This tree is a place of pilgrimage, and names of people from all parts
of the country are cut on it, until there is scarcely room for any more
records of such devotion. The grove is ancient looking, the trees are
gnarled and moss-grown. Hundreds of people go there, and the trees are
carved all over with their immortal names.
A pleasant ride over a rich rolling country, with an occasional strip of
forest, brought us to Union in the evening, with no other adventure than
the meeting of a steam threshing-machine in the road, with steam
up, clattering along. The devil himself could not invent any machine
calculated to act on the nerves of a horse like this. Jack took one look
and then dashed into the woods, scraping off his rider's hat but did not
succeed in getting rid of his burden or knocking down any trees.
Union, on the railway, is the forlornest of little villages, with
some three hundred inhabitants and a forlorn hotel, kept by an
ex-stage-driver. The village, which lies on the Holston, has no
drinking-water in it nor enterprise enough to bring it in; not a well
nor a spring in its limits; and for drinking-water everybody crosses the
river to a spring on the other side. A considerable part of the labor
of the town is fetching water over the bridge. On a hill overlooking the
village is a big, pretentious brick house, with a tower, the furniture
of which is an object of wonder to those who have seen it. It belonged
to the late Mrs. Stover, daughter of Andrew Johnson. The whole family of
the ex-President have departed this world, but his memory is still green
in this region, where he was almost worshiped--so the people say in
speaking of him.
Forlorn as was the hotel at Union, the landlord's daughters were
beginning to draw the lines in rural refinement. One of them had been at
school in Abingdon. Another, a mature young lady of fifteen, who waited
on the table, in the leisure after supper asked the Friend for a light
for her cigarette, which she had deftly rolled.
“Why do you smoke?”
“So as I shan't get into the habit of dipping. Do you think dipping is
nice?”
The traveler was compelled to say that he did not, though he had seen a
good deal of it wherever he had been.
“All the girls dips round here. But me and my sisters rather smoke than
get in a habit of dipping.”
To the observation that Union seemed to be a dull place:
“Well, there's gay times here in the winter--dancing. Like to dance?
Well, I should say! Last winter I went over to Blountsville to a dance
in the court-house; there was a trial between Union and Blountsville for
the best dancing. You bet I brought back the cake and the blue ribbon.”
The country was becoming too sophisticated, and the travelers hastened
to the end of their journey. The next morning Bristol, at first over a
hilly country with magnificent oak-trees,--happily not girdled, as these
stately monarchs were often seen along the roads in North Carolina,--and
then up Beaver Creek, a turbid stream, turning some mills. When a closed
woolen factory was pointed out to the Professor (who was still traveling
for Reform), as the result of the agitation in Congress, he said, Yes,
the effect of agitation was evident in all the decayed dams and ancient
abandoned mills we had seen in the past month.
Bristol is mainly one long street, with some good stores, but generally
shabby, and on this hot morning sleepy. One side of the street is in
Tennessee, the other in Virginia. How handy for fighting this would have
been in the war, if Tennessee had gone out and Virginia stayed in. At
the hotel--may a kind Providence wake it up to its responsibilities--we
had the pleasure of reading one of those facetious handbills which the
great railway companies of the West scatter about, the serious humor of
which is so pleasing to our English friends. This one was issued by the
accredited agents of the Ohio and Mississippi Railway, and dated April
1, 1984. One sentence will suffice:
“Allow us to thank our old traveling friends for the many favors in our
line, and if you are going on your bridal trip, or to see your girl out
West, drop in at the general office of the Ohio and Mississippi Railway
and we will fix you up in Queen Anne style. Passengers for Dakota,
Montana, or the Northwest will have an overcoat and sealskin cap thrown
in with all tickets sold on or after the above date.”
The great republic cannot yet take itself seriously. Let us hope the
humors of it will last another generation. Meditating on this, we hailed
at sundown the spires of Abingdon, and regretted the end of a journey
that seems to have been undertaken for no purpose.