III

From Burnsville the next point in our route was Asheville, the most

considerable city in western North Carolina, a resort of fashion, and

the capital of Buncombe County. It is distant some forty to

forty-five miles, too long a journey for one day over such roads. The

easier and common route is by the Ford of Big Ivy, eighteen miles, the

first stopping-place; and that was a long ride for the late afternoon

when we were in condition to move.

The landlord suggested that we take another route, stay that night on

Caney River with Big Tom Wilson, only eight miles from Burnsville,

cross Mount Mitchell, and go down the valley of the Swannanoa to

Asheville. He represented this route as shorter and infinitely more

picturesque. There was nothing worth seeing on the Big Ivy way.

With scarcely a moment's reflection and while the horses were

saddling, we decided to ride to Big Tom Wilson's. I could not at the

time understand, and I cannot now, why the Professor consented. I

should hardly dare yet confess to my fixed purpose to ascend Mount

Mitchell. It was equally fixed in the Professor's mind not to do it.

We had not discussed it much. But it is safe to say that if he had

one well-defined purpose on this trip, it was not to climb Mitchell.

"Not," as he put it,--

"Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,"

had suggested the possibility that he could do it.

But at the moment the easiest thing to do seemed to be to ride down

to Wilson's. When there we could turn across country to the Big Ivy,

although, said the landlord, you can ride over Mitchell just as easy

as anywhere--a lady rode plump over the peak of it last week, and

never got off her horse. You are not obliged to go; at Big Tom's,

you can go any way you please.

Besides, Big Tom himself weighed in the scale more than Mount

Mitchell, and not to see him was to miss one of the most

characteristic productions of the country, the typical backwoodsman,

hunter, guide. So we rode down Bolling Creek, through a pretty,

broken country, crossed the Caney River, and followed it up a few

miles to Wilson's plantation. There are little intervales along the

river, where hay is cut and corn grown, but the region is not much

cleared, and the stock browse about in the forest. Wilson is the

agent of the New York owner of a tract of some thirteen thousand

acres of forest, including the greater portion of Mount Mitchell, a

wilderness well stocked with bears and deer, and full of streams

abounding in trout. It is also the playground of the rattlesnake.

With all these attractions Big Tom's life is made lively in watching

game poachers, and endeavoring to keep out the foraging cattle of the

few neighbors. It is not that the cattle do much injury in the

forest, but the looking after them is made a pretense for roaming

around, and the roamers are liable to have to defend themselves

against the deer, or their curiosity is excited about the bears, and

lately they have taken to exploding powder in the streams to kill the

fish.

Big Tom's plantation has an openwork stable, an ill-put-together

frame house, with two rooms and a kitchen, and a veranda in front, a

loft, and a spring-house in the rear. Chickens and other animals

have free run of the premises. Some fish-rods hung in the porch, and

hunter's gear depended on hooks in the passage-way to the kitchen.

In one room were three beds, in the other two, only one in the

kitchen. On the porch was a loom, with a piece of cloth in process.

The establishment had the air of taking care of itself. Neither Big

Tom nor his wife was at home. Sunday seemed to be a visiting day,

and the travelers had met many parties on horseback. Mrs. Wilson

was away for a visit of a day or two. One of the sons, who was

lounging on the veranda, was at last induced to put up the horses; a

very old woman, who mumbled and glared at the visitors, was found in

the kitchen, but no intelligible response could be got out of her.

Presently a bright little girl, the housekeeper in charge, appeared.

She said that her paw had gone up to her brother's (her brother was

just married and lived up the river in the house where Mr. Murchison

stayed when he was here) to see if he could ketch a bear that had

been rootin' round in the corn-field the night before. She expected

him back by sundown--by dark anyway. 'Les he'd gone after the bear,

and then you could n't tell when he would come.

It appeared that Big Tom was a thriving man in the matter of family.

More boys appeared. Only one was married, but four had "got their

time." As night approached, and no Wilson, there was a good deal of

lively and loud conversation about the stock and the chores, in all

of which the girl took a leading and intelligent part, showing a

willingness to do her share, but not to have all the work put upon

her. It was time to go down the road and hunt up the cows; the mule

had disappeared and must be found before dark; a couple of steers

hadn't turned up since the day before yesterday, and in the midst of

the gentle contention as to whose business all this was, there was an

alarm of cattle in the corn-patch, and the girl started off on a run

in that direction. It was due to the executive ability of this small

girl, after the cows had been milked and the mule chased and the boys

properly stirred up, that we had supper. It was of the oilcloth,

iron fork, tin spoon, bacon, hot bread and honey variety,

distinguished, however, from all meals we had endured or enjoyed

before by the introduction of fried eggs (as the breakfast next

morning was by the presence of chicken), and it was served by the

active maid with right hearty good-will and genuine hospitable

intent.

