Franklin, North Carolina, May, 1848.
The little village of Franklin is romantically situated on the
Little Tennessee. It is surrounded with mountains, and as quiet and
pretty a hamlet as I have yet seen among the Alleghanies. On the
morning after entering this place, I went to the post office, for
the purpose of obtaining a peep at the last number of the National
Intelligencer, whereupon the officiating gentleman informed me that
I should find it at the office of a young lawyer whom he named. I
called upon the legal gentleman, and found him, like all the
intelligent people of the country, very polite and well informed. In
speaking of the surrounding pictorial associations he alluded to a
certain waterfall, and added that the gentleman who referred me to
him owned a plantation near the falls, on a famous trout-stream, and
was an _angler_. On this hint I sent a couple of handsome flies, as
a present, to my post-office friend, and in less than twenty minutes
thereafter he made his appearance at my lodgings, and insisted that
we should go upon a fishing excursion, and that the lawyer should
accompany us. Horses were immediately procured, and having rode a
distance of ten miles along a very beautiful stream called
_Kul-la-sa-jah_, or _the Sugar Water_, we came to the chasm leading
to the falls. Here we tied our horses, and while my companions
commenced throwing the fly, I proceeded to the more profitable
employment of taking sketches.
The chasm of the Sugar Water Falls is about half a mile long, and
immediately below the precipices are perpendicular and very
imposing, reaching an elevation of at least one thousand feet. The
falls themselves are three in number—the first and principal one
being about sixty feet high. Emptying into the Sweet Water, directly
at the lower end of the chasm, is a tiny brook without a name, upon
which I found a cascade of great beauty. The water falls near forty
feet, but sings its eternal song in a shadowy recess, where hoary
trees, mossy rocks, and exquisite vines, of every variety peculiar
to the country, remain in their original wildness. As I clambered up
the ravine leading to this cascade, I startled a doe from the green
couch where she had been spending the noontide hours. I added a
number of sketches to my portfolio, and after spending “alone in my
glory” the whole afternoon, wandering from one chasm to another, I
left the delightful valley with reluctance, musing upon the
marvellous beauty of every thing in the world formed by the hand of
God.
On arriving at the spot where our horses were tied, I found my
companions both wearing uncommonly long faces, for they had not
succeeded in killing a single trout. I joked my post-office friend
about his “famous trout-stream,” and then, remounting our horses, we
paid a visit to his plantation, where we enjoyed a comfortable
supper, and continued on our way home by the light of the moon.
Under any circumstances this would have been an agreeable ride, but
on the present occasion my companions did all the talking, and the
substance of two of their stories I herewith subjoin merely as
specimens:
“I can’t account for our bad luck in catching trout today,” said my
post-office friend; “but I do assure you that a couple of young men
named Hyatt, and myself, once went a fishing in the Sweet Water, and
we took one hundred and seventy-five trout. But this is not to the
purpose. On that occasion we fished up the stream; and when we came
to the mouth of the chasm, we saw a big buck, which we frightened
towards the falls as we ascended. When we came near the falls, one
of the Hyatts and myself stopped fishing, and went to work to corner
the buck, and see if we could kill him with stones, or cause him to
drown himself. There was no way for him to make his escape, except
by running directly over us, and this we did not suppose he would
dare attempt. He made many desperate efforts to get away, and at one
time managed to climb an almost perpendicular wall of rock to the
height of some twenty feet, when he lost his foothold and fell into
the pool below. He now became very much enraged, but we continued to
pelt him with stones, though without effecting any serious injury.
After bothering him for at least half an hour, the creature finally
got upon the rocks at the lower part of the pool, when he swept by
us with great fury, and started down the chasm, making some of the
most fearful leaps that I ever saw. And now it so happened that we
saw the younger Hyatt standing upon a rock and casting his fly upon
a pool, where we thought the deer must pass in his downward course,
and we immediately shouted to the angler to ‘look out.’ He did so,
and immediately drew out a hunting-knife which he had in his pocket,
and as the deer tumbled into the pool, young Hyatt actually _jumped
upon his back, and succeeded in giving him a fatal stab_, so that
the animal merely crawled upon the rocks to die. It was quite late
in the evening before we started for home, and we only brought the
skin along with us; but as we left the chasm, we saw a large panther
descending one of the cliffs of the gorge, as if hastening to have a
feast upon the dead deer.”
