad there is a wide expanse of alluvial land, cut by Mill\u2019s river, and\nextending for a distance of two miles up that stream, where the valley\nbecomes second bottom and slope.\n\nOchlawaha (Mud creek, locally named) emptying into the French Broad from\nthe east, like its Florida namesake, is a lazy, sluggish stream. Its\nheadsprings are in the crest of the Blue Ridge, all the way from the\nhigh Pinnacle and Hebron range to Sugarloaf and Bearwallow. The\nimmediate basin of the stream from a short distance below Flat Rock, to\nits mouth, bears a unique character, being the only marsh in Western\nNorth Carolina. Its width varies from one fourth to two miles, and its\nlength may be estimated at ten miles. A rank growth of vegetation is\nannually submerged. A soil of vegetable mold several feet in depth has\nbeen formed. Recent surveys show that the decline is sufficient to admit\nof perfect drainage, which would make this one of the most valuable\nagricultural and grazing tracts in the country.\n\nThe crest of the Blue Ridge, in Henderson county, is an undulating\nplateau, which will not be recognized by the traveler in crossing. The\nSaluda mountains, beyond Green river, are the boundary line of vision on\nthe south. The general surface features of the central part of this\npearl of counties will be best seen by a glance at the pictorial view\nfrom Dun Cragin, near Hendersonville.\n\nAbove the mouth of Ochlawaha the bottoms of French Broad gradually\nwiden. The foot hills being the fartherest distance apart above the\nmouth of Little river, Boylston creek, Cathey\u2019s creek, Davidson\u2019s river,\nLittle river and both forks of French Broad all have tempting valleys.\nIt should be remarked that a large percentage of the land in these fair\nand fertile bottoms has been badly worn by much poor farming, but very\nlittle is worn out, so that there is yet not only hope but certainty of\nredemption by proper management. The expense of reinvigorating exhausted\ntracts is materially lightened by the presence of limestone outcrops.\n\nAs a grazing district the upper French Broad has advantages over any\nother section of equal extent, though there are elsewhere small\nlocalities which surpass any portion of it. These advantages are, extent\nof level tillable land for hay and grain, altitude which insures low\ntemperature and healthfulness, and third, proximity to the best wild\nrange in the Balsams and Blue Ridge. The scientific agriculturist will\nbe able to draw conclusions from the following recapitulations of\nconditions: abundance of rain, perfect drainage, warm sun, cool breezes,\nand an alluvial soil with occasional outcrops of lime rock.\n\nAll the good grains produce well. Vegetables grow to a large size.\nExperiments in the culture of tobacco have been successful in the main,\nand the industry may become an important one. The population is more\nintelligent than in most rural districts. The one great thing needed is\nadequate and cheap transportation facilities. One railroad taps this\nterritory at Hendersonville, but more are needed. There remain large\ntracts of unimproved lands which might be reduced to a state of\ncultivation. What is locally known as the Pink Beds, in the northwestern\npart of Transylvania, a dense forest plateau, is an absolute wilderness\nin which a lost traveler might wander for days before finding his way to\na settlement. Among the spurs of the Balsam range and Blue Ridge, and in\nthe valley of Green river there are many thousand acres of forest.\n\nThe Pigeon river in North Carolina is exclusively the property of\nHaywood county. Its water sheds are, on the west the main chain of the\nBalsam range, and on the south and east the Balsams and New-found\nmountains. The political division follows almost exactly this line. The\nprincipal tributaries of the Pigeon, each draining fine valleys, are, on\nthe west Cataluche, Jonathan\u2019s creek and Richland creek; on the east\nFines creek. The main channel is divided by Cold mountain into two\nprongs. The valley of Pigeon throughout its whole length is wide and\nundulating, except where it cuts its way through the Smoky mountains\ninto Tennessee. Below the junction of Richland creek the soil is a\nmixture of sand and gravel. Farther up it partakes more of a clayey\ncharacter. The fertility of the mountains is evidenced by the great size\nand variety of the forest growth. The ranges being high, the coves are\nlong, and give to the distant view from the valley a peculiarly pleasing\neffect. Good crops of corn, wheat, oats, buckwheat, etc., can be raised\nalmost to the crest of the highest mountains. The Balsams furnish more\nwild range than any other chain. Haywood has for many years had the\nreputation of being the best wheat county in the transmontane portion of\nthe state, and with proper cultivation has the capacity to sustain that\nreputation. The culture of tobacco in the northern and lower portion\nhas been entirely successful, and will soon become an important element\nof industry.\n\nAcross the Balsam range into Jackson and Swain counties we recognize\nnewer settlements. This fact partially accounts for sparcer population\nand less extensive tracts under cultivation. But a better reason is\nfound in the more broken condition of the country and consequent\nnarrowness of the valleys. Of the fertility of the mountains in Jackson\nthere can be no doubt, for the trees are larger and of finer texture\nthan of any other locality. Swain county differs from Jackson in having\nmore river bottom land, a sandier soil, and a warmer climate. About\none-third of its territory is a wilderness, unpenetrated except by\nhunters and herders. We refer to the great Smoky mountain chain and its\nsouthward spurs. The valley of the Tuckasege is not wide but embraces\nmany valuable farms. There is nothing like a continuous stretch of\nbottom along its affluents. The Little Tennessee is bordered at places\nby wide and fertile alluvions. Swain county has the conditions of soil\nand climate requisite to the production of the very best quality of gold\nleaf tobacco. Having mild winters, the fertile slopes of the Cowee and\nSmoky ranges might be reduced to valuable pastures.\n\nThe valley of the Tennessee and its branches placed Macon first of the\ncounties west of the Balsam range in population and wealth. With the\nassistance of its valuable mineral deposits, it will probably be able to\nmaintain its position. Above Franklin wide bottoms stretch from both\nsides of the Little Tennessee, exposing several thousand acres of level\nsurface, with a soil of gravel and vegetable loam, washed from the\nneighboring slopes and higher altitudes of Northern Georgia. The ascent\nof the Cullasaja to the crest of the Blue Ridge is very gradual until an\nundulating plateau of several miles length and varying width is reached.\nOn this plateau is the village and settlement of Highlands. If you\nreach it from Franklin, and doubt that you are on the top of a mountain\nrange 3,700 feet high, express yourself to any resident and in fifteen\nminutes he will have you looking over a precipice of 1,100 feet, while\nfar below you in the blue distance waves the upper plain of South\nCarolina. The climate of the Macon highlands is cool and bracing. The\nshowers, which are at all seasons numerous, are, however, warm, the\nclouds coming from the heated low lands farther south. Wheat and oats\nproduce well, and corn yields a fair harvest. But the most promising\nhope of this section, agriculturally speaking, lies in dairying and\nstock raising. Land is cheap, and both indigenous and cultivated grasses\ngrow luxuriantly.\n\nAt Franklin the traveler will certainly hear of the Ellijay, whose\nvalley is a competing candidate for admiration, with the princely peaks\nwhich hide it in their evening shadows. There are some substantial\nimprovements in the valley of Burningtown creek. The best wild range, in\nMacon county, is in the Nantihala mountains. I was shown a five-year-old\nhorse which was born in the mountains, and had \u201cnever received a\nmouthful of grain or cured roughness.\u201d Many farmers leave their cattle\nout to range all winter. Sheep raising would be profitable, if carried\non extensively enough to afford the employment of a shepherd. It must\nnot be inferred, from what has been repeatedly said pf wild range,\ngrazing, and stock-raising, that the mountain slopes, which comprise\ntwo-thirds of the surface of the intermontane country, are covered with\na sod of indigenous grasses. They are rather marked by the absence of\ngrasses, as all deep-shaded forests are. It is on the treeless tops that\ncattle subsist and fatten, the tufts under the trees being only\noccasional, except where a fallen tree or cliff has made an opening for\nheat and light to enter. There are among the trees, however, abundance\nof herbs and shrubs upon which sheep and goats would subsist.\n\nOf Clay, Graham, and Cherokee counties, little need be said. All the\ntrans-Balsam counties bear a general family likeness. The valley of the\nCheowah, near Robbinsville, is the most attractive part of Graham. The\nvalley of Hiawassee, with its tributaries, Nottelley and Valley river,\nbelongs to the sixth natural division of Western North Carolina. There\nis, in both Cherokee and Clay counties, a large percentage of level\nland. Speculators have invested largely in the former, mainly on account\nof the iron and marble deposits which lie exposed.\n\nTaken altogether, the best results, agriculturally, are to be obtained\nfrom the cultivation of the grasses, vegetables, and tobacco. The\ncereals can never be produced with profit beyond the narrow limit of\nhome demand.\n\nThe subject of horticulture is, in North Carolina, an important one.\nVegetables, grains, and grasses, of the same variety, flourish in a wide\nrange of territory, but fruits are tender darlings of climate. In regard\nto temperature, the heart of the Alleghanies is a peninsula of the\nnorthern north temperate zone projecting into the southern. While this\nfact has been known, and its advantages appreciated for more than half a\ncentury, there has been inexplicable tardiness in utilizing it. How much\nlonger will the great South continue to buy, in the markets of the\nNorth, what can be produced more cheaply and of better quality in her\nown highland valleys? The piedmont region is adapted to a great variety\nof semi-temperate fruits. The persimmon, grape, plum, and thorned\nberries, are found, wild, abundantly everywhere. We know of no instance\nin which the cultivated varieties of these fruits have failed, when\nproperly planted and attended. The peaches raised in the shade of the\nBlue Ridge are of unexcelled flavor. They will stand comparison with the\nbest Delaware productions. Apples and pears may be classed among the\npiedmont fruits, but the former are of better flavor on the higher\naltitudes. Grapes grow large and mature thoroughly in the cool dry month\nof September. The vines seem large and healthy.\n\nIt is only in the lower valleys that peaches of good size and flavor can\nbe raised. The plumb, that most difficult of all fruits to protect from\ndestruction by insects, grows on the slopes to full ripeness. Experiment\nwith cultivated grapes has been limited, but the luxuriance and variety\nof the wild vines, indicate a soil and climate favorable to this\nindustry. The nativity of the Catawba is traced to this highland region,\nand is still found, side by side with the fox and blue wine grape. There\nis nothing more beautiful in rural scenery, than these luxuriant vines,\nwinding and entwining among the branches of a spreading tree, until they\nhave completely smothered it in their tendril grasp.\n\nThe apple finds a congenial home among these southern mountains. In\nflavor, and perfection of development, this fruit will compare with the\nchoicest production of Michigan. The trees grow large and healthy; there\nare fewer, than in most sections, of those destructive insects which\nburrow the wood and sting the fruit. The winters are never cold enough\nto freeze the buds, and frost need not be looked for after the\nblossoming season, making the crop much more reliable than at the North.\nAbundance of moisture gives the fruit full size, and the autumns being\ncool and long, the ripening process is slow and natural. The whole\nmountain country is adapted to apple orchards. At present, the upper\nFrench Broad valley--Henderson and Transylvania--excel all other\nsections, both in quality and quantity. Tons of apples are annually\nwasted, which, if carried to the market at reasonable cost of\ntransportation, would furnish no inconsiderable revenue.\n\nHorticulturists are just beginning to appreciate the advantages of the\nthermal or \u201cno frost\u201d zone. It was Silas McDowell, of Macon county, who\nfirst called attention to the existence of certain belts along the\nsouthern slope of the Blue Ridge and projecting spurs, wherein the fall\nof frost was unknown, and the season more than a fortnight earlier in\nspring, and later in fall than the adjacent slope on either side. So\nmarked is the effect that a green band, in early spring, seems to be\nstretched across the side of the mountain. The line on both sides is\nclearly defined, and does not vary more than a few feet from year to\nyear. The scientific bearings of this singular phenomenon are\nintelligently discussed by Mr. McDowell, in a paper published in the\nSmithsonian Reports in 1856. An explanation for the existence of such a\nbelt is derived from a theoretical knowledge of the directions and\ncommingling of air currents, determined by the conformation of the\nslope.\n\nSections of this frostless zone are found on almost every spur of the\nmain chain of the Blue Ridge from Catawba county to Georgia, the largest\narea in any unbroken tract being on the side of Tryon mountain in Polk\ncounty. Its economic value for fruit and vegetable culture is\ninestimable. Like conditions of climate exist nowhere on the continent.\nThe season is as long as in Southern Georgia and South Carolina, while,\non the other hand, the thermometer never ranges higher than in New York,\nOhio or Michigan. These conditions, for grapes, pears, peaches and\napples, are perfect. The climatic conditions with respect to moisture\nare favorable, and in some respects superior to famous fruit growing\ndistricts.\n\nThe forest growth of Western North Carolina is a subject in which there\nis at present a wide and growing interest. Of the territory west of the\nriver Catawba, more than three-fourths is yet covered with the original\nforest. Almost every variety of hard wood, indigenous to the eastern\npart of the United States, is found on the piedmont plain, or on the\nmountain slopes. Within a day\u2019s journey for an ox-team grow the\nsteel-like persimmon, the inelastic hemlock, and the impervious balsam\nfir. The trees in most localities are so thick as to form an\nimpenetrable shade. Their size and quality depend mainly upon fertility\nand altitude. While there are poplars six feet in diameter, at the\nstump, and sixty feet to the first limb, cherries four feet stumpage,\nand walnuts eight, these are the exceptions, and the ones that become\ncelebrated. The thousands upon which the operating lumberman must rely\nfor his returns, are of profitable size, but not giants, as the\nuninitiated might infer from advertising circulars or occasional notices\nin the local newspapers.\n\nYellow pine is found in the piedmont region in considerable size and\nquantity. The quality is inferior to the best southern pines, but it\nserves very well for most domestic purposes. White pine of superior\ngrade and large trees are found in many of the mountain valleys, but its\ngrowth can not be said to be general. The regions likely to become\navailable, are in Madison county, Haywood and Swain. The largest white\npines in the state are in the latter county on the banks of Larkie\ncreek.\n\nOaks, of almost every variety, abound everywhere. It is the boast of the\nstate that nineteen of the twenty species of oak are found within her\nterritory; at least fourteen are found west of the Catawba river. The\ncommon white oak, which is the most valuable, grows in every valley and\ncove lower than 4,000 feet, and, in solidity and tenacity, is far\nsuperior to the growth of lower altitudes. The same is true of ash and\nhickory, which abound everywhere. The white hickory of the piedmont\nplains is being already purchased, and manufactured into spokes and\nhandles. The white ash of the mountain valleys has a fine grain and firm\ntexture. The best growth may be looked for in the dark coves. North\nCarolina hickory commands a ready market, large quantities being\nconsumed by the export trade. The factory at Greensboro draws a large\npercentage of its supplies from the western section.\n\nBlack walnut, here, as elsewhere, was the first wood hunted out by\nspeculators. But few trees remain within available reach of\ntransportation east of the Blue Ridge, and those in the western counties\nwhich are yet standing, have been sold to speculators. More than twenty\nmillion feet of walnut timber have changed ownership since 1880. As fast\nas the railroad creeps through the valley toward its western terminus,\nthese princes of the forest are being reduced to lumber and shipped to\nnortheastern markets. In quality, southern mountain walnut takes high\nrank; in size, it compares with the trees of the flat-lands of the\nnorth. A tree was cut in Haywood county recently which measured over\neight feet across the stump, and forty-seven to the first limb. Four\nfeet stumpage is not an extraordinary size.\n\nThe predominant growth of the mountains, both in the piedmont and\ntrans-Blue Ridge sections, is chestnut. On some ridges it is almost the\nexclusive growth, but occurs, in diminished numbers, though increased\nsize, in the dark coves. The great trees are of no value, except for\nrails, fire-wood, and charcoal; the young and vigorous are of greater\nvalue as a cabinet wood, and for house finishing. Tons of nuts fall to\nthe ground annually. The mountain farmer, in fact, relies upon the\nchestnut as a staple food for his hogs. In addition to its uses, the\nchestnut tree is a factor in giving character to the landscape. Its\ncreamy bloom blends beautifully with the mellow pink of the kalmia, and\nbrilliant scarlet of the rhododendron.\n\nNext to the chestnut in the glory of its bloom, comes the locust. This\ntree, as a scattered growth, may be found almost everywhere. It grows\ntall and symmetrical, and ranges in diameter from six inches to two\nfeet. Locust is a valuable commercial wood. It is little effected by\ndampness or earth, and is consequently used for fence posts, and in\nship-building extensively. It is also used in the manufacture of heavy\nwagons, for hubs.\n\nPoplars in the Southern Alleghanies attain great size and in symmetry of\nform excel all other trees. The use of its lumber are almost as varied\nas oak, and being somewhat scarcer, it commands a higher price in the\nmarket. It is found on almost every slope and in every valley. The\npoplar blossom contains more sugar than the bloom of any other forest\ntree. The bee keeper among the Alleghanies can always rely on well\nfilled honey combs.\n\nBlack birch is a wood just beginning to receive the attention of\nmanufacturers, and the day is not far distant when it will take a high\nplace among cabinet woods. The rapid consumption of walnut is warning\nfar-seeing lumbermen to cast about for a substitute. Black gum and black\nbirch seem to be the most available candidates. There are several\nvarieties of birch, but none equals the product of the Southern\nAlleghanies in beauty of grain or richness of color. It is mainly a cove\ngrowth, and attains to workable size. Black gum is found, but only as\nisolated trees.\n\nCherry, which of American woods for ornamental purposes, is second only\nto walnut, is found in some sections of the mountain regions in great\nabundance. The Smoky range, together with its projecting spurs from the\nVirginia line south, is noted for the size of its cherry forests. The\nvicinity of Roan mountain and the headwaters of the Ocona Lufta excel\nall other sections. The high coves of the Balsam range also contain\nlarge and valuable trees.\n\nMaple, linn, sycamore, cucumber, mulberry, sassafras, dogwood, sourwood,\ngopher, and buckeye is a partial list of the remaining deciduous trees.\n\nAbove all, enveloping the summits of the highest ranges in impenetrable\nshade, silent and somber, stand forests of balsam fir. The general\ncharacter of these dense, dark thickets is described elsewhere. The wood\nitself remains briefly to be spoken of. The fir of the North Carolina\nAlleghanies differs from the species in the far north, both in the size\nof the tree and in the smoothness and density of the wood. It may be\nlooked for in the three localities, each, however, embracing a large\narea of territory--the culmination of the Balsams at the corners of\nHaywood, Transylvania and Jackson; on the great Smoky chain, and within\nthe ellipse of the Blacks. The \u201cfemale tree,\u201d which is cone shaped and\nhas limbs to the grounds, is worthless except for the resin of the\nblister drawn out by puncturing the bark at a certain season of the\nyear, and used as the base of medicinal preparation. The \u201cmale tree\u201d\ngrows to a diameter of two feet, and has a straight, clear trunk to the\nlength of thirty to sixty feet. The wood is straight, fine grained,\nfirm, and unelastic. It is highly charged with acetic sap, which makes\nthe green lumber very heavy. When dried it becomes light--lighter than\nwhite pine. In color it is as white as the paper on which this is\nprinted, and the density and firmness of the grain makes it susceptible\nof high polish. The same structure renders it impervious to water. The\nwriter was shown a churn made of balsam staves which had been in use for\nthirty years. The wood under the surface was not even stained. This wood\nhas received no attention from wood manufacturers, but it may some time\nbe valuable for ship-building, buckets, and for house-finishing. For the\nlatter purpose it will rival in color and surface the world-famed satin\nwood of California.\n\nThe arborescent kalmia and rhododendron, which grow along almost every\nmountain stream, have a practical use. The ivy and laurel, as they are\nlocally called, attain, in some of the fertile coves, a diameter of\nthree inches, and the roots are even larger. Their graceful crooks and\nturns and bulbous, burly roots, make them exceptionally fine timber for\nall kinds of rustic devices--fences, flower urns, chairs, etc. The wood\ncan be worked only when green; dried, it becomes as hard as bone. Its\ndensity, hardness, and mottled grain, make it a valuable wood for pipe\nbowls and knobs, also for light tool handles and shuttles. No use is\nmade of these shrubs at present, except for rustic furniture.\n\nAt present, Hickory manufactures more lumber than any other town in the\nstate west of the Catawba. Highlands, on the Blue Ridge, probably\ndeserves the second place, though the industry is only in its infancy.\nWe have no hesitancy in saying that the forests in the western section\nare intrinsically more valuable than in the middle belt of North\nCarolina, or in any part of South Carolina. Five thousand square miles\nof area are awaiting enterprising dealers and manufacturers in wood.\nCapital, transportation inducements, and business capacity, aided by\nmechanical skill, are needed--three requisites to the development of a\ngreat industry, with which the region can be supplied only from abroad.\n\nThus far this sketch has been written mainly from personal observation.\nWe now come to a subject, however, in the treatment of which authorized\npublications and the investigations of other individuals must be relied\nupon. Our errors in what shall be said upon the subject of mineralogy\nwill be errors of omission. There has never been anything like a\nsystematic exploration of the Southern Alleghanies. This statement will\nsurprise no one familiar with the country, for such a task would involve\nyears of expensive labor, an investment which the state legislature has\nnever shown an enthusiastic willingness to make. We might quote a page\nof axioms applicable to this subject. \u201cWhat is worth doing, is worth\ndoing well,\u201d \u201cThe most economy is sometimes the greatest folly.\u201d But we\nforbear the repetition of platitudes. The state publications tell us,\nwith well-founded pride, that North Carolina was the first government in\nAmerica to order a geological survey. Can she, on that account, afford\nto be the last state to publish a full exposition of her geological\nstructure and mineral resources? Private enterprise, however, is\nannually adding to the stock of information, and gradually the general\ncharacter of mineral deposits is becoming known. We were told by many a\nhostess during our rambles that she \u201chad kep\u2019 a powerful site of them\nrock-hunters.\u201d The mineral excitement was highest from 1872 to 1875. Mr.\nKing, in a paper published in Scribner\u2019s Monthly, descriptive of a trip\nthrough the mountains in 1874, says:\n\n     \u201cWherever we went we found the \u2018rock hunters\u2019 had been ahead of us,\n     and a halt by the wayside at noon would generally bring us to some\n     denizen of the neighborhood who would say \u2018Good mornin\u2019, gentlemen;\n     after rocks?\u2019 And then would produce from his pockets some\n     specimens, which he was \u2018mighty certain he did\u2019nt know the name\n     of.\u2019 Many a farmer had caught the then prevalent mica fever, and\n     some had really found deposits of that valuable mineral which were\n     worth thousands of dollars. There is no danger of over-estimating\n     the mineral wealth of this mountain country; it is unbounded. There\n     are stores of gold, silver, iron, copper, zinc, corundum, coal,\n     alum, copperas, barytes, and marl, which seem limitless. There are\n     fine marble and limestone quarries, whose value was unsuspected,\n     until the railroad pioneer unearthed it. The limestone belt of\n     Cherokee county contains stores of marble, iron, and gold; Jackson\n     county possesses a vast copper belt, and the iron beds of the\n     Yellow mountains are attracting much notice. The two most\n     remarkable gold regions are in Cherokee and Jackson counties. The\n     valley river sands have been made in former times to yield\n     handsomely, and now and then good washings have been found along\n     its tributaries. The gold is found in various and superficial\n     deposits in the same body of slates which carries limestone and\n     iron. Before the war liberal arrangements had been made for mining\n     in Cherokee, but since the struggle the works remain incomplete. It\n     is supposed that the gold belt continues southward across the\n     country, as other mines are found in the edge of Georgia. The gold\n     in Jackson county is obtained from washings along the southern\n     slopes of the Blue Ridge, near the mountains known as \u2018Hogback\u2019 and\n     \u2018Chimney Top,\u2019 and Georgetown creek, one of the head streams of\n     Toxaway, yielded several thousand dollars a few years ago. In this\n     wild country, where the passes of the Blue Ridge rise precipitously\n     eight hundred and a thousand feet, there lie great stores of gold.\n     Overman, the metallurgist, unhesitatingly declares that he believes\n     a second California lies hidden in these rocky walls. The monarch\n     mountain \u2018Whiteside\u2019 is also said to be rich in gold.\u201d\n\nWe are of the opinion that Mr. King overestimated the value of the\nmineral deposits to which he has here referred, having been somewhat\nmisled by the prevalent excitement of the time, though of course there\nis no telling what may be concealed in the hidden fissures of these\nmighty masses of uplifted granite. While it is not probable that a\nsecond California or Colorado exists in this section of the Alleghanies,\nthere is sufficient evidence in the things seen, and the hope of things\nunseen, to stimulate the zeal of explorers and excite the cupidity of\noperators. The value of minerals, already taken out, has passed the\nenumeration of thousands, and the surface of the jewel-field has not yet\nbeen marked out. About 160 minerals, simple and compound, have been\nfound within the region of which this volume professes to treat. Many of\nthem are extremely rare, some of them of great economic value. What we\nshall say in this connection, is for the information and interest of the\ngeneral reader. The scientist will derive his information from the\ntechnical pages of special publications. But the explorer, who goes\nahead of him, will do better service by opening the great book of\nnature, and exposing to the world its unknown treasures.\n\nThere is written evidence that the followers of DeSoto made an exploring\nexpedition into the Cherokee country, in search of gold. Whether or not\nthey reached the mountains of North Carolina, is unknown. They were\nprobably led to search for the metal in this locality, by the ornaments\nworn by the Indians, or information derived from them. Late in the last\ncentury, the Cherokees had preserved a tradition of a very valuable\nsilver mine, in the Smoky mountains. They also found stones \u201cof various\ncolour and beautiful lustre, clear and very hard.\u201d\n\nAbout 1827, was the date of the gold excitement in Mecklenburg county,\nfrom which it spread to, and both ways along, the Blue Ridge. The\ndiscovery of this metal in Burke county, was an accident. In a little\nvalley at the foot of the South mountains, about twelve miles from\nMorganton, on the way to Rutherfordton, lived an old gentleman named\nBrindle. A traveler stopped at his house one night, and told the story\nof the discovery of gold in Mecklenburg, astonished the family,\nparticularly by his account of its great value, and the character of the\nmetal. Mrs. Brindle, who had, in the meantime, been an attentive\nlistener, finally interrupted: \u201cI took a stone, powerful like that, from\na chicken\u2019s crop yisterday. I \u2019lowed it was so curious, I laid it up.\u201d\nShe thereupon produced a piece, the size of a pea, of pure gold. The\ntraveler, of course, was quick to see how the precious stone had got\ninto the chicken\u2019s crop, and reasoned that there must be more where that\none came from.\n\nThe Brindletown mines, as the diggings in this locality have since been\nknown, have yielded many thousands of dollars, obtained merely by\nwashing the sand and gravel. Quartz, containing a very large percentage\nof gold, has been found in these south mountain spurs and valleys. The\npractical difficulty experienced by miners, is the incontinuity of\nveins, for which even the richness of the gold deposit, where it is\nfound, does not compensate. Upon the whole, at Brindletown, the best\nresults have been obtained from washings of the drift deposits. Colonel\nMills is, at present, the largest operator. The region includes a tract\ntaking in the corners of McDowell, Burke, Rutherford, and Cleveland.\nGold is found in the washings of the First Broad below Shelby; in Polk,\nat Sandy Plains, Morrill\u2019s mills, Hungry river, Pacolet river, and other\nplaces. Rutherford county is rich in gold. Along the John\u2019s river, in\nBurke, there are prospects which are favorable to an extensive mining\nindustry. The placers also follow Lower creek into Caldwell county. It\noccurs in placers and veins in Catawba, and in placers in Watauga, Ashe,\nand Alleghany. It must not be understood that mines are being operated\neverywhere gold is found. In fact, there are very few places where\nanything is being done, and the work at other places is carried on in a\nvery primitive fashion.\n\nIn the French Broad valley gold exists in placers and veins near the\nwarm springs; on Cane creek, and elsewhere in Buncombe, and in placers\non Boylston creek, in Transylvania. Further exploration of the upper\nFrench Broad valley will undoubtedly discover other localities. In the\nvalley of the Little Tennessee, gold has been found near the Ocona Lufta\nriver, and on Soco creek, in Swain county; at the head of the Tuckasege,\nin Jackson; in the vicinity of Highlands, and on Briertown creek, in\nMacon; and in Graham. Beyond the water-shed, in Jackson county, is a\nregion rich in gold. In the Horse cove, or Sequilla valley, a few years\nago, a hand could pan out two to five dollars per day. It has never been\nfound or even looked for except in placers. The zone runs across\nCashier\u2019s valley into the Georgetown and Fairfield valleys. Its\nexistence, in quartz veins, near Chimney Top mountain, is well\nestablished. The deposits in Georgetown valley have yielded more largely\nthan any other locality in this region. The zone seems to pass around\nthe southern base of Hogback mountain, thence across the Blue Ridge into\nTransylvania, making its appearance, as has been noted, on Boylston\ncreek. We are indebted to the Rev. C. D. Smith, of Franklin, for the\nfollowing incident:\n\nSeveral years ago, in Hogback mountain, deposits of gold were discovered\nin a ravine, which were worked up to a spring pouring over the rocks. It\nwas noticed that gold came up in the sands from the spring. In order to\npan these daily deposits, a basin was formed, and rich yields resulted.\nHowever, the miners became impatient; and, naturally inferring that the\nsource of the gold was a solid vein, they applied a heavy blast, which\nscattered the rocks, and provided an outlet for the water, for the\nspring with its gold ceased flowing. No vein was discovered. They \u201chad\nkilled the goose that laid the golden eggs.\u201d\n\nMica has yielded more money to this mountain region than any other of\nher store of minerals. The zone follows almost the direction of the Blue\nRidge. Productive mica veins are found only in granite dikes, and when\nthe mica zone is spoken of the zone of these dikes is meant. There are\nexposures of mica outside the belt, but no productive mines have yet\nbeen found. Neither can all dikes be relied upon, for they may be filled\nwith barren matter or the crystals may be too small for use. There seems\nto be a law of size which holds good throughout the vein, and by which\nproprietors are guided. Other dike deposits, again, are all that could\nbe desired in respect to size and quality but the mica is worthless,\neither because of imperfect crystalization making it gnarled and gummy,\nor it is spotted by magnetite, some of it in the form of very beautiful\nclusters of vines and ferns. It is a remarkable fact that the mica veins\nwhich have yielded the best returns bear evidences of ancient work. The\nClarissa Buchanan mine, in Mitchell; the Ray mine, in Yancey; and the\nBowers mine, in Macon, were operated by the much-speculated-about\nprehistoric race of mound-builders. Other mines, in each of the\nlocalities named, were operated. In some, as in the Ray mine, shafts\nwere sunk deep into the feld-spar, and in others tunnels were run in,\nshowing that the miners were men of some advancement in the arts. It is\nproved, by an examination of the dump-piles, that mica was the object of\nthe search, and that only large and clear crystals were taken away. They\nworked only in fieldspar, probably having no tools for removing anything\nbut soft rock. Their work always stops when a granite ledge interferes\nwith further progress. Little more is known of the use to which these\npeople put mica, than of the people themselves. Many of the mounds in\nthe North contain large sheets, over skeletons, from which it is\ninferred that it was used to cover the bodies of illustrious personages\nafter interment, and that use may account for the zeal with which it was\nsought. It has been inferred by some arch\u00e6ologists that it was used for\nmirrors and windows in their temples, which is not improbable, though\nthere is little evidence to sustain the theory.\n\nMica mining in Mitchell county has been attended with better results\nthan in any other locality. The Sinkhole mine near Bakersville was\nnearly half a mile long, the crystals imbedded in kioline (decomposed\nfeldspar) and the rubbish easily removed. Tons of mica were taken out of\nthis mine. The Clarissa Buchanan mine has been worked to the depth of\nmore than 400 feet. In Yancey county the Ray mine, near Burnsville, has\nyielded more mica than any other in that locality. The fissure takes a\nzigzag course up the face of the mountain. The dike shows no signs of\nexhaustion, though for more than a decade of years its annual yield has\nbeen very large. There are deposits of mica in Buncombe county, but all\nattempts to open profitable mines have thus far been failures. There are\nseveral prospects in the south part of Haywood county. A promising mine\nwas opened on Lickstone mountain, from which a large quantity of\nmerchantable mica of fine quality has been taken. It is a granite dike\nabout 100 feet wide and 100 yards long. It yielded some crystals which\ncut plates nine by twelve inches. It is owned jointly by W. F. Gleason\nand the Love estate. No work has been done on this mine for some time\npast, though practical miners still consider it a good property.\n\nDike fissures in Jackson have encouraged explorations in that county.\nSeveral mines have been opened, and some good merchantable mica taken\nout. Operations, however, were soon abandoned. This fact is not\nconclusive evidence that even some of the openings might not make\nprofitable mines under the management of a skillful and experienced\noperator. \u201cThere is nothing certain beneath this sod.\u201d\n\nThe zone passes from Jackson into Macon county, which is next to\nMitchell in its wealth of mica. The Brooks mine, at the head of Cowee\ncreek, was the first opened. It was energetically worked, and for a few\nyears yielded satisfactory returns. Work has been done on more than a\ndozen openings in the county, and a merchantable product obtained from\nmost of them. As is always to be expected, a very large percentage of\nthese openings proved failures; others were made failures by incapable\nmanagement. Only one mine has stood a prolonged test of energetic\nwork--the Bowers mill, on Burningtown creek. The proprietor and\nsuperintendent, Charles Bowers, is of the third generation, in direct\nline, of mica miners, and consequently has the advantage not only of a\nlong personal experience, but also the communicated experience of his\nfather and grandfather in the mines of New Hampshire. Mr. Bowers has\nbeen working on the same dike for about eight years. It is 200 yards\nlong and 12 feet wide, with a central granite vein about two feet thick.\nIt cuts an east and west spur of the ridge transversely, and dips at an\nangle of ten degrees from a vertical line. It has been worked to the\ndepth of 250 feet, and a shaft sunk 50 feet deeper. The quantity of mica\nand character of crystallization is unchanged at that depth. There are\nseveral good prospects in Macon, which remain untouched, because the\nowners, who know nothing about mining, are unwilling to offer\ninducements, the prospect being held at a price as high as a workable\nmine would command. An incident to the point is told of a Jackson county\nman who had found a few crystals of glass, and imagined himself a rich\nman. A miner one day examined his prospects, and found every indication\nagainst the probability of it being a workable deposit. He made up his\nmind, however, to have some fun for his pains and, very seriously,\nwithout giving an opinion of the prospect, asked the proprietor of the\nland, who was happy in the imageined possession of a competency, what\nhe would sell the mine for. The miner\u2019s manner and question raised the\nowner\u2019s confidence still higher. \u201cI jist reckon,\u201d he replied, \u201cI don\u2019t\nwant ter git shet of thet thar place. There\u2019s a fortune thar fur me an\u2019\nmy chil\u2019ern arter me, an\u2019 you furners haint goin\u2019 to git hit.\u201d\n\nCorundum is a crystaline mineral of varying color, and next in hardness\nto the diamond. It is, consequently, a valuable abrasive, and its use,\nin the mechanical arts, for that purpose is increasing. It occurs,\nusually, associated with chrysolite. There is a zone of chrysolite dikes\nextending from Mitchell county to Union county, Georgia, in which, at\nvarious places, corundum has been struck, but not generally in\nsufficient quantity to pay for mining. Specimens have been found in\nMitchell, Yancey, Buncombe, Madison, and Haywood counties. In Jackson\nthere are several good prospects, but no mines have been opened. The\nlocalities are Scott\u2019s creek, Webster, and Hogback mountain. Macon is\nthe only county in which this mineral has been practically and\nprofitably mined. Specimens have been found at various places, but the\nlargest exposure, and the only mine of importance, is at what is known\nas Corundum hill, near the Cullasaja river, about 10 miles from\nFranklin. Here was the first discovery of the mineral west of the French\nBroad. The mine, which is owned by Dr. Lucas, is not being worked at\npresent; it is said, on account of inconvenience of transportation. The\noutcrop covers 25 acres. The chrysolite zone makes a bend in crossing\nthe Tennessee valley, and seems to disappear until the Nantihala\nmountains have been reached, beyond which, on Buck creek, in Clay\ncounty, it reappears, and forms the largest mass of chrysolite rock in\nthe United States, the area covered being over 1,400 acres, over all of\nwhich corundum has been found, some masses weighing as much as 600\npounds. There are other outcrops in Clay, which are no doubt very rich\nin corundum. Specimens have been obtained in the Hiawassee valley. Some\ngarnets of very rich color have been found, associated with corundum; a\nruby is said to have been obtained in Madison county, and Mr. Smith\nentertains the hope that sapphire may yet be discovered. Specimens of\ncorundum, associated with amethyst and garnet, have been found in\nMcDowell, Burke, and Rutherford counties.\n\nChrome ores are found in several of the counties west of the Blue Ridge\nand in the piedmont belt. It probably exists in all of them.\n\nThere are large deposits of iron ores in several localities, which will,\nwhen developed, be of great economic value. The prevailing varieties are\nmagnetite and hematite. The former is the technical name for magnetic\nore, gray ore, and black band; the latter for specular ore, red ore,\netc.\n\nThere is a vein of ore, of good quality, stretching from King\u2019s\nmountain, on the South Carolina line, to Anderson\u2019s mountain, in Catawba\ncounty. It consists of two parallel veins, of variable width; is of a\nshaly character and mostly magnetic. It was reduced in forges and\nbloomeries as early as the revolution, and during the late war, forges\nwere erected and tons of iron manufactured. Southwest of Newton, iron of\na superior quality is found, being remarkable for its malleability and\ntoughness. During the war it was wrought in bloomeries and manufactured\ninto spikes, cannon, and shafts for the iron-clads.\n\nThere are many valuable beds of limonite or brown ore, extending in a\nzone from the northeastern foot-hills of the South mountains, into the\nBrushy mountains. A bed near the town of Hickory is reported to be five\nor six feet thick; ten miles west are pits from which ore was obtained\nduring the war, and six miles away ores were smelted thirty years ago.\nThese pits are now all filled up, but it is hoped that the growth of\nmanufacturing will stimulate industry in the iron business. There are\nlarge quantities of ore in Caldwell county, and this zone extends into\nAlexander. There are several beds along the Yadkin river.\n\nBeds of limonite exist in the Linville range, in workable quantities,\nbut it makes an inferior metal unless mixed with hematite or magnetite,\nwhich is found not far away. There is an exposure of hematite one mile\nwest of Swanannoa gap, in Buncombe, which gives to Ore mountain its\nname.\n\nThe Cranberry ore bank in Mitchell, is pronounced by Professor Kerr \u201cone\nof the most remarkable iron deposits in America.\u201d Its location is on the\nwestern slope of Iron mountain, in the northwest part of the county,\nabout three miles from the Tennessee line. It takes the name Cranberry\nfrom the creek which flows near the outcrop at the foot of the mountain.\nThe surrounding and associated rocks are gneisses and gneissoids,\nhornblende, slate, and syenite. The ore is a pure, massive, and coarse\ngranular magnetite. The steep slope of the mountain and ridges, which\nthe bed occupies, are covered with blocks of ore, some weighing hundreds\nof pounds, and at places bare, vertical walls of massive ore, 10 to 15\nfeet thick, are exposed, and over several acres the solid ore is found\neverywhere near the surface. The length of the outcrop is 1500 feet, and\nthe width, 200 to 800 feet. (State Geological Report).\n\nThis ore has been quarried and used in country forges for half a\ncentury, which, alone, evidences remarkable purity. Several analyses\nhave been made by Dr. Genth, which show upwards of 90 per cent. of\nmagnetic oxide of iron, and about 65 per cent. of metallic iron. There\nis not even a piece of sulphur, which is the dread of iron workers. The\ncompletion of branch railroad has brought this ore into the market.\nProfessor Kerr affirms that it excels in quality the deposits in\nMissouri and Michigan.\n\nOutcrops of magnetic ore extend along the Iron mountains as far as Big\nRock creek, at the foot of the Roan. These deposits are now attracting\nmore attention than ever before, and will, at an early date, become the\nbasis of a great industry.\n\nThere are ore deposits along the North fork of New river, which resemble\nthose of the Cranberry bank. There are other localities in Ashe, and\nalso in Watauga, which show outcrops of promise.\n\nMagnetite is found on the head of Ivy, in Madison county. There are\nseveral surface exposures of a good quality of ore. The extent of\npresent explorations does not justify any predictions with regard to\nthis deposit. There is also a bed of ore near the public road which\nleads from Asheville to Burnsville. It is hard, black, and of resinous\nluster. On Bear creek, near Marshall, and on Big Laurel are exposures of\nmagnetite. There is another exposure about three miles from Alexander\u2019s\nstation. About five miles west of Asheville is a bed of limonite several\nfeet thick.