While it was in progress, after nine o'clock, Big Tom arrived, and,

with a simple greeting, sat down and attacked the supper and began to

tell about the bear. There was not much to tell except that he

hadn't seen the bear, and that, judged by his tracks and his sloshing

around, he must be a big one. But a trap had been set for him, and

he judged it wouldn't be long before we had some bear meat. Big Tom

Wilson, as he is known all over this part of the State, would not

attract attention from his size. He is six feet and two inches tall,

very spare and muscular, with sandy hair, long gray beard, and honest

blue eyes. He has a reputation for great strength and endurance; a

man of native simplicity and mild manners. He had been rather

expecting us from what Mr. Murchison wrote; he wrote (his son had

read out the letter) that Big Tom was to take good care of us, and

anybody that Mr. Murchison sent could have the best he'd got.

Big Tom joined us in our room after supper. This apartment, with two

mighty feather-beds, was hung about with all manner of stuffy family

clothes, and had in one end a vast cavern for a fire. The floor was

uneven, and the hearthstones billowy. When the fire was lighted, the

effect of the bright light in the cavern and the heavy shadows in the

room was Rembrandtish. Big Tom sat with us before the fire and told

bear stories. Talk? Why, it was not the least effort. The stream

flowed on without a ripple. "Why, the old man," one of the sons

confided to us next morning, "can begin and talk right over Mount

Mitchell and all the way back, and never make a break." Though Big

Tom had waged a lifelong warfare with the bears, and taken the hide

off at least a hundred of them, I could not see that he had any

vindictive feeling towards the varmint, but simply an insatiable love

of killing him, and he regarded him in that half-humorous light in

which the bear always appears to those who study him. As to deer--he

couldn't tell how many of them he had slain. But Big Tom was a

gentleman: he never killed deer for mere sport. With rattlesnakes,

now, it was different. There was the skin of one hanging upon a tree

by the route we would take in the morning, a buster, he skinned him

yesterday. There was an entire absence, of braggadocio in Big Tom's

talk, but somehow, as he went on, his backwoods figure loomed larger

and larger in our imagination, and he seemed strangely familiar. At

length it came over us where we had met him before. It was in

Cooper's novels. He was the Leather-Stocking exactly. And yet he

was an original; for he assured us that he had never read the

Leather-Stocking Tales. What a figure, I was thinking, he must have

made in the late war! Such a shot, such a splendid physique, such

iron endurance! I almost dreaded to hear his tales of the havoc he

had wrought on the Union army. Yes, he was in the war, he was

sixteen months in the Confederate army, this Homeric man. In what

rank? "Oh, I was a fifer!"

But hunting and war did not by any means occupy the whole of Big

Tom's life. He was also engaged in "lawin'." He had a long-time

feud with a neighbor about a piece of land and alleged trespass, and

they'd been "lawin'" for years, with no definite result; but as a

topic of conversation it was as fully illustrative of frontier life

as the bear-fighting.

Long after we had all gone to bed, we heard Big Tom's continuous

voice, through the thin partition that separated us from the kitchen,

going on to his little boy about the bear; every circumstance of how

he tracked him, and what corner of the field he entered, and where he

went out, and his probable size and age, and the prospect of his

coming again; these were the details of real everyday life, and

worthy to be dwelt on by the hour. The boy was never tired of

pursuing them. And Big Tom was just a big boy, also, in his delight

in it all.

Perhaps it was the fascination of Big Tom, perhaps the representation

that we were already way off the Big Ivy route, and that it would, in

fact, save time to go over the mountain and we could ride all the

way, that made the Professor acquiesce, with no protest worth

noticing, in the preparations that went on, as by a natural

assumption, for going over Mitchell. At any rate, there was an early

breakfast, luncheon was put up, and by half-past seven we were riding

up the Caney,--a half-cloudy day,--Big Tom swinging along on foot

ahead, talking nineteen to the dozen. There was a delightful

freshness in the air, the dew-laden bushes, and the smell of the

forest. In half an hour we called at the hunting shanty of Mr.