The “story” of my lawyer friend, or rather a fragment of his
entertaining conversation was as follows: “As it is important, Mr.
Lanman, that you should not leave our country without learning
something of our great personages, and as our companion here is a
modest man, I will give you a brief sketch of his character. He is a
gentleman of some property, for he not only owns the plantation
where we took supper, but one or two others of equal value. He is
one of the oldest residents in this mountain region—a gentleman of
fine moral character, and with a heart as guileless as that of a
child. He is a passionate lover of scenery, and has probably
explored the beauties of this mountain land more thoroughly than any
other man now living; he is also a great lover of botany, geology,
insectology, and a dozen other ologies, and I believe has made a
number of discoveries in all his favorite studies. As you have
heard, he tells a capital story, and, as you may see by looking into
some of our southern newspapers, he uses the pen with ease and a
degree of elegance. He cherishes a love for the ‘angle art,’ and I
must say usually succeeds in his fishing exploits much better than
he has to-day. By profession he is a knight of the needle; but,
being somewhat advanced in years, he amuses himself by fulfilling
the duties of deputy postmaster in the village of Franklin.”
The lawyer was here interrupted by the _hero_ of his story, who
_insisted_ upon his changing the “subject theme,” and the
consequence is, my readers will be disappointed in obtaining any
more information respecting the scientific deputy postmaster of the
Alleghany mountains.
But, leaving the intellectual out of view, the most interesting
character whom I have seen about Franklin is an old Cherokee Indian.
His name is _Sa-taw-ha_, or _Hog-Bite_, and he is upwards of one
hundred years of age. He lives in a small log hut among the
mountains, the door of which is so very low that you have to crawl
into it upon your hands and knees. At the time the greater part of
his nation were removed to the Far West, the “officers of _justice_”
called to obtain his company. He saw them as they approached, and,
taking his loaded rifle in hand, he warned them not to attempt to
lay their hands upon him, for he would certainly kill them. He was
found to be so resolute and so very old, that it was finally
concluded by those in power that the old man should be left alone.
He lives the life of a hermit, and is chiefly supported by the
charity of one or two Indian neighbors, though it is said he even
now occasionally manages to kill a deer or turkey. His history is
entirely unknown, and he says he can remember the time when the
Cherokee nation lived upon the shores of a great ocean, (the
Atlantic,) and the color of a white man’s face was unknown.
In the immediate vicinity of this place may be seen another of those
mysterious Indian mounds which we find beautifying nearly all the
valleys of this land. And here it may not be out of place for me to
introduce the opinions concerning their origin which prevail among
the Indian tribes of the South. By some they are said to have been
built by a race of people who have become extinct, and were formerly
used by the Cherokees merely as convenient places to have their
dances and their games. A superstition also prevails, that in the
ancient days every Indian brought to a certain place a small bark
full of the soil which he cultivated, as a tribute to the Great
Spirit, who in return sent them a plenteous harvest. Some allege
that they were the burial places of great warriors and hunters; some
that they were erected as trophies of remarkable victories; others
that they were built as fortresses; and others still that upon them
were performed the more sacred of religious rites. There is also a
tradition existing among the Cherokees that these mounds formerly
contained a species of sacred fire; and it is well known that an
Indian has never been known to deface one of them, and to see them
defaced by the white man always seems to make them unhappy. The only
light (in the way of opinion) that I can throw upon these mounds is,
that they owe their origin to some aboriginal custom similar to that
which has brought together the huge piles of stones which the
traveller meets with in various portions of the southern country.
But all this information is traditionary, the builders of these
mounds are unknown, and all that even the wise of the present
generation can do is to look upon them in silence and wonder.