\n\nA bold outcrop of magnetic ore is found in the northeastern part of\nHaywood county. Surface indications are flattering. The deposits of\nJackson and Macon counties are encouraging explorations, but have never\nbeen developed.\n\nLast, but greatest in importance, are the ores of Cherokee.\n\nThe region of the Valley river seems to be the culmination of the\nmineral wealth of the Alleghanies. Gold, silver, marble, limestone, and\nsandstone are associated with massive beds of brown ore, which yields an\niron already celebrated for its malleability and strength. The breadth\nof the iron and marble range is from two to more than three miles, and\noccupies the bottom of a trough which has been scooped out by the\nstreams. The direct valley range is about 24 miles in length, and there\nis a branch more than six miles long, which follows Peach Tree and\nBrasstown creeks, making the whole iron range upwards of 30 miles. The\nores were used in forges by the Indians, and have always since been\nused by the country blacksmiths in preference to the manufactured iron.\n\nLittle attention has been given to the copper deposits of Jackson and\nHaywood counties since the war though there can be little doubt of the\nexistence of ores in workable quantities. The copper belt in Jackson\noccupies the middle portion of the county, from the head-waters of\nTuckasege river northward to Scott\u2019s creek and Savannah creek. Good\nspecimens have been found in a great many places, but mines have been\nopened only on Waryhut, Cullowhee, and Savannah creeks. At each of these\nseveral mines the vein is about eight feet thick. Its associated rocks\nare syenitic. There is a belt running across the north part of Haywood\ncounty with outcrops in the spurs of the Balsam range.\n\nThere is in Ashe and Alleghany a copper producing district of\nimportance. Elk knob and Ore knob, Peach bottom, Gap creek and other\nlocalities contain stores of copper. The works at Ore knob are the\nlargest in the Alleghanies, and the deposit of ore in quantity and\nquality is said to rival the Lake Superior region.\n\nLead, tin, and silver are found in various localities, but as no mines\nhave ever been opened, nor satisfactory results obtained from the meager\nexplorations which have been made up to this time, we leave the subject\nwithout discussion.\n\nThe rarest of the rare gems is the diamond, a very few specimens of\nwhich have been found. The first stone identified was discovered at\nBrindletown, in Burke county, in 1843. It was an octohedron, valued at\none hundred dollars. A second was soon after found in the same\nneighborhood. The third was discovered in Twitty\u2019s mine, in Rutherford\ncounty, in 1846, and was first identified by General Clingman, of\nAsheville. Cottage Home, in Lincoln county, and Muddy creek, in\nMcDowell, have each furnished specimens.\n\nGarnet is found in the Southern Alleghanies, both as massive crystaline\nrock and individual crystals, rich in color and brilliant. Some valuable\ngems of a brownish red color have been taken from the mica and corundum\nmines of Mitchell, Yancey, and Macon counties. On account of richness\nand beautiful play of colors, the crystals of Burke, Caldwell, and\nCatawba counties are excellent material from which to cut gems. The best\nlocality is about eight miles southeast of Morganton, where there are\nblocks almost transparent, weighing 10 pounds. About four miles from\nMarshall, in Madison county, is a locality rich in garnets. The writer\nhas seen beautiful specimens picked up from the ballasting of the\nrailroad. A few specimens of amethyst have been found associated with\ngarnet.\n\nIt will be impossible to discuss all the minerals of Western North\nCarolina, or even all those of common commercial value. The interest of\n10 years ago had in some measure died out on account of the apparent\nfailure of all the railroad projects. It matters little of how great\nintrinsic value the resources of any section may be; their actual value\nwill be insignificant unless by rapid and cheap transit they can be made\na part of the great world. The flesh and rose colored marbles of\nCherokee and the Nantihala are worth no more now than common granite,\nbut carried to the great markets where art is cultivated and beauty\nappreciated, they will command tempting prices. The prospect of an early\ncompletion of through lines of railroad and the actual completion of the\ngreater portion of the Western North Carolina system, has given new\nstimulus to the investigation of hidden resources, and is bringing in\nthe skill and capital necessary to their economical development.\n\n[Illustration: THE SWANNONOA HOTEL.\n\nAsheville.]\n\n\n\n\nHISTORICAL R\u00c9SUM\u00c9.\n\n     There is much in the race we spring from affecting both the\n     individual and the community. The physical and mental traits we\n     derive from our ancestors, are not more marked and important in\n     directing our destinies than are the prejudices, aspirations and\n     traditions we drink in from childhood. No profound observers of\n     human nature will ever estimate the conduct or capacities of a\n     people without first looking at their genealogical table and noting\n     the blood which flows in their veins.--[SENATOR VANCE.\n\n\n[Illustration: T]his observation is illustrated by the character of the\nsettlements of both the Carolinas. Most of the first immigrants to the\ncoast country of South Carolina were English capitalists, who purchased\nlarge plantations. The coast country of the north State drew its\npopulation from Virginia and from Barbadoes. The whole east line of\nsettlement was English. Large plantations and numerous slaves were\nacquired, and the inhabitants after the second generation lived in\ncomparative ease and luxury. Those of the south were particularly\ndevoted to the cultivation of manners and mind, a degree of excellence\nbeing eventually attained, which has never been equalled elsewhere on\nthe continent.\n\nThe emigrants to the plains beyond the line of terraces and hills were\nof entirely different stock, character, and situation in life. They\nbelonged to that sturdy race, now so widely distributed over the whole\ncountry, which is known in history as Scotch-Irish. Their ancestors were\nof pure Scotch blood, but lived in the north of Ireland, whence they\nemigrated to America, landing at New York, Baltimore, and other northern\nports. The first arrivals found home near the eastern base of the\nAlleghanies in Pennsylvania, but being annually joined by new immigrants\nof their own blood and fatherland, the best lands were soon filled to\noverflowing. The tide of immigration still continued, but an outlet was\nfound toward the south, through which it swept along the entire base of\nthe mountains into the inviting valleys of Carolina, and eventually\ncrossed them into Georgia. There is to the present day marked\nhomogeneity of character within this belt, from Pennsylvania to Virginia\nsouthward. Scattered families of other nationalities followed into the\nwilderness, but so largely did the Scotch-Irish prevail over all other\nraces that the amalgamation of blood which followed brought about no\nperceptible change.\n\nA long period elapsed from the time emigration from the north of Ireland\nbegan until the Pennsylvania and Virginia plains had been filled; and\nthe Yadkin, in North Carolina, was reached near the middle of the last\ncentury. So strong was the opposition, natural and human, encountered at\nevery point, that only dauntless courage and determined spirit was able\nto overcome it. A wilderness had to be reduced in the face of a cruel\nand cunning foe. Being poor, they purchased small farms, and the number\nof their slaves was never large. Unlike the plantation lords of the\nSouth State coast, they devoted themselves to rigorous labor, the number\nbeing few who had time to devote to the cultivation of manners, or to\npleasure, and fewer still had the financial ability to educate their\nchildren.\n\nBetween 1750, the date of the first settlement on the upper Yadkin, and\nthe Revolution, a period of 25 years, the best lands were occupied to\nthe base of the Blue Ridge. Even that barrier was scaled, and the germs\nof civilized industry planted along the Holston before 1770.\n\nA character of the times, typical of a class of early settlers, was the\nfamous Daniel Boone, whose life is the inspiration and light of western\nannals. Being but a lad, when his father removed from Pennsylvania, and\nsettled on the Yadkin in 1754, the wildness and beauty of his new home\nmade him a recluse of nature. In early youth he became a hunter, a\ntrapper, and fighter of Indians. When the country around him filled up,\nhe left his home and plunged again into the depths of the wilderness\nbeyond the mountains. After a period, crowded with blood-chilling\nadventures in Kentucky, he returned to his old home, but the growth of\nsettlement had deprived it of its romance. He again crossed the Blue\nRidge and pitched his camp in the Watauga plateau. There is a curious\nold church record in existence, which shows that he cursed \u201cwith profane\noaths\u201d a fellow Baptist for building a cabin within ten miles of his.\nHis ideal of complete happiness was to be alone in a boundless\nwilderness. He once said: \u201cI am richer than the man mentioned in\nScripture who owned the cattle on a thousand hills. I own the wild\nbeasts in more than a thousand valleys.\u201d He expired at a deer stand,\nwith rifle in hand, in the year 1818. It was of him that Byron wrote:\n\n    \u201cCrime came not near him, she is not the child\n     Of solitude. Health shrank not from him, for\n     Her home is in the rarely trodden wild.\u201d\n\nThe class of settlers of which Boone is mentioned as a type, is not\nlarge; but it was the class, to paraphrase a line of Scott, which dared\nto face the Indian in his den. They were hunters of wild animals and\nwild men. But there was a larger class, the equal in sturdiness of the\nformer, and though less romantic in conduct, entitled to recognition by\nposterity. They were the men who cleared farms and built up houses and\ntowns. In the valleys of the Yadkin and Catawba, is found a large\npercentage of population of German descent, which is the source of the\nGerman blood found in the western counties. Not far behind the\nScotch-Irish pioneers, by the same route, came the astute hard-working\nancestors of this class of citizens. Many were scattered through\nVirginia, and some drifted even beyond the line of the old North State.\nThe least mixture of blood is found in the valley of the Catawba. It is\na mongrel German, known in the North as \u201cPennsylvania Dutch.\u201d The\ntraveller from central Pennsylvania will frequently forget, while in the\nCatawba valley, that he is away from home. Governor Vance, whose long\npolitical career has familiarized him with all sections of the state,\ndeclares that in agriculture, as a general rule, they have excelled all\nother classes, especially in thrift economy and the art of preserving\ntheir lands from sterility. \u201cTo this day there is less of that\ndesolation, known in the South as \u2018old field,\u2019 to be seen among the\nlands of their descendants, than amongst any others of our people.... A\nsturdier race of upright citizens is not to be found in this or any\nother state. Their steady progress in wealth and education, is one of\ntheir characteristics, and their enduring patience and unflinching\npatriotism, tested by many severe trials, proclaim them worthy of the\ngreat sires from whom they sprang.\u201d Like their kin in Pennsylvania, and\nscattered over other states, west and south, \u201cthey are Lutheran in\nreligion and Democratic in politics, and they are as steadfast as the\nhills in each.\u201d\n\nThe Scotch and Germans of the upper plains and valleys, from which the\ntrans-montane counties drew the bulk of their population, exist in the\nrural districts unmixed. There has been, until very recently, little\nimmigration since the opening up of the great West soon after the\nRevolution, the growth of population being almost wholly a natural\nincrease. It is further a fact, to the disadvantage of this community,\nas a similar condition of things is to all other old communities, that\nmany of the most enterprising children of each generation leave their\nhomes for fields of industry in new sections. Conservatism in the old\ncommunity is an inevitable result. The western section of North Carolina\nis a conspicuous example. The same statesman, whom we have already\nquoted, a native there, has said:\n\n     \u201cA very marked conservatism pervades all classes of North\n     Carolinians. Attachment to old forms and institutions seems to be\n     deeply implanted in them, as a part of their religion. They almost\n     equal the conservatism of Sydney Smith\u2019s man, who refused to look\n     at the new moon, so great was his regard for the old. . . . North\n     Carolina was, I believe, the last state in the Union to abolish\n     property representation and suffrage in her legislature. The name\n     of the lower branch, house of commons, was only changed in 1868.\n     John Doe and Richard Roe died a violent death and departed our\n     courts at the hands of the carpet-bag invasion the same year. This\n     horde, also, with the most extraordinary perversion of its possible\n     uses, unanimously deposed the whipping-post as a relic of\n     barbarism, to which our people had clung as the great conservator\n     of their goods and chattels.\u201d\n\nThe present generation of Highlanders may be proud of the revolutionary\nrecord of their ancestors, though there were among them numerous tories,\nthe proportion being one King George man to four revolutionists.\nRepresentatives from the west are found among the signers of the\nMecklenburg declaration of independence in 1775, and by subsequent\nconduct they proved their enthusiasm in the cause of liberty. Their\nchief peril was to be apprehended from tory brigands and the Cherokees,\nincited to blood and cruelty by British agents. The danger was greatest\nin the summer of 1780, after Lord Cornwallis had made his victorious\nraid through the South. The liberty men were disheartened, and not a few\nwent over to the tory militia, of which Colonel Patrick Moore appeared\nas the commander in North Carolina. He published both inducements and\nthreats, as a means of increasing his forces, and was meeting with a\ndegree of success dangerous to the patriot cause, when three companies\nof old Indian-fighters, under command of Colonels Shelby, McDowell, and\nSevier, attacked him, with successful results. This was a small event in\nitself, but it encouraged the liberty party, and showed the British\ncommander that there was a force in the scattered settlements of the\nmountain foot-hills which he had reason to fear.\n\nColonel Ferguson, with a nucleus of 100 regulars, had collected a band\nof 1,200 native Tories, from the foot of the mountains, in South\nCarolina. His progress northward was \u201cmarked with blood, and lighted up\nwith conflagration.\u201d For this reason he was selected to operate against\nthe western settlements of North Carolina.\n\nThe mountain men made one dashing and successful onslaught on his\nadvancing divisions, and then retired to the mountain fastnesses, for\nconsultation and organization. Ferguson pursued as far as Rutherfordton\n(then Gilbert town), whence he dispatched a messenger to the patriots\nwith the threat that if they did not lay down their arms he would burn\ntheir houses, lay waste their country, and hang their leaders.\n\nThis cruel threat aroused the settlers adjacent to the mountains, on\nboth sides, and north, into Virginia. More men were willing to go to the\nfield than it was prudent to have leave the settlements. Their fame as\n\u201ccenter shots,\u201d with the rifle, was well known to the British regulars,\nwho feared to meet them; but the chivalric Ferguson was stimulated by\nthis fact to greater watchfulness and exertion.\n\nRamsey draws this picture of the Revolutionary forces.\n\n     \u201cThe sparse settlements of the frontier had never before seen\n     assembled a concourse of people so immense, and so evidently\n     agitated by great excitement. The large mass of the assembly were\n     volunteer riflemen, clad in the homespun of their wives and\n     sisters, and wearing the hunting shirt of the back-woods soldiery,\n     and not a few of them the moccasins of their own manufacture. A few\n     of the officers were better dressed, but all in citizen\u2019s clothing.\n     The mien of Campbell was stern, authoritative, and dignified.\n     Shelby was stern, taciturn, and determined; Sevier, vivacious,\n     ardent, impulsive, and energetic; McDowell, moving about with the\n     ease and dignity of a colonial magistrate, inspiring veneration for\n     his virtues, and an indignant sympathy for the wrongs of himself\n     and co-exiles. All were completely wrapt in the absorbing subject\n     of the Revolutionary struggle, then approaching its acme, and\n     threatening the homes and families of the mountaineers themselves.\n     Never did mountain recess contain within it a loftier or more\n     enlarged patriotism--never a cooler or more determined courage.\u201d\n\nCarrying their shot-pouches, powder-horns and blankets, they started\nfrom the Watauga, over Yellow mountain, to the head of the Catawba.\nFerguson broke up his camp at Gilbert town (Rutherfordton), on the\napproach of the patriots. This was the most westward point he reached,\nin the execution of his threat to lay waste the country. The tories of\nhis command quailed on the approach of so large a body of riflemen, and\nmany of them deserted the royal standard. Ferguson dispatched for\nreinforcement, and took his position on King\u2019s mountain, from which he\ndeclared \u201cGod Almighty could not drive him.\u201d\n\nAfter being in the saddle thirty hours, in a dashing rain the patriots,\non the afternoon of October 7, 1780, arrived at the foot of the\nmountain. This, one of the most historic spots in the South, is located\non the North Carolina border in Cleveland county. The area of its summit\nis about 500 yards by seventy.\n\nThe mountaineers approached the summit in divisions so as to make the\nattack from opposite sides simultaneously. The center reached the enemy\nfirst, and a furious and bloody fight was commenced. The royalists drove\nthe attacking division down the mountain side, but were compelled to\nretreat by an onslaught from the end and opposite side. The battle\nbecame general all around, Ferguson\u2019s forces being huddled in the\ncenter. The mountain men aimed coolly, and shot fatally, giving away\nbefore a fierce charge at one point, and charging with equal fierceness\nfrom another. The British commander, at length, gave up the idea of\nfurther resistance, but, determined not to surrender, made a desperate\nattempt to break through the lines. He fell in the charge with a mortal\nshot. A white flag asked for terms of capitulation; 225 royalists and 30\npatriots lay dead upon the field; 700 prisoners were taken in custody;\n1,500 stand of arms captured, and a great many horses and other booty\nwhich had been taken from the settlers, restored to the rightful owners.\nMore than all, the frontier was freed from the ravages of a merciless\nfoe.\n\nThe captured arms and booty was shouldered upon the prisoners and taken\nto a point in Rutherford county, where a court martial was held. Thirty\nof the tories were sentenced to death for desertion and other crimes\nthey had committed, but only nine were executed. One of these was\nColonel Mills, a distinguished leader. The remaining prisoners and\ncaptured arms were turned over to General Gates, commander of the\nContinental army in the South.\n\nJohn Sevier, one of the leading spirits in the King\u2019s mountain affair,\nand commander of the transmontane militia, was a brilliant, daring,\ndashing character; the idol and leader of bold frontiersmen, who\nnicknamed him \u201cNollichucky Jack.\u201d The whole of Tennessee then belonged\nto North Carolina, but the settlers on the Holston were so far removed\nfrom the seat of government that, practically, they were without\ngovernment. Sevier and his friends conceived the idea of organizing a\nnew state, which, being in the nature of a measure for self-protection,\nwas unquestioned west of the mountains as a just and proper proceeding,\nbut by the home government denounced as an insurrection. The new state\nwas named Franklin, in honor of the Philadelphia philosopher and\npatriot. For four years there was civil contention, which, in one\ninstance, resulted in contact of arms and bloodshed. After this the\nparent state adopted a radical policy for the restraint of her premature\nliberty-seeking child. \u201cNollichucky Jack,\u201d the governor of the\ninsurrectionary state, was arrested for \u201chigh treason against the state\nof North Carolina,\u201d and taken to Morganton for trial.\n\nThe prisoner\u2019s chivalric character and gallant military services, on the\none hand, and the extraordinary nature of the indictment on the other,\ngave the trial momentous interest. The village streets were crowded with\nold soldiers and settlers from far and near, eager to catch a glimpse of\nthe court. There were others there with different purposes. The chivalry\nof the infant settlement of Tennessee; the men who had suffered with the\ntrials of frontier life and savage warfare, who had fought under him to\nestablish their country\u2019s freedom, and who loved him as a brother, armed\nto the teeth, had followed the captive across the mountains, determined\nto \u201crescue him, or leave their bones.\u201d Their plan was to rescue him by\nstratagem, but if that failed, to fire the town, and in the excitement\nof the conflagration make their escape.\n\nOn the day of trial, two of the \u201cFranks,\u201d as they were called, leaving\ntheir companions concealed near the town, and hiding reliable sidearms\nunder their hunting shirts, rode up before the court-house, one of them\non \u201cGovernor\u201d Sevier\u2019s fine race mare. He dismounted, and with the rein\ncarelessly thrown over her neck, stood with the manner of an indifferent\nspectator. The companion having tied his horse, went into the\ncourt-room. Sevier\u2019s attention, by a slight gesture, was directed to the\nman outside. During a pause in the trial, the bold \u201cFrank\u201d stepped into\nthe bar, and with decided manner and tone, addressed the judge: \u201cAre you\ndone with that there man?\u201d The scene was so unusual, the manner and tone\nof the speaker so firm and dramatic, that both officers and audience\nwere thrown into confusion. The \u201cGovernor\u201d sprang like a fox from his\ncage, one leap took him to the door, and two more on his racer\u2019s back.\nThe quick clash of hoofs gave notice of his escape. The silence of the\nbewildered court was broken by the exclamation of a waggish by-stander:\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ll be damned if you haint done with him.\u201d\n\nSevier was joined by his neighbors with a wild shout, and they bore him\nsafely to his home. No attempt was made to re-arrest him. The State of\nFranklin died from various causes, and a few years later the new State\nof Tennessee honored \u201cNollichucky Jack\u201d with the first governorship, and\nlater, by an election to the United States Senate.\n\nRecall a picture of the mountain soldier a century ago, during the\nheroic or military period: a tall, athletic form, hardy appearance,\nnoiseless step, and keen pair of eyes--attired in an upper garment of\nblue home-spun, fringed at the bottom, and belted with wampum; deerskin\nleggins and buckskin moccasins, and armed with a large knife, tomahawk,\nand long rifle. This emblem of antiquity is now found only in museums.\n\nBefore the close of the Revolution there was a well-beaten road from the\nCatawba to the Watauga, the path of travel from Carolina to the\nincipient states west of the Alleghanies. South of this, except by\nhunters and Indian traders, the passes of the Blue Ridge had not been\ncrossed. The fame of the luxuriant highland valleys was widespread,\nhowever, when an extinguishment of the Indian title opened them up to\nthe settler.\n\nIt was a miscellaneous throng that filled the narrow roads leading from\nthe head-waters of the eastward streams, in search of homes and lands in\nthe cool upper plateau. Ahead, on horse-back, was a far-seeing man of\nmiddle age, a member of the legislature, whose industry had rewarded him\nwith a small fortune, with which he would purchase a fertile tract of\nwild land, and hold it for an advance of price. Slowly moving along\nbehind was a boat-shaped, great covered wagon, drawn by four oxen. It\ncontained the family and household goods of a man whose earthly\npossessions amounted to but a few dollars besides. Then followed the\nfoot emigrants of a still poorer class, badly clad, and scantily fed.\nThe man and woman and larger children carried upon their backs, an axe,\na few agricultural tools, a couple of cooking pots, and a light bundle\nof bed clothing. The man with the wagon would purchase a few hundred\nacres of valley land, erect a cabin, such as may yet be seen any where\nin the rural districts, make a clearing, and eventually become a\nprosperous citizen. The foot emigrant, without examining titles or\nrunning lines, built a hut where it suited him, deadened the trees on a\nfew acres, which, cultivated with the hoe, yielded bread for his family.\nA flint-lock rifle, saved from the soldiering times, supplied meat and\nclothing. Neither the freehold settler nor the \u201csquatter\u201d was able to\nconvert more than the hides of wild animals into money with which to\nmake annual purchases of such supplies as could not be raised. The\nsquatter had the advantage from a cash point of view over the land\nowner, for he had no taxes to pay, and more time to devote to the chase.\nAlive to this advantage he had no incentive to aspire to the ownership\nof property; an indifference to worldly condition characterized his\nsimple life, an indifference which his children and his children\u2019s\nchildren have inherited. It was different with the freeholder; he knew\nof the luxury of low country civilization; he had himself tasted the\nsweets of a substantial prosperity, and looked forward to their full\nenjoyment in his new home in the mountains. When times grew better he\nwas able to purchase a few slaves, give his children an elementary\neducation, and live in a comfortable house. From this class of the\nsettler ancestry is descended the substantial element of the present\ngeneration of native mountaineers. They are famous business and\nprofessional men, who would be a credit to any community. They own\nnearly all the land, and inhabit the most inviting farms. Many of the\nwealthier land owners were not far behind the first settlers, and their\nposterity may be found in almost every county, some of them continuing\nto control large boundaries.\n\nThe nucleus of settlement was on the French Broad, at the mouth of the\nSwannanoa. It was there that the first white child was born, in the\ninter-montane plateau--James M. Smith. In the year 1795, a wagon passed\nfrom South Carolina, through Mill\u2019s gap, down the French Broad, to the\nprosperous settlements in Tennessee. Scores of emigrants, intending to\ngo on to the West, were charmed by broad stretches of valley between the\nmountains, and went no further. The Indians frequently showed hostile\nintentions, but the occasion for alarm was never great enough to deflect\nthe tide of settlement. The best lands on the French Broad and Pigeon\nwere occupied by freeholders, and the smoke of squatters\u2019 cabins rose in\nalmost every cove, before the Cherokee treaty of 1819 opened up the\nvalleys beyond the Balsams, which were rapidly occupied by settlers\nmainly from the piedmont and trans-Blue Ridge regions. East Tennessee\nmade slight contributions. The buying up of cove lands, by actual\nsettlers, from speculators, or the state, began after the valleys were\nfilled, and many small farms on mountain sides have been acquired by\n\u201cundisturbed possession.\u201d\n\n     The counties of Western North Carolina, in the year 1777, were all\n     embraced in Burke, Wilkes, and Tryon. Ashe was carved off Wilkes,\n     in 1799, and Alleghany off Ashe in 1859. Tryon, which bore the name\n     of the most obnoxious of the colonial governors, was divided into\n     Lincoln and Rutherford, in 1779, and the hated name obliterated.\n     Cleveland was cut from both these counties in 1841. Caldwell was\n     taken from Burke in 1842, and McDowell was erected out of territory\n     from Burke and Rutherford; and Catawba from territory from Lincoln,\n     in the same year. Easton was carved off Lincoln in 1846. Buncombe\n     was erected in 1791, out of territory previously embraced, partly\n     in Rutherford, but mainly in Burke. It is the parent stem of all\n     the trans-Blue Ridge counties, excepting Ashe and Alleghany. The\n     first branch was Haywood, in 1808, from which Macon was taken, in\n     1828, and Jackson in 1850. From territory of both these Swain was\n     made in 1871. Cherokee was cut off Macon in 1839. From its\n     territory Clay was formed in 1861, and Graham in 1872. Henderson\n     was cut off Buncombe in 1838; Polk from Henderson and Rutherford in\n     1855; and Transylvania from Henderson and Jackson in 1861. Yancey\n     was erected from Buncombe in 1833; Watauga from Yancey, Wilkes,\n     Caldwell, and Ashe, in 1849. Madison was erected of territory from\n     Buncombe in 1850; and Mitchell in 1861, from territory from Burke,\n     McDowell, Caldwell, Watauga, and Yancey.\n\nTwo elements, in the settlement and population of the mountain country,\nhave not been considered in the foregoing pages. The one is, happily,\nwell nigh extinct, the other is the main hope of the future. In early\ntimes, criminals and refugees from justice made the fastnesses of the\nwilderness hiding places. Their stay, in most cases, was short,\nseclusion furnishing their profession a barren field for operation. A\nfew, however, remained, either adopting the wild, free life of the\nchase, or preying upon the property of the community. The latter\noccupation has been entirely abandoned by their posterity. There was a\ntime when it was unsafe to turn a good horse out to range on the grassy\nmountain tops, but that time is passed. There are communities in the\nmountains in which all the commands of the Decalogue are not\npunctiliously observed, but \u201cThou shalt not steal,\u201d is seldom violated.\nCattle and horses pasture on every range, stables are everywhere without\nlocks, houses are left open, and highway robbery is remembered only as a\ntradition of the past.\n\nBy the element in the settlement referred to as the hope of the future,\nwe mean those classes who have come for the purpose of engaging in\nbusiness, and to establish summer homes, attracted by salubrity of\nclimate and beauty of scenery. Representatives of the latter class have\nhandsome estates at several places in the French Broad valley and along\nthe Blue Ridge.\n\nImmigration for business purposes is just starting. The mineral deposits\nand the lumber stores are bringing in good citizens from abroad. With\nabundant resources, both of material and power, there is a wide field\nhere for manufacturers. The native population has not husbanded the\ncapital needed to start the ball rolling. Although settled for 100\nyears, Western North Carolina is a new country in many respects, but the\nday of its rapid development is near at hand.\n\nThe great obstacle to development in the past has been the section\u2019s\nisolated position, an obstacle now almost removed. The building of a\nturnpike from South Carolina to Tennessee was justly regarded a great\npublic improvement when it was completed in 1827, but during the last\nhalf century horses have been too slow to carry on the world\u2019s work.\nGeneral Hayne, of South Carolina, was one of the first projectors of a\nrailroad through the mountains. It was to run from Charleston to\nCincinnati, a line which there is good reason for believing will be\npushed to completion at no distant day. The original project was given\nchartered form in 1835.\n\nThe Western North Carolina road was also an early project, and is a part\nof the system of public improvements contemplated by the state\ngovernment. A charter was granted in 1855. The state authorized the\nissue of bonds for three-fourths of the stock, the remaining one-fourth\nbeing subscribed by private individuals. R. C. Pearson was chosen\npresident, and J. C. Turner engineer. It was the latter gentleman who\nfirst surveyed a route over the Blue Ridge via Swannanoa gap. The\nconstruction of this road reached to within five miles of Morganton,\nwhen the war opened and all operations were stopped. After the war,\nunder the successive administrations as president of A. M. Powell, S. M.\nD. Tate, and Major J. W. Wilson, work was continued. The latter\ngentleman, combining the office of engineer with that of president, took\nthe first locomotive around the coils and through the tunnels into the\nSwannanoa valley. The road was sold and passed under its present\nmanagement, which is associated with the Richmond & Danville company, in\nthe spring of 1880. It has been completed to its junction with the E. T.\nV. & G. R. R., and is being pushed over and through the massive\ntransverse chains of the plateau to its western terminus. The scenery\nalong its lines is spoken of at various places in the following pages.\nThe Blue Ridge has been crossed by the Spartanburg & Asheville railroad,\nand there is good ground for hope that the Carolina Central will be\nextended from Shelby to Asheville at an early day. All these enterprises\nare necessarily expensive, and consequently show the confidence which\ncapitalists place in the future of the region whose resources will be\nopened up.\n\nOn account of the secluded position of Western North Carolina, there is\nlittle to be said under the head of military reminiscences. The mountain\nmen, in the War of 1812, shouldered their rifles and marched to distant\nclimes, in defense of their country\u2019s honor.\n\nDuring the late struggle, this section escaped the desolation which the\ngreater portion of the South suffered. Stoneman\u2019s Federal cavalry made a\nraid, after the \u201csurrender\u201d of Lee into the trans-Blue Ridge country. He\npassed by Hendersonville and Asheville, whence a Confederate fort had\nbeen erected. Dividing into small squads, his men pillaged the country\nas they went west.\n\nA dare-devil expedition was accomplished by the Federal raider Kirk,\nwho, with his company of 325 East Tennesseeans, crossed the mountains,\nthrough Mitchell county into Burke, surprised a larger force of\nConfederates, and succeeded in capturing all their stores and taking the\nmen prisoners of war.\n\nThe mountain men were divided in sentiment and action during the war.\nMost of the property holders joined the Confederate forces, while the\npoorer classes refused to volunteer, and, when conscripted into the\nservice, deserted at the first opportunity. There were exceptions, of\ncourse, with respect to both classes--some of the larger freeholders\nbeing Union men, and some of the poor people in the coves being\nenthusiastically loyal to the state.\n\nThe Southern Alleghanies, though \u201cthe oldest in the world,\u201d have not yet\nsettled down to a state of absolute rest. Shocks and noises in several\nlocalities have frequently been felt and heard, much to the discomfort\nof inhabitants of the vicinity. There are reminiscences in the northern\npart of Haywood county of shocks as early as 1812, and from time to time\never since. The restless mountain is in a spur of the New Found range,\nnear the head of Fine\u2019s creek. General Clingman was the first to call\npublic attention to it, which he did in an elaborate paper in 1848.\nThere are cracks in the solid granite of which the ridge is composed,\nand towards its foot, chasms four feet wide, extending at places in all\ndirections, like the radiating cracks made in a rock by a light blast of\ngunpowder. There are evidences of trees having been thrown violently\ndown, and a trustworthy gentleman declares that a huge oak was split\nfrom root to top by the opening of a chasm under it. General Clingman\nsays:\n\n     \u201cI observed a large poplar tree which had been split through its\n     center so as to leave one-half of it standing 30 or 40 feet high.\n     The crack or opening under it was not an inch wide, but could be\n     traced for hundreds of yards, making it evident that there had been\n     an opening wide enough to split the tree, and that then the sides\n     of the chasm had returned to their original position without having\n     split so as to prevent the contact of broken rocks.\u201d\n\nA great mass of granite was broken into fragments, and after one of\nthese shocks every loose stone and piece of wood was moved from its\noriginal place. These jars, accompanied with noise, used to occur at\nintervals of two or three years, but none have been felt for some time.\n\nAbout the year 1829 occurred a violent earthquake, covering a limited\narea, in Cherokee county. One of the Valley River mountains was cleft\nopen for several hundred yards, making a chasm which is still visible.\n\nSilas McDowell, a careful observer, late of Macon county, stated, in a\npaper, that there was a violent shock on the divide between Ellijay and\nCullasaja many years ago. A chasm opened in the north side of the\nmountain, accompanied with crashing sounds. Satoola mountain, bounding\nthe Highlands plateau, it has been stated, has crevices from which smoke\nissues at intervals.\n\nIn Madison county there is a mountain which has been known to rumble\nand smoke. The warm springs are heated by volcanic action, probably by\nhot gas from the earth\u2019s molten interior, seeking an outlet through\ncrevices in the rocks and coming in contact with underground water\ncurrents.\n\nThe most famous of the restless mountains of North Carolina is \u201cShaking\nBald.\u201d The first shock, which occurred February 10, 1874, was followed\nin such quick succession by others, as to cause general alarm in the\nvicinity. This mountain for a time received national attention. Within\nsix months more than 100 shocks were felt.\n\nThe general facts of these terrestrial disturbances have never been\ndisputed, but concerning their cause, there has been widely diversified\nspeculation. Is there an upheaval or subsidence of the mountains\ngradually going on? Are they the effect of explosions caused by the\nchemical action of minerals under the influence of electric currents;\nare they the effect of gases forced through fissures in the rocks from\nthe center of the earth, seeking an outlet at the surface? These are\nquestions on which scientists differ. Be the cause what it may, there is\nno occasion to fear the eruption of an active volcano.\n\nThe scientific exploration of the grand summit of the Alleghany system,\nwas hinted at in the introduction, but on account of the great names\nassociated with the subject it is worthy of fuller treatment. The\nextraordinary botanical resources of the mountains were first made known\nby one of the most distinguished botanists of his day, Andre Michaux,\nwho made a tour of the valleys and some of the heights in 1787. In 1802\nhis son, an equally distinguished botanist, scaled the loftiest range.\nBoth these naturalists reported having found trees and other specimens\nof alpine growth, that they had observed nowhere else south of Canada.\nThis was the first hint that the Black mountains were the highest\nsummits east of the Rockies. This judgment was based entirely upon the\nplant life of the region explored.\n\nIt was from entirely different data that John C. Calhoun arrived at the\nsame opinion in 1825. David L. Swain, afterwards governor and president\nof the State University, was then a member of the legislature from\nBuncombe, his native county. Calhoun was Vice-President of the United\nStates. Meeting each other in Raleigh, the latter made a playful\nallusion to their height, saying that in that respect they were like\nGeneral Washington. \u201cWe can also,\u201d said the Vice-President,\n\u201ccongratulate ourselves on another fact, that we live in the vicinity of\nthe highest land east of the Rocky mountains.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe suggestion,\u201d says Governor Swain, \u201ctook me entirely by surprise,\nand I inquired whether the fact had been ascertained? He replied that it\nhad not been by measurement, but a very slight examination of the map\nwould satisfy me it was so.\u201d\n\nDr. Elisha Mitchell, of the State University, five years later,\nconcurred in the opinion of Vice-President Calhoun, and announced to the\nBoard of Public Improvements his intention to make a systematic\ngeographical exploration. In the year 1835, with no other interest than\nthat of contributing to scientific knowledge, he made the first\nbarometrical measurements west of the Blue Ridge. With great labor and\ninfinite patience he climbed the several peaks of the Blacks. In the\nlanguage of a subsequent explorer: \u201cAt the time Dr. Mitchell gave his\nobservations with regard to the height of the Black mountain it was more\ninaccessible than now, by reason of the progress of the settlements\naround its base, so that he was liable to be misled, thwarted by\nunforeseen obstacles, in his efforts to reach particular parts of the\nchain, and when he did attain some point at the top of the ridge, nature\nwas too much exhausted to allow more than one observation as to the\nimmediate locality.\u201d Any one who has left the beaten path, and\nattempted to penetrate the tangled thickets of laurel on the slopes of\nthe Black, will have some conception of the explorer\u2019s difficulty.\n\nDr. Mitchell\u2019s report was the first authoritative announcement of the\nsuperior altitude of the highest southern summit to Mt. Washington. This\nreport gave rise to much controversy among geographers, but its\ncorrectness was soon universally yielded.\n\nIn 1844 Dr. Mitchell again visited the region, making observations in\nthe interest of both geology and geography, and to confirm his former\nmeasurements. About this time Hon. Thomas L. Clingman, then a member of\nCongress, and a man of scientific tastes, began to make observations in\ndifferent sections--the Balsams, Smokies, and Blacks. In the latter\ngroup he subsequently published that he had found a higher peak than the\none measured by Professor Mitchell. In the controversy which followed,\nthe fact of General Clingman having measured the highest point of ground\nwas undisputed. The question was: Had Dr. Mitchell measured the same\npeak, or had he mistaken another for the highest, and ceased his\ninvestigations without going to the top of the true dome?\n\nAdmitting the possibility of having been mistaken, the Professor, in the\nsummer vacation of 1857, embraced the first opportunity to review his\nmeasurements. Accompanied by his son, Charles Mitchell, he began at the\nrailroad line to run a line of levels, that he might test the accuracy\nof his barometer. They reached the Mountain house, half way up the\nBlack, at noon on Saturday, June 27th. Dismissing his son and assistant,\nthe professor left, saying he intended to cross the range by the route\nhe had gone in 1844, desiring to see the guide who at that time\naccompanied him. On Monday Charles Mitchell climbed to the place\nappointed to meet his father, but the day passed without his appearance.\nThe next day passed. \u201cHe must have met with some accidental delay,\u201d was\nthe consolation. But another day\u2019s absence dispelled this hope. On\nThursday morning the alarm was spread. Messengers were sent across the\nrange to the valleys below. He had not reached the place for which he\nhad started. Friday evening the report of his disappearance reached\nAsheville. From every direction came men of all grades and avocations in\nlife. Following them came their, wives and sisters, anxious to help in\nthe search for the lost man\u2019s body in that wilderness of more than\n100,000 acres, whose funereal gloom conceals caverns and pitfalls into\nwhich the incautious traveler may disappear.\n\nAt least 500 men were engaged in the search, which began on Friday,\nwithin one day of a week after the professor was last seen. It was\nTuesday before the trace of human footsteps was discovered. Thomas\nWilson, who had acted as the professors\u2019s guide, in 1844, in following\nthe course they had then taken, distinguished a mark in the green turf,\nnear the highest summit. Wilson declared it to be the summit they had\nboth been on, and the professor had measured. The old hunter, followed\nby rugged mountaineers, hurried down a branch of Cane creek. The marks\nof the wanderer became plainer, as the ground became rougher. Down a\nsplashing stream they followed for more than a mile, to a sheer\nwaterfall of about forty feet. A broken laurel branch and torn moss told\nthe story. Below in the circular pool fourteen feet deep, of crystal\nwater, lay the body perfectly preserved.\n\nThe place has been thus described:\n\n     \u201cThe pure waters enveloped him in their winding sheet of crystal;\n     the leaping cataract sang his requiem in that wondrous and eternal\n     song, of which old ocean furnishes the grand, all comprehensive\n     key. Cream and white flowers flaked the billowy thickets of the\n     dark green laurel, and tall conical firs, delicately tapering\n     spruces, interlocked their weeping branches, from shore to shore.\u201d\n\nEnveloping the body in a sheet, they carried it up the mountain to the\nsummit, whence, at the request of the family, it was conveyed to\nAsheville for burial. A year later it was dis-interred, re-carried, and\namid a large concourse of people, deposited on the very pinnacle of the\nAppalachians. There rests the \u201cChristian hero\u2019s dust.