Murchison, wrote our names on the wall, according to custom, and

regretted that we could not stay for a day in that retreat and try

the speckled trout. Making our way through the low growth and bushes

of the valley, we came into a fine open forest, watered by a noisy

brook, and after an hour's easy going reached the serious ascent.

From Wilson's to the peak of Mitchell it is seven and a half miles;

we made it in five and a half hours. A bridle path was cut years

ago, but it has been entirely neglected. It is badly washed, it is

stony, muddy, and great trees have fallen across it which wholly

block the way for horses. At these places long detours were

necessary, on steep hillsides and through gullies, over treacherous

sink-holes in the rocks, through quaggy places, heaps of brush, and

rotten logs. Those who have ever attempted to get horses over such

ground will not wonder at the slow progress we made. Before we were

halfway up the ascent, we realized the folly of attempting it on

horseback; but then to go on seemed as easy as to go back. The way

was also exceedingly steep in places, and what with roots, and logs,

and slippery rocks and stones, it was a desperate climb for the

horses.

What a magnificent forest! Oaks, chestnuts, Poplars, hemlocks, the

cucumber (a species of magnolia, with a pinkish, cucumber-like cone),

and all sorts of northern and southern growths meeting here in

splendid array. And this gigantic forest, with little diminution in

size of trees, continued two thirds of the way up. We marked, as we

went on, the maple, the black walnut, the buckeye, the hickory, the

locust, and the guide pointed out in one section the largest

cherry-trees we had ever seen; splendid trunks, each worth a large sum

if it could be got to market. After the great trees were left behind,

we entered a garden of white birches, and then a plateau of swamp,

thick with raspberry bushes, and finally the ridges, densely crowded

with the funereal black balsam.

Halfway up, Big Tom showed us his favorite, the biggest tree he knew.

It was a poplar, or tulip. It stands more like a column than a tree,

rising high into the air, with scarcely a perceptible taper, perhaps

sixty, more likely a hundred, feet before it puts out a limb.

Its girth six feet from the ground is thirty-two feet! I think it

might be called Big Tom. It stood here, of course, a giant, when

Columbus sailed from Spain, and perhaps some sentimental traveler

will attach the name of Columbus to it.

In the woods there was not much sign of animal life, scarcely the

note of a bird, but we noticed as we rode along in the otherwise

primeval silence a loud and continuous humming overhead, almost like

the sound of the wind in pine tops. It was the humming of bees! The

upper branches were alive with these industrious toilers, and Big Tom

was always on the alert to discover and mark a bee-gum, which he

could visit afterwards. Honey hunting is one of his occupations.

Collecting spruce gum is another, and he was continually hacking off

with his hatchet knobs of the translucent secretion. How rich and

fragrant are these forests! The rhododendron was still in occasional

bloom' and flowers of brilliant hue gleamed here and there.

The struggle was more severe as we neared the summit, and the footing

worse for the horses. Occasionally it was safest to dismount and

lead them up slippery ascents; but this was also dangerous, for it

was difficult to keep them from treading on our heels, in their

frantic flounderings, in the steep, wet, narrow, brier-grown path.

At one uncommonly pokerish place, where the wet rock sloped into a

bog, the rider of Jack thought it prudent to dismount, but Big Tom

insisted that Jack would "make it" all right, only give him his head.

The rider gave him his head, and the next minute Jack's four heels

were in the air, and he came down on his side in a flash. The rider

fortunately extricated his leg without losing it, Jack scrambled out

with a broken shoe, and the two limped along. It was a wonder that

the horses' legs were not broken a dozen times.

As we approached the top, Big Tom pointed out the direction, a half

mile away, of a small pond, a little mountain tarn, overlooked by a

ledge of rock, where Professor Mitchell lost his life. Big Tom was

the guide that found his body. That day, as we sat on the summit, he

gave in great detail the story, the general outline of which is well

known.

The first effort to measure the height of the Black Mountains was

made in 1835, by Professor Elisha Mitchell, professor of mathematics

and chemistry in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Mr. Mitchell was a native of Connecticut, born in Washington,

Litchfield County, in 1793; graduated at Yale, ordained a

Presbyterian minister, and was for a time state surveyor; and became

a professor at Chapel Hill in 1818. He first ascertained and

published the fact that the Black Mountains are the highest land east

of the Rocky Mountains. In 1844 he visited the locality again.