The gentleman upon whose property the above mentioned mound is
situated is the nabob of the place, an intelligent man, and an old
resident. I am now his guest and he lives in comfortable style, his
dwelling being surrounded with a score or two of out-houses. He
carries on an extensive farming business, and is the owner of a
goodly number of tidy, respectful, and industrious slaves. Though
situated almost within rifle-shot of an impassable mountain, his
residence is associated with clover-fields, a well-managed garden
filled with flowers and vines, ancient trees where sing the katydids
in the evening hours, and above which swoop the joyous and noisy
martin and the beautiful dove; and also with meadow-fields, where
horses and cattle graze during the long summer day. But there is one
association connected with this farm-house which is still ringing in
my ears: I allude to a perpetual chorus of an everlasting quantity
of jackasses, peacocks, and guinea-hens. My host seems to have a
passion for these apparently accidental or unfinished specimens of
natural history; and I must say that I have never before been
privileged to enjoy such unearthly music as I have on his
plantation. The painful braying of a jackass awakens his household
from their slumbers, and the same braying, accompanied by the
screams of the peacock and guinea-hen, continues without ceasing
until the twilight hour, when the whippoorwill takes up her evening
lay, and the world lapses into its nightly repose.
Having spent a Sabbath in Franklin, I obtained a little information
with regard to the religious condition of the people in this section
of country. The only denominations who have preaching here are the
Methodists and Baptists. Among the latter class, the Bible custom of
_washing feet_ is still kept up with rigor. The preachers of both
denominations are itinerants, and, so far as I have seen, are worthy
upright, and sensible men. They seem to think more of preaching the
_doctrines of Christ_ than proclaiming their own learning or
advocating their own opinions, and it is therefore always a pleasure
to hear them; they know their duties, and faithfully fulfil them,
and I believe accomplish much good. The people attend the Sunday
meetings from a distance of ten and fifteen miles; and, as the men
and women all ride on horseback, and as they often come in parties,
their appearance on approaching the church is often exceedingly
picturesque.
On the day of my arrival in this village, a negro teamster met with
an accident while passing over a neighboring mountain, which
resulted in his losing one of his four horses, which happened to
step over a log, and, on being cut loose, fell down a precipice of
forty feet into a pool of water. On being questioned as to the
manner in which the animal fell, the negro briefly but _tell_ingly
replied, “_Ka wallup, ka wallup, ka wallup, ka swash!_” I thought
this a most forcible description, and could not but admire the man’s
ingenuity in representing each somerset by a single word.
Within a few days past I have become acquainted with two insects
which I have never seen described, but which are found in abundance
throughout the South. I allude to the dirt-dauber and the
stump-stinger. In their general appearance they both resemble the
wasp. The first lives in a cell, which it builds on the inner side
of a shed or piazza. It is a noted enemy of the spider, and
possesses the art and the habit of killing that insect in great
numbers. But what is really remarkable, they have a fashion of
stowing away the carcasses of their slaughtered enemies in their
dwellings, as if for future use; and after the cell is full, they
close it with mud, and proceed to build another cell, so that the
opulence of one of them may be calculated by the number of his
closed dwellings. The stump-stinger is remarkable for having
attached to the middle of his body a hard and pointed weapon, with
which he can dig a hole one inch in depth in the body of even a
hickory tree. This weapon he usually carries under his tail, but
when about to be used makes him resemble a gimlet in form. The
instrument is very hard, and composed of two pieces, which he works
up and down, like a pair of chisels. It is supposed that he makes
this hole for the purpose of depositing an egg, and it is alleged
that the tree upon which he once fastens himself always falls to
decay.
But this allusion to insects reminds me of an incident connected
with the ant which I lately noticed in one of my mountain rambles.
While watching an ant-hill, I discovered that the little creatures
were busily engaged in enlarging the hole of their miniature cavern.
While watching their movements with intense interest, my eyes
chanced to fall upon another detachment of the same insect, who were
approaching the hole in question with the dead body of a
grasshopper. The moment this party was discovered by those at the
hole, the whole multitude fell to work and tumbled their dead booty
along at a more rapid rate than before. On reaching the hole an
attempt was made to drag the grasshopper into it, but without
success, for it was too small. A movement to enlarge the hole was
then immediately made, and in a very few moments the slain creature
was out of my sight, and I could almost fancy that I saw the ants
clapping their tiny hands and congratulating themselves upon the
feat they had accomplished. Upon the whole it was one of the most
interesting little incidents that I ever witnessed, and I left the
spot feeling that I understood the words of Scripture which say, “Go
to the ant, thou sluggard, and be wise!”
And now, as the _desultory_ character of this letter will probably
fully satisfy my readers, I will bring it to a close, promising to
be somewhat more circumspect in the future.