\u201d\n\nSince his death, Professor Mitchell\u2019s claim to the credit of having\nmeasured the peak which bears his name is admitted. He measured a great\nmany other pinnacles, but owing to the imperfection of his instruments\nand other causes, he was somewhat inaccurate. The credit of having made\nthe first extensive survey and accurate measurements, is due Arnold\nGuyot, professor of physical geography in Princeton college. He was\nassisted in his long and unremunerated task, covering three summer\nvacations, by General Clingman, M. E. Grand-Pierre, and E. Sandoz. Their\nsurvey was begun in the Blacks in 1856. Professor Guyot\u2019s report has\nbeen revised and completed by Dr. W. C. Kerr, the late state geologist\nof North Carolina.\n\nTo Dr. Curtis, of the University, the state is indebted for an\nexposition of its botanical resources. He embodied in his collection and\nseveral reports, the researches of Professors Gray and Carey, who, as\nearly as 1841, traversed the highest ranges. Had Dr. Curtis\u2019 labor been\nappreciated by the state government, North Carolina would have one of\nthe best collections of botanical specimens in the country.\n\nWe have now briefly sketched the settlement and leading incidents in the\nprogress of this highland country. The reader has no doubt reached the\nconclusion that the mountaineers must be a happy people, for \u201ctheir\nannals are tiresome.\u201d Should he visit the region, and stop in the homes\nscattered through the picturesque valleys, he will find the confirmation\nof that conclusion. If the inhabitants have little beyond the\nlavishments of nature to boast of, they have the compensating knowledge\nthat they have little to be ashamed of. Their race and blood has\nfurnished to the country three of its Presidents--Jackson, Polk, and\nJohnson; but greater than any of these, of the same kin, was that\nsplendid specimen of statesmanship, John C. Calhoun, born in the\nsub-montane district of South Carolina. The same race has given to the\ngallery of frontier heroes, Daniel Boone, of the Yadkin, and David\nCrockett, of the Nollichucky. Old Buncombe itself has filled the\ngovernor\u2019s chair with two incumbents, Swain and Vance; has given the\nState University a president, Swain; and to the United States Senate two\nof the most useful representatives the state has ever had--Clingman and\nVance. Of such ancestry, and of such representatives of its capacity for\ndevelopment, any section might be proud. Of the attention its natural\nfeatures has received from the outside world, it has scarcely less\nreason for pride and congratulation.\n\n[Illustration: THE SPARKLING CATAWBA SPRINGS.]\n\n\n\n\nIN THE SADDLE.\n\n          And the steed it shall be shod\n    All in silver, housed in azure,\n          And the mane shall swim the wind;\n          And the hoofs along the sod\n    Shall flash onward and keep measure\n          Till the shepherds look behind.\n         --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._\n\n\n[Illustration: T]here is something in a long ride on horseback that time\ncannot obliterate. At its recollection one feels again the motion of the\nhorse, and can well imagine the bridle-reins in his fingers. With these\nsensations come the cool breath of morning, the smooth stretches of road\nthrough sunlight and shadow, the rough trail by wild, rushing waters,\nthe vistas of rich meadows and fields, and the green and purple outlines\nof mountains. Such scenes become so impressed upon the memory that one\nmight well question with Byron:\n\n    \u201cAre not the mountains, waves, and skies a part\n     Of me and of my soul, as I of them?\u201d\n\nThis sketch is of a ride taken by the writer, through some of the most\nscenic sections of the mountains. Treating, as it does, of the country\nand people as they are, the tourist in quest for information,\npreparatory to a trip through the same region, need look no further than\nthese pages.\n\nIn the interest of my pocket, I hired a sound young horse, at\nthirty-three and a third cents per day. He was my selection from several\nthat could have been taken from the same class of people, at a schedule\nof prices ranging from twenty-five to fifty cents. If the tourist\nintends traveling for a month or more, the wisest plan is to buy a\nhorse, and then sell at the finish. Money can be saved by this\noperation, unless being ignorant concerning horse flesh, he falls into\nthe hands of an unscrupulous jockey.\n\nIt was in August, and clear bright skies for a season were predicted by\nthe weather prophets, when, early one morning, I mounted my steed before\nan Asheville hotel. In the saddle-bags for myself was an extra suit of\nblue flannel, two pairs of socks, a rubber coat, comb, and brush; and\nfor the horse two shoes and a paper of nails, to provide against losses\nwhich might occur twenty-five or more miles from where a horse-shoe\ncould be procured. Country blacksmiths depend to a large extent upon\ntheir customers to furnish the materials for their work.\n\nThere is a road that winds from the center of Asheville, onward down\nhill and up, by pleasant door-yards, white-washed, stone-wall fences,\nand trimmed groves, to the bridge over the Swannanoa-river. Just beyond\nit, a wide road, turning sharp toward the left, is the route to Hickory\nNut gap, and the comparatively level county of Rutherford beyond.\n\nFrom this point the road runs through pleasant valleys, by mills, small\nstreams, dwellings, and under forests, for eight miles, to the base of\nthe mountains, whereon is the opening of the noted gap--the gateway to\nthe picturesque region of Broad river. On the summit of the pass a\nlimited view can be had of Buncombe county valley lands, dotted with\ncornfields, checkered with forests and mountain-bounded.\n\nThe road now begins to descend through beautiful sylvan scenes,\ncombining all the gloom, luxuriance, wildness, and beauty of rocks,\nvines, pines, rhododendrons, crystal waters, dark ravines, and blue\nstreaks of sky.\n\nWhere the Broad river crosses the road with a wide sweep, I drew rein\nbefore a frame dwelling, whose scanty farm lands gave no promise of\nyields which would afford enough extra money, by ten years\u2019 savings, to\nbe used in painting its dingy sides. Fastened to it was a porch with one\nend concealed by trailing vines, choked with dust. Before the weed-grown\npotato patch was a rickety, board fence, on the top of which was seated\na man dressed in seedy, dusty, brown shirt, pantaloons, hat, and shoes.\n\nUpon my inquiry whether dinner could be afforded here for horse and man,\nhe slid lazily off his perch with the remark:\n\n\u201cPlenty oats an\u2019 hay; no corn. Will ye lite?\u201d\n\nThe man started with my horse for the stable, and I went toward the\nhouse. High steps reached up to the porch. On the latter stood a table,\nwhite with powdered plaster of Paris, and covered with dental\ninstruments and teeth for false sets. Before it sat at work a\nmiddle-aged man.\n\n\u201cPleasant day,\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cEh? What\u2019s that?\u201d wrinkling his narrow forehead.\n\n\u201cFine weather,\u201d I repeated.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t hear you,\u201d shoving his chair a little nearer mine. He was\nevidently deaf.\n\n\u201cA pleasant day, this!\u201d I thundered.\n\n\u201cDamn the weather! Where you from?\u201d\n\n\u201cAsheville.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your business?\n\n\u201cSeeing the country.\u201d\n\n\u201cSeein\u2019 the country?\u201d Then with a cynical curl of his lip, \u201cPoor\nbusiness,\u201d and he continued, whittling at his plaster cast.\n\nI felt interested in the man. His cordial manners prompted me to fall on\nhis neck, but I restrained myself. Then I took up the examination.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not a native. You have a foreign air about you, you have,\u201d I\nshouted.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re right.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere do you hail from?\u201d\n\n\u201cBeen living with the Osage Indians for the last twelve years.\u201d\n\nI thought as much. He was all Indian, and I concluded to avoid him, but\nhe did not intend to drop the subject so easily.\n\n\u201cDo you see that Osage relic?\u201d pointing to an Indian blanket hanging on\na hook against the wall. \u201cThat\u2019s one of the things I brought back with\nme. I\u2019m a man with a history. I can give you some points about a country\nthat is a country.\u201d\n\nHe again lapsed into silence. On the invitation to procure points, I\ndetermined to interview him.\n\n\u201cWhat were you doing among the Indians? Hunting?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cA trader?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cA dentist?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat then?\u201d\n\n\u201cNone of your damn business!\u201d\n\nI felt disconcerted. Evidently, the man was a gentleman,--he objected to\nbeing interviewed. The tack looked like a bad one; clouds a little too\nelectric for fine sailing. A thin-haired woman in a calico dress and\nrough shoes, with a care-worn expression on her pale face, was sitting\nat one end of the porch. She now spoke, in a voice inaudible to the\nunapproachable:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t pay any attention to him. He\u2019s been drinkin\u2019. Hit allers makes\nhim ugly.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is he?\u201d I whispered.\n\n\u201cMy husband. We\u2019ve been married a year; soon arter he cum from the\nWest.\u201d\n\nAnd then she sighed and looked out across the rickety fence, the roaring\nwaters of the Broad river, the brown mill and the few houses by it, and\nthen at the stony-faced mountains beyond. I sighed in sympathy.\n\nA bare-footed black girl stuck her head out of the door and announced\nthat dinner was ready. Being tired and hungry, I was not backward in\nanswering this notice, and moved into the dining-room. On my plate,\nafter helping myself from everything on the table, were a chunk of fat\npork, a piece of doughy, hot, wheat bread, and some boiled green beans.\nA tin cup of butter-milk was beside the mess to wash it down. Let me say\nright here that this was an exceptional meal! I have been on many tramps\nand rides through the Carolina mountains, but never had I met with such\na reception and such fare. They were not backward in demanding half a\ndollar, the usual price asked by the mountaineer for supper, lodging and\nbreakfast for man and his horse.\n\nThe man in brown, as he mended my saddle bags after dinner, filled my\nears with a recital of the mysteries of Bat cave. He represented it as\nthe wonder of the mountains. Its gloomy depths contained chambers of\nmarvelous dimensions, while bats, the unholy habitants of darkness,\nstuck to the walls and flitted in its precincts. He volunteered as a\nguide, and as it lay on the way to Chimney Rock hotel, I mounted and\nrode along with him.\n\nBy the bouldered river, before the guide\u2019s cabin, I tied my horse, and,\nby means of a foot-log, crossed to the opposite bank. It was a half-mile\nwalk. We waded through the soft soil of several corn-fields, pitched\nalmost perpendicular on the mountain side; climbed a number of rail\nfences; and after a steep ascent over tree-trunks and rocks, we arrived\nat the mouth of the cave. An air as cold as a winter lake breeze came\nfrom the darkness. It chilled us through and through. We went in without\ntorches. There were rifts in the apex of the roof, high above, through\nwhich sunlight poured, dimly lighting up the whole interior. It failed\nmost miserably to meet my expectations.\n\n\u201cWhere are your bats, Dotson?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cHit\u2019s cu\u2019rous; I don\u2019t see nary one.\u201d\n\nDotson shaded his eyes, as he spoke, and peered down into a well-like\nhole, that broke away from our feet, and whose opposite wall, rock-piled\nin front, ascended straight upward till the sides closed.\n\n\u201cNor do I,\u201d I returned; \u201cwhere are they?\u201d\n\n\u201cHit \u2019pears they aint \u2019ere. I \u2019low they been skeered out,\u201d he drawled,\nrubbing his cheek.\n\nThat was all the satisfaction I obtained in regard to bats. A little\ncuriosity is connected with the cave, from the fact that it is in\ngranite rocks. At some convulsion of the mountain\u2019s crust, the walls of\ngranite were rent asunder, and then their tops, meeting again, left an\nopening between them. The air in it is cold and dry, for there is no\nwater dripping in its interior. There is another smaller, but deeper,\ncave near the one just described. Torches are needed and one must crawl\nto enter it. The rocks around it are also granite.\n\nI was on my horse again. The scenery for the next two miles is of a\nsublime description. The stone portals of a collossal gateway rise\nagainst the sky. The large mountain on the north is the Round Top. It\npresents a red cracked-stone front, and resembles the venerable ruins\nof a massive building, once swept by fire. Opposite to it is a line of\nTitanic stone cliffs--the front of Chimney Rock mountain. A luxuriant\nforest grows half way up its precipitous slope to the foot of the cliffs\nof bare rock, in height over 1,000 feet. A silver thread of water can be\nseen springing from the top-most edge, and falling down the bare face.\nIt is the highest water-fall in the mountain system. The eastern end of\nthe mountain projects its top forward, an abrupt headland. Its summit is\ncovered with trees. From the glimpses caught of it along the shaded\nriver, one might liken it to the bare forehead of some C\u00e6sar, with\nlaurel crown, overlooking the distant lands of Rutherford county.\n\nAround the traveler, as he rides, are beautiful wood-land landscapes. A\nriver, dammed with brown boulders, flows by the roadside. Where its\nchannel narrows, it runs deep and smooth under the birches, oaks and\npines; then at the shallows, among the rocks, it becomes a foaming\ntorrent. The road is on a stone causeway, high above the crooked stream.\nBetween the over-arching trees, glimpses of level road, yellow and\ndusty, can be seen at times. In the center of the valley, that widens\nout from the foot of the stone-fronted mountains, is a comfortable\nfarm-house, enlarged for summer boarders, and kept by General G. W.\nLogan. It is the central point to view this scenic region of the\nmountains. It is reached by good roads from Rutherfordton, seventeen\nmiles; Hendersonville, nineteen miles; Asheville, twenty-three miles;\nand Shelby, the terminus of the Carolina Central railroad, forty miles\ndistant.\n\nOne mile from the hotel are the Pools. The stream is known as Pool\ncreek. It seeks its level down a steep ravine, clothed principally with\npines and oaks. Over three ledges of brown rock, whose edges still\nremain abrupt, the crystal waters of the stream plunge in quick\nsuccession, in as many thundering cascades. Where the cascades fall are\nbasins, or pot-holes, formed perfectly round by the whirling of the\nwaters. They are from ten to fifteen feet in diameter and of fabulous\ndepth. The lower one is the largest, and has been sounded (as any one in\nthe neighborhood, with straight face, will tell you) to the depth of 200\nfeet without striking bottom. Fifteen feet of the stock end of a giant\npine projects out of it. The beauty and wildness of the spot could not\nbe enhanced by a knowledge, even if true, that a depth of more than 200\nfeet of water lay in the lower pool.\n\nOn the edge of the ford of the river, our party halted to witness a\nsunset. It was an admirable point for observation. Before us spread a\nlevel, yellow field, forming the bottom of a beautiful, little valley.\nHigh mountains bound this vale on north and south, while directly in\nfront of us, like companion sentinels, guarding the western gateway down\nwhich the sun was to march, stand Round Top and Chimney Rock mountains.\nBehind Chimney Rock, trending toward the west, arise in close\nsuccession, a number of mountains with distinct, broken summits,--a long\npalisade, fencing the gap in whose depths rushes the Broad river. In the\ncenter of the west, stands Bear Wallow mountain, the last visible knob\nof Hickory Nut gap. The sun was sinking behind the white cumuli that\ncapped this mountain. Streamers of golden light, like the spokes of a\ncelestial chariot, whose hub was the hidden sun, barred the western sky.\nThe clouds shone with edges of beaten gold. Their centers, with every\nminute, changed to all hues imaginable. The fronts of the sentinel\nmountains were somber in the shadows, while the gap was radiant with the\nlight pouring through it, and every pine on the top of the palisade\nstood black against the glowing sky.\n\nIt was dusk a few minutes after, but the roar of the river continued;\nthe scents of summer filled the air; the trees bowed in luxuriant\ngreenness over the road; the chirping of insects made musical the\nvalley; the mountains rose gloomy and magnificent in the twilight.\n\nThe famous Bald mountain forms the north wall of the valley. Its sterile\nface is distinctly visible from the hotel porch. Caves similar to Bat\ncave are high on its front. In 1874, Bald mountain pushed itself into\nprominence by shaking its eastern end with an earthquake-like rumble,\nthat rattled plates on pantry-shelves in the cabins of the valleys,\nshook windows to pieces in their sashes, and even startled the quiet\ninhabitants of Rutherfordton, 17 miles away. Since then rumblings have\noccasionally been heard, and some people say they have seen smoke rising\nin the atmosphere. There is an idea, wide-spread, that the mountain is\nan extinct volcano. As evidence of a crater, they point to a fissure\nabout half a mile long, six feet wide in some places, and of unmeasured\ndepth. This fissure, bordered with trees, extends across the eastern end\nof the peak. But the crater idea is effectually choked up by the fact\nthat the crack is of recent appearance. The crack widens every year,\nand, as it widens, stones are dislodged from the mountain steeps. Their\nthundering falls from the heights may explain the rumbling, and their\nclouds of dust account for what appears to be smoke. The widening of the\ncrack is possibly due to the gradual upheaval of the mountain.\n\nThe region of the gap is famous for sensational stories. In 1811, when\nknown as Chimney Rock pass, a superstitious tale of a spectre cavalry\nfight, occurring here, was widely published in the newspapers of the\nday. The alleged witnesses of the spectacle were an old man and his wife\nliving in the gap before Chimney Rock fall. So much interest was created\nin Rutherfordton by its recital, that a public meeting was held and a\ndelegation, headed by Generals Miller and Walton, with a magistrate and\nclerk, visited the old couple and took their affidavits, to this effect:\nFor several evenings, while shadows filled the pass and sunlight still\nlingered on the mountain summits, they had seen, from their doorway, two\nbodies of cavalry advance toward each other across the sky. They heard\nthe charge sounded, and saw them meet in conflict, with flashing swords,\ngroans, shouts of victory, and then disappear. Three more settlers\ntestified as witnesses of the same vision. They were all believed\ntrustworthy, but evidently deluded by some natural phenomenon. Giving\ncredence to the tale, explanations were advanced, but none are\nsatisfactory.\n\nIt is a half-day\u2019s ride of unmarked interest from the bank of Broad\nriver across the Bald mountains to the Catawba. The road is an old mail\nroute to Marion, McDowell county. The air was hot and sultry in the\nmiddle of the day, when, after crossing the Bald mountains, I traveled\nover the foot-hills through woods of scrubby oaks and pines. The road\nwas white, dry, and dusty. The branches of the impoverished trees,\nhanging with a melancholy droop, seemed panting with heat, and craving\nthe presence of a breeze. Hawks circled overhead, and on a rail fence,\nvisible at one break in the forest, a line of crows was roosting, with\ntheir glossy black plumage reflecting the sunlight. Their cawing\nheightened the effect of the scene. A ride alone through such scenery,\nand under such influences, tells upon one\u2019s strength and spirits. After\nwinding through a beautiful valley, and a moment later fording the Mill\nfork of Catawba river, I found myself in the little village of Old Fort.\nIts houses line a wide street, running parallel with the Western North\nCarolina railroad, and range along several short cross streets. A wooded\nhill rises back of it. During the Revolutionary war, and after, a fort\nwith a strong stockade, enclosing a spring, stood on the bank of the\nstream. There were no battles fought here, but many depredations by\nCherokees occurred, in which several people were killed in the vicinity.\nIt is from this fort that the town takes its name.\n\nAbout an hour before sunset, on that August day, I left Old Fort, by way\nof a well-traveled road, for Pleasant Gardens. There is many a level\nstretch for a gallop along this road, and I improved the opportunities\nafforded for a rapid push on my journey. Through the country I went,\nwith the fields on my right, and the woods of the hills on my left; past\nlarge, pleasant-looking farm houses in the midst of ancestral orchards\nand wide-spreading farm lands. The streams are clear, but slow and\nsmooth-flowing. The number of persimmon trees and hollies along the\nroadside mark a difference between the woods of this section and those\nof the higher counties.\n\nIt was after one of my easy gallops, that, bursting from a twilight\nwood, I beheld lying before me a valley scene of striking beauty. A\nbroad and level tract of farming land, covered with meadows, corn and\npea-fields, stretched away from the forested skirts of the hill-sides.\nFrom my point of observation not a house dotting the expanse could be\nseen, and not even the sound of running water (a marked feature of the\nhigher valleys) disturbed the evening stillness. A cool pleasant breeze\nwas stirring, but it scarcely rustled the leaves overhead. The dark\noutlines of Mackey\u2019s mountains filled the foreground, making a broken\nhorizon for the blue sky. On the right lay low hills. On the left the\nsummits of a lofty line of peaks, behind which the sun was sinking, were\ncrowned with clouds of flame, while the scattered cat-tails held all the\ntints and lustre of mother of pearl. That night I stopped in Pleasant\nGardens, one of the richest and most beautiful valleys to be found in\nany land. It is miles in extent. John S. Brown was my hospitable and\nentertaining host. The large, frame house and surroundings vividly\nreminded me of my native state. Everything showed evidence of thrift and\nneatness, and withal a certain ancestral air, one that only appears with\nage, overhung the approach to, and portals of, the mansion. It was built\na century ago, but many additions and repairs have been made since the\noriginal log-raising. Osage-orange hedges line the path to it under the\ncluster of noble trees. On the left as you approach, only a few feet\nfrom the house\u2019s foundations, flows Buck creek with swift, clear waters:\na trout stream in a day before civilization had cleared its banks.\n\nUnder a clouded sky I mounted my horse on the third morning of my\njourney, and set out from Pleasant Gardens. The fording of a stream is\nof so frequent occurrence in a trip through the Carolina mountains, that\none is apt to have a confused recollection of any one river or creek\nthat he crosses, although few are devoid of beauty or wildness. Those of\nthe Catawba, as it flows through McDowell county, have lost the\ncharacteristics of the mountain ford. Boulders and out-cropping ledges\nof rock are absent; the rush and roar of crystal waters have given place\nto a smooth and less transparent flow, or noiseless, dimpled surface;\nthe banks are of crumbling soil, and, instead of rhododendrons and\npines, alders and willows fringe the waters\u2019 edges.\n\nThe great valleys of the Catawba are covered principally with unfenced\nfields of corn. The road leads through rustling acres, where one\u2019s\nhorse, guided with slack rein by absent-minded rider, can, as he walks\nalong, break a green ear of corn from the standing stalk, without\nstretching his neck over a fence. To prevent cattle from running at\nlarge through these thickly-planted lands, gates are swung across the\nroads at the division fence of each plantation, and from necessity, the\ntraveler must open them to ride through; and then, from moral\nobligation, he must shut them behind him. The farm-houses are home-like\nin appearance. They denote prosperity, happiness and culture in the\nfamilies inhabiting them. Many are of antique architecture, and set back\non level lawns, under ornamental trees and flourishing orchards.\n\nToward the middle of the morning, the sharp outlines of the Linville\nmountains showed themselves in the east, and after an abrupt turn from\nthe Bakersville road, I struck the North fork of the Catawba, and rode\ntwelve miles along its picturesque course. Its waters have a peculiar,\nclear, green hue, and speak of speckled trout in their depths and shaded\nrapids. Without a guide, I could have followed up the North fork, under\nthe shadows of Humpback mountain, and, by a trail, have crossed the\nridge to the Linville falls; but by this route the wild scenery of the\nLinville ca\u00f1on is lost. Bryson Magee was my guide to the Burke county\nroad along the summit of Bynum\u2019s bluff. Just after a slight shower, he\novertook me as he was returning from a day\u2019s work for a North Fork\nfarmer. He had an open, tanned countenance, fringed by a brown beard,\nand capped by a head of long hair, hidden under the typical mountain\nhat--a black, slouch felt, with a hole for ventilation in the center of\nthe crown and minus the band. An unbleached, linen shirt, crossed by\n\u201cgalluses\u201d which held his homespun pantaloons in place, covered his\nbody. He wore shoes and walked leisurely.\n\n\u201cIs there anyone on this road who can guide me up Bynum\u2019s bluff?\u201d I\nasked him, after returning his \u201chowdy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, some niggers live nigh hyar who could do hit, but they\u2019re all at\nwork two mile below.\u201d\n\n\u201cAny one else I could get?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a soul, except--\u201d\n\n\u201cWho?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cWal, stranger--I reckon you\u2019s a furriner--I kin do hit, but I\u2019m\npowerful tired: worked all day.\u201d\n\nWhen we arrived at his log cabin, he had definitely determined to go. It\nwas then four o\u2019clock, and clouds were driving thick and dark across the\nsky. We tied the saddle-bags to the saddle, and then began the ascent.\nBryson led my horse; I walked on behind.\n\nBefore we had proceeded 100 yards, a light rain began falling. This did\nnot deter us, for Bryson, like all the denizens of the coves, was\ncallous to dampness, heat, and cold, and as for myself, a rubber coat\ncame in play. The flinty ground was set with whortleberry bushes--a true\nindicator of sterility. These berries were ripe, and we gathered them,\nas we tramped along the trail, while the clouds grew heavier around us,\nand the rain swept in blinding sheets through the scrubby forest. There\nwas no thunder to add variety to the storm, only the moan of the wind,\nand the sound of tree tops swaying in the gusts. The water poured in\nstreams from my hat, and my legs, to the knees, were soaked from contact\nwith wet bushes; but gradually it cleared over-head, and when we reached\nthe main road, on the summit of the ridge, the clouds had parted, and\nthrough their rifts the sun, still an hour high, poured a burning glory\nover the dripping forests.\n\nLooking southward in the direction the guide pointed, a mighty,\nrock-topped mountain, lifting itself into the sunlight above the fog,\nwas visible. It appeared like a stone wall rising from the ocean.\nSquared off in sharp outlines, without trees or lesser visible\nvegetation on its level summit, it presents a striking contrast to the\nother peaks of the Alleghanies south. It is the Table Rock mountain,\n3,918 feet in altitude. Hawk-bill, a peak named from its top being\ncrowned with a tilted ledge of moss-mantled rock, resembling the beak of\na hawk, stood before me as I turned toward the left. Its altitude is\n4,090 feet. Both these peaks are accessible for climbers, and are much\nvisited by tourists curious to examine the character of their rock\nformation.\n\n\u201cWe jist hit it,\u201d broke forth the guide, \u201ca minute more an\u2019 we wouldn\u2019t\nseen \u2019em. See, the fog\u2019s crawlin\u2019 up, slow but shore.\u201d\n\nIt was as he had said. The massed vapors in the low sunk vales were\nbeing driven upward, and a moment later they had enfolded Table Rock and\nHawk-bill, and were creeping through the woods around us. I now handed\nhim fifty cents, the price for a day\u2019s common labor through that\nsection, and, shaking hands, we separated. It was five miles to the\nnearest house, and lacked only one hour of sunset. Three miles had been\npassed over, when a sound, as of some distant waterfall, struck on my\nears. It was a soft, steady, liquid murmur. Halting my horse, I sat in\nthe saddle and listened, then dismounted, tied, and walking through the\nweeds a few steps, reached some broken rocks at the edge of a precipice.\nClinging to a tree, I leaned over and looked below through perpendicular\nspace over 1,000 feet. I shouted from the sensations created by the\nwonderful wildness of the scene.\n\nAt first sight down into a ca\u00f1on, that seemed almost fathomless, I saw\nan inky, black band stretched through the depths, with surface streaked\nwith silver. It was the Linville river, but distance rendered its waters\nmotionless to the vision. A thin mist lent an indescribable weirdness to\nthe scene, and seemed veiling some mighty mystery in its folds.\n\u201cWrapping the tall pines, dwindled as to shrubs in dizziness of\ndistance,\u201d it was being shaken from its foothold by varying breezes,\nbroken into separate sheets of vapor, and pushed upward along the\nperpendicular walls. It curled and twisted weirdly through the tangled\npines, filling black rents in the opposite mountain\u2019s face, shielding a\nragged, red cliff here and there, but at every movement mounting toward\nthe ca\u00f1on\u2019s rim. Soon the profile faces on the upper cliffs jutted out\nin clear air; the brick-like fronts of rock, in pine settings across the\nchasm became plainly visible; the lower forests stood free; the dark\nriver, sweeping in an acute angle, within stone drop below, tossed\nupward its eternal echo; the mists had clustered in thick clouds on the\nsummit of an unknown peak, and then all grew dusky with the approach of\nnight.\n\nA scene is sublime, according to its power to awaken the sense of fear;\nthe more startling, the more sublime. The view of Linville ca\u00f1on from\nthe Bynum\u2019s Bluff road possesses, in the writer\u2019s opinion, more of the\nelements of sublimity than any other landscape in North Carolina. The\nregion of the Linville is one of scenery grandly wild and picturesque.\nThe only region that approaches it in wildness and sublimity--being\nsomewhat similar in the perpendicularity of its mountains and the\nclearness of its stream, but contrasting by the fertility of its soil\nand luxuriance of its forests--is the Nantihala River valley.\n\nThe Linville range is a spur of the Blue Ridge, separated from the\nlatter by the North Fork valley. It trends south, and for a distance is\nthe dividing line between Burke and McDowell. Its highest altitude is\nabout 4,000 feet. Jonas\u2019 Ridge runs parallel with it on the east, and\nbetween them, through a narrow gorge, over 1,000 feet deep, flows\nLinville river. The rocks of these mountains are sandstones and\nquartzites. The soil is scanty and sterile, and the forests scrubby. The\nfalls are distant from Marion on the Western North Carolina railroad,\nabout twenty-five miles, and reached as the writer has described. From\nMorgantown, on the same railroad, they can be reached by a day\u2019s ride in\nconveyance over the highway on the summit of the mountains. Hickory is\nalso a point from which to start, and one frequently taken by tourists.\n\nThat night I dried my clothes at T. C. Franklin\u2019s fireside, one mile\nfrom the falls of the Linville. Around the crackling logs (this was in\nAugust) was a small party, such as is often collected at mountain\nwayside farm-houses. Steaming their clothes with me at the broad hearth,\nwere two Philadelphia lawyers. A few days previous, closing their musty\ntomes, filing away their legal documents, and reconciling importunate\nclients with fair promises, they had locked their doors to silence, dust\nand cobwebs, and started southward. In Virginia they each bought a\nhorse, and equipped like myself, they were doing the mountains. It was\nnot only their first visit to Western North Carolina, but their first\ntrial in that mode of traveling; and, like all innocents abroad, they\nhad gathered some interesting matters from personal experience. While\nthe good-wife rattled away at the plates on a table just cleared by us\nof everything in the shape of food, in spite of the steady patter of\nrain on the roof, warmed by the glowing fire, and growing enthusiastic\nover mutual praise of the mountain scenery, we drifted into the\nfollowing conversation:\n\n\u201cThat view from the Roan eclipses everything I have ever seen in the\nWhite, Green, Catskill and Virginia mountains; but I would not ascend it\nagain for all the views from Maine to Florida, if I had the same\nexperience to pass through,\u201d said one, whose black hair, eyes, beard and\ndark complexion gave him a brigand appearance.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d returned his pleasant, fair-faced companion, \u201cYou know the peril\nof your being abroad nights. Some one else, less timid, might actually\nshoot you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWere you in danger of being shot?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cYes; shot for a highwayman,\u201d answered he of the open countenance, and\nthen he laughed.\n\n\u201cHow so?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Hal\u2019s joking about the shooting business. I was taken for a robber;\nthat\u2019s a fact; but what I mean by an unpleasant experience was our being\nlost on the Roan.\u201d\n\n\u201cI intend to ascend the Roan. Is the way hard to find?\u201d I spoke to the\ndark-visaged man.\n\n\u201cIt is from the Tennessee side. We took that route, with explicit\ndirections how to reach the hotel on the summit. It was only fifteen\nmiles distant from our stopping-place, but it rained, and a dark\nmorning gave us a late start. From Cranberry to the foot of the Roan we\npursued a trail way, and a tangled pursuit it was. At the base of the\nmountain we wound ourselves up in a net-work of log roads that, cut by\nthe lumbermen, branched out in every direction, crossing and recrossing\neach other in the great woods. Extricating ourselves from this, we\nclimbed the mountain, arriving on the ridge about sunset. Just before\ngaining the ridge, we met a party of four tourists on foot, whom we\nsaluted and left behind. A painted gate led us astray, and we followed\nthe ridge leading to the Little Roan. We retraced our steps in the rain\nand darkness, and took shelter near the delusive gate in an empty but\ncomfortable cabin, erected evidently for lost wayfarers. I went out\nafter we had started a fire, and found the party of four men seated on a\nlog in the rain at some distance from the cabin. I invited them to\nreturn with me, but they declined. I said nothing more, considering them\n_non compos mentis_.\u201d\n\n\u201cA singular party. Did you discover any reason for their refusal?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d began the one addressed as Hal, \u201cMat\u2019s face, dress, and figure\nfrightened them; and, as they told the landlord in the morning, in spite\nof their being well armed, they preferred an all night\u2019s roost in the\nrain to falling into the clutches of a highwayman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that\u2019s so\u201d said Mat, nodding his head and smiling; \u201cHowever, we\nwere lucky in finding the cabin before they did. Had they got there\nfirst, they would have barred the door against us, and, perhaps, warned\nus away with a few pistol shots.\u201d\n\nOur social ring was at this point broken up by a party who seemed too\nmuch preoccupied with themselves to join us, and so we separated for the\nnight. The party in question consisted of two newly married couples. The\nknots had been tied in Morganton, a few days previous, and they were\nthen on their bridal tour. They drove up in the rain, unharnessed and\ntied their horses under the dripping trees (for the stable was full),\nand came in upon us.\n\nOn the next morning, under a clear sky, I wound my way on foot under the\nlimbs of kalmia and rhododendrons to the Linville falls. It is a wild\napproach. Over the hedges tower ancient hemlocks with mossed trunks. The\nblue-jay screamed through the forest, and around the boles of the trees\nand along the branches, squirrels, known as mountain boomers, chased\neach other, halting in their scampers to look down on the disturber of\nthe solitude. Once, a brilliant-breasted pheasant, roused by my\nfootsteps, from a bed of fern-crested rocks, sprung in air close before\nme, and with a startled whirr, sailed up a shaded ravine. A sportsman,\nwith a shot-gun, could easily have winged the bird in its flight,\nthereby securing a valuable trophy for the taxidermist. The cock\npheasant of the mountains has not a shabby feather on his body: They are\nfound in many sections of the mountains, but not in great numbers. The\nhollow drum-like sound caused by beating their wings against their\nbodies, is in most instances their death tattoo. At its sound from the\nneighboring cove, the hunter takes down his rifle, creeps near the\nfavorite log, and generally makes a dead shot.\n\nAn old mountaineer, famous as a narrator of bear and fish stories, was\nparticularly fond of telling one relating to pheasant shooting. One\nautumn day, having already marked the forest locality from which the\ndrum of a pheasant resounded every morning, he crept near with his\nrifle. The bird had just jumped in place and was drumming within his\nsight. He took deliberate aim and fired. On running to the log he\ndiscovered a red fox struggling in his death throes on the opposite side\nof the log, and in his mouth a dead pheasant. Reynard, as the\nmountaineer explained, marking the frequented log, had secreted himself\nclose beside it, and, while the mountaineer was aiming, was preparing to\nseize the bird, and did so at the moment the trigger was pulled.\n\nThe heavy thunder of the falls swept through the forest, increasing as I\nadvanced. The path diverged at one point, and, taking the right hand\ntrail, by means of the roots of the laurel, I descended a cliff\u2019s face\nin cool, dismal shade. At the bottom, I came out on a black ledge of\nrock, close to the river. A stupendous fall was before; stern walls of a\nrocky ca\u00f1on, 100 feet high, around me, and a blue sky smiling above. I\nclimbed a stair-way of moist rocks, and walked along the path on the\ncliff\u2019s front to a point directly before the fall\u2019s face. The great\nvolume of the Linville river, formed from drainage for fifteen miles\nback to the water-shed of the Blue Ridge, here at the gap between Jonas\u2019\nRidge and the Linville mountains, has cut asunder a massive wall,\nleaving high perpendicular cliffs towering over its surface, and then,\nwith a tremendous leap, pours its current down through space, fifty\nfeet, into the bottom of the ca\u00f1on. It seems to burst from a dark cavern\nin the mountain\u2019s center. A pool, sixty feet across, looking like the\nsurface of a lake with dark waves white-capped, spreads in a circle at\nthe base of the cliffs. After recovering from the dizziness of its\nplunge, the river, leaving the piny walls on either side, rushes along\nin view for a short distance, and then disappears around the corner of a\ngreen promontory.\n\nIf one, in retracing one\u2019s steps, takes the left hand trail at the point\nof divergence, and follows it to the edge of the cliffs, a magnificent\ndownward view will be obtained, both of the foot of the cataract, and\nabove, where its waters race in serpentine course, increased in velocity\nby the plunges over smaller falls only a few yards up the gorge.\n\nA wilder solitude, a more picturesque confusion of crags, waters,\nwoods, and mountain heights, can scarcely be found. But even here, man\nonce fitted for himself a dwelling-place; for plainly visible across the\ntops of the trees, was a little cabin on a small, sloping clearing. No\nsmoke curled upward from its weather-worn roof; its doors had been torn\naway and chimney leveled. A few cows pastured before it.\n\nAfter dinner I left Franklin\u2019s to ride over a good road up the Linville\nriver. The afternoon passed without any occurrences or scenes of marked\ninterest, and the sun was slowly sinking toward a mountain-rimmed\nhorizon when, making a last inquiry in regard to my route, I entered a\nwilderness, unbroken by human habitation for nearly five miles. It was a\ngreat, green-lined way. Linns, birches, and hemlocks met over-head,\nrendering dark the shadows. Under this forest, grow in richest\nluxuriance dark hedges of rhododendron, too dense for easy penetration,\nand reaching up to the lower branches of the trees. It was late in\nseason for their flowers, still many of them were white and purple with\nbloom. So deep and luxuriant was the foliage of the forest and its\nundergrowth, and so cold the waters of the stream that crossed and\nrecrossed or occupied the road-bed itself, that the air was chilly at\nthe hour in which I rode, and must be so even at noon-day.\n\nThe shade continued to deepen, and the chilliness of the air increased;\nstill, in spite of the apparent great distance I had covered, no house\npresented itself, and in only one place did the branches of the trees\nseparate themselves sufficiently to see out. Then, far beyond, I saw the\nblack summit of the Grandfather. That was all. The waters of the stream\nare of a rich, Rhine-wine color. At one point that day, I noticed,\nattached to a fence above the stream, a board bearing the words, \u201cNo\nfishing allowed on this land.\u201d This is the only posted warning against\nangling that I have seen, or know of, in the mountains.\n\nIn that twilight hour the stream seemed to sing a doleful refrain over\nthe smooth boulders and gnarled ivy roots. An owl hooted from its hidden\nperch in a mossed pine; and a scared rabbit, interrupted in its evening\nmeal on an apple dropped by some lonely wayfarer, fled across the road,\nand disappeared in the gloom of the thickets. A more dismal woodland for\na twilight ride could not well be imagined in the possibilities of\nnature. It would naturally be more dismal to the unfamiliar traveler,\ntired with a long day\u2019s ride, and despairing of reaching a farm-house\nbefore the approach of a cloudy night.\n\nSuddenly the forest on one side opened, and a clearing of dead, girdled\ntrees, with brush fires blazing here and there among the white, standing\ntrunks, lay before me. Further on was a meadow and a small house, from\nwhose chimney a wreath of smoke was ascending straight to the zenith.\nOver the house and farm loomed the rock-crowned summit of the Peak of\nthe Blue Ridge. An unshapely ledge cropped from the mountain\u2019s top.\n\nI was now on the summit of one of the gaps of the Blue Ridge, at an\nelevation of 4,100 feet. On one side down a gradual descent through the\nwilderness described, flow the waters of the Linville on the way to the\nAtlantic; on the other, close on the dividing line, wells up the spring\nforming the Watauga, whose waters mingle with the Mississippi. A short\nmile below this point, down the Watauga side, is Calloway\u2019s, at the foot\nof the Grandfather, as the sign-board directly before the gate will tell\nthe man who stops to read it. In the dusk, I dismounted here, tossed my\nhorse\u2019s bridle to a barefooted boy, and then lugged my saddle-bags to\nthe porch before the unpainted front of a new addition on an old house.\nI was well received and seated.\n\nBeside the road, before the house, was presented that evening a scene\nthat merits description. It was the camp of a family who, having\nabandoned one home, was seeking another. An open fire blazed on the\nground. Its light shone on a white covered, rickety wagon, at whose rear\nend were feeding, out of a box strapped there, a mule and a horse. The\nmule was all ears; the horse all ribs, backbone, and neck, plainly\nappearing through a drum-tight hide. Around the fire was a squalid group\nconsisting of a man, woman, and four small boys. The man and boys were\nbarefooted, and wore nothing but hats, breeches, and shirts. The woman\nhad on a tattered gown, and had her pinched features concealed within a\ndark bonnet. At that moment they were drinking coffee in turns from a\nsingle tin cup, and eating corn bread. The pinched features, straggling\nhair, and sallow, almost beardless face of the man, made his a visage of\nstolid apathy. At intervals, a gust, sweeping down the narrow valley,\nwould lay low the flames and whirl the smoke in a circle, enveloping the\ngroup, and awakening a loud coughing from the woman. My supper was not\nready until after I had seen the last one of the family crawl after the\nothers into the wagon for the night.\n\nThe next morning I went out to talk with them as they ate breakfast.\n\n\u201cWhere are you from?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cTenesy,\u201d answered the man, giving the accent on the first syllable, a\npronunciation peculiar to the uneducated natives.\n\n\u201cHow do you come to be here?\u201d\n\n\u201cMovin\u2019. Got ejected in Tenesy, an\u2019 we\u2019re now huntin\u2019 a new place.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cDunno. We reckon on squattin\u2019 somewhar in the Blue Ridge.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you buy or rent the property?\u201d\n\n\u201cBuy?