Measurements were subsequently made by Professor Guyot and by Senator

Clingman. One of the peaks was named for the senator (the one next

in height to Mitchell is described as Clingman on the state map), and

a dispute arose as to whether Mitchell had really visited and

measured the highest peak. Senator Clingman still maintains that he

did not, and that the peak now known as Mitchell is the one that

Clingman first described. The estimates of altitudes made by the

three explorers named differed considerably. The height now fixed

for Mount Mitchell is 6711; that of Mount Washington is 6285. There

are twelve peaks in this range higher than Mount Washington, and if

we add those in the Great Smoky Mountains which overtop it, there are

some twenty in this State higher than the granite giant of New

Hampshire.

In order to verify his statement, Professor Mitchell (then in his

sixty-fourth year) made a third ascent in June, 1857. He was alone,

and went up from the Swannanoa side. He did not return. No anxiety

was felt for two or three days, as he was a good mountaineer, and it

was supposed he had crossed the mountain and made his way out by the

Caney River. But when several days passed without tidings of him, a

search party was formed. Big Tom Wilson was with it. They explored

the mountain in all directions unsuccessfully. At length Big Tom

separated himself from his companions and took a course in accordance

with his notion of that which would be pursued by a man lost in the

clouds or the darkness. He soon struck the trail of the wanderer,

and, following it, discovered Mitchell's body lying in a pool at the

foot of a rocky precipice some thirty feet high. It was evident that

Mitchell, making his way along the ridge in darkness or fog, had

fallen off. It was the ninth (or the eleventh) day of his

disappearance, but in the pure mountain air the body had suffered no

change. Big Tom brought his companions to the place, and on

consultation it was decided to leave the body undisturbed till

Mitchell's friends could be present.

There was some talk of burying him on the mountain, but the friends

decided otherwise, and the remains, with much difficulty, were got

down to Asheville and there interred.

Some years afterwards, I believe at the instance of a society of

scientists, it was resolved to transport the body to the summit of

Mount Mitchell; for the tragic death of the explorer had forever

settled in the popular mind the name of the mountain. The task was

not easy. A road had to be cut, over which a sledge could be hauled,

and the hardy mountaineers who undertook the removal were three days

in reaching the summit with their burden. The remains were

accompanied by a considerable concourse, and the last rites on the

top were participated in by a hundred or more scientists and

prominent men from different parts of the State. Such a strange

cortege had never before broken the silence of this lonely

wilderness, nor was ever burial more impressive than this wild

interment above the clouds.

We had been preceded in our climb all the way by a huge bear. That

he was huge, a lunker, a monstrous old varmint, Big Tom knew by the

size of his tracks; that he was making the ascent that morning ahead

of us, Big Tom knew by the freshness of the trail. We might come

upon him at any moment; he might be in the garden; was quite likely

to be found in the raspberry patch. That we did not encounter him I

am convinced was not the fault of Big Tom, but of the bear.

After a struggle of five hours we emerged from the balsams and briers

into a lovely open meadow, of lush clover, timothy, and blue grass.

We unsaddled the horses and turned them loose to feed in it. The

meadow sloped up to a belt of balsams and firs, a steep rocky knob,

and climbing that on foot we stood upon the summit of Mitchell at one

o'clock. We were none too soon, for already the clouds were

preparing for what appears to be a daily storm at this season.

The summit is a nearly level spot of some thirty or forty feet in

extent either way, with a floor of rock and loose stones. The

stunted balsams have been cut away so as to give a view. The sweep

of prospect is vast, and we could see the whole horizon except in the

direction of Roan, whose long bulk was enveloped in cloud. Portions

of six States were in sight, we were told, but that is merely a

geographical expression. What we saw, wherever we looked, was an

inextricable tumble of mountains, without order or leading line of

direction,--domes, peaks, ridges, endless and countless, everywhere,

some in shadow, some tipped with shafts of sunlight, all wooded and

green or black, and all in more softened contours than our Northern

hills, but still wild, lonesome, terrible. Away in the southwest,

lifting themselves up in a gleam of the western sky, the Great Smoky

Mountains loomed like a frowning continental fortress, sullen and

remote. With Clingman and Gibbs and Holdback peaks near at hand and

apparently of equal height, Mitchell seemed only a part and not

separate from the mighty congregation of giants.

