Letters from the Alleghany Mountains

by Charles Lanman

About six miles from the Warm Springs, and directly on the Tennessee line, are located a brotherhood of perpendicular cliffs, which are known as the Painted Rocks. They are of limestone, and rise from the margin of the French Broad to the height of two, three and four hundred feet. They are of a yellowish cast, owing to the drippings of a mineral water, and in form as irregular and fantastic as can well be imagined. They extend along the river nearly a mile, and at every step present new phases of beauty and grandeur. Taken separately, it requires but a trifling effort of the fancy to find among them towers, ramparts and moats, steeples and domes in great abundance; but when taken as a whole, and viewed from the opposite bank of the river, they present the appearance of a once magnificent city in ruins. Not only are they exceedingly beautiful in themselves, but the surrounding scenery is highly attractive, for the mountains seem to have huddled themselves together for the purpose of looking down upon and admiring the winding and rapid stream. With regard to historical and legendary associations, the Painted Rocks are singularly barren; in this particular, however, they are like the entire valley of the French Broad, where relics of a by-gone people are few and far between. The rugged aspect of this country would seem to imply that it was never regularly inhabited by the Indians, but was their hunting ground; and what would appear to strengthen this idea is the fact that it is, even at the present day, particularly famous for its game.

On the day that I returned from my trip down the French Broad the weather was quite showery, and the consequence was, the rain was occasionally employed as an apology for stopping and enjoying a quiet conversation with the people on the road. At one of the places where I halted there was a contest going on between two Whigs concerning the talents of the honorable gentleman who represents the famous county of Buncombe in Congress. The men were both strongly attached to the representative, and the contest consisted in their efforts to excel each other in complimenting their friend, and the climax of the argument seemed to be that Mr. Clingman was not “some pumpkins,” but “PUMPKINS.” The strangeness of this expression attracted my attention, and when an opportunity offered I questioned the successful disputant as to the origin and meaning of the phrase he had employed, and the substance of his reply I might give you if it was of a nature to interest the reader.

At another of the houses where I tarried for an hour, it was my fortune to arrive just in time to witness the conclusion of a domestic quarrel between a young husband and his wife. On subsequently inquiring into the history of this affectionate couple, I obtained the following particulars: The young man was reported to be a very weak-minded individual, and ever since his marriage had been exceedingly jealous of his wife, who (as I had seen) was quite beautiful, but known to be perfectly true to her husband. Jealousy, however, was the rage of the man, and he was constantly making himself very ridiculous. His wife remonstrated, but at the same time appreciated his folly, and acted accordingly. On one occasion she was politely informed by her husband that he was very unhappy, and intended to hang himself. “Very well,” replied the wife, “I hope you will have a good time.” The husband was desperate, and having obtained a rope, and carefully adjusted a certain stool, he slipped the former over his head, and, when he knew that his wife was looking on, he swung himself to a cross-beam of his cabin. In playing his trick, however, he unfortunately kicked over the stool, (which he had placed in a convenient spot for future use in regaining his feet,) and was well nigh losing his life in reality, but was saved by the timely assistance of his wife. His first remark on being cut down was, “Jane, won’t you please go after the doctor: I’ve twisted my neck dreadfully.”

I also picked up, while travelling along the French Broad, the following bit of history connected with one of the handsomest plantations on said river. About forty years ago a young girl and her brother (who was a mere boy) found themselves in this portion of North Carolina, strangers, orphans, friendless, and with only the moneyed inheritance of one hundred and fifty dollars. With this money the girl bought a piece of land, and, her little brother having died, she hired herself out as a housekeeper. In process of time she married, gave her little property into the keeping of her husband, who squandered it, died a drunkard, and left her without a penny. By the kindness of a friend she borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, and came to Ashville and opened a boarding-house. In the course of five years she made ten thousand dollars, married a second time, and by the profligacy and death of her second husband again lost every penny of her property. Years elapsed, and the unceasing industry of the poor widow was recompensed by the smiles of fortune, and she is now the owner of a large and valuable plantation, which is the fruit of her own individual toil, and a number of strong and manly sons are the comforts of her old age. But enough! I am now in Ashville, and at the conclusion of my letter.

LETTER XVII.

Ashville, North Carolina, May, 1848.