\u201d answered he, with an expression of astonishment on his face;\n\u201cWhat do you reckon I\u2019d buy with, stranger? I ain\u2019t got a copper, an\u2019\nthet mule, hoss, wagin, an\u2019 hay an\u2019 corn in hit, an\u2019 them harnesses,\ncould\u2019nt be swapped fer much land, I reckon. All I\u2019ve got? Yes, \u2019cept\nthe ole woman an\u2019 them boys. I\u2019ll jist put up a cabin somewhars in the\nwoods, plant a crap, an\u2019 stick thar till they done driv me out.\u201d\n\nAfter this reply, he leaned forward and poured out another cup of coffee\nfor himself and family, as I slowly turned and walked away. No more\npoverty-stricken families can be found than some of these occasionally\nseen moving through the mountains. This one had property in a team and\nwagon, but I have met them traveling on foot and carrying their sole\npossessions.\n\nA family of the latter description I came across near the Ocona Lufta in\nSwain county. It was a warm May day, and the road was dry and dusty. I\nwas on foot with a companion from the Richland valley. On descending a\nshort hill to a small stream gliding out from under a clump of wayside\nwillows, we met the party. There were eight of them, as destitute,\nragged, forlorn, and withal as healthy a family as I ever saw. The\nfather and husband was fully 70 years of age. His long gray hair,\nalthough unkempt; his wrinkled face, and mild blue eyes, had something\nin all to arouse reverence and pity in the most thoughtless of mankind.\nHe was dressed in an unbleached muslin shirt, much the worse for wear; a\npair of pantaloons so completely covered with patches that it would have\ntaken an artisan tailor to distinguish the original ground-work; a pair\nof cloth suspenders, and a battered hat. He was bare-footed, and carried\non his shoulders half a bushel of corn. The wife and mother was much\nyounger. Her face was stolid enough to be utterly indifferent to their\ncondition. She had on the least possible quantity of clothes to cover\nher form, and a calico bonnet on her head. Under her arm was a bundle of\nspring onions, probably gathered from some convenient yard near which\nthey had encamped in true gypsy fashion. The eldest daughter, a grown\nwoman, was no better attired than her Mother. She had in her possession\na roll of tattered blankets. The five remaining, frowzy children,\nbarefooted and ragged like their sire, had in their respective keepings,\na coffee-pot, two or three gourds and an iron kettle. This was the whole\nfamily with a full inventory of their worldly possessions. They said\nthat they were moving back to Tennessee; that they had been burnt out;\nthat the head of the family could not earn more than 20 cents per day;\nthat it was \u201csplit the Smoky mountings or bust.\u201d We were under the\nimpression that the 20 cents per day included the board for the family.\nWe gave them some small change and tobacco and then separated.\n\nThe Grandfather mountain, in the extreme southern corner of Watauga\ncounty, is the highest point of the Blue Ridge. The elevation is 5,897\nfeet, and being 35 miles in an air-line distant from the loftier summits\nof the Black mountains, and fifteen miles from the Roan, over-topping as\nit does all the nearer peaks by an altitude of nearly 1,000 feet, it\ncommands an almost limitless view of mountain country. It merits the\nname of Grandfather, for its rocks are of the Arch\u00e6an age, and the\noldest out-croppings on the globe. Two other reasons for its name are\nascribed; one from the profile of a man\u2019s face seen from the Watauga\nriver; the other from the resemblance of the rhododendrons, when clad in\nice and snow, to the white, flowing beard of a patriarch.\n\nDiffering from all the mountains of the South, dense labyrinths of\nrhododendrons and pines begin at its base. The traveler enters their\nshadows by the road-side, and for two and a half miles, the distance\nfrom Calloway\u2019s to the summit, they are continually with him. Although\nthe first two miles are often accomplished on horseback, it is too steep\nfor easy riding. The path winds like the trail of a serpent, brushing by\nthe bases of low, vine-draped cliffs, around yellow hemlocks, and\ndisappearing in the rocky channel of a torrent, or into hedges of\nrhododendrons.\n\nOn the morning that I made the ascent, I was impressed with the\nnoticeable absence of birds. Not a note from a feathered songster\nresounded through the forest. No life was visible or audible, except\noccasionally on the cliffs, quick-eyed lizards, of the color of the\nrocks, appeared and then disappeared in the mossed crevices of the\nstone.\n\nOne-half mile from the summit, under a tall, dark cliff whose cold face\nseems never to have been kissed by sunlight, bubbles a large spring. Its\nwater is of a temperature less than eight degrees above the freezing\npoint. This, as far as is known, is the coldest spring south of New York\nstate. Here the steepest part of the ascent begins. At intervals old\nlogs are piled across the narrow trail, and in places rocks have set\nthemselves on edge. Grasses grow rankly with weeds and ferns. These,\ncovered with the moisture of the clouds that had dropped with the night\nabout the forehead of the Grandfather, and only lifted with daylight,\nwet the person pushing through them as thoroughly as if he had fallen in\nthe torrent.\n\nThe summit of the mountain is a narrow, ragged ridge, covered with\nbalsams. If these trees were cleared from the central pinnacle, a\nsweeping view toward every point of the compass could be obtained,\nwithout change of position. As it is, they obstruct the vision, and to\nsee out on every side it is necessary to move to three points, all close\ntogether, known as the Watauga, Caldwell, and Burke views.\n\nLet the reader imagine himself stationed at one of these views. Mantling\nthe steep declivities are the wildernesses of black balsams. A cool\nbreeze swings and beats their branches together. The sun rides in an\natmosphere so clear that there seems no limit to vision. A precipice\nbreaks away from your feet, but you do not notice where it ends; for at\nthe attempted downward look, the mountains below, like the billows of a\nstormy ocean stilled in their rolling by some mighty hand, crowd upon\nthe vision. They have all the colors of the ocean, wave beyond wave,\nsurge beyond surge, till they blend in with the sky, or hide their most\ndistant outlines in the cumuli bounding the horizon. You fancy hearing\nthe sound of breakers, and look directly below as though seeking for the\nreason of no roar arising from the waves lying at the base of the\nheadland. Then the dream of the sea vanishes. There lie the forests,\ndwarfed but real, dark green, covering the unsightly rocks and ending at\nbrown clearings, in whose centers appear farm-houses, the almost\ninvisible fences running wild over the hills, the yellow road revealed\nat intervals, and the silver threads of streams.\n\nIt was on a beautiful Sunday morning that I left Calloway\u2019s and rode\ndown the western slope of the Blue Ridge. A quiet, seemingly more\nhallowed than that of other days, was brooding over the valley through\nwhich, beside the Watauga, the road descended. The fields and meadows\nwere vacant; and the mountaineers, observant of the Sabbath, were all\nwithin their homely dwellings, or assembled at the meeting-house of the\nneighborhood. This place of prayer is a plain, unpainted, frame\nbuilding, enclosed by a rail fence, beside the road. Just before\nreaching it your horse must splash through a roaring, crystal ford of\nthe Watauga. When I passed it that morning, services had already begun,\nand the sounds of a hymn, sung by all the congregation, in strong,\nmelodious chorus, came wafted through the trees. A long line of saddled\nhorses and mules were ranged along the fence, or tied to the\nrhododendron hedges on the opposite side of the road. The house seemed\npacked; for many of the men were standing bare-headed in the sunlight\nbefore the crowded door, and a number of young folks were gathered in\ngroups about the yard, the latter more intent on their own conversation\nthan on what was doing indoors. Some of them nodded to me as I passed.\nThis manner of the mountaineers saluting every one, friend or stranger,\nis a pleasant one, and prevents, in the traveler, all feelings of\nloneliness arising from his being in a strange country.\n\nAt one point on the road, the further rocky end of the Grandfather\nmountain presents the distinct features of a face. You can see it\nlooking out from its head-dress of firs, like a demi-god, holding\neternal watch over the myriad mountains and valleys.\n\nThe vicinity of Blowing Rock is a summer resort. It is a lofty plateau\nof the Blue Ridge, covered with dense forests, level farms, and crossed\nby smooth highways. Good country accommodations are offered here for the\ntourist. From the edge of the mountain wall, which overhangs Caldwell\ncounty, two points--Blowing Rock and Fairview--afford admirable stands,\nfor overlooking the piedmont country. The views are similar in\ncharacter. From Fairview the valley of the John\u2019s river, embosomed in\ngreen mountains, lies in the low foreground; while rolling back, spread\nranges, picturesque in outline and purple coloring. In the morning or\nevening, when the sunlight is thrown aslant across them, bathing the\nfronting slopes in fire, and leaving, under the opposite brows, gloomy\nshadows, so long drawn out that many of the valleys are as dark as they\nare silent, the scene is such that one can never tire of viewing it, or\never lose the impressions that even one sight of it will awaken.\n\nA ride of eight miles from the center of the plateau resort, will bring\nthe traveler to Boone, the county seat of Watauga. Along the way several\nsweeping landscape prospects are afforded. In one of the dense woods I\npassed men engaged in clearing a laurel thicket. The soil where the\nlaurel springs being generally rich, it requires, after its clearing,\nnothing but a slight plowing, and enough corn for planting, to have the\n\n[Illustration: WATAUGA FALLS.]\n\nexpanse, which, during the last season, was blooming with white and\npurple rhododendron flowers, transformed into a green and tasseled\ncorn-field.\n\nBoone, the most elevated county seat east of the Rocky mountains, is\n3,222 feet above the sea. Its population numbers about 200, and lives\nalong a street rising and falling with the hills. Due to the fact of no\nmajestic mountains arising round it, there is, in its surroundings, less\nof the attractive features that distinguish the most of the mountain\ncounty seats. Near the stream which flows on one side of the town,\nDaniel Boone, the famous hunter, is said to have encamped while on a\nhunting tour. It is from this tradition of the camp that the village\ntook its name.\n\nAn afternoon ride from Boone will land the traveler at Elk river. The\nscenery on the route is picturesque. In the valleys they were raking hay\nthat August day. One valley in particular, by the Watauga, is of\ncaptivating loveliness. The mountains rise around it, as though placed\nthere with no other purpose than to protect its jewel-like expanse from\nrough incursions of storm. It lay smooth and level under the warm\nsunlight. Nothing but grass and clover covered it--in some fields wholly\nstanding, in others being laid low by the reapers. It is evidently a\nstock farm; for large droves of sleek, fat cattle were grazing in some\nof the meadows. A cheerful farm-house and large out-buildings stand on\none side of the road. The noise of a spinning wheel, coming from the\nsunlight-flooded porch where a gray-haired matron was visible, blended\nwith the sounds from the fields--the lowing of cattle, the noise of\nsharpening scythes, and laughter from rosy-cheeked girls and men, who,\npausing in their work, looked for a moment at the travel-worn horse and\nrider. This valley I would love to live in.\n\nAs a county perfectly adapted for stock-raising, Watauga cannot be\nsurpassed. One and three-quarters miles off the road you are now\npursuing, is the Marianna falls of the Little Dutch creek. It is easily\napproached by the foot-traveler. After reaching the stream from above,\nby descending a winding, trail you come out on the flat rocks directly\nbelow and before the fall. It is eighty-five feet high and makes a\nperpendicular descent over mossed and lichened rocks.\n\nValle Crucis lie on the left of the way that winds under the trees along\nthe base of one of its mountain limits. It is a valley containing\nprobably 600 acres, and noted for its beauty. The name is taken from its\nimaginary resemblance to a cross. The length of the valley, running\nbetween the rounded parallel ranges, is compared to the upright piece of\nthe cross, and the openings between these ranges on either side where\ngreen levels reach back, to the arms. From the best point of observation\nwhich I gained, it seemed a perfect square--a vivid green lake, fringed\nwith the rich foliage of the forests which decked the slopes of the\nbordering mountains.\n\nA little religious history is connected with this Valley of the Cross.\nOn one spot in it there are still to be seen amid weeds and luxuriant\ngrasses the scattered ruins of a building. They are all the remaining\nevidences of a mission school, founded many years since by the Episcopal\nChurch of the state. It was under the particular supervision of Bishop\nLevi S. Ives; and it was here that, 30 years ago, he openly renounced\nloyalty to his church and went over to the Roman Catholic faith. With\nthis singular apostacy, work at the mission school closed, and the\nbuilding gradually assumed its present proportions.\n\nOver lonely mountains the road now leads to Elk river. I rode for mile\nafter mile that evening without seeing a cabin or farm-house. The\nscenery along the Elk has something decidedly romantic in its features.\nOn one hand would be perched a moss-grown cottage on the mountain slope,\nwith a few giant hemlocks, allowed to stand at the time of the general\nclearing, overshadowing it. Below, on the other hand, would lie fertile\nfields, watered by the noisy Elk, and enclosed on three sides by the\ndark and sober forests of the hemlock. The serenity of the evening was\nnot disturbed by the farewell whistling of the quails; the rattling of\nthe bells from the cows coming homeward across the pastures; the barking\nof a dog behind the barnyard fence, and the opening cry of the\nwhip-poor-will.\n\nThe moon had turned from silver to gold; the stream under the spruces\nwas sparkling where no shadows fell athwart its surface, and a cold,\nevening breeze, the usual companion of night over the mountains, was\nrustling the black foliage of the trees, when I dismounted at a\nhospitable farm-house on the Elk, where I had a wholesome supper; shared\na bed with the farmer\u2019s son, a graduate of the North Carolina\nUniversity; had an early breakfast, and before sunrise, mounting my\nhorse, I was on the way toward the foot of the Roan. An old forge, where\nthe iron taken from the mountain near by was smelted, stands by the\nroad. It was abandoned a few years since. The Cranberry mines are a mile\noff the main road. They are in Humpback mountain, Mitchell county, North\nCarolina, and included in a tract of 4,000 acres, owned by the Cranberry\nIron & Coal Company of Philadelphia, of which A. Pardee is president.\nMines have been worked in this mountain for the last half-century. They\nare now being operated on a large scale. The narrow-gauge railway, an\noff-shoot of the E. T:, V. & G. R. R., runs to the tunnel; and the raw\nore is transferred by rail to furnaces in the North. The tunnel to the\nore bank is run in on a level from the railroad, to a depth of 325 feet.\nBoth steam and hand drills are being worked. The vein now struck appears\ninexhaustible. It was discovered half a mile above on the mountain side,\nand then the lower tunnel was projected in to it. The company\u2019s\nsaw-mill is in active operation near by. A town will soon be in\nexistence here.\n\nFrom the Tennessee side the ascent of the Roan is arduous, and if one\nhas not taken precaution to secure explicit directions, he may be\nobliged to sleep out all night in the gloomy woods, in this regard being\nmore unfortunate than the two travelers whom I met on the Linville.\nProfiting through their misfortune, I learned every crook of the way,\nand with only the steepness of the ascent to discomfit me, arrived at\nsunset on the summit of that majestic mountain. The scene below, in\nevery direction, except where the Little Roan uplifts its gray dome, was\none tumultuous mountain ocean, rolling with rough and smooth swells\nalternately toward the ragged horizon:\n\n        \u201cAnd half the sky\n    Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry,\n    Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew\n    Down the steep west into a wondrous hue,\n    Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent,\n    Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent\n    Among the many-folded hills.\u201d\n\nOne hundred and twelve feet below the extreme top of Roan mountain is\nsituated Cloudland Hotel, over 6,200 feet above the sea, and the highest\nhabitation east of the Rockies. There is enough novelty in the situation\nof a summer resort at so lofty an altitude to captivate the tourist,\neven were there no attractions of sky, climate, scenery, or the aspect\nof the mountain top itself. It is a beautiful, rounded meadow, where the\nrocks, which one would naturally expect to see exposed, are hidden under\na soil clad with luxuriant grasses, mountain heather, and clumps of\nrhododendrons, and azaleas. Sombre forests of balsam stretch like\nnatural fences around the edges of the treeless expanse, which, for over\ntwo miles, pursues the center ridge of the mountain. At one end of the\nRoan, naked granite cliffs descend into soundless gorges, and the\nsublimity of the view from the brow of the precipice is indescribable.\nThe mountain brooks teem with speckled trout, and a series of beautiful\ncascades on one wild slope will attract the lover of nature. From June\nuntil October the air is balmy and bracing, the temperature ranging\nduring the summer from 58\u00b0 to 73\u00b0.\n\nThe regular route to Cloudland is over a turnpike from Johnson City, a\nstation on the East Tennessee, Virginia, & Georgia railroad. A line of\ncomfortable, covered stages make the trip of thirty-two miles every\nMonday, Wednesday, and Friday. For travelers coming from Eastern North\nCarolina and beyond, conveyances can be obtained at Marion, on the\nWestern North Carolina railroad; distant 45 miles.\n\nThe slopes of this mountain are covered by vast tracts of cherry and\nother hard-wood trees. Its timbered wealth is incalculable. Saw-mills\nhave lately sprung into place, and the bases and gentle uplands are now\ncrossed with fresh roads and dotted with loggers\u2019 camps. General Wilder,\nof Chattanooga, the owner of Cloudland Hotel and of most of the\nmountain, is the principal operator in this line.\n\nAs related by General J. W. Bowman, one of the first citizens of\nMitchell county and descendant of a Revolutionary patriot, the summit of\nthe Roan was the rendezvous for the mountain men of the Washington\ndistrict and Watauga settlement, assembling for the march ending in the\nbattle of King\u2019s mountain.\n\nIn Yancey county, visible from the Roan, and forty-five miles from\nAsheville, is a peak known as Grier\u2019s Bald, named in memory of David\nGrier, a hermit, who lived upon it for thirty-two years. From posthumous\npapers of Silas McDowell, we learn the following facts of the hermit\u2019s\nsingular history. A native of South Carolina, he came into the mountains\nin 1798, and made his home with Colonel David Vance, whose daughter he\nfell in love with. His suit was not encouraged; the young lady was\nmarried to another, and Grier, with mind evidently crazed, plunged into\nthe wilderness. This was in 1802. On reaching the bald summit of the\npeak which bears his name, he determined to erect a permanent lodge in\none of the coves. He built a log house and cleared a tract of nine\nacres, subsisting in the meantime by hunting and on a portion of the\n$250 paid him by Colonel Vance for his late services. He was twenty\nmiles from a habitation. For years he lived undisturbed; then settlers\nbegan to encroach on his wild domains. In a quarrel about some of his\nreal or imaginary landed rights, he killed a man named Holland Higgins.\nAt the trial he was cleared on the ground of insanity, and returned home\nto meet his death at the hands of one of Holland\u2019s friends. Grier was a\nman of strong mind and fair education. After killing Higgins, he\npublished a pamphlet in justification of his act, and sold it on the\nstreets. He left papers of interest, containing his life\u2019s record and\nviews of life in general, showing that he was a deist, and a believer in\nthe right of every man to take the executive power of the law into his\nown hands.\n\nWhile I was at the hotel a terrific thunder storm visited--not the\nsummit of the Roan--but the valleys below it. It came after dark, and\nfrom the porch we looked out and down upon the world in which it raged.\nEvery flash of lightning was a revelation of glory, disclosing a sea of\nclouds of immaculate whiteness--a boundless archipelago whose islands\nwere the black peaks of the mountains. Not a valley could be seen;\nnothing but the snowy bosom of this cloud ocean, and the stately summits\nwhich had lifted themselves above its vapors. In the height of the\nstorm, the lightning blazed in one incessant sheet, and the thunder came\nrolling up through the black awful edge of the balsams, producing\nsomewhat similar sensations to those which fill the breast of a\nsuperstitious savage at the recurrence of an every-day storm above him.\n\nWhen I descended the mountains on the following afternoon, the ravages\nof the storm were visible on several splintered oak trees, which lay\nprone across some of the wayside clearings and Big Rock creek was high\nand still roaring, with its excess of water.\n\nAt sight, of the rocky fords of this stream, the traveler would\nnaturally form the opinion that it flows through wild, rugged scenery,\nin a country devoid of clearings. There is, however, fine farming land,\ncleared and occupied, along Big Rock creek. One portion of it, in\nparticular, of soil rich and fertile, is settled by a prosperous and\nhard-working class of people, who, during the late war, sided with the\nNorth. It is now said that they will allow none, except white men, to\nstay, either permanently or as day laborers, in their community. The\nreason given is that they fought to liberate the negro from bondage,\nand, having thus helped him, they wish to be free from all contact with\nhim. The same feeling prevails in other isolated localities through the\nmountains, one being on the Little Tennessee, in the region of its lower\nreaches, near the state line.\n\nBakersville, with a population of 500 people, is eight miles down from\nthe summit of the Roan. It is situated on Cane creek. The town has been\nin existence only twenty-one years, is substantially built up, and\ngrowing rapidly. The mica interests are doing considerable to enrich it.\nAn Indian town was once situated here, and to this day, although unused\nfor 100 years, the old beaten trail of the red man, leading from Turkey\nCove to the Nollichucky, is still visible, by the bank of the creek,\nunder the bending grasses which grow along its edges, but still refuse\nto spring where the moccasin-footed aborigines, for probably centuries,\nwended back and forth from Tennessee.\n\nHere, near the village, for one night\u2019s encampment, in the course of\ntheir flight from Morganton, halted the \u201cFranks\u201d with \u201cNollichucky\nJack,\u201d their spirited and beloved leader. The details of his escape from\ntrial are given in another chapter.\n\nThe 400 acres of valley, in which the town is situated, was a land grant\nof 1778, from North Carolina to William Sharpe and John McKnitt\nAlexander, clerk of the famous Mecklenburg convention. The old grant,\nwith the surveyor\u2019s plat of date September 30, 1770, and the great wax\nseal of the state attached, is among the archives of the county.\n\nThe Clarissa mica mine, in operation about three miles from the village,\nis a point of attraction for the tourist. At present work is going on\nmore than 400 feet under ground, the passage down being through a dismal\nhole. If you attempt the descent, the daylight will be appreciated on\nyour return.\n\nThe blocks of mica, after being blasted from the quartz and granite\nwalls in which they lie embedded, are brought to the company\u2019s shop in\nBakersville. Here it is again sorted, the bent and otherwise worthless\nmica being thrown aside. That which appears merchantable is piled on the\ntable before the workmen. Block by block it is taken and split into\nsheets, sufficiently thin to be cut by large iron shears. Specks or\nflaws in the mica are discovered by the workman holding each sheet, in\nturn, between his eyes and the light through a window, before him. The\ndefects are remedied by again splitting the piece and taking off the\nthin defective layer. When entirely clear it is marked off in\nrectangular shapes, with patterns, and then cut by the shears. The sizes\nare assorted, and then wrapped and tied in pound packages. The value of\nmica ranges from half a dollar to three or four dollars per pound, the\nprice depending upon the size.\n\nThe Sink-hole mines, near Bakersville, now abandoned, have some\ninteresting facts connected with them. Years ago, a series of\nclosely-connected, round, basin-like holes in the soil of a slope,\ncreating some curiosity as to why and by whom they were formed, induced\ninvestigations. One was dug into, and in the center of its bottom,\nembedded in the rock, was discovered a vein of mica, which was followed\nuntil exhausted. The other holes were then worked in turn by the miners,\nseveral thousand dollars\u2019 worth of mica being obtained. All efforts to\nstrike the vein, beyond the line of the holes, proved unsuccessful.\nThere was no mica discovered in the vicinity outside the sink-holes. In\nsome of them curious stone tools were found, and the surface of the\nrock, around the mica blocks, in many instances, was chipped and worn,\nas though done by instruments in the hands of persons trying to\nextricate the mica. These ancient operations are attributed to the Mound\nBuilders. In this connection, I had a conversation with Garret Ray, of\nBurnsville, containing the following:\n\nWhen a boy, Mr. Ray had his attention attracted by a line of stone posts\nset, with about fifteen feet of space between each, on a mountain slope\nof his father\u2019s farm. Years after, upon gaining possession of the\nproperty, he carried into execution a long-cherished idea of\ninvestigating the mystery of these posts. They marked a valuable mica\nvein, whose limits did not extend beyond them. There was no evidence\nthat the located vein had ever been worked. By what surface indications\nor arts the mica was first discovered by the pre-historic practical\nminers, can only be answered by an oracle.\n\nMany other traces have been discovered through the mountain country of a\npeople who inhabited it before the advent of the Cherokees. Among the\nnumerous mounds to be seen by the traveler in the broad valleys of the\nregion, the one at Franklin undoubtedly takes precedence in shapeliness\nof outline. A few years since it was opened and a quantity of stone\ntools and ornaments taken from it. Eight miles southeast of Franklin, in\nthe year 1820, soon after the transfer of that section by the Cherokees\nto the whites, a negro tenant of Silas McDowell, while at work plowing,\ndiscovered, fifteen inches under ground, a stratum of charcoal, and\nunder this a burned clay slab, bearing on its lower side the imprint of\nthe face and form of a man. Unfortunately, the slab, which was seven by\nfour feet in dimensions, was broken into pieces, thus destroying a relic\nof untold value to the arch\u00e6ologist. The former inmate of this sepulchre\nwas probably buried and then cremated by the race, according to its\nreligious rites.\n\nThe Pigeon valley has been a great field for the relic hunter. Mr.\nOsborne, living about three miles south of the Pigeon River station,\nhas, for a number of years, acted as an agent for a Richmond gentleman,\nin collecting the most curious of the ornaments and pieces of pottery\nturned up by the farmer\u2019s plows. At least 2,000 of these relics have\npassed through his hands. Among a few which the writer saw at Mr.\nOsborne\u2019s farm-house, was a group of men seated around a great bowl and\nsmoking the pipe of peace. It consisted of one entire piece of\nsoapstone, the figures being sculptured in correct proportions. They\nwere raised about three inches above the ground part on which they were\nresting. Another was of two men struggling with a bear. Thousands of\narrow and spear heads have been found in the valley. That the latter\nhave no commercial value is evident from the fact that the long walks\nfrom the front fence to the house of the above mentioned farmer, are\npaved with them. Stone walls upon hill slopes have been unearthed in the\nvicinity. After this digression let us return to the journey.\n\nThe ride, by the nearest road from Bakersville to Burnsville, will lead\nthe traveler for some distance along the banks of the Toe river. Deep,\nwide fords are to be crossed, and lonely forests ridden through. To the\nlover of nature, the solitude of some portions of the road will have in\nthem nothing of a depressing nature. Burnsville is described in another\nchapter. From the latter village the road leads direct to Asheville. The\ndark outlines of the Black mountains are visible throughout a great part\nof the way. The road was in splendid condition when I traveled over it,\nand enabled me, with a sound horse, to arrive, in good shape, in the\ncounty seat of Buncombe, after an interesting horse-back journey of more\nthan 300 miles.\n\n\n\n\nBEYOND IRON WAYS.\n\n    If thou art worn and hard beset\n    With sorrows that thou would\u2019st forget,\n    If thou would\u2019st read a lesson that will keep\n    Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,\n    Go to the woods and hills!--No tears\n    Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.\n            _Longfellow._\n\n\n[Illustration: V]ainly the mountaineers beside the ancient stage-road,\nup the Blue Ridge from McDowell county into Buncombe may listen for the\nold-time winding of the driver\u2019s bugle, the rumbling of strong-spoked\nwheels, and the rattling of trace-chains; or wait to see the familiar\noutlines of four gray horses, hallooing reinsman and loaded Concord\nstage swinging round some bold cliff, and drawing nearer up the rich\ngreen avenue of the forest: the days of staging by this route into\nAsheville are over. But \u201cJehu\u201d with his prancing steeds and swaying\ncoach is not, in this region, a being of the past; for the whistle of\nthe locomotive has only served to drive him further into the mountains.\n\nTo those who are little familiar with stage-riding, there is in it\nsomething of pleasing novelty. I never see the old red vehicle lumbering\nalong without having awakened in my mind some one of Dickens\u2019 many vivid\npictures of rapid drives, where, in his words:--\u201cHouses in twos and\nthrees pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works,\ntanneries and the like, open country, avenues of leafless trees. The\nhard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud on either side.\nSometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that\nclatter us and shake us; sometimes, we strike into ruts and stick there.\nThe wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and\nthe moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of\nus.\u201d\n\nOne of the stage routes, now in operation, is from the present terminus\nof the Western North Carolina railroad at Pigeon River, to Waynesville,\nten miles distant. If the time-table is the same it was when we last\ntraveled over the new-laid rails from Asheville, up the Hominy valley,\nover dizzy trestle-works, and burst through a narrow mud-cut between the\nhills into the wide valley of the Pigeon;--if it is this way, I say, the\ntourist will take a late dinner at a large brick farm-house beside the\nstation, and then secure a place with the colored driver on the top of\nthe stage. A jolly crowd is packed away inside. Perhaps, if you are an\nagreeable fellow, one of the young ladies may prefer a perch outside\nwith you, and thus help to fill up the boot and hinder the spread of the\nreinsman\u2019s elbows as he rounds some of the coming curves. Trunks and\nband-boxes are piled up behind you. You wave your hand to the landlord;\nthe driver gives a parting wink at the cook who is peering through the\nshutters of the kitchen; and then, responsive to the crack of the whip,\nthe horses start, and whirling behind it a cloud of dust, the stage\nbegins its journey.\n\nThere is nothing particularly enchanting about the landscape for the\nnext ten miles. The road beneath is beaten hard, and smooth as a floor.\nIt is not always so agreeable riding over, however, for it is of red\nclay; and in winter, with snows, thaws, and rains, it becomes almost\nimpassible. They tell of empty wagons being stalled in places during the\ninclement seasons. I have a vivid recollection of helping, one dark\nApril night, to unload a light Jersey wagon, drawn by two stout horses,\nin order to release the hub-deep sunken wheels, and allow us to proceed\non our way from Waynesville.\n\nNow a broad valley is whirled through, with humble cottages along the\nway; then a hill is ascended, the stage rising slowly, and then rattling\non behind the lively trotting of the horses as you pass down the\nopposite declivity. The driver over mountain roads always trots his\nhorses going down hill. It is necessary in order to make up for the\ndelay incurred in the long, wearisome ascents, and the horses, in\ncontradiction to first principles, appear to stand up well under it.\n\nAgain you strike the Big Pigeon. Concealed by its wood-bordered banks,\nit has passed through the valley, and now through vistas of vines,\nazaleas, chinquapin bushes, locust and beech trees, reveals its limpid\nwaters, swift and slow, in turns, as the basin is deep, or a\npebble-shingled bottom throws it in splashing rapids. Pairs of whistling\nsand-pipers run teetering over the sands, and then fly on down the river\nat your noisy approach; turtle doves, with \u201cshocking tameness,\u201d only\nrise from the road when some of the pebbles, struck up by the horses,\nshower around them; a surly dog, from a weather-worn dwelling, leaps\nthrough the broken pickets of the fence, and for a hundred yards\nfollows, barking, close to the wheels; long open fields extend on one\nside; and then the driver, with foot on the break, with loud \u201cwhoa,\u201d\nstops the sweating horses before a country store. He reaches down under\nhis feet, into the giant pocket of the stage, and draws forth a\npad-locked leather mail-bag which he tosses down into the outstretched\narms of the bare-headed post-master, grocer, and township magistrate\ncombined.\n\n\u201cHow yer to-day, squire?\u201d asks the driver.\n\n\u201cGood. How\u2019s yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cBettah.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho you got inside?\u201d\n\n\u201cParty from Alabam\u2019, I reckon.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere they going?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhite Sulphur; an\u2019 say, look a heah, foh dis in-foh-ma-shun bring me\nout a twist o\u2019 backer.\u201d\n\nThe recipient of the bag passes through a crowd of six or eight men\nabout the door-way, and enters the store. A few minutes elapse in which\nthe \u201cJehu\u201d fires some tongue shots at the loungers; then the mail-bag is\nreturned, the foot is taken from the break, the whip cracks, and away\nyou go. Another store is passed with a saw-mill opposite to it, and the\nriver, blocked until it spreads to twice its customary breadth, pouring\nand thundering over a substantial dam. The noise of waters and the saw\nis deafening; then, in a twinkling, it is all still, and you are\ntrotting along between green hedges, and great clouds of dust envelope\nthe barking dogs which follow.\n\nAlong the way is seen the prepared trail for the iron horse which is to\nsupersede stage-travel;--the great yellow dirt embankments through the\nfields; the deep grading sinking dizzily close at the roadside; the\nshort curves through narrow valleys, and the swallowing of it all by the\nsolitary woods.\n\nIf you are fortunate enough to ride with the same good-natured driver\nwhom we had, and he is in mellow mood, you may be interested for an hour\nby a story which he is fond of telling. For fear that you might get the\nwrong man, I will tell it in condensed form.\n\nIn the fall of 1877, the driver was employed on the stage route from\nAsheville to Henry\u2019s. He was an old reinsman, but the road was\nunfamiliar to him from the fact of his being only lately transferred\nfrom another branch. One afternoon in November, with the highway\nslippery under-foot from a cold sleet, he left Asheville with the heavy\nstage and a party of five persons inside,--an old, white-haired man and\nfour women. He was unavoidably delayed at different points, so that,\nwhen he began the actual descent of the Blue Ridge, a black, cold night\nenveloped the landscape. With his teeth chattering, he lighted the\nlamps, drew on his gloves again, mounted to his place, and began\nrumbling downward. Over-head the trees creaked and groaned in the hollow\nblast; the horses slipped in turns as they pushed along, and the huge\nstage would occasionally slide, in spite of the locked brake, down on\nthe flanks of the rear span. Even with this uncomfortable state of\naffairs, he could have driven along without much hazard, but suddenly\nthe lamps went out. Through strange carelessness he had forgotten to\nrefill them when he left the stables. The darkness was like that of a\nsoundless mine: it was almost palpable. Staggered with the situation, he\nchecked his horses. He must go on, but how could he? Near at hand he\nknew was the most dangerous place in the whole road, where even a slight\npull to one side would send the stage and its occupants rolling down a\ndeclivity, steep, deep and rugged enough to smash the former, and kill\nevery one of the latter. The horses, accustomed to the way, might\npossibly be trusted; but then that possibility! It was too slippery to\nlead them, and besides his foot must be on and off the break in turns.\nIt was imperative for him to be at Henry\u2019s that night, both on account\nof his express duties and his passengers, who would freeze before\nmorning. He sat shivering on the stage top.\n\nHe heard the stage door open below, but knew not for what reason, nor\nwhose feet were striking the ground, until a voice came up out of the\npitchy darkness:\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you go on?\u201d\n\nIt was the old gentleman who spoke.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t. Don\u2019t you see de lamps ar\u2019 out?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat of that? We must go on.\u201d\n\n\u201cDar\u2019s a bad pitch right yeh, an\u2019 I wouldn\u2019t risk hit foh no money.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know exactly where we are? I can\u2019t distinguish anything.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, at de cliff spring.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe cliff spring. I remember it. All right;\u201d and, saying this, the\nelderly passenger was climbing up beside the driver. \u201cLet me take the\nreins,\u201d he continued.\n\n\u201cYou!\u201d exclaimed the driver.\n\n\u201cYes. I know this road like a book. I\u2019ve driven over it many as dark\nnights as this, during forty years of my life.\u201d\n\nAnd as the driver told it to me: \u201cI done jist let dat ole man pull dem\nribbans outer my han\u2019s, an\u2019 I hel\u2019 onter de brake, while he put dose\nhosses down aroun\u2019 dat ben\u2019; an\u2019 in less \u2019en an houh we wuz stannin\u2019\nafoah de Henry hotel. Hit beat de debbil how dat wrinkled, rich-lookin\u2019\nole fellah driv! Couldn\u2019t fine out a ting \u2019bout him; no one peered ter\nknow him. An\u2019 I\u2019m done badgered ter know who he wuz, enny how. He\u2019d a\nmade a crackin\u2019 ole stage drivah; an\u2019 dar\u2019s no use talkin\u2019 on dat pint!\u201d\n\nSo went the story. Meanwhile your journey is progressing. The stage has\nrattled around a bend, leaving the neat, home-like, brick dwelling of\nDr. Samuel Love, on the top of a wooded hill, beside the road; and then,\nbefore you, stretches an enchanting mountain landscape. On the summit of\na plateau-like expanse, in the center of the scene, is a picturesque\nvillage. You see the clustered white frame and brick buildings, with the\nsmoke curling above them from home fires; the modest church steeples,\nand, perhaps, if it is growing dusky, you may hear the mellow chiming\nof bells through the evening air. Majestic mountains rise on all sides\ninto the blue sky. Afar, Old Bald, his brethren Balsams, Lickstone\nmountain, and Mount Serbal, lift their heads. In lofty outlines, the\nJunaluska group of Balsams stand black against the glowing western sky.\nAcross a low, plank bridge, which covers a little stream coming from the\nrabbit-haunted hedges of a valley meadow,--up a mild declivity of\nhill,--through a long, yellow street with dwellings, a church, a\ncourt-house, a jail, hotels, and stores, on either side,--and you are in\nthe center of Waynesville.\n\nWaynesville, the county-seat of Haywood, is 2,756 feet above the ocean.\nOf the peaks in sight around it, five attain a height of 6,000 feet and\nupwards. Every mountain is clothed from base to summit with heavy woods.\nThat chain arising in the south in lofty outlines, black with firs, is\nthe Balsam. The Haywood mountains, bounding the northern line of vision,\nare, owing to their distance, arrayed in purple, and usually crowned\nwith white masses of clouds, which at sunset turn to orange, run to\nmolten gold and then blazing with scarlet resolve into darkness. The\nvillage occupies the most elevated portion of the plateau. Two parallel\nstreets, crossed by four or five shorter ones, make up the general\nground-work of the town. Interspersed with vacant, weed-grown lots, the\ndwellings and buildings, occupied by about 300 people, face on these\nwinding thoroughfares. A few locust trees border the rough, stony walks.\nApple and peach trees hang over thickly-planted gardens within the\nunpainted long board fences before many of the houses.\n\nThe head-center for daily congregation seems to be the postoffice. Its\nred-mud-splattered front and porch-posts whisper of a rainy season and\nstamping horses to the tourist who stands on the hard level road. The\nmosses on the porch roof also speak of dampness and age. Opposite the\npost-office, in 1882, was still standing, intact and in use, the\ncounty\u2019s venerable hall of justice. To some it may appear a sarcasm to\nuse that title for it: still, justice is no less likely to preside in\npristine purity within battered, worm-eaten doors, above a tan-bark\nfloor, under a low ceiling, and surrounded by dingy walls, than within\nfrescoed ceilings, stone walls and chiseled columns!\n\n                        \u201cFor Justice\n    All place a temple, and all season, summer!\u201d\n\nHowever, the court days for the old hall are past. A new and imposing\nbrick structure has just been erected at the north end of the village.\nThat an air of enterprise is circulating is evident. Numerous new\nbuildings, with fresh-painted or brick fronts have lately arisen in\nplace, making striking contrasts with the old rookeries of fifty years\nexistence standing here and there.\n\nThe village was named in honor of \u201cMad Anthony\u201d Wayne in the long gone\nyears of its birth. Until the last half decade of years it has rested in\na quiet little less profound than that of the dreamy valleys around it.\nOf late new energy has been infused into it. The world beyond the\nmountain limits of this hidden hamlet is beginning to hear of it as a\nsummer resort. Acting upon this knowledge, the tourists with every\nseason now come trooping up from the low-lands. The grading, bridges,\nand embankments for the railroad are all completed, and even before many\nmonths Waynesville will have the cars within its corporate boundaries.\n\nIn all the mountain towns court-week is the marked event of the year.\nThere is a spring and fall term. As the counties increase in population,\nthe two terms are frequently lengthened into weeks. At such times the\nvillage streets are packed with a mass of humanity. The court might well\nbe likened to a magnet, the limit to its attraction being the boundaries\nof the county; and within that circle, during the periods of its\noperation, having an irresistible, invisible power to draw every\ncitizen into the county-seat. They are all there at some interval of its\nproceedings.\n\nAs a court-day in any one of the villages is typical of what is seen at\nsuch times in all the others, the writer will use as an illustration one\nwhich he spent in Waynesville. It was at the time of the fall term; the\nmonth being October. On the Sunday preceding the opening Monday, the\nhonorable judge, having closed court in the neighboring county, drove\ninto the village. The usual number of lawyers from scattered villages\nwho go on the circuit soon came straggling in on horse-back not far in\nhis honor\u2019s wake. Later in the evening and the next morning others of\nthe profession entered on foot, pursuing this method of traveling as\nthough desirous of saving a little money, or perhaps having none either\nto save or spend. The days of the circuit are interesting ones for this\nlegal coterie. It has its jovial, crusty, bumptious, bashful, boyish,\nand bald-headed members; old pettifoggers, young shysters, and the\nbrilliant and erudite real attorney. The active out-door exercise\nenjoyed in following the court in his rounds tends to make the village\nlawyer a good-natured fellow, and besides, even if his practice is poor,\nhe has no exorbitant office rent to worry him. He ought certainly to be\na healthy, contented specimen of humanity.