In the center of the stony plot on the summit lie the remains of

Mitchell. To dig a grave in the rock was impracticable, but the

loose stones were scooped away to the depth of a foot or so, the body

was deposited, and the stones were replaced over it. It was the

original intention to erect a monument, but the enterprise of the

projectors of this royal entombment failed at that point. The grave

is surrounded by a low wall of loose stones, to which each visitor

adds one, and in the course of ages the cairn may grow to a good

size. The explorer lies there without name or headstone to mark his

awful resting-place. The mountain is his monument. He is alone with

its majesty. He is there in the clouds, in the tempests, where the

lightnings play, and thunders leap, amid the elemental tumult, in the

occasional great calm and silence and the pale sunlight. It is the

most majestic, the most lonesome grave on earth.

As we sat there, awed a little by this presence, the clouds were

gathering from various quarters and drifting towards us. We could

watch the process of thunder-storms and the manufacture of tempests.

I have often noticed on other high mountains how the clouds, forming

like genii released from the earth, mount into the upper air, and in

masses of torn fragments of mist hurry across the sky as to a

rendezvous of witches. This was a different display. These clouds

came slowly sailing from the distant horizon, like ships on an aerial

voyage. Some were below us, some on our level; they were all in

well-defined, distinct masses, molten silver on deck, below trailing

rain, and attended on earth by gigantic shadows that moved with them.

This strange fleet of battle-ships, drifted by the shifting currents,

was maneuvering for an engagement. One after another, as they came

into range about our peak of observation, they opened fire. Sharp

flashes of lightning darted from one to the other; a jet of flame

from one leaped across the interval and was buried in the bosom of

its adversary; and at every discharge the boom of great guns echoed

through the mountains. It was something more than a royal salute to

the tomb of the mortal at our feet, for the masses of cloud were rent

in the fray, at every discharge the rain was precipitated in

increasing torrents, and soon the vast hulks were trailing torn

fragments and wreaths of mist, like the shot-away shrouds and sails

of ships in battle. Gradually, from this long-range practice with

single guns and exchange of broadsides, they drifted into closer

conflict, rushed together, and we lost sight of the individual

combatants in the general tumult of this aerial war.

We had barely twenty minutes for our observations, when it was time

to go; and had scarcely left the peak when the clouds enveloped it.

We hastened down under the threatening sky to the saddles and the

luncheon. Just off from the summit, amid the rocks, is a complete

arbor, or tunnel, of rhododendrons. This cavernous place a Western

writer has made the scene of a desperate encounter between Big Tom

and a catamount, or American panther, which had been caught in a trap

and dragged it there, pursued by Wilson. It is an exceedingly

graphic narrative, and is enlivened by the statement that Big Tom had

the night before drunk up all the whisky of the party which had spent

the night on the summit. Now Big Tom assured us that the whisky part

of the story was an invention; he was not (which is true) in the

habit of using it; if he ever did take any, it might be a drop on

Mitchell; in fact, when he inquired if we had a flask, he remarked

that a taste of it would do him good then and there. We regretted

the lack of it in our baggage. But what inclined Big Tom to

discredit the Western writer's story altogether was the fact that he

never in his life had had a difficulty with a catamount, and never

had seen one in these mountains.

Our lunch was eaten in haste. Big Tom refused the chicken he had

provided for us, and strengthened himself with slices of raw salt

pork, which he cut from a hunk with his clasp-knife. We caught and

saddled our horses, who were reluctant to leave the rich feed,

enveloped ourselves in waterproofs, and got into the stony path for

the descent just as the torrent came down. It did rain. It

lightened, the thunder crashed, the wind howled and twisted the

treetops. It was as if we were pursued by the avenging spirits of

the mountains for our intrusion. Such a tempest on this height had

its terrors even for our hardy guide. He preferred to be lower down

while it was going on. The crash and reverberation of the thunder

did not trouble us so much as the swish of the wet branches in our

faces and the horrible road, with its mud, tripping roots, loose

stones, and slippery rocks. Progress was slow. The horses were in

momentary danger of breaking their legs. In the first hour there was

not much descent. In the clouds we were passing over Clingman,

Gibbs, and Holdback. The rain had ceased, but the mist still shut

off all view, if any had been attainable, and bushes and paths were

deluged. The descent was more uncomfortable than the ascent, and we

were compelled a good deal of the way to lead the jaded horses down

the slippery rocks.