Twenty-five miles from this place, in a northerly direction, stands Black Mountain, which is the gloomy looking patriarch of the Alleghanies, and claimed to be the most elevated point of land eastward of the Mississippi. It is nearly seven thousand feet high, and, with its numerous pinnacles, covers an area of territory which must measure in length a distance of at least twenty miles. Unlike its fellows in this Southern land, it is covered with a dense forest from base to summit, where may be found nearly every variety of American trees, from the willow and the elm, to the oak and the Canada fir; and it is the parent of at least a hundred streams. Not a rood of its rocky and yet fertile surface has ever been cultivated, and its chief inhabitants are the panther, the bear, and the deer. Almost its only human denizen is one Frederick Burnet, a “mighty hunter,” who is now upwards of forty years of age, and is said to have slain between five hundred and six hundred bears upon this mountain alone. To obtain an adequate idea of its height and grandeur, it should be viewed from at least a dozen points of the compass, and with regard to the circular and apparently boundless panorama which it commands, it can be far better imagined than described. On questioning one of the wild natives of the region as to the character of this prospect, he replied: “Good God! sir, it looks down upon every seaport in the United States, and across the whole of Mexico.” On learning this truly remarkable circumstance, my curiosity was of course excited, and I questioned my informant as to the facilities of looking off from the peak. “Directly on the highest point,” said he, “stands a single fir-tree which you have to climb, and thus look down on all creation.” “And how do you reach the summit?” I continued. “O! it’s a very easy matter, stranger; you only have to walk about six miles, and right straight up the roughest country you ever did see.”

With this intelligence I was fully satisfied, and thereupon concluded that I should waste none of my strength merely for the privilege of “climbing a tree,” even though it were the most elevated in the land. One of my Ashville friends, however, to whom I had brought letters of introduction, spoke to me of the Black Mountain in the most enthusiastic terms, said that I ought to visit it, and added that he had gotten up a party of one dozen gentlemen, including himself, who were resolved upon visiting the foot of the mountain in my company. They were described as lovers of scenery, anglers, and hunters, and it was proposed that we should go on horseback, though accompanied by a kind of tender, consisting of a small wagon load of provisions, fishing-rods, and guns, which was to be under the especial charge of an old negro named Sam Drymond. I was of course delighted with this arrangement, and, as the expedition was accomplished to the satisfaction of all concerned, I will give an account of its principal incidents.

Our cavalcade started at the break of day, and, as Miss Fortune would have it, in what we imagined a morning shower. It so happened, however, that it rained almost without ceasing until we reached our place of destination, which was a log shantee not far from the base of the Black Mountain, and about six miles from its summit. Our course lay up the valley of the Swannanoah, which, in spite of the rain, I could not but admire for its varied beauties. This river rises on the Black Mountain, is a charming tributary of the French Broad, from five to twenty yards in width, cold and clear, very rapid, and throughout its entire length is overshaded by a most luxuriant growth of graceful and sweet-scented trees and vines. The plantations on this stream are highly cultivated, the surrounding scenery is mountainous, graceful, and picturesque, and among the small but numerous waterfalls which make the first half of its course exceedingly romantic, may be enjoyed the finest of trout fishing.

To describe the appearance of our party as we ascended the Swannanoah, through the mud and rain, were quite impossible, without employing a military phrase. We looked more like a party of “used up” cavaliers, returning from an unfortunate siege, than one in pursuit of pleasure; and in spite of our efforts to be cheerful, a few of our faces were lengthened to an uncommon degree. Some of our company were decided characters, and a variety of professions were represented. Our captain was a banker, highly intelligent, and rode a superb horse; our second captain was a Lambert-like gentleman, with scarlet Mexican cloak: we had an editor with us, whose principal appendage was a long pipe; there was also a young physician, wrapped up in a blue blanket; also a young graduate, enveloped in a Spanish cloak, and riding a beautiful pony; also an artist, and then a farmer or two; also a merchant; and last of all came the deponent, with an immense plaid blanket wrapped round his body, and a huge pair of boots hanging from his legs, whose romantic appearance was somewhat enhanced by the fact that his horse was the ugliest in the country. Long before reaching our place of destination, a freshet came pouring down the bed of the Swannanoah, and, as we had to ford it at least twenty times, we met with a variety of mishaps, which were particularly amusing. The most unique incident, however, was as follows: The party having crossed a certain ford, a motion was made that we should wait and see that old Drymond made the passage in safety. We did so, and spent about one hour on the margin of the stream, in a most impatient mood, for the old man travelled very slowly, and the clouds were pouring down the rain most abundantly. And what greatly added to our discomfort was the fact, that our horses got into a cluster of nettles, which made them almost unmanageable. In due time the negro made his appearance, and plunged into the stream. Hardly had he reached the middle, before his horse became unruly, and having broken entirely loose from the wagon, disappeared down the stream, leaving the vehicle in a most dangerous position, near the centre thereof, with a tremendous torrent rushing on either side, and the poor negro in the attitude of despair. He was indeed almost frightened to death; but his woe-begone appearance was so comical, that in spite of his real danger, and the prayer he offered, the whole party burst into a roar of laughter. One remark made by the negro was this: “O Massa, dis is de last o’ poor old Drymond—his time’s come.” But it so happened that our old friend was rescued from a watery grave: but I am compelled to state that our provisions, which were now transferred, with old Drymond, on the back of the horse, were greatly damaged, and we resumed our journey, with our spirits at a much lower ebb than the stream which had caused the mishap.