\n\nEven before all the shop-keepers had opened their doors and swung back\ntheir shutters to exhibit newly stocked counters, the farming population\nbegan pouring in. Now and then the broad hat of a man on foot would\nappear above the crest of the hill; then would follow a strong team of\nhorses drawing a white-covered, Pennsylvania wagon; next, a slow-moving\nox team with hooped and canvassed vehicle. These tents on wheels would\ndisgorge into the street either a whole family or a crowd of men\nevidently from the same neighborhood. On other occasions they (the\nwagons) loaded with apples and possibly a barrel of hard cider, would\nbe longer in getting relieved of their contents. The Jerseys of\nindependent valley farmers came rattling in at a later hour. The general\nway of coming to town, however, is in the saddle. Horses and mules, with\ngood, easy gait, are always in demand through this country, and the\nnumber of them ranged along the street fences appears strange to the\nNortherner.\n\nThat morning I saw on the street several Indians from the banks of Soco\ncreek twenty miles distant. They were not arrayed in the picturesque\npomp of the savage, but in the garb of civilization--home-spun coats and\npantaloons, muslin shirts, and black hats. One of them, mounted on a\nstout little bay pony, was trying to sell his animal to some one in a\ncrowd of horse-traders. Ponies can be purchased of the Cherokees at\nprices ranging from forty to seventy-five dollars. At present, however,\nthere are very few of the full-blooded stock in the reservation. The\nother aborigines whom I chanced to see were, with moccasined feet,\nthreading their ways through the crowds of lighter-complexioned,\nblue-clothed dwellers of the forests.\n\nThe strongest drink sold openly during court-week is cider. Several\nwagons, holding barrels containing it, occupy stations close by the\ncourt-house door. A supply of ginger cake is sold with the cider.\nWhiskey can be procured at the drug store, but only on prescription. To\nthe uninitiated it is a mystery where so many prescriptions come from;\nbut perhaps a certain judge from a lower county, who some time since\npresided in this court, might rise and explain. The judge in question\nwas exhausted from travel, and badly under the weather. Upon his arrival\nin the village he dispatched a negro to the drug store for a bottle of\nthis singularly accredited panacea for all evils. The druggist refused\nto comply with the request, sending back word that he was obliged in all\ncases to conform to the requirements of the law, and that his honor\nshould consult a physician. Later in the day the judge himself appeared\nat the drug store, and taking a package of paper from his pocket, cooly\ncounted off sixteen prescriptions. Said he:\n\n\u201cI have consulted my physician. You may fill one of these now; hang the\nothers on your hook, and fill them as I send my order.\u201d\n\nWhether the judge called for them all during the time he presided on\nthat bench, is no part of the story.\n\nIn the practice before the bar of the tribunal there is no marked\ndifference between the proceedings of the mountain county court and\nthose of the courts of other states practicing under the code. It has a\npeculiar but beneficent feature, however, in the rapidity with which\ncases are disposed of. One great end of justice, too frequently\nneglected--that wrongs shall be promptly righted--is hereby secured. A\nfalse and irreversible judgment of the court occurring, as may be, upon\ntoo hasty examination of a case, is no worse for the litigant than the\ntrial of the heart between hope and despair for long, weary years before\na decision is rendered, even though that decision be just.\n\nI witnessed one murder case disposed of in two days, when, anywhere in\nthe North, the same trial would have occupied as many weeks. The call of\nthe crier from an upstairs window announced that the court was open.\nDuring the course of the morning I went in. Seats arranged on a scale\nascending from the lawyers\u2019 tables to the rear wall were crowded to\noverflowing. The single aisle was filled so that one could hardly elbow\none\u2019s way in. The crowd changed considerably in its make-up during the\nmorning session; for uninterested auditors were continually sliding out\nof one of the handy windows and others crawling in to fill the\nvacancies. Some wormed their way out through the aisle.\n\nIn regular routine, cases were called, facts stated by attorneys, usual\nexamination and brow-beating of witnesses, wrangling of counsel,\nhammering for order by the sheriff, the old practitioner\u2019s quiet and\nplausible argument to the drowsy jury, the spread-eagle burst of oratory\non the part of the fresh blossomed sprig of the law, the charge of the\njudge (which, in truth, is generally the settlement of the whole\nproceeding), and then the departure of the twelve confused peers to a\nhouse on a back street, or a vacant lot near by, where, on a pile of\nlumber, they resolve the abstruse questions involved and bring in a\nverdict according to the facts.(?) Judgment pronounced forthwith, or\nsuspended on motion.\n\nAt 12 o\u2019clock the court adjourned, and the crier appearing at the front\ndoor gave vent in high-strung monotone to the following: \u201cHear ye! hear\nye! This honorable court is now adjourned.\u201d Here he took breath and went\non again: \u201cThe good people of Haywood will take notice that at 2 o\u2019clock\nthe Honorable General Clingman will address them on the issues of the\nday!\u201d\n\nThis sounded queer to a stranger; court adjourning to give way for a\npolitical speech. A number of elections were to take place in November.\nIt was fit that the people should be prepared to cast their ballots with\ndiscretion. In accordance with this view, during that fall term of\ncourt, the respective candidates of either party for the offices of\nsolicitor, representative, senator, and state offices were given the\nafternoons of the session to enlighten the populace with their wisdom on\nstate and municipal affairs, and sway them with their eloquence. With\nthe afternoon speeches, ended the court day.\n\nThe White Sulphur Spring Hotel is three-quarters of a mile from the\nvillage. It was by the stage line that we approached it in the summer of\n1882. The mail-bags had been flung down to the good-natured-looking\npost-master, and several passengers distributed at the hotels on the\nvillage street, when we turned down a hill toward Richland creek, first\npassing several plain dwellings and two churches. One of the churches\n(the Episcopal) is a well-built little house of worship. The creek must\nbe forded, and then follows a delightful stretch of road along its\nbanks, until, after swinging around several corners, rattling over\nrivulet bridges, speeding by a house or two on knolls in fields, we\npassed through a frame gate into the grounds of the Sulphur Spring.\n\nThe grounds are naturally adapted for a summer resort. A grand forest,\nprincipally of oaks, covers about eight acres of level ground, through\nwhich, with green sward on either hand, winds the road toward the hotel.\nThe hotel is a large farmhouse, remodeled and added to until its\noriginal proportions and design are lost. Near it, at the foot of a low\nwooded hill, is a line of cottages connected with the main structure\nsimply by a graveled walk, which also leads to the sulphur spring\nbubbling up in a stone basin within a small summer-house. There is a\ncomfortable, healthy air about the hotel and its surroundings.\n\nClose in the rear of the resort buildings rises a line of mountains,\nlofty in height, but forming only the foot-hills to the Junaluska group.\nThe highest pinnacle of the foot-hill range is Mount Maria, so named in\nhonor of the wife of Major W. W. Stringfield, the proprietor of the\nSpring property. From the wide porches of the hotel sublime mountain\nprospects can be obtained. A smooth, cultivated valley, a mile or more\nin length, by a half-mile wide, fills the foreground to these views.\nSome portions of it are covered with corn, and in the meadows are\ngenerally grazing a hundred head of cattle. A pleasant pastoral air\npervades this foreground picture set in the emerald frame of the\nforests. And then in the distance is discerned the green front of Mount\nSerbal, and beyond it the black summits of the Richland Balsam\nmountains. Just across the creek, which flows outside the grounds, lies\nthe prepared railroad bed. It is only a minute\u2019s walk from it to the\nhotel.\n\nOf all country roads for quiet rambles or delightful horseback rides,\nthere are none in the mountains to excel the one up Richland creek, from\nthe White Sulphur Spring, to the base of Old Bald. The forests all along\nthe stream are cool and refreshing. Where the road comes down to its\nfords under the concealing chestnuts and oaks, long foot-logs reach from\nbank to bank. The old mill at one of these fords presents a picture for\nthe artist--the brilliant beech that rustles around it; the crystal\nrace; the roar in the flume; the piles of old logs and scattered timber;\nand the open, dingy front of the structure itself.\n\nOn crossing the state road, the Richland creek road enters a large,\nunfenced forest, where nearly every evening, in spring, summer, or fall,\nteamsters, who are either farmers or root buyers, encamp for the night.\nTheir Pennsylvania wagons are like great white-covered scows strangely\nmounted on wheels. At night, with the light of camp fires thrown on\nthem, they are spectral in their whiteness. Often, in the darkness of\nthe forest, while on our way from the village to our temporary home in\nthe country, we have suddenly run upon these encampments after their\nfires have smouldered, and only been awakened to a knowledge of their\npresence by the sharp barking of wakeful dogs.\n\nOne particular night, well worth remembering, I was returning on foot\nfrom Waynesville after a late wait there for the irregular evening mail.\nIt was cloudy and quite dark, even where the state road, which I was\ntrudging over, runs between open fields. On branching into the Richland\ncreek road and into the forest just mentioned, the change to still\ndeeper darkness would have made it difficult for me to avoid stumbling\nover the rocks that here and there are scattered on the way, and even to\nkeep clear of tree boles, if the bright light of a high fire had not\n\n[Illustration: THE MACON HIGHLANDS.]\n\nilluminated the outer margin of the wood. Under a gigantic poplar two\nlarge white wagons were visible, and between them was the fire. A group\nof men was seated near it. At my approach two dogs sprang up growling\nfrom the scattered hay where the horses were feeding, but at the warning\nyell of some one who was evidently their master, they became quiet\nagain. The group consisted of four men seated on the end boards taken\nfrom the wagons, and laid on the ground. They were playing cards, and\nhaving a good time. I was about to pass on, but recognizing the face and\nvoice of one member of the party, I stepped up to them, and was in turn\nrecognized by him.\n\n\u201cWal, glad to see you,\u201d said he, dropping the pack of cards he was\ndealing, and jumping to his feet.\n\n\u201cHowdy!\u201d exclaimed the others in turn as I spoke to each. \u201cWhy, what are\nyou skulking round the woods so late at night for?\u201d continued the first\nspeaker.\n\nHe was a good-natured and intelligent young man, by name Upson, whom I\nhad met once before in an adjoining county at a country store, where he\nwas exchanging dry-goods and tinware for ginseng, Solomon\u2019s snake roots,\nherbs and mica. I answered his question, and upon urgent invitation\nseated myself by the fire. Two of the party were going to Asheville to\nattend Federal court. The elderly man and owner of one wagon was\njourneying in company with the young trader and his wagon to the\nAsheville market. The interrupted game of seven-up was never resumed. In\nthe course of conversation Upson spoke of mica mining, and after stating\nthat he was a Georgian, and had been in the mountains only a few years,\nhe related a thrilling story, which I will give as nearly as possible in\nhis own words, and call it\n\n                          THE HAUNTED CABIN.\n\nOn one of the highest ridges of the Nantihala mountains, twenty-five\nmiles from Franklin, Tabal and I had been out prospecting for mica for\nseveral days. With a blanket apiece, a pick, a spade and a quantity of\nprovisions we had left the valley, intending to open a spot on the\nmountain, where mica had been discovered cropping out. All the afternoon\nof the 26th of February, and all day of the 27th, we worked at the\nsurface mica, and had followed a promising vein of the mineral for\nseveral feet into the crumbling rock. The weather had been fine, and the\nnight of the last mentioned date came on with fair and clear skies.\nWrapped in our blankets, we slept by a roaring fire, under a shelving\nrock, in a thicket of black firs. By morning the weather had changed; a\ncold wet wind was sighing through the pines; the sky was overcast with\ndull heavy clouds, and the last day of February bid fair to end in a\nsnow storm.\n\nTabal was rather uneasy, and wished to start for the settlement\nimmediately; but with a nicely sorted-out pile of mica at our feet, and\na solid block twelve inches square shining from the bottom of the\nexcavation, I insisted on remaining until there was a decided change for\nthe better or worse; so, after our morning repast, we went steadily to\nwork again.\n\nWe did not notice the increasing coldness of the wind, and were only\nawakened to a sense of our dangerous position, when snow began to fall.\nTo be caught on a mountain summit over 6,000 feet high in a snow storm\nwas something little to be desired; and, with that idea, Tabal threw\ndown his pick and proposed starting with haste for the settlement.\nAffairs did look threatening, and I concluded that his proposition was\nnot to be despised. Hiding our tools and mica, with our blankets over\nour shoulders, we struck out on the trail for the valley.\n\nThe snow fell thicker and faster around us; and at the end of our first\nmile it was an inch deep. The way-worn path beneath our feet was of the\nsame appearance as the forest slopes, all seeming one open wilderness,\nwith nothing but occasional blazes on the scrub-oak tree trunks to mark\nthe path of descent. Tabal needed nothing of the kind to find his way.\nSo familiar is he with the whole range that, in the darkest night he\ncould reach the valley without a wandering footstep. After two hours of\nslow travel the snow lay shoe-mouth deep, and the bitter wind, as it\nswept across the ridges, chilled and buffeted us, until, half frozen,\nwith wet and benumbed feet, exhausted by ten miles of wading, and\nbruised by falls and slides, I felt my strength giving way. It was then\nhalf-past four by my watch; the snow was a foot in depth, and still\nfalling.\n\n\u201cOnly three mile further,\u201d said my companion, when he noticed how I was\nlagging in my pace, \u201cand we\u2019ll fetch up at Ramear\u2019s cabin. Cheer up,\nman, an\u2019 in a few minutes we\u2019ll be all right, I \u2019low.\u201d\n\nWith this encouragement I quickened my footsteps and struggled on.\nAnother mile had been slowly reeled out behind us; we had left the ridge\nand were in a hollow or cove, when a cabin suddenly appeared before us.\n\nThe place was one of the wildest and dreariest of the mountains. On one\nside rose a forest of balsams; with somber foliage covered with the\nwhite mantle of the storm; almost perpendicularly upward it trended.\nTangled laurel spread over the bottom land, and interwoven with the ivy,\nhedged the banks of a stream fresh from its sources. On the other side a\nrocky bluff, crowned with snow and clad in evergreen vines, loomed up\nlike the crumbling wall of some ancient castle, with its summit lost in\nthe veil of the falling snow.\n\nThe cabin was jammed into a niche of this wall some twenty feet above\nthe path we were following. It was a log hut of the humblest\npretensions, tottering from age and decay on its rock foundation. In\nthe shadow of the precipice, most gloomy it appeared, with its\nsnow-burdened roof, moss-grown front, rough-plastered log chimney, and\ndoorless entrance opening into a black interior. It looked to have been\ndeserted a score or more of years, and its surroundings, unkept by the\nhand of man, by Nature were again being trained into primitive wildness.\nA cataract came pouring down by the cabin\u2019s site. A regular ascent of\nsteps led up to it through the laurel.\n\nIn spite of the place\u2019s uninviting aspect, I welcomed it as a safe\nrefuge from the storm and the night. Tabal seemed not to see it, and was\nplodding steadily ahead a few feet in advance of me.\n\n\u201cHold on!\u201d I called. \u201cHere is a shelter for the night. No need of going\nfurther.\u201d\n\nHe turned with a strange expression in his face.\n\n\u201cFor God sake, don\u2019t stop hyar! We must go on. Nothin\u2019 could hire me to\nstop in thet \u2019air shell.\u201d\n\nHis set determined way of speaking, together with his words, I could not\nat that time account for, and without waiting for an explanation,\nreplied: \u201cStop here we must, in half an hour \u2019twill be night,\u201d and\npushing through the snow-burdened laurel, in a few steps I gained the\ncabin door.\n\nA violent hand was laid on my shoulder that instant. My blanket was\nalmost torn from my grasp, and I reeled backward, with difficulty\nrescuing myself from falling.\n\nIt was Tabal who had thus struck me. Taken by surprise at his\nuncalled-for action, I could but listen to what he said.\n\n\u201cCome, come, we must make tracks from this place! You\u2019d better die in\nthe snow a peaceful death than be toted away by hants. Thar be a power\n\u2019o hants hyar. I\u2019ve seed \u2019em an\u2019 seed blood, blood! on the floor and\nnary man in the settlement but what\u2019s heerd \u2019em. Don\u2019t for all ye love\nin the world, don\u2019t stop hyar, but foller me and in two mile we\u2019ll be\nat Ramear\u2019s.\u201d\n\nAs he finished his excited remarks, with one hand still on my shoulder,\nhe was standing partly in the cabin; while I, puzzled at his\nextraordinary statement, and with the earnest, almost desperate, manner\nin which he urged me to leave the spot, had sunk down on a half-rotten\nlog that lay across the doorway. I really could have gone no further if\nI had wished, and instead of what I had heard from him awakening my\nfears and strengthening me to travel on, it aroused my curiosity to\nremain and see upon what his superstition was based.\n\nOn making known to him my exhausted condition and determination to\nremain, an abject terror overspread the mountaineer\u2019s face, and for\nseveral minutes there was a struggle within him whether to stay and\nbrave the well known horrors of the place, or to expose his cowardice by\nleaving and pushing on alone in the darkness and driving snow. The\nlatter alternative did not hold out very bright prospects, and in spite\nof professed superstition, mountaineers dread nothing much more than\nbeing called cowards. Meanwhile I laughed down and shamed his fears, and\nthe bribe of a half gallon of \u201cmoonshine\u201d completed the business.\n\nThe gloom of the continuing storm, and the rapidly approaching night,\nrendered the gorge almost destitute of light. Every minute it grew\ndarker, but objects about the interior of the cabin were still\ndistinguishable. There was but one room, with rotten board floor,\nstrewed with the mouldering leaves of several autumns, and grown with\nmoss along the edges of the walls. Fungi choked the interstices between\nthe logs, and over them snow had sifted, and fallen in streaks upon the\nfloor. An unboarded window opposite to the solitary door looked out upon\nthe grim, stony cliff that rose not ten feet away. A fire-place, filled\nwith snow, was at the end of the room, and over three-fourths of the\napartment was a loft, rather shaky in appearance.\n\nWe scraped the snow from the hearth; Tabal, under my instructions, tore\noff a pile of well-seasoned boards from the loft floor, and soon a\ncrackling fire brightened and cheered the interior of the cabin. My\ncompanion was now more at his ease, and spreading our blankets, we laid\ndown with our feet to the grateful fire.\n\nAs I spread out my blanket I noticed a pool of fresh blood, fully two\nfeet in diameter on the floor by my hand. I covered it instantly,\nfearful that Tabal might see it. How did it come there?\n\n\u201cTabal,\u201d I said, \u201ctell me now what you meant by this hut having ghosts\nor \u2018hants\u2019 as you term them; and why do you think it so haunted?\u201d\n\nHe responded with a long story which I will make short: The cove had\nbeen cleared thirty years before by Cummings, a denizen of the\nmountains. One night when he was on a spree in the settlement, his wife,\nin a crazy fit, hung herself to a cabin rafter. Cummings, with his\nhousehold property and progeny, deserted the premises, and for many\nyears the cabin remained unoccupied, until a party of hunters made a\nnight\u2019s lodging there, and in an altercation a man named Gil True was\ninstantly killed by an enraged companion. Strange sights and sounds were\nconnected with it after the first death, and more after the second.\nEvery superstitious old woman told some terrible tale about it, until it\nhad become known throughout the country as the \u201chaunted\u201d cabin.\n\nAfter this narrative the train of thoughts which it awakened and the\nstrangeness of my situation prevented me from going immediately to\nsleep, and hours elapsed before I was in the arms of \u201cNature\u2019s fond\nnurse.\u201d Tabal\u2019s regular snoring I suppose put me in that condition.\n\nHow long I slept I know not, but I awoke with a start. Terrible,\nblood-curdling cries, like those from a woman or child in distress, came\nfrom the end of the room opposite the chimney.\n\nThe fire was still blazing, and by it I saw that Tabal was awake, lying\nhalf raised from his blanket, and with eyes fixed on the back of the\nroom, was intent on listening. Several piercing cries, with intervals\nbetween, rang out, and the last one had just died down, when there was a\nsound of some heavy body falling on the roof, a rumble, then a terrific\ncrash, after which all was darkness, blackest darkness in the room.\n\nSuccessive creakings of the cabin, and sputterings and hissings from the\nfire-place ensued.\n\nI attempted to call out but could not.\n\nI leaned over and reached, in the darkness, for my companion. He was not\nthere--nowhere on his blanket, which I felt still unrolled. I groped\naround the room.\n\nNothing!\n\nThe room was deserted, and I was alone in the haunted cabin.\n\nI leaned out of the door. It was as black outside as in. Again I\nattempted to call, and then my voice broke from me. The halloo rang out,\nechoed along the cliff, and instantly seemed swallowed by the night; but\nno answer came.\n\nWith these efforts courage returned, and I stepped back into the center\nof the apartment. As I did so, I heard a fall on the window, then one on\nthe floor, and the pit-pat of feet sounded plainly as something brushed\nagainst my legs, and shot with sudden velocity out of the cabin door.\n\n\u201cWhat else,\u201d I thought; \u201cwhat other unaccountable things were to happen?\nTabal was right; the cabin is haunted.\u201d\n\nI drew out a large clasp-knife from my pocket, opened it, and retreated\nto one corner of the room. I stirred not, scarcely breathed. For hours I\nstood there, as rigid as a statue. Again the foot-falls resounded\nthrough the room; again a fall on the window by the cliff--then\ndeath-like stillness again intervened.\n\nIn the black, unbroken silence, I heard nothing but the action of my\nheart, thumping, thumping, till it seemed it would beat the breath from\nmy chest, and all the while I was, in vain, seeking a solution for these\nmysteries of the night. Where was Tabal? What caused the blood spots,\nthe horrible cries, the crash, the fire\u2019s extinguishment, and the\nfoot-falls?\n\nGray light began to sift in. It grew stronger, brighter, and the light\nof morning filled the room. Black objects assumed regular outlines,\nbecame distinct, regained their natural shapes, and everything around me\nwas revealed. There lay the tumbled blankets; the fire-place filled a\nfoot high with snow. I started. The crash and following darkness were\nexplained. A snow slide off the cliff had struck the roof and then\nfallen down the chimney.\n\nI went to the door. A man\u2019s footprints long and far between, led from\nthe door-step down through the laurel. Tabal had disappeared in that\ndirection. I expected to see footprints besides those of the\nmountaineer,--the footprints of the owner of the footfalls in the\nnight,--but none were there, at least, no human tracks, but, instead, in\nthe snow were prints like those of a dog. What did this mean?\n\nI ran to the window. The same impressions were on the snow-covered sill,\nand then beyond on the near ledge of the cliff. Some animal had entered\nby the window, rushed through the cabin, and then re-entering, had\nretreated by the same way to the cliff. That it was a wild-cat or\npanther I was convinced; and this conviction was strengthened when my\nmind reverted to the cries, which were similar to those made by the cat\nspecies.\n\nThe whole mystery seemed cleared up. The wild, rugged precipice held on\nits face a den of panthers; the cabin was another retreat of theirs,\nand the bloody pool on the floor was the mark of some recent feast.\n\nGathering up the blankets I followed in Tabal\u2019s footprints for half a\nmile, when I met him coming towards me with the settler he had remained\nwith during a part of the previous night. My appearance to him was like\none raised from the dead. We returned to the cabin, and my conclusions\nwere confirmed by their immediate affirmations that, \u201cnairy varmint but\na painter hed made them tracks, an\u2019 they \u2019lowed the cabin mought not be\nhanted arter all.\u201d\n\nSoon after this night\u2019s adventure, a systematic hunt was organized; and\nin the chase four panthers which had had their hereditary den in the\ncliff\u2019s face were killed. With this slaughter all reasonable fears of\nthe cabin\u2019s being haunted vanished, and now it is made the usual\nrendezvous for hunters driving bears or deer in that locality.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cWal,\u201d exclaimed one of the Federal court witnesses, \u201cthet\u2019s a blamed\ngood way to git red o\u2019 hants!\u201d\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Upson, directing his speech toward me, \u201cwe would like to\nhear from you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no personal experience to relate,\u201d I replied, \u201cbut can tell you\nsomething, similar in nature to your story, as it was told me by an old\nresident of Graham county.\u201d\n\nImmediately there was a hearty invitation extended me to begin; so\nwithout ceremony I preluded what follows with the announcement that the\ntale was the one of\n\n                         THE PHANTOM MILLERS.\n\nThree years ago, while taking a tramp through the wilderness of the\nSanteetlah and Unaka mountains, I stopped for a few days with an\nintelligent, elderly farmer on the bank of Cheowah river. One pleasant\nafternoon, during the time of my visit, I took a ramble with my host\nover his extensive farm. Through the cool woods, upward along the\nroaring stream, we slowly walked for probably half a mile, when suddenly\nthe rough wagon-trail we were following led away from the river; and,\nlooking through the thick undergrowth in the direction where with\nredoubled roar the waters still kept their way, I saw the outlines of an\nold building.\n\n\u201cWhat ancient looking structure is that?\u201d I asked, pointing toward it.\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d my companion answered, \u201cis a worn out mill.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d I returned, \u201cthis is the first mill I have noticed on the river.\nIt does, in fact, appear dilapidated; but, looking at the heavy thickets\nand tall trees that stand so close to it, I should think that at the\ntime it was abandoned it might have been in pretty good condition. See,\nthere\u2019s a tree apparently fifteen years old thrusting its whole top\nthrough a window, and the casements that are around it are not yet\nrotted away.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are a close observer,\u201d said Mr. Staley, \u201cbut, nevertheless, we quit\nrunning that mill because it couldn\u2019t be worked.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy so?\u201d I asked with interest.\n\n\u201cBecause it was haunted!\u201d\n\n\u201cHaunted! A haunted mill!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir; the subject is one I don\u2019t like to commence on, but I suppose\nnow you must hear it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, by all means, but wait first till I see the mill.\u201d\n\nI pushed through the tangled thickets under the scrubby oaks, and a\nminute after stood before the structure. It was a mill which even at\nthis date would, if new, have been suited to a more open country. The\nside that faced us was farthest from the river. One door, up to which\nrotten steps led, and two windows, through one of which the tree before\nmentioned, spread its heavy limbs, were on the front. The siding was\nfalling and hanging loosely in places from the upright timbers, and the\nentire structure was fast becoming a skeleton, for all the clapboards\nhad been torn by the wind or thievish hands from the three remaining\nsides. The roof, in part, had fallen in, but had been caught by the\nshaky stringers of the upper, half-story floor. The spot on the river\nbank was peculiarly suited for a mill site. The channel of the stream\nabove was rock bound, the banks being steep and narrow. Just before it\nreached the mill the body of waters compressed into an impetuous volume,\nshot over a fall of twenty feet. An outlet had been blasted through the\nsolid rock close by the side of the fall, and a wooden race set up\nleading to the mill. This race had long since disappeared, worn away by\ntime and water. The old wheel, though, hung in its place beside the\nstructure almost under the fall, and above the mad waters, boiling and\nfoaming below.\n\nGoing around to one of the sides, we managed to clamber in and on the\nplank floor. There was half a partition through the center, forming on\neither side two rooms, each about 20 X 25 feet in dimensions. The\nmill-stones were yet in place, but the hopper and grain bins were\nmissing.\n\nWe seated ourselves on the floor at the back side of the building, and\nwith our feet hanging over the green, rotten wheel, with the thin spray\nof the cataract now and then touching us, and the turbulent river\nsweeping onward below, he began as follows:\n\n\u201cWhen I came here from Charleston, South Carolina, and settled, in the\nspring of 184-, the first thing I found necessary, after building my\nhouse, was a mill. As many families, apparently, lived in these valleys\nthen as live here now. I was compelled to go to Murphy, a distance of\neighteen miles, to get my flour and meal, or take my grain to a\nprimitive hopper, two miles below on this river, and wait a day for it\nto grind a bushel. Either was an exasperating procedure. This site\nseemed the best adapted one along the river. The race was formed, a\nfoundation laid, and, by the aid of a temporary saw, enough lumber was\ngotten out to finish this mill complete by the following summer.\n\n\u201cWell, time went by; the mill run smoothly, and with it I managed to\nmake enough to keep my family. One morning, however, on entering here I\nsaw that the wheel, which I left running for the night, in order to\ngrind out an extra amount of meal, had stopped, while the water was\nstill pouring on it. On examination I found the dead body of a young\nman, a farmer, who lived on the slope of Deer mountain, hanging fastened\nto the lowest paddle of the wheel. All that could be learned of his\nuntimely end was that he had left home for an evening\u2019s trout-fishing\nthe day before. He had undoubtedly fallen into the deep, swift stream\nabove; had been drowned; swept through the race down on to the wheel;\nand, his clothes catching on the splintered paddle, he had hung there.\n\n\u201cA short time after the last sad occurrence, a neighbor\u2019s boy fell\nthrough the trap door and broke his neck. Superstitious people then\nbegan to whisper that a spell was on the place. They had had, as yet, no\nocular demonstration of what they imagined and reported, but such was\nthe influence that my mill was avoided at night, travelers beating a new\npath around it through the forest. Of course, this talk had no effect\nupon me, and in fact I rather liked it, for, as far as I was able to\nperceive, it kept a class of indigent mountaineers away from the mill,\nwhom I had reason before to suspect of grinding their corn\nsurreptitiously at night.\n\n\u201cBut in the spring of 1861 something really strange did occur. My\nyoungest brother was one day with me at the mill. I had left him inside\nhere while I had gone some distance back into the woods to get a\nsecond-growth hickory. Probably half an hour had passed and I was\nreturning, when just before coming in sight of the mill I heard angry\nvoices. One voice was that of my brother, the other I could not\nrecognize; neither had I time to consider, for suddenly the report of a\nfire-arm sounded in that direction. I hallooed loudly at the moment I\nheard it, and at the same time came out of the wood. A comparatively\nclear space, with the exception of a few large trees, was between me and\nthe mill. I saw no one near but my brother, and he was leaning partly\nout the front window there, where now grows the red maple.\n\n\u201c\u2018Halloo! what have you shot?\u2019 I shouted.\n\n\u201cThere was no answer.\n\n\u201cThe day was growing terribly dark. Black clouds, heavy with moisture,\nwere filling and piling deep the entire face of the sky between these\ncircling mountains. The lightning had not yet begun to play, but it\nwould not have taken a prophet to tell of its speedy coming.\n\n\u201cI was somewhat surprised at hearing no return to my salute; and as I\ndrew nearer I noticed that his face was deadly pale. I ran up the steps.\nI caught hold of him. He had fainted. I laid him in the doorway. My\nfirst thought was that he had been shot by some one and was in a death\nfaint. I tore his shirt open, discovering a small red mark under the\nnipple. Five minutes after he was a corpse. But where was he who fired\nthe fatal shot? I had seen no one, and in vain I looked around the mill.\n\n\u201cMeanwhile the storm burst with appalling fury. One of the first flashes\nof lightning struck a monarch ash, whose decaying stump stands just over\nthere, not thirty feet from the mill\u2019s front. In some manner it struck\nthe tree and ran down its bark, then cut through its base, or struck the\nbole at once; for the whole body of the ash fell with a resounding\ncrash. I was knocked down and blinded for an instant by the electricity.\nIt was the hardest rain that has drenched these mountains since 1840.\nAll night long it continued, and I remained in the mill with my dead\nbrother.\n\n\u201cIt must have been past midnight when, in the pitchy darkness, I heard\nhoarse cries, hollow shouts, and groans, that seemed to proceed from\nwithout the mill, but which swept through the open rooms with chilling\nand horrible earnestness. The building shook in the wind and storm; the\ndoors rattled on their hinges; the cataract\u2019s roar increased with the\nswelling flood; but yet above all these deafening sounds, at intervals,\nrang this muffled voice. I must confess that I laid it to the\nsupernatural.\n\n\u201cMorning and calm came together, and with the first streaks of light two\nof my farm-hands appeared. The storm had made a havoc before the mill.\nLengthways, and down the center of the road the ash had fallen, the body\nof the tree lying close against the base of that great hollow oak you\nsee still standing. We carried the body home. Who had killed him was the\nunanswered question on every one\u2019s lips. Well, we buried the\nmysteriously murdered man in the old churchyard down the river, and the\nday after I went on business to Murphy. As fortune would have it I was\njust in time to be drafted into the Confederate army. I had only a day\nto spare to go to my house and return.\n\n\u201cThe occurrences of that stormy night had unavoidably kept me away from\nthe mill, and on my flying visit home before taking a long departure, I\nhad no time to go to it. My wife told a strange story of ghostly cries,\nstrange flames and apparitions which had been heard and seen at the mill\nfor two nights by one of the farm-hands and a neighbor. Nothing could\nhire any of the men in the neighborhood to go near the place, even in\nthe daytime. The description of the sounds coincided singularly with\nwhat I had heard. Having no time to investigate, and thinking these\nfears would wear away, I left orders for one of the hired men to run\nthe mill during my absence.\n\n\u201cFour years passed, and I had returned from the war. What changes had\ntaken place is not my intention to relate only to speak of the mill. The\nfears of the mountaineers had caused it to be abandoned. The one whom I\nhad designed to work it had wholly disregarded my orders. By a train of\npetty circumstances connected with this man\u2019s refusal to run the mill,\ntogether with the superstitious ideas of the people, all the\nmountaineers began to take their grain to the lower \u201ccorn-cracker.\u201d This\ncourse was not adopted by all until several of the more venturesome ones\nhad actual, unexplainable encounters with ghosts at my mill.\n\n\u201cA few days after my return I went up to look at the forsaken place. I\nfound the underbrush rather heavy, fair-sized trees springing up, the\nold ash lying undisturbed where it had been struck down, and\nconsequently the old road was lost. Everything within the mill, though,\nwas in excellent condition. What struck me as curious was that the mill\nappeared never to have stopped running; for the stones were not mossed\nin the least, but on the contrary were still white with flour. The floor\nwas also white, and a close observer would at once have declared that a\nsupply of wheat had been ground there that week.\n\n\u201c\u2018Jist so,\u2019 said an old neighbor who was with me. \u2018In course these hyar\nstones never quit runnin\u2019 at night, ez I tole yer; but hit ain\u2019t no\nhumin bein\u2019s ez runs \u2019em. Many a night I\u2019ve cum up the new road over\nyander, an\u2019 stopped an\u2019 shivered as I heered the ole wheel splashin\u2019\nround, seed lights an\u2019 seed yer brother standin\u2019 right hyar at this\nwinder, I\u2019ll swar! Why didn\u2019t I sarch into the matter? Didn\u2019t I though!\nBut the hants all fled when I cum near, and nuthin\u2019 but an owl hooted\noverhead; an\u2019 one night I war knocked flat by some devil unseen, an\u2019\nnext thing I knowed I woke up a mile from hyar. Ye don\u2019t catch me\nfoolin\u2019 round sich things.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe went on to tell how the meal, which he had ground in the daytime,\nhad made persons sick, and also helped to stop business. That night I\ndetermined to watch the ghostly millers in their midnight toils. A man\nnamed Bun volunteered to stay with me. Just after dark we came up here\nand ensconced ourselves in a close thicket near the fall, and about\nfifty feet from the mill. The hours passed by monotonously. It was late\nin the night, when suddenly, above the dull roar of the fall, I heard an\nowl\u2019s hoot up the river road. This would not have attracted my\nattention, had not another hoot sounded at once from down the road, and\nthen another came from just before the mill. Nothing further was heard\nto these calls, which I deemed were signals; but, a few moments after, a\nlight flared up in the mill, and through the unboarded side we saw two\nfigures in white garments.\n\n\u201c\u2018Let\u2019s steal out of this,\u2019 whispered Bun, in a trembling voice. \u2018Didn\u2019t\nI say it war ha\u2019nted?\u2019\n\n\u201cI commanded him to remain silent if he loved his life. The wheel was\nstarted, and the two ghosts began to pour corn from a bag into the\nhopper. I had no idea that they were anything but living men; but the\nlight was faint. Their faces were covered with some white substance, and\nI failed to recognize them. A little reason began to creep into Bun\u2019s\nsuperstitious brain. We crept closer. Then we saw that they were\ntalking, and their voices reached us. The sounds dazed me, and I started\nas if shot. It was not our language these shadows conversed in; it was a\nstrange tongue, but I recognized it. It was the dialect of the\nCherokees!\n\n\u201cUnder the impulse of the discovery, I leveled my rifle, aimed the\nbarrel in the darkness, and fired. Both millers stopped in their work,\nand in an instant an intense darkness wrapped the scene, followed by a\ncrashing in the thickets on the farther side of the mill. Several owl\nhoots ensued, then all was silent. Having no means of procuring a light,\nwe did not venture to enter the mill that night, but quickly found our\nway home. The next morning I returned here at an early hour. A bag of\ncorn, some ground meal, and a few drops of blood on the floor, were what\nI discovered in the grinding-room; these were enough to convince the\nmost skeptical of the mountaineers of the truth of what Bun and I\nrelated of our night\u2019s adventure.\n\n\u201cThe conclusion drawn was this: A settlement of half-civilized Cherokees\nover the mountains, being in need of a mill, taking advantage of this\none being unused, and also of the mountaineers\u2019 fears, had, by managing\nto play the role of spectres, secured a good mill, rental free, for two\nor three years.\n\n\u201cMy shot that night, together with a sharp watch kept up for some time,\nduring which we fired, on two occasions, at parties approaching the\nplace after dark, had the desired effect, and the mill was run no more.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut who killed your brother? What were the cries that you heard? And\nwhy was the mill, after you discovered who the millers were, deserted?\u201d\nI asked.\n\n\u201cThe murder remained a mystery until a few days after we drove out the\nIndians. The discovery occurred in this way: I determined to have the\nold road cleared out and go to working again. The fallen ash was first\nattacked. As we rolled away a severed part of it from before the hollow\nin that oak, standing there, one of the choppers noticed a pair of boots\nin the rotten wood within the hollow. He pulled them out and a full\nskeleton was dragged with them. Part of the clothes was still preserved\non this lately securely-sepulchred corpse. A revolver was also scraped\nout the rubbish. It was the body of a man who had disappeared four years\nsince, as believed up to that time, for the war.\n\n\u201cOf course, I had no doubt but he was the murderer of my brother. He had\nfired the shot; heard my rapid approach, and, knowing that to step from\nbehind the tree would reveal himself, he squeezed up into the hollow\ntrunk of the old oak. The lightning played the part of a slow\nexecutioner. It was probably some time before he attempted to make exit\nfrom his confinement. His endeavors, of course, were fruitless. Then he\nbegan calling in his terror for help. These were the cries I heard\nduring that stormy night. Afterwards he probably became unconscious\nthrough fright. His dreadful cries at intervals for a few days were what\nstartled the mountaineers, who, had they been less superstitious, might\nhave rescued him from a horrible lingering death. His motive in taking\nthe life of my brother remains a mystery.\n\n\u201cThis revelation sickened me, and reviving, as it did, sad\nrecollections, I had the men stop work for a few days. In that time a\nheavy flood aided in breaking down and sweeping away the worn-out race.\nI never attempted to repair it, and the old mill was left to rot and\nmolder in solitary idleness.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe had been so engaged with the stories that the rising of the wind had\npassed unnoticed, and suddenly a few rain drops fell upon us and the\nfire. I was about to resume my walk, but was prevailed upon to remain,\nbecause of the storm. It began pouring in a few minutes; and, crawling\nwith two of the party into one of the wagons, in spite of the novelty of\nthe situation, I enjoyed a sound sleep on a pile of herb bags and under\nthe rain-beaten wagon-cover.\n\nThe valley watered by that prong of Richland creek, which rises in the\nbalsams of the Great Divide and beech groves of Old Bald, is one of\ngreat beauty. It is quite narrow. The stream flows through its center,\noverhung with oaks, buckeyes, beeches, maples, black gums, and a dozen\nother varieties of trees, and fringed with laurel, ivy, and the alder;\nwhile at intervals cleared lands roll back to the mountains. Lickstone,\nwith gentle slope, walls it on one side; a lofty ridge on the other, and\nthe black front of the Balsams shuts off at its southern end all\ncommunication with what lies beyond, except by a steep winding trail and\nunfinished dug road over a mountain 5,786 feet in altitude. The road\nalong the creek\u2019s bank, upward from the place of nightly encampments,\npossesses all the charms of a woodland way. At places the umbrageous\nbranches of monarch trees cross themselves overhead; beautiful vistas of\na little stream, streaked with silver rapids and losing itself under the\nbending laurels, are presented at every turn; at intervals, branch roads\nwind away into some mountain cove; and here and there, disappearing into\nleafy coverts, are smooth-beaten by-paths, which tell of a log\nschool-house back in the grove, a hill-side meadow, or some hidden\nlonely cabin. Wayside log cabins and a few frame farm-houses, all widely\nseparated, are occasionally seen; the noise from a sooty blacksmith shop\nattracts attention; a weird mill rises amid the chestnut trees; while\nthe roar of waters in its rotten flume awakes the landscape.