From the peak to the Widow Patten's, where we proposed to pass the

night, is twelve miles, a distance we rode or scrambled down, every

step of the road bad, in five and a half hours. Halfway down we came

out upon a cleared place, a farm, with fruit-trees and a house in

ruins. Here had been a summer hotel much resorted to before the war,

but now abandoned. Above it we turned aside for the view from

Elizabeth rock, named from the daughter of the proprietor of the

hotel, who often sat here, said Big Tom, before she went out of this

world. It is a bold rocky ledge, and the view from it, looking

south, is unquestionably the finest, the most pleasing and

picture-like, we found in these mountains. In the foreground is the

deep gorge of a branch of the Swannanoa, and opposite is the great wall

of the Blue Ridge (the Blue Ridge is the most capricious and

inexplicable system) making off to the Blacks. The depth of the gorge,

the sweep of the sky line, and the reposeful aspect of the scene to the

sunny south made this view both grand and charming. Nature does not

always put the needed dash of poetry into her extensive prospects.

Leaving this clearing and the now neglected spring, where fashion

used to slake its thirst, we zigzagged down the mountain-side through

a forest of trees growing at every step larger and nobler, and at

length struck a small stream, the North Fork of the Swannanoa, which

led us to the first settlement. Just at night,--it was nearly seven

o'clock,--we entered one of the most stately forests I have ever

seen, and rode for some distance in an alley of rhododendrons that

arched overhead and made a bower. It was like an aisle in a temple;

high overhead was the somber, leafy roof, supported by gigantic

columns. Few widows have such an avenue of approach to their domain

as the Widow Patten has.

Cheering as this outcome was from the day's struggle and storm, the

Professor seemed sunk in a profound sadness. The auguries which the

Friend drew from these signs of civilization of a charming inn and a

royal supper did not lighten the melancholy of his mind. "Alas," he

said,

"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break,

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak

That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief:

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss."

"Loss of what?" cried the Friend, as he whipped up his halting

steed.

"Loss of self-respect. I feel humiliated that I consented to climb

this mountain."

"Nonsense! You'll live to thank me for it, as the best thing you

ever did. It's over and done now, and you've got it to tell your

friends."

"That's just the trouble. They'll ask me if I went up Mitchell, and

I shall have to say I did. My character for consistency is gone.

Not that I care much what they think, but my own self-respect is

gone. I never believed I would do it. A man ca'nt afford to lower

himself in his own esteem, at my time of life."

The Widow Patten's was only an advanced settlement in this narrow

valley on the mountain-side, but a little group of buildings, a

fence, and a gate gave it the air of a place, and it had once been

better cared for than it is now. Few travelers pass that way, and

the art of entertaining, if it ever existed, is fallen into

desuetude. We unsaddled at the veranda, and sat down to review our

adventure, make the acquaintance of the family, and hear the last

story from Big Tom. The mountaineer, though wet, was as fresh as a

daisy, and fatigue in no wise checked the easy, cheerful flow of his

talk. He was evidently a favorite with his neighbors, and not

unpleasantly conscious of the extent of his reputation. But he

encountered here another social grade. The Widow Patten was highly

connected. We were not long in discovering that she was an

Alexander. She had been a schoolmate of Senator Vance,--"Zeb Vance"

he still was to her,--and the senator and his wife had stayed at her

house. I wish I could say that the supper, for which we waited till

nine o'clock, was as "highly connected" as the landlady. It was,

however, a supper that left its memory. We were lodged in a detached

house, which we had to ourselves, where a roaring wood fire made

amends for other things lacking. It was necessary to close the doors

to keep out the wandering cows and pigs, and I am bound to say that,

notwithstanding the voices of the night, we slept there the sleep of

peace.

In the morning a genuine surprise awaited us; it seemed impossible,

but the breakfast was many degrees worse than the supper; and when we

paid our bill, large for the region, we were consoled by the

thought that we paid for the high connection as well as for the

accommodations. This is a regular place of entertainment, and one is

at liberty to praise it without violation of delicacy.

The broken shoe of Jack required attention, and we were all the

morning hunting a blacksmith, as we rode down the valley. Three

blacksmith's shanties were found, and after long waiting to send for

the operator it turned out in each case that he had no shoes, no

nails, no iron to make either of. We made a detour of three miles to

what was represented as a regular shop. The owner had secured the

service of a colored blacksmith for a special job, and was, not

inclined to accommodate us; he had no shoes, no nails. But the

colored blacksmith, who appreciated the plight we were in, offered to

make a shoe, and to crib four nails from those he had laid aside for

a couple of mules; and after a good deal of delay, we were enabled to

go on. The incident shows, as well as anything, the barrenness and

shiftlessness of the region. A horseman with whom we rode in the

morning gave us a very low estimate of the trustworthiness of the

inhabitants. The valley is wild and very pretty all the way down to

Colonel Long's,--twelve miles,--but the wretched-looking people along

the way live in a wretched manner.

Just before reaching Colonel Long's we forded the stream (here of

good size), the bridge having tumbled down, and encountered a party

of picnickers under the trees--signs of civilization; a railway

station is not far off. Colonel Long's is a typical Southern

establishment: a white house, or rather three houses, all of one

story, built on to each other as beehives are set in a row, all

porches and galleries. No one at home but the cook, a rotund,

broad-faced woman, with a merry eye, whose very appearance suggested

good cooking and hospitality; the Missis and the children had gone up

to the river fishing; the Colonel was somewhere about the place; always

was away when he was wanted. Guess he'd take us in, mighty fine man

the Colonel; and she dispatched a child from a cabin in the rear to

hunt him up. The Colonel was a great friend of her folks down to

Greenville; they visited here. Law, no, she didn't live here. Was

just up here spending the summer, for her health. God-forsaken lot of

people up here, poor trash. She wouldn't stay here a day, but the

Colonel was a friend of her folks, the firstest folks in Greenville.

Nobody round here she could 'sociate with. She was a Presbyterian, the

folks round here mostly Baptists and Methodists. More style about the

Presbyterians. Married? No, she hoped not. She did n't want to

support no husband. Got 'nuff to do to take care of herself. That her

little girl? No; she'd only got one child, down to Greenville, just

the prettiest boy ever was, as white as anybody. How did she what?

reconcile this state of things with not being married and being a

Presbyterian? Sho! she liked to carry some religion along; it was

mighty handy occasionally, mebbe not all the time. Yes, indeed, she

enjoyed her religion.

The Colonel appeared and gave us a most cordial welcome. The fat and

merry cook blustered around and prepared a good dinner, memorable for

its "light" bread, the first we had seen since Cranberry Forge. The

Colonel is in some sense a public man, having been a mail agent, and

a Republican. He showed us photographs and engravings of Northern

politicians, and had the air of a man who had been in Washington.

This was a fine country for any kind of fruit,--apples, grapes,

pears; it needed a little Northern enterprise to set things going.

The travelers were indebted to the Colonel for a delightful noonday

rest, and with regret declined his pressing invitation to pass the

night with him.

The ride down the Swannanoa to Asheville was pleasant, through a

cultivated region, over a good road. The Swannanoa is, however, a

turbid stream. In order to obtain the most impressive view of

Asheville we approached it by the way of Beaucatcher Hill, a sharp

elevation a mile west of the town. I suppose the name is a

corruption of some descriptive French word, but it has long been a

favorite resort of the frequenters of Asheville, and it may be

traditional that it is a good place to catch beaux. The summit is

occupied by a handsome private residence, and from this ridge the

view, which has the merit of "bursting" upon the traveler as he comes

over the hill, is captivating in its extent and variety. The pretty

town of Asheville is seen to cover a number of elevations gently

rising out of the valley, and the valley, a rich agricultural region,

well watered and fruitful, is completely inclosed by picturesque

hills, some of them rising to the dignity of mountains. The most

conspicuous of these is Mount Pisgah, eighteen miles distant to the

southwest, a pyramid of the Balsam range, 5757 feet high. Mount

Pisgah, from its shape, is the most attractive mountain in this

region.

The sunset light was falling upon the splendid panorama and softening

it. The windows of the town gleamed as if on fire. From the steep

slope below came the mingled sounds of children shouting, cattle

driven home, and all that hum of life that marks a thickly peopled

region preparing for the night. It was the leisure hour of an August

afternoon, and Asheville was in all its watering-place gayety, as we

reined up at the Swannanoa hotel. A band was playing on the balcony.

We had reached ice-water, barbers, waiters, civilization.