\n\nThe most picturesque location for a house in this valley, is owned and\ndwelt upon by W. F. Gleason, at present United States commissioner for a\nportion of the western district. It is an old homestead site on the\nround top of a little hill, which forms a step, as it were, to the\nwooded mountain ridge towering above it. Before the front of the\ndwelling, 100 yards away, down the hill and across a level strip of\nland, runs the Richland around the edge of a chestnut grove which\nsprings on its opposite bank. Through the shady grove, beyond the\nrivulet bridges, is the Richland road, up which the traveler will come,\nand (unless he notices the branch path and turns under the trees) which\nhe will follow through woodland scenery like that described. From the\ndoor-yard of the commissioner\u2019s unpretentious dwelling, a\nmountain-walled picture is presented. Old Bald, the Balsams, Lickstone,\nWild Cat, Wolf\u2019s Pen, and the ridge in the rear of the house, whose\nhighest point is the Pinnacle, bend around the valley like the\nragged-brimmed sides of a bowl with one rather deeply-broken nick in the\nrim through which are visible the purple fronts of the Haywood\nmountains. The valley view is too confined to be interesting, and only\none cabin, the indistinct outlines of an old farm-house, and a few acres\nof cleared land amid the forests, are to be seen. It was at this\nsequestered country home where, for several seasons while sojourning in\nthe Alleghanies, we made our head-quarters. Of the gorgeous sun-rises\nover Lickstone, witnessed by us from the low porch of the cottage; of\nthe full-moon ascents above the night-darkened rim of the same\nmountain,--we might write with enthusiasm, but with perhaps too tedious\ndetail for the reader.\n\nDuring one of these sojourns, we roomed in an old frame house in the\nvalley, distant about three hundred yards from the hill-side place just\ndescribed. In the early October mornings, our way when going to\nbreakfast, was along a beaten path through the chestnut grove, where the\nground would be covered with nuts larger than any which ever find their\nway to the market. Those short walks in the bright, clear mornings are\nindelibly stamped in memory. Again the creaking, wood-latched gate of\nthe unpainted mansion closes with a rattle; the great piles of waste\nmica around the shops gleam in the sunshine; the birds twitter in the\ngreen vines so heavily clustered in the buckeyes that the limbs of\ncontiguous trees meeting, form overhead rich arbors for the passers\nbeneath; the rough planks of the bridge across one smooth branch of the\nstream shake under our footsteps; the chestnut woods, turning yellow,\ndrop their dry burrs in our path; the two long, hewn-top logs, with\ntheir crooked hand-rail, bridging one of the maddest and most musical of\nmountain streams, tremble as we run across them; the bordering alders\nsparkle with dew-drops; the frame farm-yard gate stands shut before us.\nOver this we leap and go chasing up the hill. If the family is still\nslumbering, a gun is taken from its stand beside the chimney; a whistle\ngiven for a dog, whose quick appearance, bright eyes, and wagging tail\nshow his pleasure; and at the foot of the hill the black-berry thickets\nare beaten, until before the yelping dog a shivering rabbit bounds out\nin sight, whose race is perhaps ended rather abruptly.\n\nFor mountain parties both Lickstone and Old Bald offer exceptional\nattractions. The ascent of the latter peak and the character of the\nviews from its summit are described in the sketch on bear hunting.\nLickstone can be easily ascended on foot or on horse-back, and is\nadmirably situated for the observer to bring within his ken the most\nprominent peaks of eight surrounding counties, and see unrolled below\nhim a mountain-bounded landscape of beauty and grandeur beyond the power\nof delineation by poet or painter. Lickstone takes its curious name from\na huge flat rock near the summit of the mountain, whereon the\ncattle-herders used formerly to place the salt brought by them to the\nstock which range the summit meadows. On the east slope are located\nvaluable mica mines.\n\nAn interesting day\u2019s journey, from Waynesville, is to and from Soco\nFalls. The road can be traveled over by carriage, and leads up\nJonathan\u2019s creek to its source. The falls are on the distant slope of\nthe mountain, sixteen miles from the village. The headwaters of the Soco\nrise in a dark wilderness. At the principal fall, two prongs of the\nstream, coming from different directions, unite their foaming waters by\nfirst leaping over a series of rocky ledges, arranged like a stairway.\nInto a boiling basin, fifty feet below, the stream whirls and eddies\naround, and then, with renewed impetuosity, rushes down the gradual\ndescent to the valley. By following down the road, the traveler will\nsoon find himself in the Indian reservation.\n\n[Illustration: THE JUNALUSKAS.]\n\nOne mile from Waynesville, on the state road toward Webster, is a level\nand well-cultivated farm of about one hundred acres, forming a portion\nof the wide, cleared valley between the base of the hills, on one side,\nand the wood-fringed Richland on the other. It is the property of\nSanborn and Mears, two young men who have lately moved into the\nmountains. With enlarged ideas on farming, they are bringing the\nnaturally rich soil into a state of perfection for grain and grazing. A\ncheery, comfortable farm-house stands under the door-yard trees beside\nthe driveway. Behind the house the ground rises gradually to the oak\nwoods along the summit of the hill. In the front, visible from the\ndoorway, is a wide-sweeping mountain prospect. The valley, broad, open,\nlevel, diversified with farms and forests, crossed by winding fences and\nroads hidden by green hedges, extends away for two miles or more, to the\nsteep fronts of lofty mountains. It is these mountains which so enhance\nthe picture, giving it, morning and evening, soft shadows, sunlight\nintensified by shooting through the gap between the Junaluskas and Mount\nSerbal, and a peaceful, pleasing slumber, like that of a noble grayhound\nat the feet of his trusted master. A portion of this prospect is given\nin the accompanying illustration.\n\nFrom Waynesville to Webster, twenty miles distant, there was no regular\nhack or stage line running in 1882, but either saddle-horses or\ncarriages can be obtained at reasonable rates in Waynesville. There are\nno scenes along the route that the traveler would be likely to retain in\nmemory. Hills, mountains, woods, and farms fill up the way, with no\nparticularly striking features. Dr. Robert Welch\u2019s farm, about two miles\nfrom the village, is one which will not be passed unnoticed. The large,\nwhite residence, white flouring mill opposite, high solid fences formed\nfrom rocks picked from the roads and fields, and level lands of several\nhundred acres, make up a pleasant homestead.\n\nWebster is an antiquated village, on the summit of a red hill, silently\noverlooking the Tuckasege river. It has a population of about 200, and\nis the county-seat of a large and fertile section of the mountains.\nAbout forty-five miles south of the village, by the way of the river\nroad, is Highlands, an objective point for the tourist. East La Porte is\none of the points passed on the river. It is a country post, with two\nstores, a school-house or academy, and a few houses. The academy,\nresembling a Tell chapel, is situated on a hill-top in a bend of the\nTuckasege. As this structure rises from the forest-crowned hill, around\nwhose base sweeps the sparkling river, with a line of distant mountains\nfor its back ground, it is extremely picturesque.\n\nThe road up Shoal Creek mountain, on the way to Cashier\u2019s Valley and\nHighlands, is noted for its wild scenery. Frail wooden bridges span deep\nravines echoing with the roar of waters; the road winds at times around\nthe steep side of the wooded mountain; then again it dips down to the\nmargin of the stream. The falls of Grassy creek are close in full view\nat one point. The water of this stream in order to empty into the larger\nstream, flings itself over a perpendicular cliff, falling through space\nwith loud roar and white veil-like form.\n\nThe stupendous falls of the Tuckasege are near this Shoal creek road,\nbut it is not advisable for the tourist to attempt the tramp to them by\nthis wild approach. In our last pilgrimage up the mountain we attempted\nit. A few incidents which occurred on this trip may prove interesting to\nthe reader. The artist was with me. Stopping at McCall\u2019s lonely cabin,\nwe hired a twelve-year-old boy for a quarter to act as our guide. The\nday was uncomfortably warm. We led our horses up a mile ascent, so\nsteep, that in scaling it not a dry spot remained on our underclothes.\nThen we tied the panting animals and walked and slid down a mountain\nside whose steepness caused us to grow pale when we contemplated the\nreturn. When we reached the dizzy edge of the precipice above the\nthundering cataract, the artist, unused to so arduous a journey, was in\nsuch a state of prostration, that he could not hold a pencil between\nhis thumb and fingers. To sketch was impossible; to breathe was little\nless difficult for him. We rested a few minutes, viewing from above the\nmad plunge of white waters, and then, with the small boy\u2019s help, I\ncarried, pushed, and pulled my exhausted companion up the ascent to the\nhorses. How many times he fell prostrate on that desolate mountain\nslope, stretching wide his arms and panting like a man in his last\nagony, we failed to keep account of.\n\nThe last spoonfull of medicine in a flask taken from the saddle-bags\nenabled him to mount his horse, and we rode off around a flinty mountain\nwith warm air circling through the trees and the hollow voice of the\nupper falls of the Tuckasege, seen below us in the distance, sounding in\nour ears. We dragged our horses after us down a steep declivity; passed\na muddy-looking cabin; wended through a deserted farm under an untrimmed\norchard, with rotten peaches hanging to the limbs; startled several\ncoveys of quails from the rank grass; entered a green, delicious forest\nalive with barking gray squirrels; and then, through several rail fences\nand troublesome gates, reached the sandy road leading into Hamburg,--a\nstore with a post office. It is the ancient site of a fort of that name\nerected for use in case of Indian depredations.\n\nHere we tried to get something to more fully resuscitate the still\ntrembling artist, but everything had gone dry; and all the encouragement\nwe received was a cordial invitation, from a man who was hauling a log\nto a neighboring saw-mill, to come and spend a week at his house, and he\nwould have a keg of blockade on hand for us. This manner of the\nmountaineers of inviting strangers to visit them is illustrative of\ntheir warm-hearted natures. W. N. Heddin was the logger who extended\nthis invitation. I had met him once before while on a tramp through\nRabun county, Georgia, where he was then living. A minute\u2019s stop at his\nhouse, on that occasion to procure a drink of water, was the extent of\nour acquaintance. His farm was situated at the base of a frowning, rocky\nwall called Buzzard cliffs, and although just outside the North Carolina\nline deserves some mention, because of certain interest connected with\nit. This interest is gold.\n\nThe sand in the beds of some of the smooth-flowing rivulets down the\nsultry southern slope of the Blue Ridge have, as regards the precious\nmineral, panned out well in the past. Over thirty years ago the stream\nthrough Heddin\u2019s property was discovered to contain gold; and for a\ntime, as he related, was worked at the rate of ten pennyweights a day\nper man. After living with the gold fever for many years, he lately sold\nhis property, and removed across the Blue Ridge.\n\nDeclining Heddin\u2019s proffered hospitality we pushed on, gradually but\nimperceptibly ascending the Blue Ridge. I was riding on ahead. Suddenly\nmy companion called to me.\n\n\u201cSay, I\u2019ve lost my overcoat.\u201d\n\n\u201cToo bad! Shall we return and search for it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; but it\u2019s strange how I\u2019m losing everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. You lost your pipe yesterday; your breath this morning, and now\nit\u2019s your coat.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust so; and do you know, I\u2019m getting demoralized. Something worse is\ngoing to happen. Say!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you hear anything weighing about one hundred and ten pounds fall off\nmy horse, turn and come back, will you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. Why?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll know _I\u2019m_ lost. Hang me, but I feel cut up!\u201d\n\nThe overcoat was not recovered by its owner; and fortunately the fall,\nof which forewarning had been given, did not occur.\n\nWe easily ascended the Ridge. Luxuriant forests--perfect tropical\ntangles--spread over the last portion of the way. A stream with water\nthe color of a pure topaz flows under the rich green rhododendron\nhedges. Down the slope toward Cashier\u2019s Valley the road is of white\nsand, beaten as level as a floor. A drive in easy carriage over it with\nthe broad-sweeping limbs of the cool trees overhead, would be\ndelightful. These woods were filled with insects termed \u201cchatteracks\u201d by\nthe natives. Their shrill chirping toward evening is much louder than\nthe noise of the locust, and fairly deafens the traveler. Locusts also\njoined in the chorus, giving a concert as melodious as it was singular\nand primeval.\n\nCashier\u2019s Valley is a mountain plateau of the Blue Ridge, 3,400 feet in\naltitude, from four to five miles long and a mile and a half wide.\nAttracted by its climate, freedom from dampness, its utter isolation\nfrom the populated haunts of man, the rugged character of its scenery,\nand deer and bear infested wildwoods, years since, wealthy planters of\nSouth Carolina drifted in here with each recurring summer. Now, a few\nhomes of these people are scattered along the highland roads. One\nresidence, the pleasant summer home of Colonel Hampton, the earliest\nsettler from South Carolina, is situated, as it appears from the road,\nin the gap between Chimney Top and Brown mountain, through which, twenty\nmiles away, can be seen a range of purple mountains. A grove of pines\nsurrounds the house. Governor Hampton formerly spent the summers here,\nengaged, among other pastimes, in fishing for trout along the head\nstreams of the Chatooga, which have been stocked with this fish by the\nHampton family.\n\nThe sun had hidden himself behind the western ranges, but daylight still\npervaded the landscape, when through a break of the forest of the\nhill-side around which the road winds, we came out before the massive\nfront of a peculiar mountain. Whiteside, or in literal translation of\nthe Cherokee title, Unakakanoos, White-mountain, is the largest exposure\nof perpendicular, bare rock east of the Rockies. It is connected,\nwithout deeply-marked intervening gaps, with its neighboring peaks of\nthe Blue Ridge; but from some points of observation it appears\nisolated--a majestic, solitary, dome-shaped monument, differing from all\nother mountains of the Alleghanies in its aspect and form. The top line\nof its precipitous front is 1,600 feet above its point of conjunction\nwith the crest of the green hill, which slopes to the Chatooga, 800 feet\nlower. The face of the mountain is gray, not white; but is seared by\nlong rifts, running horizontal across it, of white rock. With the\nexception of a single patch of green pines, half-way up its face, no\nvisible verdure covers its nakedness.\n\nBelow the eastern foot of the mountain spreads away rolling valley-land,\nwith hills forest-crowned, fertile depths drained by the Chatooga\u2019s\nheadwaters, and portions of it laid out in cultivated fields, and dotted\nwith farm-houses. At the base of Whiteside, on one of a series of green\nrounded hills, lives an independent, elderly Englishman, named\nGrimshawe; and near by, in a commodious, sumptuously-furnished dwelling,\npartially concealed by a hill and its natural grove, resides his son, a\npleasant man, with a healthy, English cast of countenance. In the dark\nwe passed unseen the latter place; and, pushing along on our dejected\nand dispirited steeds, fording the cold, splashing streams, disappearing\nfrom each other under the funereal shadows of the melancholy forests,\nclimbing the cricket-sounding hills, we at length drew rein before the\nalmost imperceptible outlines of a low building arising under some gaunt\ntrees.\n\nI dismounted, tossed my bridle to my companion, felt my way through a\ntrembling gate, stumbled upon a black porch and approached a door\nthrough whose latch-string hole and gaping slits rays of light were\nsifting. My rattling knock was responded to by a savage growl from an\nanimal whose sharpness of teeth I could easily imagine, and whose\npresence I felt relieved in knowing was within. Then the door opened,\nand a queer looking man stood before me. He was very short in stature.\nHis face was thin and colorless. A neglected brown moustache adorned his\nupper lip. His hair was long and uncombed; and his person, attired in an\nunbleached, unstarched shirt and dirty pantaloons, was odorous with\ntallow. This was Picklesimer.\n\n\u201cCan my friend and I stay here all night?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cI reckon. Our fare\u2019s poor, but you\u2019re welcome.\u201d\n\nThe door swung wider. Several children, fac similes of their sire, and a\nwoman were eating at a table lighted by a tallow dip,--a twisted woolen\nrag laid in a saucer of tallow and one end of it ablaze. There was\nnothing inviting in this picture; but a shelter, however miserable, was\nbetter than the night; and rest, in any shape, preferable to several\nmiles more of dark riding. In a few minutes our supper was ready.\nPicklesimer sat opposite to us and to keep us company, poured out for\nhimself a cup of black coffee.\n\n\u201cCoffee is good fer stimilation,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s so,\u201d said the artist.\n\n\u201cWhen I drinks coffee fer stimilation,\u201d he continued, running his\nfingers back through his hair, \u201cI drinks it without sugar or milk.\u201d\n\nWe had evidently struck a coffee toper.\n\n\u201cDo you drink much of it?\u201d inquired my companion, as Picklesimer began\npouring out another cup full.\n\n\u201cI drinks three and four cups to a meal. Hits powerful stimilation;\u201d and\nthen he rolled his dark, deep-sunken eyes at us over the rim of his\nsaucer as he tipped the contents into the cavity under his moustache.\nEvidently he drank coffee as a substitute for unattainable blockade. Our\nhost had no valuable information to impart; so, soon after supper we\nretired to a room set apart for us, and sank away for a sound night\u2019s\nsleep in a high bed of suffocating feathers.\n\nAfter our breakfast the next morning we went out on the porch. We\nsupposed Picklesimer, too, had finished his repast, but were deceived. A\nminute after, he followed us with a full cup of steaming coffee which he\nplaced on the window-sill, as it was too hot to hold steadily in his\nfingers, and interlarded his remarks with swallows of the liquid. His\ncharges were one dollar apiece for our lodging, fare, and the stabling\nand feed for our horses. We then shook hands and departed. For days his\nshort figure, with a steam-wreathing coffee-cup in hand, was before my\neyes, and in my ears the words:\n\n\u201cI drinks hit fer stimilation.\u201d\n\nHorse cove lies in the extreme southern part of Jackson county, and\nwithin only three or four miles of the Georgia line. Its name is about\nas euphonious as Little Dutch creek, and is applied to this charming\nvalley landscape for no other reason than that a man\u2019s horse was once\nlost in it. Black Rock, with bold, stony, treeless front, looms up on\none border, and on another, Satoola, with precipitous slope,\nwood-covered, forms a sheltering wall for the 600 acres of fertile,\nlevel land below. A hotel keeps open-doors in summer within the cove.\nThe picturesqueness is heightened by the sight of an elegant and\nsubstantial residence, strangely but romantically situated, on the very\nbrow of Black Rock. It is the property of Mr. Ravenel, a wealthy\nCharlestonian.\n\nThrough Horse cove there is a road leading to Walhalla, South Carolina,\nthe nearest railroad depot, twenty-five miles away. It is a decidedly\ninteresting route to be pursued by a tourist. You will follow the\nChatooga river, into Rabun county, Georgia, along a picturesque course\nof falls and rapids, by primitive saw-mills, unworked and decaying,\nthrough a wild and cheerless tract of uncultivated mountain country,\nwhere miserable farm-houses, and none others, but seldom show\nthemselves, and where the unbroken solitude breeds blockade whisky\nstills, in its many dark ravines and pine forests. It would bother any\nofficer, in penetrating this section, to definitely ascertain when his\nfeet were on North Carolina, Georgia, or South Carolina soil.\n\nThe road, however, which we wish to take the traveler over, leads up the\nBlue Ridge, in zigzag course, through the forested aisles of Black Rock.\nThree miles and a half is the distance from its base to the hamlet of\nHighlands. The engineering of the road is so perfect that, in spite of\nthe precipitousness of the mountain, the ascent is gradual. Let the man\non horse-back pay particular attention to his saddle-blankets while\nascending or descending a mountain. If he wishes to keep under him a\nhorse with a sound back, he will have to dismount every few minutes,\nunbuckle the girth, and slip the blankets in place. Among the worst of\nuncomfortable situations for the horseman, is that of being a hundred\nmiles from his destination with a sore-backed saddle animal, which will\nkick or kneel at every attempt to mount. Imagine yourself, at every\nstopping-place, morning and noon, leading that horse to a fence upon\nwhich you, in the manner of a decrepit old fossil, are obliged to climb,\nto throw yourself with one leap into the saddle. The rosy-cheeked\nmountaineer\u2019s daughter will most assuredly laugh at you, and ascribe to\ninactivity the fact of your inability to mount from the ground. A sorry\nfigure! In every mountain stream forded, your steed will kneel to let\nthe water lave his back. No chance for dreaming on your part. But worst\nof all, how disagreeable must a man\u2019s sensations be, over the knowledge\nof the sufferings of the animal under him. Get down and walk would be my\nadvice.\n\nA word more on the subject of saddles and the beasts they cover. If it\nis a mule, see that you have a crupper on him. In descending a mountain\nit is impossible to keep a saddle, without the restraint of a crupper,\nfrom running against a mule\u2019s ears. At such times, if you have\nobjections to straddling a narrow neck which need not necessarily be\nkept stiff, you must walk. A breast-strap is often a valuable piece of\nharness to have with you for either horse or mule.\n\nOn gaining the gap of the mountain the traveler will find himself on a\nlofty table-land of the Blue Ridge, about 4,000 feet above ocean level.\nWhiteside, Satoola, Fodderstack, Black Rock, and Short-off support it on\ntheir shoulders, while their massive heads rise but little above the\nlevel. From the center of the plateau, such of these mountains as are\nvisible appear insignificant hills when compared with their stupendous\nfronts and azure-lancing summits as seen from the contiguous valleys at\nthe base of the Blue Ridge. This table-land contains 7,000 acres of rich\nland, shaded by forests of hard-wood trees and the sharp\npyramidal-foliaged pines. The streams that drain it are of the color of\ntopaz, except where sleepless mills have dammed the waters, and, giving\nthem depth without apparent motion, have left dark, reflecting expanses,\nunrippled except when, at your approach, the plunging bull-frog leaves\nhis widening rings, or a startled muskrat betrays by a silvery wake his\nflight to a sequestered home among the roots of the stream-ward-leaning\nhemlock.\n\nIn the most elevated portion of the center of the plateau is situated a\nthriving hamlet of one hundred or more people; a colony, strictly\nspeaking, above the clouds, and appropriately called Highlands. It was\nfounded in 1874 by Mr. Kelsey and Mr. Hutchinson, men of the same\nenterprising and enthusiastic mould that all founders of towns in\nprimitive countries are cast in. Our first sojourn at Highlands was with\nMr. Kelsey in 1877. Only a few dwellings and as many green clearings\nwere to be seen; still, with an arder which to us seemed savoring of\nmonomania, the projector had already laid out by means of stakes,\nstreets of an incipient city, and talked as though the imaginary avenues\nof the forests were already lined with peaceful homes and shadowed by\nthe walls and spires of churches. His aspirations are being slowly\nrealized. The village, with a nucleus of men of the spirit of its\nfounders, is rapidly assuming respectable proportions. Along the\nprincipal thoroughfare and parallel side streets are many pleasant\ndwellings, culminating with one of the cross streets in headquarters\ncomprising a good hotel kept by a genial landlord, several stores, the\npost-office, two churches, and a school-house which is kept open for\nfull and regular terms. A wide-awake newspaper, on a sound financial\nbasis, made its first issue in January, 1883.\n\nThe farming lands surrounding the village are being settled principally\nby northern families. A railroad at no distant day will penetrate this\nplateau. A practicable route has been surveyed along the summit of the\nBlue Ridge from where the Rabun Gap Short Line crosses at the lowest gap\nin the range. A subscription list, in the form of enforceable contracts\nwherein each signer has bound himself to grade ready for the ties and\nrails certain sections of the route, has been completed. The prospects\nfor the coming of the iron horse are of an encouraging character. The\nmost convenient route to reach Highlands for the traveler who has not\nalready entered the mountains for the summer, is from Walhalla, South\nCarolina, distant twenty-eight miles, on the Blue Ridge railroad.\n\nThe lofty altitude of this plateau, and the precipitous fronts of its\nrimming mountains, bespeak, for its neighborhood, scenes of\ngrandeur,--waterfalls, gorges, mad streams, crags, and forests which,\nwhen looked upon from above, with their appalling hush, wave back the\nobserver. Whiteside, a few miles from the village, is a point which no\nsojourner in the mountains should fail to visit. A sight down a\nprecipice\u2019s \u201cheadlong perpendicular\u201d of nearly 2,000 feet has something\nin it positively chilling. As the observer to secure a fair view lies\nflat on the ground with part of his head projected over a space of dread\nnothingness, the horrible sensations created, which in some minds\nculminate in an overpowering desire to gently slip away and out in air,\nare fancifully attributed to the influences of a \u201cdemon of the abyss.\u201d\nThe pure, apparently tangible air of the void, and the soft moss-like\nbed of the deep-down forest bordered by a silver stream, have an\nirresistible fascination, especially over one troubled with ennui. Get\nthe guide to hold your feet when you crawl to the verge.\n\nThere is a grand mountain prospect from the summit of Whiteside. The\nlandmarks of four states are crowded within the vision. Mount Yonah,\nlifting its head in clouds, is the most marked point in Georgia; a white\nspot, known as the German settlement of Walhalla, is visible in the\nlevel plains of South Carolina; the Smoky Mountains bounding Tennessee\nline the northwestern horizon, and on all sides lie the valleys and\npeaks of the state, in which the feet of Whiteside are rooted.\n\nThe falls of Omakaluka creek, three miles west of Highlands, are a\nsuccession of cascades, 400 feet in descent. The most noteworthy\ncataract, of the plateau region, is located about four miles from\nHighlands, and known as the Dry Fall of the Cullasaja. The name was\ngiven, not for the reason of the fall being dry, but because of the\npracticability of a man walking dry-shod between the falling sheet of\nwater and the cliff over which it plunges. The way to reach it is by the\nturnpike wending toward Franklin twenty-two miles from Highlands. This\nroad is smooth as a floor, and runs for miles through unfenced forests,\nprincipally of oak and hemlock. After pursuing it for three miles, a\nsign board will direct you to turn to your left down a slope. You can\nride or walk, as suits your convenience. It is a pleasant ramble along a\nwooded ridge, before you reach the laureled bank of the river.\nMeanwhile the solemn and tremendous roar of the cataract has been\nresounding in your ears; and it is therefore with a faint foreshadowing\nof what is to be revealed that you pass between the shorn hedge of\nlaurel, to the edge of a cliff, below which, between impending ca\u00f1on\nwalls, fringed with pines, leaps the waters of the Cullasaja, in a sheer\ndescent of ninety feet.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe descent from Highlands into the level valley of the Cullasaja is one\npossessing panoramic grandeur to an extent equalled by but few highways\nin the Alleghanies.\n\nSix waterfalls lie in its vicinity. Down the wooded slope winds the\nroad, at times sweeping round points, from which, by simply halting your\nhorse in his tracks, can be secured deep valley views of romantic\nloveliness.\n\nOn this descent a series of picturesque rapids and cascades enlivens the\nway; and, in a deep gorge, where, on one precipitous side the turnpike\nclings, and the other rises abruptly across the void, tumbles the lower\nSugar Fork falls. They are heard, but unseen, from the narrow road. The\ndescent is arduous, but all difficulties encountered are well repaid by\nthe sight from the bottom of the ca\u00f1on.\n\nFrom the foot of the mountain, on toward Franklin there is little of the\nsublime to hold the attention. From this village the traveler _en route_\nfor iron ways would better travel toward the Georgia state line, which\nruns along the low crest of the Blue Ridge. The road winds beside the\nLittle Tennessee, following it through wide alluvial bottoms until this\nstream which, thirty miles below, is a wide and noble river, has\ndwindled to an insignificant creek. At Rabun gap you pass out of North\nCarolina.\n\nThe scenery of the southern slope of the Blue Ridge, in Northern\nGeorgia, is justly celebrated for its sublimity and wildness. Although\noutside the prescribed limit of this volume, its proximity alone to the\npicturesque regions of the high plateau of the Alleghanies, should\nentitle it to some notice.\n\nFrom Rabun gap it is four miles to Clayton, a dilapidated village,\nconsisting of a few houses grouped along a street which runs over a low\nhill. On the north it is vision-bounded by the wooded heights of the\nBlue Ridge; on the south, a stretch of low land, somewhat broken by\nridges, rolls away. It is the capital of Rabun county.\n\nTwelve miles from Clayton are the cataracts of Tallulah. A comfortable\nhotel stands near them. The scenery in their vicinity is of wild\ngrandeur. Through a ca\u00f1on, nearly 1,000 feet deep, and several miles\nlong, the waters of the Tallulah force their way. The character of the\nscenery of the chasm is thus described:\n\n     \u201cThe walls are gigantic cliffs of dark granite. The heavy masses,\n     piled upon each other in the wildest confusion, sometimes shoot\n     out, overhanging the yawning gulf, and threatening to break from\n     their seemingly frail tenure, and hurl themselves headlong into its\n     dark depths. Along the rocky and uneven bed of this deep abyss, the\n     infuriated Terrora frets and foams with ever-varying course. Now,\n     it flows in sullen majesty, through a deep and romantic glen,\n     embowered in the foliage of the trees, which here and there spring\n     from the rocky ledges of the chasm-walls. Anon, it rushes with\n     accelerated motion, breaking fretfully over protruding rocks, and\n     uttering harsh murmurs, as it verges a  precipice--\n\n          \u2018Where, collected all,\n    In one impetuous torrent, down the steep\n    It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round:\n    At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad;\n    Then whitening by degrees as prone it falls,\n    And from the loud-resounding rocks below\n    Dashed in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft\n    A hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe other points of interest are the valley of Nacoochee, Mount Yonah,\nthe cascades of Estatoa visible from Rabun gap, and the Toccoa Falls,\nfive or six miles from Tallulah. At Toccoa the journey can be ended by\nthe traveler striking the Atlanta & Charlotte Air Line.\n\n\n\n\nA ZIGZAG TOUR.\n\n    Were there, below, a spot of holy ground\n    Where from distress a refuge might be found,\n    And solitude prepare the soul for heaven;\n    Sure, nature\u2019s God that spot to man had given\n    Where falls the purple morning far and wide\n    In flakes of light upon the mountain side;\n    Where with loud voice the power of water shakes\n    The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes.\n         --_Wordsworth._\n\n\n[Illustration: A]lthough the Alleghanies south of the Virginia line have\nfor many years been recognized as a summer resort, they have never\nreceived due appreciation. The recognition has been almost wholly on the\npart of Southerners. The people of the North, at the yearly advent of\nthe hot season, have had their attention turned to the sea shore, the\nlakes, and the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire. To go south in\nsummer seemed suicidal. Within comparatively late years the dissipation\nof this false impression has begun; and other ideas than hot, sultry\nskies and oppressive air have been associated in the minds of an\ninitiated few with the contemplation of a journey to North Carolina. A\nknowledge of valleys 3,000 feet high, with mountains around as high\nagain, situated north of the thirty-fifth parallel north latitude, has\nhad some effect to bring about this change. The climate in such a\ncountry would naturally be mild, pleasant and invigorating. To avoid\nbeing statistical the figures of mean, extreme and average temperatures\nof different seasons taken with accuracy for a number of successive\nyears, will not be given here; by comparison of the table of mean\ntemperatures with observations taken throughout the United States and\nEurope, the climate of Asheville is found to be similar to that of\nVenice, being the same in winter, and varying not more than two degrees\nin any of the other seasons. The altitude of the entire mountain\ncountry; the freedom of its air from dust; its excellent drainage; clear\nskies; spring water and invigorating breezes recommend it to the notice\nof invalids, and particularly to those with pulmonary diseases. The\nwinters, while more rigorous than those of the neighboring lowlands of\nthe South, are extremely mild when compared with the temperature of the\nstates north of this region. The mountain heights are frequently capped\nwith snow, but the fall in the valleys is light; sometimes the winter\npassing without a snow storm.\n\nFor tourists from the western, north-western and southern states, the\ngreat line of the East Tennessee, Virginia & Georgia railroad will place\nthem, at Morristown, in connection with a branch railway penetrating the\nheart of the mountains, and after a journey across the state line, via\nWarm Springs and the French Broad, will land them in the streets of the\ncapital of Western North Carolina. Another route for Southerners is the\nSpartanburg & Asheville railroad leading up from South Carolina to\nwithin eighteen miles of Asheville. The thoroughfare for travelers from\nthe eastern and northern states is via the Richmond & Danville system of\nrailroads to Salisbury, and there changing to the Western North\nCarolina railroad, which now crosses the entire breadth of the\nAlleghanies.\n\nThe traveler over the Western North Carolina railroad is first brought\nwithin view of the dim, waving outline of the Blue Ridge, as the train\nrounds a bend just before reaching Hickory--a center of trade, spoken of\nin another connection. This village is an agreeable place to spend a few\nweeks. Many persons make it the starting place to distant points in the\nmountains, while the number amounts to hundreds annually, who take the\nstage here _en-route_ to one of the oldest and most popular resorts west\nof the Catawba--Sparkling Catawba springs, seven miles distant.\n\nThe road leading from Hickory to Catawba Springs, is so level and well\nworked that less than an hour need be occupied in the journey. Rolling\nfields of corn, cotton and tobacco, alternating with forests of pine,\noak and hickory, line the way. On the right the distant view is bounded\nby the horizon obliquely resting upon an undulating surface; on the left\nby the ever changing outline of mountain peaks, twenty to forty miles\ndistant. The stage at last turns, rumbles down a gentle hill, crosses a\nbright stream, and stops at the entrance gate of the resort. While the\ngate is being opened, there is time for a hurried glance at the\nsurroundings. The creek just crossed, enters a level plat of\nsmooth-shorn lawn, shaded by large forest trees, under which, without\norder in their arrangement, are several low white building--bath houses,\ntenpin alley and spring shelters. Your eye will soon settle upon an\ninteresting group around and within a low iron railing which guards the\nsparkling mineral fountain. There are seen, with cup in hand, old and\nmiddle-aged men and women, heavy-eyed and sallow-faced, drinking the\nhealth-giving water; going to and fro, and mingling with them are the\nairy devotees of pleasure--men and women; last but noisiest and most\nnumerous are the children playing and chasing across the lawn. The\nstage goes a few rods further, and then turns into a winding drive,\nthrough the wooded amphitheater shown in the illustration on page 235.\n\nAround the semi-circular summit of the hill up which you have ridden, is\na row of sixteen cottages, containing from two to four rooms each. Half\nway round is a three-story hall known among guests as the \u201cCastle.\u201d On\nthe extreme left are two other large buildings; one containing the\nreception rooms, and office on the ground floor, the other the kitchen\nand dinning-room, and over them the dancing hall. There is ample\naccommodation in these buildings for 300 guests, and nearly that number\nhas occupied them at one time. The grounds consist of 250 acres--forest,\nfields and orchards.\n\nEvery resort has its sunrise views, its sunset views, its lover\u2019s walks\nand lover\u2019s retreats, flirtation corners and acceptance glens. All these\nplaces at Catawba springs are at proper distances, and conveniently\nsecluded. The Catawba river is one mile away, and Barrett\u2019s mountain\nfive. From the summit of the highest peak the entire chain of the Blue\nRidge from Swannanoa gap to Ashe county is in plain view. Lying before\nit and jutting into its spurs, is seen the whole valley of the Upper\nCatawba.\n\nThe altitude of Catawba springs is 1,200 feet. The prevailing winds\nbeing from the north and west over the mountain summits, produce cool\nclimate. Eighty-nine was the maximum temperature last season.\n\nThe principal spring which has given to the place its reputation as a\nhealth resort, contains a variety of minerals in solution. A sparkle is\ngiven to the water by the constant ebullition of phosphoric and carbonic\ngases. There are four other springs within a radius of fifty steps, one\nof them being pure freestone.\n\nThere is nothing of scenic interest between Hickory and Morganton--the\noldest village in the mountain district, having been founded during the\nRevolution. It subsequently became the home of the leading spirits among\nthe western settlers. From a society point of view the town sustains its\nancient reputation for polish and cleverness. The business buildings are\nmostly old, but the avenues are pleasant, and the residences inviting.\nThere are several commanding views of scenery in the vicinity, that from\nthe dome of the Western Insane asylum surpassing all others in scope. It\nis a charming panorama of cultivated fields, winding rivers, and distant\nslopes terminating in rugged peaks. The asylum building itself is a\nmagnificent structure, having a capacity of 400 patients. The grounds\nconsists of 250 acres, mostly covered by the native forest.\n\nThirteen miles from Morganton, and two miles off the road to\nRutherfordton, is Glen Alpine. The building, as first seen from the gate\nof the lawn, might be taken for the villa of a capitalist, so homelike\nis it in appearance. Its capacity is 200 guests, though the fa\u00e7ade view\ndoes not indicate a structure half so large. Adjoining are small\nbuildings for gaming purposes. The terrace on which the hotel is\nsituated, is surrounded on three sides by slopes stretching from peaks\nsurmounting the South Mountain range, the highest being Probst\u2019s knob,\nin the rear. That elevated summit affords an extended view in all\ndirections. The South Mountain peaks are within range. Overlooking the\nCatawba valley, the Blue Ridge and its spurs are seen in perfect outline\nall the way from Hickory Nut gap to Watauga. Above and beyond the Blue\nRidge several peaks of the Blacks may be counted, and far in the\ndistance on a clear sky will be distinguished the hazy outline of the\nRoan. There is a mineral spring in the vicinity of the hotel, which is\nthe attraction for many people afflicted, but by far the largest number\nof guests are pleasure seekers.\n\nPiedmont Springs hotel, about fifteen miles from Morganton in Burke\ncounty, is open for the reception of guests during the summer months.\n\nAfter leaving Morganton, going west, following the Catawba river, you\nhave occasional glimpses of Table Rock, Hawk-Bill, and Grandfather, on\nthe right, and the frowning Blacks in front. Marion is the last town,\neast of the Blue Ridge, where traveling equipages can be procured. It is\na pleasantly located village, of something less than 1,000 inhabitants,\nhaving two hotels, a variety of stores, and a newspaper printing office.\nIt is from this point that most commercial travelers drive to reach\ntheir customers at Burnsville, Bakersville and other points in Yancey\nand Mitchell counties. Sightseers, going to the Roan, fishermen and\nhunters, to the Toe or Cane river wildernesses, may leave the railroad\nat this point with advantage. The base of the Blue Ridge is only five\nmiles distant.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE BLUE RIDGE.]\n\nLeaving Marion, heavy grades, deep cuts, and a tunnel remind the\ntraveler that he has entered the mountains. His previous traveling has\nbeen between them, through the broad valley of the Catawba. Henry\u2019s\nstation, which is merely a hotel and eating-house, stands at the foot of\na long and steep slope. By climbing the bank a short distance, to the\ntop of a small hill, opposite the building, the observer will, from that\npoint, see seven sections of railroad track cut off from each other by\nintervening hills. If seven sticks, of unequal length, should be tossed\ninto the air, they could not fall upon the ground more promiscuously\nthan these seven sections of railroad appear from the point indicated.\n\nThe elevation to be overcome in passing from Henry\u2019s to the Swannanoa\nvalley is 1,100 feet, the distance in an air line about two miles--the\nold stage road covering it in a little less than three, an average grade\nof 400 feet to the mile. Of course the railroad had to be constructed on\na more circuitous route, which was found by following the general course\nof a mountain stream, rounding the head of its rivulets, and cutting or\ntunneling sharply projecting spurs. At two places, a stone tossed from\nthe track above would fall about 100 feet upon the track below; one of\nthese is Round Knob, the circuit of which is more than a mile. The whole\ndistance to the top, by rail, is nine and three-quarters miles. The\ngrade at no point exceeds 116 feet to the mile, and is equated to less\nthan that on curves. There are seven tunnels, the shortest being\neighty-nine feet, and the longest,--at the top,--Swannanoa, 1,800. The\ntotal length of tunneling was 3,495 feet. During the ascent the traveler\ncatches many charming glimpses of valley, slope, and stream. The view\njust before plunging into the blackness of Swannanoa tunnel is\nenchanting. A narrow ravine is crossed at right angles, between whose\nca\u00f1on walls, far below, glistens the spray of a small torrent. The\nbackground of the picture is the delicately tinted eastern sky, against\nwhich appears, in pale blue, the symmetrical outline of King\u2019s mountain,\nsixty miles away. It is an interesting experiment, in making this trip,\nto pick out some point on the top of the ridge, say the High Pinnacle,\neasily distinguished as the highest point in view from Henry\u2019s; fix its\ndirection in your mind, and then, at intervals, as you round the curves\nof the ascent, try to find it among the hundred peaks in view.\n\nAfter the long tunnel is passed, you are in the Swannanoa valley. The\nnext hour takes you rapidly through the fields and meadows of this\nhighland bottom, bordered by mighty mountains, until the train enters\nthe Asheville depot.\n\nIn the center of the widest portion of that great plateau, watered by\nthe French Broad and its tributaries, is situated the city of the\nmountains--Asheville, the county-seat of Buncombe. To obtain some idea\nof the location of the place, picture to yourself a green, mountain\nbasin, thirty miles in breadth, rolling with lofty rounded hills, from\nthe crest of any of which the majestic fronts of the Black and Craggy\ncan be seen along the eastern horizon; the Pisgah spur of the Balsams,\nthe Junaluskas and Newfound range, looming along the western; in the\nnorthern sky, far beyond the invisible southern boundary of Madison, the\nmisty outlines of the Smokies; and towards the south, across Henderson\ncounty, the winding Blue Ridge. Amid such sublime surroundings, at an\naltitude of 2,250 feet, stands the city on the summits of a cluster of\nswelling eminences, whose feet are washed by the waters of the French\nBroad and Swannanoa. Close along the eastern limit of the city arises a\nsteep, wooded ridge, whose most prominent elevation, named Beaucatcher,\naffords an admirable standpoint from which to view the lower landscape.\n\nThe habitations and public buildings of 3,500 people lie below. You see\na picturesque grouping of heavy, red buildings, dazzling roofs, a great\ndomed court-house, a white church spire here and there, humble dwellings\nclinging to the hill-sides, and pretentious mansions amid fair orchards\non the green brows of hills; yellow streets, lined with noble shade\ntrees, climbing the natural elevations, sinking into wide, gentle\nhollows, and disappearing utterly;--this for the heart of the city.\nAround, on bare slopes of hills, low beside running rivulets, on\nisolated eminences, and in the distance, on the edges of green,\nencircling woods, stand houses forming the outskirts. Three hundred\nfeet below the line of the city\u2019s central elevation, through a wide\nfertile valley, sweeps smoothly and silently along, the dark waters of\nthe French Broad. It is through sweet pastoral scenes that this river is\nnow flowing; the rugged and picturesque scenery for which it is noted\nlies further down its winding banks. At the east end of the substantial\niron bridge which spans the stream, is the depot for the Western North\nCarolina railroad. From your perch you may perceive, wafted above the\ndistant brow of the hill, the smoke-rings from the locomotive which has\nwithin the past two hours \u201csplit the Blue Ridge,\u201d and is now on its way\ntoward the station.\n\nIf it is a clear, sunny day, the beauty of the scene will be\nindescribable: the city on its rolling hills, the deep valley beyond,\nand, far away, Pisgah (a prince among mountains), the symmetrical form\nof Sandy Mush Bald, and between them, distant thirty miles, the almost\nindistinct outlines of the majestic Balsams. A transparent sky, a mellow\nsunlight, and that soft air, peculiar to this country, which covers with\nsuch a delicate purple tinge the distant headlands, add their charms to\nthe landscape.\n\nIn a stroll or drive through the city you will find it remarkably well\nbuilt up for the extent of its population. If it were not for the\nknowledge of its being a summer resort, one would wonder at the number\nand capacity of its hotels. The Swannanoa and Eagle, two commodious,\nelegant, and substantial buildings, stand facing each other on the main\nthoroughfare. Several other good public houses, although less\npretentious, line the same street. There is a busy air about the square\nbefore the court-house and on the streets which branch from it.\n\nMen of capital are beginning to locate here. With every summer new\nhouses are growing into form on the many charming sites for the display\nof costly residences. The smooth streets arise and descend by well-kept\nlawns, orchards, and dwellings. A home-like air pervades. There are few\ntowns in the United States which, for natural advantages, combined with\nnumber of population, and pleasant artificial surroundings, can compare\nwith Asheville. Besides advancing in commercial and manufacturing\nimportance, Asheville will, at no late date, be spoken of as the city of\nretired capitalists.\n\nAs early as the War of 1812, Asheville was a small hamlet and trading\npost. Twenty years after, it received its charter of incorporation.\nMorristown was the original name; which was changed, in compliment to\nGovernor Samuel Ashe. The county was named in honor of Edward Buncombe.\nIn 1817 Felix Walker was elected to the House of Representatives. On one\noccasion, while Walker was making a speech in Congress, he failed to\ngain the attention of the members, who kept leaving the hall. Noticing\nthis, he remarked that it was all right, as he was only talking for\nBuncombe, meaning his district. The expression was immediately caught\nup, and used in application to one speaking with no particular object in\nview.\n\nAt present, Asheville is the principal tobacco market west of Danville,\non the Richmond & Danville system, four large warehouses being located\nhere. Two newspapers are published in the city. The _Citizen_, a\nDemocratic weekly and semi-weekly sheet, one of the best papers in the\nstate, is the official organ of the Eighth district. The _News_ is a\nweekly Republican paper.\n\nAmong the societies worthy of notice, is the Asheville club, comprising\nabout forty members. Its organization is for social purposes. A pleasant\nroom has been fitted up for its headquarters, where the members can\nwhile away their leisure hours in reading and conversation.\n\nBefore the advent, into Asheville, of the railroad, in 1880, tourists\napproached the mountain city by stages from either the terminus of the\nWestern North Carolina railroad, at the eastern foot of the Blue Ridge;\nfrom Greenville, South Carolina; or up the French Broad from Tennessee.\nWith the present speedy and convenient way of reaching it, the influx of\nnew-comers increases with every season. Every day during the months of\nJuly, August, and September, when the season is at its height, the\nbusiness portion of Asheville resembles the center, on market days, of a\nmetropolis of twenty times the size of the mountain town. The streets,\nespecially before the hotels, are thronged with citizens, and the crowds\nof summer visitors, on foot or in carriages, returning from or starting\non drives along some of the romantic roads. Parties on horseback canter\nthrough the streets, drawing short rein before suddenly appearing,\nrattling, white-covered, apple-loaded wagons, driven by nonchalant\ndrivers, and drawn by oxen as little concerned as those who hold the\ngoad or pull the rope fastened to their horns; the only animated member\nof the primitive party being the dog which, in the confusion, having his\nfoot trodden upon by one of the reined-up, prancing horses, awakes the\nwelkin with his cries as he drags himself into a blind alley.\n\nEven in daytime a dance is going on in the Swannanoa ball-room on a\nlevel with the street. The strains of music from it and whirling figures\nseen from the sidewalk, will be enough to clinch the opinion that you\nare in a gay and fashionable summer resort. Every week-day night dances\nare held at both the Swannanoa and Eagle. If you are single, there is\nlittle doubt but you will participate in this revelry; if you have lost\nthe sprightliness of youth or the happy chuckle of healthy later life,\nin vain you may tuck your head under the pillow and vent your empty\nmaledictions upon the musicians and their lively strains.\n\nThere are a number of pleasant drives out of Asheville. One is on the\nold stage-road leading up from Henry\u2019s, a station for a few years the\nterminus of the slow-moving construction of the railroad. You drive or\nwalk down the hill towards the south by houses close upon the road and\nseveral rural mansions back in natural groves. A heavy plank bridge,\nwith trees leaning over either approach to it, spans the slow, noiseless\nSwannanoa. Instead of taking the bridge, turn sharp to the left and wind\nwith the smooth road along the stream. There is a rich pulseless quiet\nalong this river road that is truly delightful. At places the vista is\nof striking tropical character. The brilliant trees, their flowing green\ndraperies, the seemingly motionless river! If you have time, you can\nfollow on for miles until where the waters are noisy, the bed shallow,\nrhododendrons and kalmia fringe its banks and the gradual rise of the\ncountry becomes perceptible. It is the route generally taken from\nAsheville to the Black mountains. Another drive is to the White Sulphur\nSprings, four miles from the city. The way is down the steep hill on the\nwest to the French Broad, across the long bridge, and by the village of\nSilver Springs, where lately a comfortable hotel has been erected. The\nlands of this village being level, close on the river bank and connected\nby the bridge at the depot, afford excellent sites for manufactories.\nThe road now leads up a winding ascent, around the outskirts of\nTakeoskee farm (the extensive grounds, overlooking the river, of a\nwealthy Asheville citizen), through woods and cultivated lands to the\nSpring farm.\n\nBig Craggy is an objective point for the tourist. The easiest route to\nit is via the road towards Burnsville and then up Ream\u2019s creek, making a\nmorning\u2019s drive. A carriage can be taken to the summit of the mountain.\n\nA portion of the old stage road to Warm Springs is an inviting drive. It\nruns north from the court-house, over the hills and then down the French\nBroad. Exquisite landscape pictures lie along the ancient thoroughfare.\nThe country residence of General Vance will be passed on the way.\nPeaceful farm-houses, surrounded by green corn lands, yellow wheat\nfields, clover-covered steeps, and dark woods, will file by in panoramic\nsuccession. As late as 1882, the stages pursuing this road were the only\nregular means of conveyance from Asheville to Marshal and Warm Springs.\nThe road was as rough as it was picturesque. From the fact of its being\nhugged for miles by the river and beetling cliffs, this could not have\nbeen otherwise. At times the horses and wheels of the stage splashed in\nthe water of the river where it had overflown the stone causeways;\nagain, boulders, swept up by a recent freshet, rendered traveling almost\nimpossible. A considerable portion of the road has been appropriated for\nthe bed of the railroad, and all that was once seen from a stage-top can\nnow with more comfort be looked upon from a car window.\n\nSixteen miles west of Asheville is a model country hotel, at Turnpike.\nFor long years it was the noonday stopping place for the stages on the\nway from Asheville to Waynesville. Since the railroad began operation it\nhas become a station, and when we last came through from the West it was\nthe breakfast place for the passengers. It is situated at the head of\nHominy valley, amid pleasant mountain surroundings. John C. Smathers,\nthe genial, rotund proprietor, will, with his pleasant wife and\ndaughters, render the tourist\u2019s stay so agreeable that the intended week\nof sojourn here may be lengthened into a month. John C. is a\nrepresentative country man. What place he actually fills in the small\nsettlement at Turnpike, can be best illustrated by giving the reported\ncross-examination which he underwent one day at the hands of an\ninquisitive traveler:\n\n\u201cMr. Smathers,\u201d said this traveler, \u201care you the proprietor of this\nhotel?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is postmaster here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho keeps the store?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho runs the blacksmith shop?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow about the mill?\u201d\n\n\u201cDitto.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnything else?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I have something of a farm, let me tell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd as a Christian?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am a pillar in the Methodist church; the father of thirteen children;\nand my sons and sons-in-law just about run the neighboring county-seat.\u201d\n\nWith a low whistle the traveler surveyed John C. from head to foot.\n\nThe trip from Asheville to Hendersonville, C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head, and the\nmountains of Transylvania should not be omitted by the tourist. The\nfirst place you pass, on the State road, ten miles from your starting\npoint, and twelve from Hendersonville, is Arden Park. The estate,\nconsisting of more than 300 acres, is owned by C. W. Beal. The unwooded\nportion is well improved and under a good state of cultivation. Upon an\nelevation near the center of the farm, is situated the residence of the\nproprietor, and near it the commodious buildings of Arden Park hotel,\nwhich are annually open for the reception of guests during the summer\nmonths.\n\nSurrounded by the ordinary scenes of rural farm life, this hotel\npartakes more of the character of a country house than any other in\nWestern North Carolina. The view from the front veranda is over an\nexpanse of undulating fields, stretching down to the French Broad and\nrising beyond; and is bounded in the distance by massive spurs of the\nhigh Pisgah mountains, behind which the sun hides itself at evening.\nMore than 100 acres of the estate is in the native forest, making, with\nits winding roads and paths, a pleasant park. The river, only one mile\ndistant, will afford the angler an opportunity to utilize his skill and\nthe more idle pleasure-seeker many an interesting stroll.\n\nThe park is richly favored with springs, both of mineral and soft\nfreestone water. A chalybeate spring, near the hotel, has been analyzed,\nand found almost identical in its properties with the famed\n\u201cSweetwater,\u201d in Virginia. The interior of the main building is\npeculiarly attractive. The parlor, hall, and reception room are finished\nin handsome designs with native woods--chestnut, oak, and pine.\n\nOn the main thoroughfare, one mile from the hotel, is the village of\nArden, laid out a few years since by Mr. Beal. Upon completion of the\nSpartanburg and Asheville railroad, it will be the intermediate station\nbetween Hendersonville and Asheville. At present both village and hotel\nare dependent upon the daily stage line.\n\nThe visitor to Arden hotel will find it a pleasant home-like place. Its\nsurroundings are beautiful, but not grand. It will be found an agreeable\nplace to rest and enjoy the comforts of wholesome country living. A\nlarge percentage of the company the past two seasons came from the coast\nregions of South Carolina.\n\nHendersonville is the hub of the upper French Broad region. This\nprosperous village, the second in size west of the Blue Ridge, is\nsituated on the terminus of a ridge which projects into the valley of\nthe Ochlawaha, and overlooks a wide stretch of low bottom lying within a\ncircle of mountains. When the county was formed in 1838, a point on the\nriver six miles distant was designated as the site of the seat of\njustice, but a more central location was generally desired, and\naccordingly the law was amended two years later and the seat removed to\nHendersonville.\n\nThe town has a cheerful appearance. The main street is wide and well\nshaded by three rows of trees, one on each side and one through the\ncenter. Several of the business houses are substantially and\nartistically built of brick, giving the stranger a favorable opinion of\nthe thrift and enterprise of the merchants. A number of handsome\nresidences give additional evidence of prosperity.\n\nThe population of Hendersonville numbers about one thousand. Seventeen\nstores transact the mercantile business, and five hotels keep open doors\nto the traveling public. As in all resort towns, private boarding houses\nare numerous. The moral and educational interests of the community are\nministered to by churches, a public school, and an academy of more than\nlocal reputation.\n\nThere seems to be a harmony of effort among the citizens to make the\nstay of strangers pleasant, by furnishing them both information and\nentertainment. Several mountains in the vicinity afford extensive\nlandscape views. \u201cStony,\u201d four miles distant, commands the whole\nOchlawaha valley and a wide sweep of the curving French Broad. The\ncountry embraced within the view from Mount Hebron is more rugged and\nbroken. A good standpoint from which to view the village, valley, and\nbordering mountains is Dun Cragin, the residence of H. G. Ewart, Esq.\nThirteen miles of plateau and valley intervene between that point and\nSugar Loaf; Bear Wallow is about the same distance; Shaking Bald\ntwenty-five miles away, and Tryon twenty-one. A part of the view is\nrepresented by the illustration on page 135.\n\nSugar Loaf mountain, one of the most conspicuous points seen from\nHendersonville, has associated with it an historical legend of\nrevolutionary times. The Mills family, living below the Ridge, were\nnoted tory leaders. Colonel Mills and his brother William were both\nengaged on the royalist side in the battle of King\u2019s Mountain. The\nformer was captured, and afterward hanged by the patriot commanders at\nGuilford C. H. The latter escaped, with a wound in the heel, and made\nhis home in a cave in the side of Sugar Loaf, living on wild meats, and\nsleeping on a bed of leaves. There he remained till the close of the war\nwhen, his property having been confiscated, he entered land in the\nFrench Broad valley, and became one of its earliest settlers. In the\ncave there are still found evidences of its ancient occupancy--coals,\ncharred sticks, and bones.\n\nHendersonville is reached by two routes--by stage, from Asheville, and\nby rail from Spartanburg, on the Air Line. The latter road, the usual\ncourse of travel from the south, in making the ascent of the Blue Ridge,\ndoes not circle and wind as does the Western North Carolina; but its\ngrade, at places, is almost frightful. One mile of track overcomes 300\nfeet of elevation. One bold, symmetrical peak is in view from the train\nwindows during most of the journey, and from several points of interest\nin the upper valley. Tryon mountain may be styled the twin of Pisgah,\nand both, in shape, resemble the pyramids of Egypt. From Captain Tom\u2019s\nresidence, in Hendersonville, both may be seen, in opposite directions.\nTryon preserves the name of the most tyrannical and brutal of North\nCarolina\u2019s colonial governors. It was his conduct, in attempting to\ndestroy the instincts of freedom, which precipitated the Mecklenburg\ndeclaration of independence in 1775.\n\nThe Spartanburg and Asheville railroad at present terminates at\nHendersonville. It is partially graded to Asheville, and there is some\nprospect of its early completion.\n\nThe attractions of this section of the grand plateau of the Alleghanies,\nwas made known to the coast residents of South Carolina about the year\n1820. Four years after that date, Daniel Blake, of Charleston, pioneered\nthe way from the low country, and built a summer residence on Cane\ncreek. Charles Bering was the founder of the Flat Rock settlement, in\nthe year 1828, and made a purchase of land, built a summer residence,\nabout four miles from the site of the present county-seat and near the\ncrest of the Blue Ridge. His example was followed by Mitchell King and\nC. S. Memminger, Sr., a year or two later. The community soon became\nfamous for refinement, and the place for healthfulness of climate and\nbeauty of scenery.\n\nThe Flat Rock valley is about two miles wide and four miles long,\nreaching from the Ochlawha to the crest of the Blue Ridge, and may be\ndescribed as an undulating plain. It embraced, before the war, about\ntwenty estates, among others the country seats of Count de Choiseue, the\nFrench consul-general, and E. Molyneux, the British consul-general. The\nvalley, until recently, was reached in carriages by the low country\npeople.\n\nAt the opening of summer the planter or merchant and his family, taking\nalong the entire retinue of domestic servants, started for the cool,\nrural home in the highlands, where the luxurious living of the coast was\nmaintained, to which additional gaiety and freedom was given by the\ninvigorating climate and wildness of surroundings. Carriages and four,\nwith liveried drivers, thronged the public highways. The Flat Rock\nsettlement brought the highest development of American civilization into\nthe heart of one of the most picturesque regions of the American\ncontinent. Wealthy and cultured audiences assembled at St. John\u2019s church\non each summer Sabbath. The magnificence of the ante-war period is no\nlonger maintained; the number of aristocratic families has decreased,\nand some of the residences show the dilapidations of time; yet a refined\nand sociable air pervades the place, which, with the recollections of\nthe past, makes it an interesting locality to visit. All who may have\noccasion to stop, will find a good hotel and hospitable entertainment\nat the hands of Henry Faunce, Esq., an eccentric but interesting\nlandlord of the old school.\n\nFrom Hendersonville to Buck Forest is twenty miles over a fair road.\nThis place derives its name from the fact that the hills and mountains\nin the vicinity are reported to abound in deer. Of late years the amount\nof game has been rapidly decreasing, but even yet a well-organized and\nwell-conducted chase is seldom barren of results. Buck Forest hotel is\nan old-fashioned frame house, situated in the midst of wild and inviting\nscenery. The traveler will recognize the place by the sign of an immense\nelk horn on a post, and by a line of deer heads and buck antlers under\nthe full length veranda.\n\nFrom Hendersonville to C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head is twenty miles. There are two\nroads--one up the valley of Green river, and the other to Little river,\nthence up that stream through Jones\u2019 gap. C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head is also reached\nby stages from Greenville, South Carolina, on the Air Line railroad,\ndistant twenty-four miles. The Little River road leads through the\npicturesque valley of the upper French Broad region. After traversing\nwide and fertile alluvions, the road enters, between close mountain\nslopes, a narrow gorge, through which the river, for a distance of four\nmiles, rushes and roars in a continuous succession of sparkling cascades\nand rapids. The most noted point is Bridal Veil falls, so named from the\nsilvery appearance of the spray in sunlight. It is not a sheer fall, but\nan almost vertical rapid with numerous breaks. On a bright day the\ncolors of the rainbow play between the ca\u00f1on walls.\n\nC\u00e6sar\u2019s Head is a place about which much has been written, but no pen\ncan describe the overpowering effect of the view from that precipice. I\nshall attempt to give only a few outlines to enable the reader, by the\naid of his imagination, to form some idea of the bold and broken\ncharacter of this part of the Blue Ridge.\n\nOne evening in August I crossed the state line through Jones gap, and\nrode along the backbone of the spur. A dark cloud had mantled the\nmountain tops all the afternoon. So dense was it, that the deep gorge of\nLittle river had the appearance of a tunnel, reverberating monotonously\nwith the sound of falling waters. On the south side of the ridge the\ncloud clung to the ground, making it impossible during the last three\nmiles of the ride to see ten feet in any direction. No rain was falling,\nyet drops of water were soon trickling down the saddle and the chill of\nmoisture penetrated my clothing. It was fast growing dark when a sound\nof laughter signaled the end of the journey. The indistinct outline of a\nlarge white house appeared a moment later, and on the long veranda sat\nnumerous groups of men and women.\n\nMy thoroughly dampened condition must have appealed to the sympathies of\nthe manager of the hotel, for I had scarcely entered my room when a\nservant appeared at the door with a tray of needed stimulants, after the\nfashion of the hospitable southern planter. Every attention was bestowed\nupon me, and a short time after I was in as agreeable a condition as I\nhave ever been before or since. In the journal for the day, written up\nthat evening, is this concluding sentence, which I had no inclination to\nchange afterwards: \u201cThis establishment is managed by a man who knows his\nbusiness, and is liberal enough to give his guests what they have a\nreasonable right to expect.\u201d\n\nAt daybreak I joined Judge Presley, of Summerville, who has spent nine\nsummers here and knows the surroundings perfectly. From an eminence near\nthe hotel, the peaks of the Blue Ridge and its spurs can be counted for\ntens of miles in both directions, those in the distance resembling in\nthe morning light, parapets of massive castle walls. \u201cDo you see,\u201d said\nthe Judge, pointing in a northeasterly direction, \u201cthat oval line\n\n[Illustration: BOLD HEADLANDS.\n\nTable Rock and C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head.]\n\nagainst the sky? That is King\u2019s mountain, on the border of the state,\nseventy miles from here. Now, look the other way, between yon\npyramid-shaped peaks. There you see what might be a cloud. It is Stone\nmountain, near Atlanta, Georgia, 110 miles distant. You have overlooked\nan expanse of 180 miles of country.\u201d\n\nIt was still clear when, an hour later, our party arrived at the ledge\nof rock called C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head. A strong imagination is required to see any\nresemblance in the profile to a man\u2019s head, much less to a Roman\u2019s of\nthe heroic type. We are inclined to believe the story told by a\nmountaineer. An old man in the vicinity had a dog named C\u00e6sar, whose\nhead bore a striking resemblance to the rock, and being desirous to\ncommemorate his dog, the appellation, \u201cC\u00e6sar\u2019s Head,\u201d was given to the\nrock. But this is a point not likely to be considered by the tourist,\nfirst dizzied by a glance down the precipice into the \u201cDismal\u201d 1,600\nfeet below. The view is strikingly suggestive of the ocean. Our\nstandpoint was almost a third of a mile above the green plain of upper\nSouth Carolina, its wave-like corrugations extending to the horizon\nline. Patches of foamy white clouds jostled about the surface, and above\nthem, white caps floated upon the breeze. The breaker-like roar of\ncataracts, at the base of the mountain, completed the deception. Boldest\nand most picturesque of the numerous precipitous headlands, is Table\nRock, six miles distant. There are several glens and waterfalls in the\nvicinity of the hotel, numerous walks leading to views of mountain\nscenery, and drives through solitary glens. The view from the top of\nRich mountain is broadest in its scope, taking in the Transylvania\nvalley. The \u201cDismal,\u201d that is, the apparent pit into which you look from\nthe \u201cHead,\u201d may be reached by a circuitous route, but the labor of\ngetting there will be rewarded only by disappointment. I spent a\nforenoon climbing down and an afternoon climbing out. It is a good\nplace for bears to hibernate and snakes to sun themselves, nothing more.\nI was reminded, by this foolish exploit, of a paragraph from Mark Twain:\n\n     \u201cIn order to make a man or boy covet anything, it is only necessary\n     to make the thing difficult to attain.... Work consists of whatever\n     a body is obliged to do, and play consists in whatever a body is\n     not obliged to do. This is why performing on a treadmill, or\n     constructing artificial flowers is work, while rolling tenpins or\n     climbing Mount Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen\n     in England who drive four-horse passenger coaches, twenty or thirty\n     miles on a daily line, in summer, because the privilege costs them\n     considerable money, but if they were offered wages for the service\n     that would turn it into work, and then they would resign.\u201d\n\nBrevard, the capital town of Transylvania, is a center from which to\nmake several short journeys to scenic points. In reaching it from\nC\u00e6sar\u2019s Head, take the Conestee road, which runs over an undulating\nplateau declining gently from the base of the hills which mark the crest\nof the Blue Ridge, and then down the narrow gorge of the Conestee fork.\nThere are few houses to mar the wild beauty of nature. Seven miles from\nBrevard is the waterfall bearing the name of the stream. The ruin of a\nprimitive mill is the perfect complement of the natural picturesqueness\nof the scene. The road finally descends into a narrow bottom, which\ngradually widens until it is lost in the broad stretch of the level\nvalley of the main stream.\n\nThe village of Brevard consists of about fifty houses. It is situated a\nshort distance from the French Broad. The distance from Asheville is\nthirty-two miles; from Hendersonville, the nearest railroad point, a\nthird less. One of the most noted places reached from Brevard is Shining\nRock, seen from mountain tops thirty miles distant. It consists of an\nimmense precipice of white quartz, which glistens in the sunlight like\nsilver. The precipice is 600 feet high and about a mile long. Parties\nwill find protection from a passing storm, or if need be over night, in\na cave near the base of the mountain.\n\nThe road from Brevard to Hendersonville runs through the widest part of\nthe French Broad valley, and part of the way follows the river bank.\nThe Government has expended $44,000 in deepening and straightening the\nchannel between the mouth of Ochlawaha creek and Brevard. The result is\na sixteen inch channel for a distance of seventeen miles. A small boat\nmakes semi-weekly excursion trips during the summer months. It was once\npushed as far up as Brevard, but in ordinary stages of water, twelve\nmiles above the landing is the limit of navigation. The road from\nBrevard to Asheville, is through the valley of Boylston, at the mouth of\nMill\u2019s river, and around the base of long projecting spurs of Pisgah.\n\nWhen near Brevard, just four years ago, while Redmond, the famous\nmoonshiner, lived in the neighborhood, and a little blockading was still\ngoing on in the Balsams, I made a midnight journey, the details of which\nmay be of general interest. One afternoon, during a deer drive through\nthe wilds and over the rugged heights of the Tennessee Bald, I advanced\nfar enough in my month\u2019s acquaintance with a fellow, Joe Harran, to\nlearn that he was formerly a distiller, and even then was acting as a\ncarrier of illicit whisky from a hidden still to his neighbors.\n\nAfter the hunt, as we walked toward my boarding-place, I expressed a\nwish to go with him on a moonshine expedition. He readily agreed to take\nme. We were to go that night.\n\nI retired early to my room, ostensibly for the purpose of a ten-hour\nsleep. At nine o\u2019clock there was a rap at my door, and a moment after\nHarran was inside. He had a bundle under his arm, which he tossed on the\nbed. Said he:\n\n\u201cThe clothes ye hev on air tu fine fer this trip. My pards mout tak\u2019 ye\nfer a revenoo, an\u2019 let a hole thro\u2019 ye. Put on them thar,\u201d and he\npointed to the articles he had brought with him.\n\n\u201cIs it necessary?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn course. Ef hit war\u2019nt, I wouldn\u2019t say so. Ef ye\u2019r goin\u2019\nmoonshinin\u2019, ye must be like a moonshiner. Hurry an\u2019 jump in the duds,\nfer we\u2019ve got nigh onto seven mile ter go ter git to the still, an\u2019 ef\nwe don\u2019t make tracks, the daylight\u2019ll catch us afore we gits back.\u201d\n\nI took off an ordinary business suit, and a short space after stood\ntransformed into what appeared to me a veritable mountaineer, after the\nmanner of Harran, except that my friend had granted me a tattered coat\nto cover the rough shirt, and my pants were not tucked in my boots,\nbecause the latter were not exactly of the pattern most suitable for the\noccasion.\n\n\u201cI reckon ye\u2019ll do, tho\u2019 ye don\u2019t look ez rough ez ye mout ef yer har\nwar long; but pull the brim o\u2019 the hat down over yer eyes, an\u2019 I \u2019low\nwhen I tell \u2019em yer a \u2019stiller from Cocke county, over the line, they\u2019ll\nbelieve hit, shore.\u201d\n\nWe went outside, climbed the rail fence, and found ourselves in the\nroad.\n\n\u201cHold up,\u201d said Harran, \u201cwe mustn\u2019t fergit these things,\u201d and from a\nbrush pile he drew out two enormous jugs and a blanket.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean to say,\u201d said I, in amazement, as he stood before me\nwith a jug in each hand, \u201cthat you intend carrying those things seven\nmiles, and then bring them back that distance filled with whisky!\u201d\n\n\u201cIn course. I mean that they\u2019re goin\u2019 to the still an\u2019 back with us, but\nI don\u2019t reckon me or you are goin\u2019 to tote em.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat then?\u201d\n\n\u201cWait an\u2019 see.\u201d\n\nWe wound along the crooked valley road for several rods, until, in front\nof a cabin, my companion stopped, sat down his jugs, and unwound from\nhis waist something that looked like a bridle.\n\n\u201cHist!\u201d said he, in a low tone, \u201cI reckon they be all asleep in the\nhouse. Jist ye stay hyar, an\u2019 I\u2019ll catch the filly in yan lot.\u201d\n\nThis was more than I had bargained for. The expedition we were on was\nbad enough, but horse-stealing was a crime of too positive a kind. Of\ncourse I knew Harran only intended to borrow the horse for the evening,\nbut if we were caught with the animal in our possession, and going in an\nopposite direction from the owner\u2019s farm, what was simply a misdemeanor,\nmight, from attendant circumstances, be construed into a crime to which\nno light penalty was attached. But Harran was over the fence and had the\nfilly in charge before I could prevent him. Talking was then of no use.\nHe had done the same thing a hundred times before. He said there was no\ndanger. I was not convinced, but, having started, I determined to\nproceed, let come what might. He let down the rails of the fence, led\nthe filly through, threw the blanket over her back, and, tying the jugs,\nby their handles, to the ends of a strap, slung them over the blanket.\n\n\u201cNow git up an\u2019 ride \u2019er,\u201d said he, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ll walk fer the first few\nmile.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo riding for me until I get out of this locality,\u201d I answered. \u201cI have\nno intention of being seen by chance travelers on a stolen horse, with\ntwo demijohns hanging before me, and in the company of a moonshiner. It\nwould be a little too suspicious, and next fall there might be a case in\ncourt in which I would be the most important party. You may ride.\u201d\n\nHarran laughed long and rather too loudly for safety; but seeing I was\nin earnest, he mounted. We started. It was a clear, moonlight night. The\nair was just cool enough to be comfortable. We followed the country road\nfor four miles without meeting a person, and only being barked at once\nby a farmer\u2019s dog; then we turned into a narrow trail through a dense\nchestnut forest. At this point my fellow traveler dismounted and I\nfilled his place. He walked ahead, leading the way along the shaded\naisles, while after him I jogged with the two jugs rubbing my knees with\nevery step the horse made. We were to ascend and cross the ridge that\nrose before us, and then wind down through the ravines on the opposite\nslope until we reached the still. The top was gained by a steep climb of\ntwo miles, during part of which ascent the filly carried nothing but the\nearthenware luggage. On the summit we found ourselves in a dense balsam\nforest.\n\nDown the opposite side, as we descended, even with the bright light of a\nfull moon overhead, we were surrounded by a darkness, formed by the\nshadows of the trees, that made the path almost imperceptible to me.\nHarran seemed to have no trouble in tracing it.\n\n\u201cAlmost thar,\u201d said the moonshiner, as he slapped my leg, while the\nfilly stopped for a drink at a cold, bubbling stream coursing along the\nroots of the laurel: \u201cNow, swar by God and all thet\u2019s holy, ye\u2019ll never\nbreathe to a livin\u2019 soul the whereabouts o\u2019 this hyar place.\u201d\n\nI swore, reserving at the same time all an author\u2019s rights of revelation\nexcept as to the whereabouts.\n\n\u201cThe spot\u2019s not a hundred yards from hyar.\u201d\n\nWe turned into a ravine, and went upward along the stream. The sides of\nthe ravine grew steeper. Suddenly I heard a coarse laugh, then caught a\nglimmer of fire-light, and by its blaze, for the first time in my life,\nI saw the mountain still of an illicit distiller. We paused for a moment\nand Harran whistled three times shrilly.\n\n\u201cAll right. Come ahead!\u201d yelled some one. A minute later, obedient to\nthis return signal, we had stopped at our destination. The ravine had\nnarrowed, and the sides were much steeper and higher. The place was well\nshut in. An open shed, roofed, and with one side boarded, stood before\nus. Within it was a low furnace throwing out the light of a hot fire.\nOver the furnace was a copper still, capable of holding twenty-five\ngallons. Several wash-tubs, a cold water hogshead, and two casks,\nevidently containing corn in a diluted state, stood around under the\nroof. Close to this still-house was a little log cabin. The two\ndistillers, who greeted our arrival, ate and slept within this latter\ndomicil. The smoke from the still curled up through the immense balsams\nand hemlocks that almost crossed themselves over the top of the ravine.\n\nThe two distillers looked smoky and black, and smelled strongly of the\nillicit. They, like my friend, were in their shirt sleeves, and dressed\nas he was. Their hats were off, and their long brown locks shaking\nloosely over their ears and grizzled faces, gave them a barbarous\nappearance.\n\n\u201cWe \u2019lowed ye would\u2019nt come, Joe, afore to-morrer night. Who\u2019ve ye got\nthar on the filly?\u201d inquired one of the pair.\n\n\u201cHe? thet\u2019s John Shales, a kin o\u2019 mine. He\u2019s started up a still over\u2019n\nthe side, an\u2019 not knowin\u2019 exact how tu run hit, he kum along with me tu\nsee yer\u2019s an\u2019 pick up a bit,\u201d answered Harran by way of introduction, as\nI jumped from the horse, and he, removing the jugs, tied the animal to a\npost of the still.\n\n\u201cThet\u2019s all right. Glad to see yer,\u201d said the first speaker in a hearty,\ngood-natured voice, extending his hand to me for a fraternal grasp,\nwhich he received, continuing at the same time, \u201cMy name\u2019s Mont Giller.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd mine\u2019s Bob Daves,\u201d sang out the second of the pair as he clinched\nmy hand.\n\n\u201cHev ye enny o\u2019 the dew ready fer my jugs, an\u2019 fer my throat, which is\nez dry ez a bald mounting?\u201d asked Harran.\n\n\u201cI reckon we kin manage to set yer off,\u201d answered Daves.\n\nOne of the casks in the shed was tipped, a plug drawn from its top, and\na stream like the purest spring water gushed into a pail set below it.\nThis was whiskey. The jugs were filled. Each of us then imbibed from a\nrusty tin dipper. In keeping with my assumed character, I was obliged to\npartake with them. We took it straight, my companion emptying a\nhalf-pint of the liquid without a gurgle of disapproval or a wink of his\neyes.\n\nWhile the men worked in the light of the furnace fire, and talked in\nloud tones above the noise of the running water flowing down troughs\ninto the hogshead, through which wound the worm from the copper still, I\nlistened and \u201cj\u2019ined\u201d in at intervals, and this I learned:\n\nOne of the men was a widower, the other a bachelor. It was two miles\ndown that side of the mountain to a road. The corn used in distilling\nthey bought at from twenty-five to fifty cents per bushel, and \u201ctoted\u201d\nit or brought it on mule-back up the trail to the still. They had no\noccasion to take the whisky below for sale. It was all sold on the spot\nat from seventy-five cents to one dollar per gallon, according to the\nprice of corn. Those who came after the liquor, came, as we had, with\njugs, and thereby supplied the tipplers in the valley, usually charging\na quarter of a dollar extra for the trip up and back--nothing for the\ndanger incurred by dealing in it.\n\nThe older man, Giller, I noticed, had been eyeing me rather suspiciously\nfor some time. His observation made me rather uneasy. At last, while I\nwas seated on a large log before the fire, Giller approached me, and, as\nthough by accident, brushed off my hat. Not thinking what he was up to,\nas I naturally would do I turned my face toward him.\n\n\u201cBy--!\u201d exclaimed he. \u201cHit\u2019s all a blasted lie. You\u2019re no moonshiner.\nYou\u2019re a revenoo; but yer tricked right hyar.\u201d\n\nI saw a big, murderous-looking pistol in his hand and heard it click. I\nsuppose I threw up my hands. \u201cHold on, hold on!\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cDon\u2019t\nshoot! for heaven\u2019s sake, man, don\u2019t shoot! it\u2019s a mistake.\u201d\n\n\u201cWal, I don\u2019t know \u2019bout thet. We\u2019ll hev Harran explain this thing while\nI keep a bead on yer head.\u201d\n\nOf course, Harran and the other moonshiner were by us immediately.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with you, Mont, yer goin\u2019 to shoot my cousin? That\u2019s\na perlite way to treat yer comp\u2019ny. What to hell air ye up to?\u201d\n\nHe had grabbed the excited and suspicious moonshiner by the arm.\n\n\u201cLet go \u2019o me,\u201d said the latter, \u201cI know thet man thar is no kin o\u2019\nyours, Joe Harran. He\u2019s cl\u2019ar too fine a sort fer thet, and ef ye don\u2019t\nprove to me thet he haint a revenoo and ye haint a sneak, I\u2019ll shoot him\nfirst an\u2019 then turn ye adrift on the same road.\u201d\n\nDaves, on hearing this speech, surveyed me critically with an\nunfavorable result for myself, and then, in turn, drew a horse pistol,\nand cocked it swearing as he did so.\n\nI saw the game was up as far as my being John Shales was concerned, so I\ndecided to come out if possible in true colors, and also as wholly\nantagonistic to revenue officers. It took some time for an explanation;\nbut on Harran\u2019s vouching in decidedly strong terms as to the truth of\nwhat I said, they lowered, uncocked and slipped their \u201cshootin\u2019-irons\u201d\ninto their pockets.\n\nThey were by no means satisfied, though, and we left them with lowering\ncountenances and malicious muttering, against my companion for daring to\nbring a stranger into their camp.\n\nWe made a safe trip across the mountain, and at 2 o\u2019clock in the morning\nstruck the road. I was riding.\n\n\u201cHold on hyar,\u201d said Harran.\n\nI held in the horse. We were before an unpretentious farmhouse. The\nmoon had just disappeared behind the western ranges, and the landscape\nwas dark and uncomfortably cheerless, for a chill wind had sprung up.\nHarran went up to the yard fence, reached over and lifted up a jug. He\nbrought it to me, shaking it as he did so. A ringing sound came from it.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s silver,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I inquired in a curious tone.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d he returned, while he turned the jug upside down in his hat and\nshook it, \u201chere\u2019s two dollars an\u2019 a half in dimes. I reckon thet Winters\nwants two gallon o\u2019 the dew, an\u2019 this hol\u2019s two gallon, jist.\u201d He said\nhe \u201c\u2019llowed he\u2019d be wantin\u2019 some soon, an the jug, he sed, would be in\nthe ole place. Ye see, now, he\u2019ll find hit thar in the mornin\u2019 but he\u2019ll\nnever know how hit cum thar, or who tuk his money.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the object of being so secret about it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, what ef I\u2019m arrested, an\u2019 he\u2019s hauled up ez a witness. What kin he\nswar to about buying whiskey o\u2019 me? Nothin\u2019. He\u2019ll hev the whiskey all\nthe same though, won\u2019t he? Ha, ha!\u201d\n\nHe filled the jug and four others on the way down. All had money with\nthem, either inside or lying on the corn-cob stopper. It was a cash\nbusiness. At the proper place he turned the filly in the barn lot, and a\nfew minutes after we were at my boarding-house. Before we parted for the\nnight--it was almost daylight--I reckoned up for him his account of\npurchases and sales for the expedition. He had a profit in his favor of\ntwo dollars and a quarter, and a little more than a gallon of the \u201cdew.\u201d\nAll I had gained was experience.\n\nThe ride from Asheville down the French Broad will be to the stranger a\nrevelation of the beautiful and sublime. For over forty miles you wind\nthrough the pent-in valley of the river, losing sight of its current\nonly in one or two instances, where, for a short space, the skirts of\nthe encroaching mountains are drawn back, and the track, following close\non their edges, leaves woods or bare rolling meadows between it and the\nstream. On account of the newness of the bed, and the frequent sharp\ncurves, the speed of the train is comparatively slow. There are other\ndrawbacks to contend against. An amusing incident, in which several\nminutes of time were lost, occurred on our last journey down the river.\nThe train had just attained full headway, when a man in blue jeans arose\nin an excited manner from his seat, near us, and, grabbing the\nbell-cord, pulled it in desperation. The train came to a stand-still.\nThe conductor rushed in, demanding why the signal had been given.\n\n\u201cI got on the wrong train,\u201d returned the countryman, leisurely gathering\nup his satchel, \u201cand I wants ter git off.\u201d\n\nThe conductor turned red in the face, and amidst the laughter of the\npassengers, assisted the man to make his departure in a hurried manner.\n\nOn the same trip, while we were rounding a bend below Warm Springs, the\nhat of a passenger who was standing on the rear platform, was blown from\nhis head. The train was stopped for a time to allow the unfortunate man\nto run back and find the relic. He searched until he found it and then\nregained his place.\n\nFor several miles after leaving Asheville, low, undulating hills,\nsloping upward from the river, fill the landscapes. The water runs deep\nand dark around these bends, and no rapids of any consequence break the\nsmooth surface of the stream; but as further down you go, sweeping along\nover the rattling rails, piles of huge drift logs, and clusters of\nTitanic boulders appear at intervals, and the country becomes wilder and\nmore rugged. The foot-hills begin to roll higher, and with steep, stony\nfronts staring at each other across the intervening space of waters,\nresemble the severed halves of hills thus rent in twain by the impetuous\nriver. On, on, the scenery becomes more grandly wild and beautiful. Now\npasses an old-fashioned country farmhouse--extensive portico bordering\nthe front, and huge brick chimneys at each end--with dingy barn; pine\nlog-cabins fast falling to decay around it; rail-fences encircling, and\nthen meadows, fields, and forests sweeping back on three sides. The old\nroad lies before the fence, and a stretch of white sand, shaded by\nwillows and alders, comes down to the restless river. Alexanders, a\nwayside station, has long been known as a summer resort. As early as\n1826 a hotel, located on the present building\u2019s site, was the only\ntavern between Asheville and the Tennessee line.\n\nThe old man, smoking his pipe of home-cured tobacco, and daily seated on\nthe veranda, has not yet become so familiarized with the vision of the\niron horse and whirling coaches as to abandon his custom of walking to\nthe gate as the train draws in sight. The women appear at the windows;\nthe inmates of the barn-yard disappear behind the out-buildings.\n\nThen comes a sudden stop to valley scenery, and you are passing between\nfrowning walls of clay and rock, forming ca\u00f1ons. Then across the stream\nascends a high mountain--the ancient stage-way at its base, and oak and\nchestnut forests receding upward--with a deep ravine in its front\nholding the waters of a mountain torrent that gleam white through the\nrustling foliage of the steep; then woods of pine above; then bare\nprecipices, festooned with evergreen vines and mosses, set on top with\nlonely pines, and, above all, blue unfathomable space.\n\nThe lower lands are not the only stretches occupied by the mountaineers.\nRugged steeps, trending hundreds of feet up from the river, become\nsmoothed into gentle ascents, and on the thin soil, rich from thousands\nof years of decayed vegetation, log cabins expose themselves to view\nunder the shadow of the mountain still rising above:--lofty perches for\nfarms and famlies; unfortunate situations for children; no schools; no\nsociety; no people for companionship outside their respective families;\nnothing but the wildness of nature, blue skies, lofty peaks, the roaring\nFrench Broad--and the occasional fleeting trains.\n\nSomething interesting is to be found in the picturesque village of\nMarshall. Its situation is decidedly Alpine in character. Its growth is\nstunted in a most emphatic manner by these apparently soulless\nconspirators--the river, mountain and railroad. The three seem to have\njoined hands in a determination regarding the village which might read\nwell this way: \u201cSo large shalt thou grow, and no larger!\u201d It is sung by\nthe river, roared by the train and echoed by the mountain. Sites for\ndwellings, in limited numbers however, can still be stolen on the steep\nmountain side above the town. Such a location is unfavorable for a man\nwhose gait is unsteady; for a chance mis-step might precipitate him out\nof his front yard, with a broken neck. There is no lack of enterprise\nand prosperity here. The tobacco interests of Madison county are\nextensive, and this village--the county-seat--is reaping wealth from\nthis source.\n\nA continued series of rocky walls and dizzy slopes now borders the rail\nfor mile after mile. Their sides are covered with pines and noble\nforests of hard-wood trees, and ivy, grape and honeysuckle vines mantle\nthe bare spots of the cliffs. Stretches of roaring rapids and cascades\nbecome frequent; green mountain islands arise in the center of the\nstream;--it is one stern mountain fastness. The two most noticeable\ncliffs are Peter\u2019s Rock and Lover\u2019s Leap, both of them overhanging the\nold turnpike. The former was named in remembrance of a hermit, who, as\nlegend whispers, lived at its base before the Revolutionary war. An\nIndian legend has it that two crazy lovers leaped into the French Broad\nand eternity from the top of the other massive wall.\n\nBefore you can possibly become wearied by this rugged panorama, the\nmountains on the railroad side of the river, losing their foot-hold on\nthe river\u2019s margin, draw back, leaving a wide pleasant valley. The low\nranges bend round it in picturesque lines; the French Broad, with\nmajestic sweep, flows through it; the crystal water of Spring creek,\nliberated at last from its cradling wilderness, passes through bordering\ngroves to empty into the larger stream. The train stops at a railway\nstation. A cluster of small houses stand on one side of the depot, and a\nlittle farther down the track are the elegant residences of Major\nRumbough and Mrs. Andrew Johnson. Across on the distant heights, can be\nseen white dwellings--mountain homes in strict sense; but nearer at hand\nin the center of the valley, almost wholly concealed by the trees which\nsurround it, are visible the outlines of a hotel; it is Warm Springs,\nthe largest watering resort in Western North Carolina.\n\nThe main building of three stories, with its side two-story brick wing,\nis 550 feet long. A new and large addition has been, within a few late\nyears, built on in the rear. The structure presents an imposing front\nwith its wide, high portico supported by thirteen white pillars. A green\nlawn, with graveled walks and driveways, and set with locust trees, lies\nbefore it; and beyond this, in view, flows the river, swift and deep,\nagain, churned into rapids, and at either end swallowed by the\nmountains.\n\nIn the locust grove and near the banks of the French Broad and Spring\ncreek, are the wonderful warm springs. Bath houses are erected over\nthem. The temperature of the water is from 102\u00b0 to 104\u00b0 Fahrenheit. The\nbaths are invigorating and contain remarkable curative properties,\nespecially beneficial for rheumatic, gouty, and chronic invalids of all\nclasses. The water, although highly impregnated with minerals, is\ntasteless. These springs were discovered in 1785, by a company of\nTennessee militia, while in pursuit of a band of Cherokee warriors. As\nearly as 1786 invalids came here to try the effect of the water. Now, in\nthe height of the summer, as many as six hundred guests at one time\ncrowd this fashionable resort.\n\n[Illustration: CASCADES, NEAR WARM SPRINGS.]\n\nLately the Warm Springs property has passed into the hands of a company\nof men well fitted by capital and experience to increase the popularity\nof the place, both as a summer and winter pleasure resort and\nsanitarium. Mr. Gudger, the superintendent, was for a number of years in\ncharge of the State Insane asylum, and is consequently well adapted to\nthe business he has entered into. Great improvements are being made in\nthe buildings, and every convenience added for the welfare of guests.\nThis to the votary of pleasure: The next to the largest ball-room in the\nstate is here.\n\nThe falls of Spring creek, not far distant up that stream, are cascades\nof marvelous beauty. A number of the surrounding mountain summits\ncommand magnificent prospects. Deer can be started in neighboring\nfastnesses and driven to the river. As a bridge spans the stream\ndirectly before the hotel, the picturesque spots on the opposite bank\ncan be reached. The famous Paint Rock is six miles below. The spot is\nwell worth visiting. It is an immense wall of granite arranged in\nhorizontal layers projecting over each other in irregular order and\ntowering in weird proportions above the road, which lies close at its\nbase between it and the river. The rocks present dark red faces, and it\nis from the natural coloring that the name is taken. On some of the\nsmooth-faced layers black-lettered names can be deciphered; some left by\nFederal soldiers who, during the war, swept around this bend and up the\nriver.\n\nNear here Paint creek comes dashing down between bold cliffs to empty\ninto the French Broad. A toll-gate on its banks bars the way, and\nover-head looms Paint mountain, whose summit, bearing the Tennessee\nboundary line, is wound round by the road towards Greenville, the old\nhome of Andrew Johnson.\n\nFrom the railroad between Warm Springs and Wolf creek, in Tennessee,\nglimpses of some of the wildest scenery of the French Broad can be\nobtained. Cliffs three hundred feet or more in height lean dizzily over\nthe river. The most noteworthy of these rocky ramparts are termed the\nChimneys. They are lofty, piled-up, chimney-like masses of stone\nstanding out before bare walls of the same rocky exterior. At the first\nbridge below the Springs, Nature has wrought a terrific picture of the\nsublime. The river runs white-capped and sparkling below; the wild\ntremendous fronts of rocky mountains, seared with ravines frowning with\nprecipices and ragged with pines, close around. Bending in sharp curves,\nthe railroad penetrates the picture, leaps the long iron bridge and\ndisappears.\n\n\n\n\nTABLE OF ALTITUDES.\n\n\nSMOKY MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Mount Buckley                     6,599\n  Clingman\u2019s Dome                   6,660\n  Mount Love                        6,443\n  Mount Collins                     6,188\n  Road Gap into Tenn.               5,271\n  Mt. Guyot (Bull-head Group)       6,636\n  Roan, High Knob                   6,306\n  Beech Mountain                    5,541\n  Elk Knob                          5,574\n\n\nBALSAM MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Soco Gap                          4,341\n  Amos Plott (Junaluskas)           6,278\n  Lickstone                         5,707\n  Deep Pigeon Gap                   4,907\n  Great Divide                      6,425\n  Old Bald                          5,786\n  Devil\u2019s Court-House               6,049\n  Shining Rock                      5,988\n  Cold Mountain                     6,063\n  Pisgah                            5,757\n\n\nBLACK MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Mitchell\u2019s Peak                   6,711\n  Potato Top                        6,393\n  Yeates\u2019 Knob                      5,975\n  Mount Gibbs                       6,591\n  Balsam Cone                       6,671\n  Bowlen\u2019s Pyramid                  6,348\n\n\nLINVILLE MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Short Off                         3,105\n  Table Rock                        3,918\n  Hawksbill                         4,090\n\n  Hibriten (Brushy Mountains.)      2,242\n  King\u2019s Mountain                   1,650\n\n\nBLUE RIDGE.\n\n  Fisher\u2019s Peak, state line         3,570\n  Blowing Rock mountain             4,090\n  Blowing Gap                       3,779\n  Grandfather                       5,897\n  Hanging Rock                      5,224\n  Humpback, Mt. Washington          4,288\n  High Pinnacle                     5,701\n  Swannanoa Gap                     2,657\n  Bald Mountain                     3,834\n  Sugarloaf                         3,973\n  Chimney Rock Hotel                1,059\n  Saluda Gap                        2,300\n  Jones\u2019 Gap                        2,925\n  C\u00e6sar\u2019s Head                      3,225\n  Rich Mountain                     3,788\n  Great Hogback                     4,792\n  Whiteside                         4,907\n  Black Rock                        4,364\n  Fodderstack                       4,607\n  Chimney Top                       4,563\n  Satoola                           4,506\n  Rabun Gap                         2,168\n\n\nCRAGGY RANGE.\n\n  Big Craggy                        6,090\n  Bull\u2019s Head                       5,935\n  Craggy Pinnacle                   5,945\n\n  Tryon Mountain                    3,237\n\n\nSOUTH MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Propst\u2019s Knob                     3,022\n  Hickory Nut Mt.                   3,306\n  Ben\u2019s Knob                        2,801\n\n  Pilot Mountain                    2,435\n\n\nNANTIHALA MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Rocky Bald                        5,323\n  Wayah                             5,494\n  Nantihala Gap                     4,158\n  Picken\u2019s Nose                     4,926\n\n\nVALLEY RIVER MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Medlock Bald                      5,258\n  Tusquittah Mountain               5,314\n\n\nVILLAGES.\n\n  Asheville                         2,250\n  Hendersonville                    2,167\n  Brevard                   (about) 2,150\n  Waynesville                       2,756\n  Marshall                          1,647\n  Burnsville                        2,840\n  Bakersville               (about) 2,550\n  Boone                             3,242\n  Jefferson                         2,940\n  Murphy                            1,614\n  Valleytown                        1,911\n  Franklin                          2,141\n  Charleston                        1,747\n  Quallatown                        1,979\n  Webster                           2,203\n  Warm Springs                      1,326\n\n\nCOWEE MOUNTAINS.\n\n  Yellow Mountain                   5,133\n  Cowee Old Bald                    4,977\n  Rich Mountain                     4,691\n\n  Cheowah Maximum                   4,996\n\n\nRIVERS.\n\n  Little Tennessee (Tennessee line) 1,114\n  Big Pigeon (Fine\u2019s Creek)         2,241\n  Big Pigeon (Forks)                2,701\n  French Broad (Tennessee line)     1,264\n  Watauga (Tennessee line)          2,131\n  Broad river (Reedy Patch)         1,473\n  Mouth Little river                2,088\n  Mouth Valley river                1,514\n\n\nW. N. C. R. R.\n\n  Salisbury                           760\n  Morganton                         1,140\n  Marion                            1,425\n  Swannanoa Tunnel                  2,510\n  Swannanoa Mouth                   1,977\n  Richland Creek (Waynesville)      2,608\n  Balsam Gap                        3,411\n  Scott\u2019s Creek (mouth)             1,986\n  Nantihala River                   1,682\n  Red Marble Gap                    2,686\n\nFrom Professor W. C. Kerr\u2019s report of altitudes. The railroad altitudes\nwere obtained from J. W. Wilson. Only those mountain and valley heights\nof particular interest are given.\n\n\nAREA OF COUNTIES.\n\n(From State Report.)\n\n                          Square miles.\n\n  Alleghany                         300\n  Ashe                              450\n  Buncombe                          620\n  Burke                             400\n  Caldwell                          450\n  Catawba                           370\n  Cherokee                          500\n  Clay                              160\n  Cleaveland                        420\n  Forsyth                           340\n  Graham                            250\n  Haywood                           740\n  Henderson                         360\n  Jackson                           960\n  McDowell                          440\n  Macon                             650\n  Madison                           450\n  Mitchell                          240\n  Polk                              300\n  Swain                             420\n  Transylvania                      330\n  Watauga                           460\n  Yadkin                            320\n  Yancey                            400\n\n\nPOPULATION OF THE WESTERN COUNTIES, 1880.[A]\n\n                                Total.  Colored.    County-seats.\n\n  Alleghany                      5,486    519      Gap Civil\n  Ashe                          14,437    966      Jefferson         196\n  Buncombe                      21,909   3,487     Asheville       2,116\n  Burke                         12,809   2,721     Morganton         861\n  Caldwell                      10,291   1,600     Lenoir            206\n  Catawba                       14,946   2,477     Newton            583\n  Cherokee                       8,182     386     Murphy            170\n  Clay                           3,316     141     Hayesville        111\n  Cleaveland                    16,571   2,871     Shelby            990\n  Graham                         2,335     212     Robbinsville       47\n  Haywood                       10,171     484     Waynesville       225\n  Henderson                     10,281   1,388     Hendersonville    554\n  Jackson                        7,343     752     Webster           107\n  McDowell                       9,836   1,897     Marion            372\n  Macon                          8,064     669     Franklin          207\n  Madison                       12,810     459     Marshall          175\n  Mitchell                       9,435     503     Bakersville       476\n  Polk                           5,062   1,144     Columbus           71\n  Rutherford                    15,198   3,288     Rutherfordton      --\n  Surry                         13,302   2,075     Dobson             --\n  Swain                          3,784     550     Charleston         --\n  Transylvania                   5,340     517     Brevard           223\n  Watauga                        8,160     746     Boone             167\n  Wilkes                        19,181   1,924     Wilkesboro        200\n  Yancey                         7,694     325     Burnsville         --\n\n [A] United States Census Report\n\n     MONTHLY, SEASONAL, AND ANNUAL MEAN TEMPERATURES FOR A PERIOD OF\n     YEARS AT SEVEN STATIONS, AND THEIR AVERAGE FOR THE WESTERN\n     DIVISION.\n\n  ------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+----+------\n              | J| F| M| A| M| J| J| A| S| O| N| D| S| S| A| W|  Y |   O\n              | a| e| a| p| a| u| u| u| e| c| o| e| p| u| u| i|  e | N b\n              | n| b| r| r| y| n| l| g| p| t| v| c| r| m| t| n|  a | o s\n              | u| r| c| i|  | e| y| u| t| o| e| e| i| m| u| t|  r | . e\n              | a| u| h| l|  |  |  | s| e| b| m| m| n| e| m| e|    |   r\n              | r| a|  |  |  |  |  | t| m| e| b| b| g| r| n| r|    | Y v\n    Name of   | y| r|  |  |  |  |  |  | b| r| e| e|  |  |  |  |    | e a\n    Station.  |  | y|  |  |  |  |  |  | e|  | r| r|  |  |  |  |    | a t\n              |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | r|  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    | r i\n              |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    | s o\n              |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    |   n\n              |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    |   s\n              |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    |   .\n              | \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0|  \u00b0 |\n  ------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+----+------\n  Asheville   |37|39|45|52|63|69|74|71|66|53|43|37|53|72|54|38|54.3| 6\u00bd\n  Bakersville |34|37|38|54|61|66|72|74|65|50|43|36|51|71|52|36|52.5| 1\n  Boone       |33|34|36|49|57|65|69|70|62|47|34|30|47|68|48|32|48.7| 2\n  Franklin    |38|42|45|54|63|70|70|70|65|52|42|41|54|70|53|40|54.4| 2\n  Lenoir      |36|40|45|56|66|73|76|73|67|55|43|37|55|74|55|38|55.5| 3\n  Murphy      |38|42|45|56|65|71|74|72|66|53|41|38|56|72|53|39|55.2| 2\u00bd\n  Highlands   |29|33|46|52|58|64|71|69|61|49|48|29|52|68|53|30|50.7| 1\n  Western     |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |    |\n    Division  |36|39|41|53|62|69|71|71|64|51|41|36|52|70|52|37|53.1|\n  ------------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+----+------\n\n     AVERAGE MONTHLY, SEASONAL AND ANNUAL MAXIMA, MINIMA AND RANGE OF\n     TEMPERATURE FOR A PERIOD OF YEARS AT FOUR STATIONS AND FOR THE\n     WESTERN DIVISION.\n\n  ===========+======+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+=====\n             |      | J| F| M| A| M| J| J| A| S| O| N| D| S| S| A| W| Y| N o\n             |      | a| e| a| p| a| u| u| u| e| c| o| e| p| u| u| i| e| o b\n             |      | n| b| r| r| y| n| l| g| p| t| v| c| r| m| t| n| a| . s\n             |      | u| r| c| i|  | e| y| u| t| o| e| e| i| m| u| t| r|   e\n             |      | a| u| h| l|  |  |  | s| e| b| m| m| n| e| m| e|  | y r\n             |      | r| a|  |  |  |  |  | t| m| e| b| b| g| r| n| r|  | e v\n    Name of  |      | y| r|  |  |  |  |  |  | b| r| e| e|  |  |  |  |  | a a\n    Station. |      |  | y|  |  |  |  |  |  | e|  | r| r|  |  |  |  |  | r t\n             |      |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | r|  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  | s i\n             |      |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |   o\n             |      |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |   n\n             |      |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |   s\n             |      |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |   .\n             |      | \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0| \u00b0|\n  -----------+------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----\n            {|Maxima|63|65|71|80|82|83|86|85|81|75|68|63|82|86|81|65|86|\n  Asheville {|Minima|10|10|12|30|42|49|61|57|45|29|17| 7|12|49|17| 7| 7|6\u00bd\n            {|Range |53|55|59|50|40|34|25|28|36|46|51|56|70|37|64|58|79|\n             +------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----\n            {|Maxima|57|58|64|73|75|81|84|82|79|74|55|51|75|82|79|58|82|\n  Boone     {|Minima| 4| 6|11|26|38|50|57|53|40|32|30|22|11|50|30| 4| 4| 2\n            {|Range |53|52|53|47|37|31|27|29|39|42|25|29|64|32|49|54|78|\n             +------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----\n            {|Maxima|62|66|71|82|85|88|91|87|85|82|67|63|85|91|85|66|91|\n  Lenoir    {|Minima|14|15|14|36|47|58|66|52|50|29|18| 9|36|50|18| 9| 9| 3\n            {|Range |48|51|57|46|38|30|25|35|35|53|49|54|49|41|67|57|82|\n             +------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----\n            {|Maxima|64|67|73|81|88|88|89|89|84|78|65|74|88|89|86|74|89|\n  Murphy    {|Minima| 9|14|15|35|47|59|64|57|44|24|11| 6|15|57|11| 6| 6| 3\n            {|Range |55|53|58|46|50|29|25|32|42|54|54|68|73|32|75|68|83|\n             +------+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+-----\n  Western   {|Maxima|61|63|69|78|82|84|86|87|82|76|63|63|82|87|82|63|87|\n   Division {|Minima| 8|10|13|30|42|53|61|56|43|28|19|12|13|53|19| 8| 8|\n            {|Range |53|53|56|48|43|31|25|31|39|48|44|51|69|34|63|55|79|\n  ==================+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+==+=====\n\nCOMPARATIVE TABLE OF MEAN TEMPERATURES.\n\n  =======================+=========+=========+=========+==========+========\n                         |  Year.  | Spring. | Summer. |  Autumn. | Winter.\n  -----------------------+---------+---------+---------+----------+--------\n                         |     \u00b0   |    \u00b0    |    \u00b0    |     \u00b0    |    \u00b0\n  Western Division       |    53   |   52    |   70    |    52    |   37\n  Asheville              |    54   |   53    |   72    |    54    |   38\n  Bakersville            |    52   |   51    |   71    |    52    |   36\n  Paris, France          |    51   |   51    |   65    |    52    |   38\n  Dijon, France          |    53   |   53    |   70    |    53    |   35\n  Venice, Italy          |    55   |   55    |   73    |    56    |   38\n  Boone, North Carolina  |    49   |   47    |   68    |    48    |   32\n  Munich, Germany        |    48   |   48    |   64    |    49    |   32\n  =======================+=========+=========+=========+==========+========\n\nThe tables of temperature given are taken from Dr. Kerr\u2019s State\nGeological report.\n\n[Illustration:\n\nWESTERN NORTH CAROLINA.\n\nBY DR. W. C. KERR, STATE GEOLOGIST.\n\n1883.\n\n_Used by permission of the  State Board of Agriculture._\n\n(Engraved especially for this book.)\n\n_Scale._\n]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSWANNANOA HOTEL,\n\nASHEVILLE, N. C.\n\n  AVERAGE TEMPERATURE.\n\n  +----+----+----+-----+----+----+----+----+------+----+----+-----+\n  |Jan.|Feb.|Mch.|April|May |June|July|Aug.|Sept. |Oct.|Nov.|Dec. |\n  |38.1|39.8|44.7|53.9 |61.5|69.1|71.9|70.7|63.8  |52.9|43.8|37.3 |\n  +----+----+----+-----+----+----+----+----+------+----+----+-----+\n\nLocation 35 deg. 36 min. N. lat. 2,250 feet above the sea.\n\n[Illustration: MT. PISGAH (5.763 feet above sea). VIEW FROM SWANNANOA\nHOTEL.]\n\nThe recent additions and improvements to the \u201cSwannanoa Hotel\u201d have made\nit complete in all its appointments, and the owners and proprietors,\nRawls & Carter, are determined that it shall always maintain its rank as\nthe leading and largest hotel in Asheville. The Swannanoa is now kept\nopen the year round. Northern visitors to Asheville for the winter and\nspring months, as well as for the summer, who stop at the Swannanoa,\nhave their wants carefully studied and attended to. The rooms and halls\nare large and well ventilated for the summer, and yet arranged to be\nwell heated in the winter. Superb views of surrounding mountains from\nthe rooms and porches. Mountain, Well, and Cistern Water, Hot and Cold\nBaths, Electric Annunciator, Laundry, Barber Shop, Billiard Rooms, and\nTelegraph Office across the street are some of the comforts of this\npopular resort. In the summer, a band of music is engaged for the\nentertainment of the guests. Headquarters also for capitalists seeking\ninvestments, and other business men visiting Asheville. For cut of hotel\nsee page 211.\n\nFor further particulars, apply to the owners and proprietors.\n\nRAWLS & CARTER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEDWARD J. ASTON,\n\nREAL ESTATE AND INSURANCE AGENT,\n\n_Asheville, North Carolina_.\n\n  +-----------+----------------------+------------------+\n  |GRAIN,     {     ADDRESS          }   MINES.         |\n  |STOCK AND  {   WALTER B. GWYN,    }   MILL PROPERTY, |\n  |TOBACCO    {    _LAND AGENT_,     }   TIMBER         |\n  |FARMS,     {      ASHEVILLE,      }   LANDS          |\n  |           {      North Carolina. }                  |\n  +-----------+----------------------+------------------+\n\n\nMARTIN & CHILD,\n\n_REAL ESTATE AGENTS_,\n\nASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA.\n\nFor the sale of farming, grazing and timber lands, mines, mill property,\ncity property, &c.\n\n_Strict attention given to titles._\n\nAll properties placed with this agency for sale fully advertised free of\ncost in this country and in Europe. Parties wishing to buy or rent\nproperty of above description, write for descriptive circular and price\nlist.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFRED. C. FISHER,\n\nATTORNEY-AT-LAW,\n\nWAYNESVILLE, HAYWOOD COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor fine Stereoscopic Views of\n\n\u201cTHE LAND OF THE SKY\u201d\n\nOR\n\nTHE BEAUTIES OF WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA, EAST TENNESSEE AND NORTHEAST\nGEORGIA SCENERY,\n\nSEND TO\n\nNAT. W. TAYLOR,\n\nPhotographic Artist and Publisher of Steroscopic Views.\n\n     One dozen mailed to any address for $1.50, post paid.\n\n     Send for Catalogue.\n\n\nSILVER SPRINGS HOTEL.\n\nJ. L. HENRY, ESQ., Proprietor.\n\n(ON THE WEST SIDE OF THE FRENCH BROAD, NEAR THE ASHEVILLE DEPOT.)\n\n     This Hotel possesses all the conveniences and advantages of a\n     suburban location, and complete appointments.\n\n     The verandas afford pleasing views in every direction. Within the\n     large lawn are several mineral springs--Iron, Sulphur, and\n     Magnesia. See illustration on page.\n\n\nARDEN PARK HOTEL.\n\n10 miles from Asheville, 12 miles from Hendersonville.\n\nSupplies all the attractions and conveniences of\n\nA RURAL HOME,\n\nReached by daily stages from both Asheville and Hendersonville. For\nparticulars address\n\nARDEN PARK HOTEL, ARDEN, NORTH CAROLINA.\n\n\nFLEMING HOUSE,\n\n  JOHN T. PATTERSON,                   MARION,\n  PROPRIETOR.                     MCDOWELL, CO., N. C.\n\n     The largest and best hotel in McDowell county arranged for the\n     accommodation of summer boarders. Good livery attached. Sample\n     rooms and other conveniences for business men.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSPARKLING CATAWBA SPRINGS,\n\nCATAWBA COUNTY, N. C.\n\nTHIS FAVORITE WATERING-PLACE WILL BE\n\nOPEN MAY FIRST, TO SELECT GUESTS.\n\n\n     Situated 55 miles northwest of Charlotte, 60 miles west of\n     Salisbury, and 6 miles from Hickory, on the Western N. C. Railroad,\n     in the shade of the Blue Ridge. The location has special\n     advantages, being surrounded by a beautiful and extensive woodlawn\n     of native growth and carpeted with green. The bracing mountain\n     atmosphere, with the health-restoring properties of their waters,\n     render these Springs a most desirable resort for INVALIDS and\n     PLEASURE SEEKERS.\n\nThe Mineral Waters embrace\n\nBLUE AND WHITE SULPHUR AND CHALYBEATE,\n\n     and from the known benefit derived by well attested cures in their\n     use as an alterative and tonic influence over the lymphatic and\n     secretive glands, they are unsurpassed, and never fail to increase\n     the appetite, the digestion and assimilation, thereby imparting\n     tone and health to the person.\n\n_BY THE USE OF THESE MINERAL WATERS_,\n\n     Diseases of the Liver, Dyspepsia, Vertigo, Neuralgia, Ophthalmia or\n     Sore Eyes, Paralysis, Spinal Affections, Rheumatism, Scrofula,\n     Gravel, Diabetes, Kidney and Urinary Diseases, Consumption and\n     Chronic Cough, Diarrh\u0153a, Constipation, Piles, Asthma, Diseases\n     of the Skin, Tetter, Indolent Ulcers, Amenorrh\u0153a,\n     Dysmenorrh\u0153a, Leucorrh\u0153a, General Debility, Sleeplessness,\n     and Nervous Prostration, from mental and physical excess, have\n     disappeared.\n\n     _Analysis of Water_: Spring No. 1.--Chlorine, Carbonic Acid,\n     Silica, Phosphoric Acid, Alumina, Sulphuric Acid, Magnesia Oxide,\n     Lime (trace), Iron (trace), Magnesia, Soda Salts (large), Lithia,\n     Potash, Bromide. Spring No. 2.--Chlorine, Silica, Phosphoric Acid,\n     Alumina, Arsenic, Sulphuric Acid, Oxide Magnesia, Soda Salts,\n     Potash, Bromide, and Magnesia. Spring No. 3.--Chalybeate. Spring\n     No. 4.--One of the finest Freestone Springs in the State. All\n     within the grove but a short distance from each other, etc., etc.\n\n     The improvements consist of two large three-story buildings, and\n     fourteen cottages, capable of accommodating, comfortably, 300\n     persons.\n\n     All the Amusements usually furnished at first-class\n     watering-places, will be found here. A good supply of Ice always on\n     hand.\n\nPLUNGE, SHOWER, WARM SULPHUR, TURKISH, HOT AIR, and MEDICATED VAPOR\nBATHS, Furnished when desired.\n\n     Another Mineral Spring has recently been discovered one mile from\n     this place, which Visitors will have the benefit of.\n\n  _BOARD: $30.00 Per Month.      Deductions Made for Families._\n\nREDUCED RATES have been Arranged on all Railroads to this Point.\n\n_How to Reach the Springs_: Take the Western N. C. Railway at Salisbury\nto Hickory; take Carolina Central Railroad to Lincolnton, thence the\nChester Narrow Gauge to Newton; take the Charlotte, Columbia and Augusta\nRailway to Statesville, thence the Western N. C. Railroad to Hickory; or\ntake the Chester and Lenoir Narrow Gauge at Chester or Gastonia, to\nNewton. Good conveyances will be at Newton and Hickory for passengers on\nthe arrival of each train.\n\nDr. E. O. ELLIOTT, Proprietor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                            McINTOSH & CO.,\n\n                              DEALERS IN\n\n                    DRUGS, MEDICINES, and CHEMICALS\n\n                 PAINTS, OILS, VARNISHES, DYE-STUFFS,\n\n                        ETC., CHOICE PERFUMES.\n\n                        PURE WINES AND LIQUORS\n\n                          FOR MEDICINAL USE.\n\n                     FRENCH AND AMERICAN POLISHED\n\n                        PLATE AND WINDOW GLASS.\n\n                 FINE CANDIES AND DRUGGISTS SUNDRIES.\n\n        _Highest Cash Price Paid for ROOTS, HERBS, SEEDS, etc._\n\n                          WAYNESVILLE, N. C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                                HAYWOOD\n\n                         WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS\n\n                        Near Waynesville, N. C.\n\n                          OPEN ALL THE YEAR.\n\n            _THE MOST PICTURESQUE PLACE IN NORTH CAROLINA_\n\n     _2,716 Feet Above Tide-water_; _32 Miles West of Asheville_,\n\n                      A DELIGHTFUL SUMMER RESORT,\n\n  IN THE VERY MIDST OF THE GREAT BALSAM MOUNTAINS. TERMS REASONABLE.\n\n                PLACES OF INTEREST AROUND THE SPRINGS.\n\n\n  ========================================================================\n             NAME.                           |Altitude |          Number\n                                             | in feet.|         of miles.\n  -------------------------------------------+---------+------------------\n  Waynesville, C. H.                         |  2756   |                1\n  Love\u2019s View                                |  2950   |     at the place\n  Spring Hill                                |  2850   |     at the place\n  Mount Maria Love (Rocky Knob) about        |  5000   |                1\n  Jonathan\u2019s Creek (trout stream)            |  3000   |          6 to 10\n  Cataloochee (trout stream)                 |  2500   |               20\n  Tennessee Line                             |  2000   |               32\n  Indian Nation                              |  2300   |               20\n  Soco Falls, about                          |  4000   |               16\n  Soco Gap, about                            |  4250   |               15\n  Soco (Bunche\u2019s) Bald                       |  6200   |               18\n  Bunche\u2019s Creek Falls                       |  4000   |               20\n  Scott\u2019s Creek, 8 miles; Balsam Tunnel      |  3200   |                7\n  Crab-tree Bald, about                      |  6000   |  foot 13, top 16\n  Chambers\u2019 Mountain, about                  |  5000   |                9\n  Pisgah                                     |  5757   |               18\n  T. Lenoir\u2019s Farm                           |  2800   |               12\n  Pigeon River                               |         |          6 to 12\n  Pigeon River Ford                          |         |               12\u00bd\n  Cold Mountain                              |  6063   |               10\n  Lickstone Mountain (carriage road to top)  |  5800   |                7\n  Caney Fork, Balsam, and Great Divide       |  6425   |               10\n  Mount Serbal (Westner\u2019s Bald)              |  6100   |                8\n  Mount Junaluska (Plott)                    |  6225   |    foot 3, top 5\n  Mount Clingman, about                      |  6690   |           top 50\n  Mount Buckley, about                       |  6650   |           top 52\n  Webster, 20 miles; Franklin                |  1900   |               40\n  Hendersonville                             |  2167   |               45\n  Charleston, Swain County                   |  1700   |               38\n  De Hart\u2019s Springs                          |  1600   |               48\n  Micadale                                   |  3000   |                3\n  =========================================================================\n\n     Splendid drives all around the Springs. Scenery not surpassed, if\n     equalled, east of the Rocky Mountains.\n\nW. W. STRINGFIELD, Proprietor.\nWaynesville, N. C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nC\u00c6SAR\u2019S HEAD HOTEL,\n\nSITUATED UPON\n\nC\u00c6SAR\u2019S HEAD MOUNTAIN\n\nA spur of the Blue Ridge, in Greenville county, South Carolina, 3,500\nfeet above Tide Water. Climate unsurpassed, Scenery varied, grand, and\nbeautiful. The thermometer ranges during the hot months from 50\u00b0 to 70\u00b0.\nFreestone and Chalybeate Springs. Temperature 52\u00b0 to 54\u00b0. Twenty-six\nmiles north of Greenville, South Carolina, and twenty-four miles west of\nHendersonville, North Carolina. Easily reached by daily hacks from\neither place, over good roads, which have been lately improved. A Post\nOffice at the Hotel, and daily mail. Accommodations good, having been\nenlarged and improved. Terms moderate. Billiards, nine-pins, and other\namusements for guests. A resident physician. See author\u2019s notice.\n\n\n  F. BARTOW BEVILLE,              E. M. SEABROOK,\n  SUPERINTENDENT.                  PROPRIETOR.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPre-eminently Popular.\n\nWHEELER & WILSON\u2019S\n\nStandard Sewing Machine.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe SILENT,\n    SWIFT,\n    SIMPLE,\n    S UBSTANTIAL    No. 8\n\n                Wheeler & Wilson Manufacturing Company,\n\n                   NORTH MAIN ST., ASHEVILLE, N. C.\n\n\n                           SOMETHING CHOICE!\n\nLovers of the weed, who enjoy a really good smoke, should always ask for\nHOLMES\u2019 GOLDEN LEAF, HOLMES\u2019 LAND OF THE SKY, HOLMES\u2019 PISGAH. These\nbrands are manufactured from the celebrated Tobaccos grown in Western\nNorth Carolina, free from all perfumeries, adulterations, or impurities,\nand are prized for their SUPERB SMOKING QUALITIES. Ask your dealer for\nHOLMES\u2019 TOBACCO and take no other. Orders from the Trade Solicited.\n\nE. I. HOLMES & Co., Proprietors.\nAsheville, N. C.\n\n\n                             J. A. FRANK\u2019S\n\n                    CHARLESTON HOTEL, SWAIN COUNTY.\n\n                 A comfortable house neatly furnished.\n\n             _HEADQUARTERS for TOURISTS and BUSINESS MEN._\n\n\n                          THE FRANKLIN HOUSE.\n\n                FRANKLIN, MACON COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA.\n\n     A warm welcome and comfortable entertainment for all travellers; a\n     good livery stable connected, stages and carriages sent to any\n     point. Horses and mules bought and sold.\n\nD. C. CUNNINGHAM, proprietor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                                  THE\n\n                    WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA RAILROAD\n\nCONNECTS: At Salisbury, N. C., with the Richmond and Danville Railroad.\nAt Statesville, N. C., with the Charlotte, Columbia and Augusta\nRailroad. Also, at Paint Rock, with the East Tennessee, Virginia and\nGeorgia Railroad. Thus offering an _All Rail Route_ from NORTH, EAST,\nSOUTH, and WEST, to\n\n                        \u201cTHE LAND OF THE SKY.\u201d\n\n       TRAVERSING THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SCENERY ON THIS CONTINENT.\n\n\u261b During the Summer season, Excursion Tickets can be Purchased at all\nthe Principal Cities.\n\nA. B. ANDREWS,      V. E. McBee\n_President_.      _Superintendent_.\nM. SLAUGHTER, _General Passenger Agent_.\n\n\n                           THE HERREN HOUSE.\n\n                         Altitude 2,770 feet,\n\n                       A. L. HERREN, PROPRIETOR,\n\n                          WAYNESVILLE, N. C.\n\nHouse new. Located centrally. The proprietor will give his undivided\nattention to his guests. Saddle-horses and teams furnished guests.\nPrices moderate.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    M. D. LEGGETT, PREST.\n    G. W. STOCKLY, VICE PREST. AND TREAS.\n    BUSINESS MANAGER.\n\n    WM. F. SWIFT, SEC\u2019Y.\n    N. S. POSSONS, SUPT.\n    W. J. POSSONS, ASS\u2019T. SUPT.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  THE\n\n                          BRUSH ELECTRIC CO.\n\n              Late Telegraph Supply Co., manufacturers of\n\n           BRUSH ELECTRIC LIGHT MACHINES, LAMPS AND CARBONS.\n\n Brush electro-plating machines and apparatus, and storage batteries.\n\n Office 379 Euclid avenue. Works, Mason street crossing C. & P. R. R.\n\n                             CLEVELAND, O.\n\n                               U. S. A.\n\n\n                            TURNPIKE HOTEL.\n\n                        BUNCOMBE COUNTY, N. C.\n\nThis is the oldest established resort west of Asheville. It is located\non the W. N. C. railroad, and amid lofty mountains. A pleasant place for\nsummer sojourners and their families. Mineral and free-stone springs on\nthe farm. Rates moderate.\n\nJOHN C. SMATHERS, Proprietor.\n\n\n                          WAYNESVILLE HOTEL,\n\n                          WAYNESVILLE, N. C.\n\nIn the center of the village. A new building, with new furniture\nthroughout. Rates moderate.\n\nJOHN C. SMATHERS, Proprietor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOver 1,000 are now in use, and can be run with perfect safety in\ncotton-gin, house or barn.\n\n               THE NEW FIRE-PROOF TRACTION FARM ENGINE,\n\n                            MANUFACTURED BY\n\n                     D. JUNE & Co., FREMONT, OHIO.\n\n\n                            WESTERN HOTEL,\n\n(FORMERLY BANK HOTEL)      ASHEVILLE, N. C.\n\nH. K. RHEA, Proprietor.\n\nThe Western Hotel is situated on the Public Square, in the very center\nof the city. It has lately changed proprietors and under the present\nmanagement the best accommodations at reasonable rates will be afforded\ntourists and commercial travelers.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                      HOT AND WARM SPRINGS HOTEL.\n\n                  WARM SPRINGS, MADISON COUNTY, N. C.\n\nJ. H. RUMBOUGH, W. W. ROLLINS, H. A. GUDGER,      WARM SPRINGS COMPANY.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nH. A. GUDGER, MANAGER.\n\nFirst class Hotel open all the year, as a great summer and winter resort\nfor invalids and pleasure seekers. Bathing pools unsurpassed,\ntemperature 102\u00b0 to 104\u00b0 F. Fine Hot Spring for drinking, 117\u00b0 F.\nAccessible by railroad from Tennessee and North Carolina. Resident\nphysicians, beautiful mountain scenery, mild and equable climate, fine\nfishing and hunting, fine band of music, finest ball-room in the South\n(just completed), billiards, ten-pin alley, croquet, electric\nannunciators, new and full supply of spring mattresses--in fact, a\nthorough renovation and refurnishing make it unsurpassed by any watering\nplace in the South.\n\nThis powerful Mineral and Electric water effects speedy and radical\ncures in almost all cases of Chronic and Sub-Acute Gout and Rheumatism,\nDyspepsia, Torpid Liver, Paralysis, Afflictions of the kidneys,\nScrofula, Chronic Cutaneous diseases, Neuralgia, Nephritic and Calcelous\ndisorders, Secondary Syphilis, and some other diseases peculiar to\nfemales.\n\nThe railroad depot is within one hundred yards of Hotel, and passengers\nlanded at that point from Tennessee and North Carolina. A Telegraph\nOffice, in communication with all points, is also on the grounds.\nVisitors will find many attractions added since last season, and the\nmanager will see personally to the comfort of his guests, and will spare\nneither pains nor expense to make them comfortable. The table is made a\nspecialty, and is supplied with all the delicacies of the season.\n\nRATES OF BOARD:\n\nPer month of four weeks, $40 to $60 according to location of room and\naccommodations required.\n\nPer week, from $15 to $17.50.\n\nPer day, $2.50.\n\nChildren under 10 years of age and colored servants half price.\n\n_Special rates made with families._\n\n  For further information apply to H. A. GUDGER, MANAGER.\n  March 1, 1883.      WARM SPRINGS, N. C.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTypographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:\n\nwatered by by the head-springs=> watered by the head-springs {pg 12}\n\nsounds like the the distant=> sounds like the distant {pg 38}\n\nthe trees indigenious to the valleys=> the trees indigenous to the\nvalleys {pg 48}\n\nplung headlong into=> plunge headlong into {pg 81}\n\nMiller\u2019s is frame house=> Miller\u2019s is a frame house {pg 100}\n\nsunlight lies on the the ripples=> sunlight lies on the ripples {pg 103}\n\neven if a rude railings=> even if rude railings {pg 115}\n\nof the the two-hundred-year-old=> of the two-hundred-year-old {pg 120}\n\nten or or twelve miles=> ten or twelve miles {pg 122}\n\nON THE LITTLE TENNESEE=> ON THE LITTLE TENNESSEE {pg 145}\n\namid the the sturdier trees=> amid the sturdier trees {pg 153}\n\nits gone forever=> it\u2019s gone forever {pg 177}\n\nAlmost anywhere on the luxurious uplands a coat would think himself in a\nparadise=> Almost anywhere on the luxurious uplands a goat would think\nhimself in a paradise {pg 180}\n\nThe valleys of Hominy creek, Swanannoa=> The valleys of Hominy creek,\nSwannanoa {pg 184}\n\nwas discoverh=> was discovered {pg 202}\n\nfrom the Tennesee line=> from the Tennessee line {pg 207}\n\nSeveir=> Sevier {x 6}\n\nthe new State of Tennesse=> the new State of Tennessee {pg 222}\n\nhe had definitely detertermined=> he had definitely determined {pg 249}\n\npours it current down=> pours its current down {pg 256}\n\nThe narrow-guage railway=> The narrow-gauge railway {pg 269}\n\nthreee miles south=> three miles south {pg 276}\n\nresponsive to the the crack=> responsive to the crack {pg 280}\n\nthey revolve the abstruse questions=> they resolve the abstruse\nquestions {pg 290}\n\nprevades this foreground=> pervades this foreground {pg 291}\n\ninto a ntche of this wall=> into a niche of this wall {pg 297}\n\nas rigid as a statute=> as rigid as a statue {pg 301}\n\ntraveled over by carraige=> traveled over by carriage {pg 315}\n\nto the steep ronts of lofty mountains=> to the steep fronts of lofty\nmountains {pg 317}\n\nbut its strange how I\u2019m loosing everything=> but it\u2019s strange how I\u2019m\nlosing everything {pg 320}\n\nwith their appaling hush=> with their appalling hush {pg 327}\n\nthe Tocca Falls=> the Toccoa Falls {pg 331}\n\nlast but noisest=> last but noisiest {pg 335}\n\nA carriage can be be taken=> A carriage can be taken {pg 344}","title":"The Heart of the Alleghanies; or, Western North Carolina","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":114578}