CHAPTER I.

“I want you all to remember,” says Eric, decidedly, “that I do not advise you to go.”

“I don’t know how you can say that, Eric,” replies Aunt Markham, “when you have talked incessantly of the beauty of the mountains, and said that everybody ought to go to see them.”

“He meant appreciative people,” says Sylvia. “We are not appreciative; therefore his remarks do not apply to us.”

“He wants to go alone with a gun 4and a microscope,” says Charley; “and has no fancy for playing cavalier-of-all-work to a trio of ladies.”

“He need not fear any thing of that kind,” I remark, “for you are going, and Rupert also. We shall, therefore, be well provided with cavaliers.”

Scene: a family party on a veranda at sunset. Aunt Markham lying back in a large chair, fanning as if her existence depends on keeping cool—as perhaps it does, poor woman! since she weighs at least fourteen stone; Sylvia reclining in a smaller chair, with her filmy dress falling around her to the floor, her pretty face flushed with heat, her gray eyes slightly languid; Eric on the steps with his back against a jasmine-twined pillar, and a cigar, which he does not light, between his fingers; Charley Kenyon stretched on the grass just below the steps; Rupert hovering to and fro; I established in the hall-door, for the sake of a through-draught—the month being July, and the thermometer standing at eighty-five.

We have been discussing where we shall spend the months of August and September, and we have finally decided to turn our faces westward, and, crossing the Blue Ridge, explore as far as possible the comparatively unknown country which lies beyond—a country so elevated that its valleys lie more than two thousand feet above sea-level. The person by whose recommendation we decide on this programme is my cousin Eric Markham—a great hunter, a great lover of Nature, though outwardly the most unenthusiastic of human beings, a person whom his mother has never been able to drag to fashionable watering-places in her train, but who has spent summer after summer among the fair, wild, Carolina mountains, until his attachment to them is a family proverb.

“The reason why I don’t advise you to go,” he says, when our comments have ceased, “is because I have no doubt you will be bored and disgusted. You will find no fashionable hotels, no bands of music; and then you will blame me! So I accept no responsibility, but simply repeat what I have said before, that if you want fresh air and glorious scenery—the grandest this side of the Yosemite—you must go to Western North Carolina to find them.”

“We want just those things,” says Sylvia—Sylvia is my sister, and we are Aunt Markham’s orphan nieces—“I am tired of dancing and flirting and toilets! What a comfort it will be to put on a linen traveling-dress and a pair of thick-soled shoes, such as Nora wore in ‘Quits,’ and set forth with an alpenstock to climb mountains.”

“A great comfort indeed,” says Charley, lazily.—Charley is Eric’s cousin, but not ours; and he and Sylvia have been quarreling and making love and tormenting each other ever since their childhood.—“You will wish for your silk dresses before you have been gone three days. Eric talks as if you were going into the wilderness, but that country has been a resort for fifty years, perhaps longer, and Asheville is decidedly a civilized place. I was there last summer, and I had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of fashion.”

“Then we must take our trunks,” says Sylvia, alive to the importance of appearing as fashionable as her neighbors. “I thought we were only going to explore the mountains, but if we are likely to meet people—”

“Of course you must take your trunks, my dear,” says Aunt Markham, decidedly. “One meets exceedingly nice people. Besides, it is always well to be prepared for emergencies.”

“I shall take my gun,” says Rupert, following Charley’s example and flinging his long and rather awkward length of limb on the grass. It is impossible for anyone not to be awkward who is six feet high and only seventeen years old.

“And is it definitely settled, then, that we will go to Western Carolina?” asks Sylvia. “All in favor of the motion please say ‘Ay.’ Very well,” as a rather languid but unanimous “Ay” responds.—“Now, Eric, tell us how to reach it.”

“There are two great gates of entrance,” says Eric, “Swannanoa and Hickory-Nut Gaps. In the old time, when people traveled in their carriages, it was the general custom to cross the Blue Ridge by one gap in going to the transmontane country, and by the other in coming away.—You remember that, mother?”

“Certainly,” answers Aunt Markham, “I went to Tennessee with your father thirty years ago, and we crossed the Hickory-Nut Gap in going, and Swannanoa in coming back.”

“Let us go in that way,” says Sylvia.

“Impossible,” says Charley. “The railroad takes you to Swannanoa.”

5 “A fig for the railroad! We can go in our carriage, like the grandees of thirty years ago. Which is the finest gap, Swannanoa or Hickory-Nut?”

“There is no comparison,” says Eric. “Hickory-Nut is infinitely finer.”

“Then we must see it,” says Sylvia, decidedly. She is of a nature easily roused to enthusiasm, and it is evident that this enthusiasm is beginning to wake in the interest of the long-neglected beauty lying within our own borders. “Listen!” she says, sitting upright in her chair, “why can we not go by the railroad to Swannanoa Gap, and take the stage-coach from there to Asheville, leaving the carriage to follow us to the same place, so that we can travel where we like in the mountains, and finally return by Hickory-Nut Gap? Is not that a good plan, Eric?”

“Only open to the objection that the carriage will be likely to be broken to pieces,” says Eric.

“Why, I have heard you say that the roads beyond the Blue Ridge are excellent.”

“The turnpikes are generally excellent, but I humbly submit that all roads are not turnpikes; and, furthermore, that to reach the country beyond the Blue Ridge it is necessary to cross the mountains—to do which is no joke.”

“I don’t know a more serious matter,” says Charley. “You are jolted, and bumped, and thumped, until you do not care for any prospect that can be shown to you.”

“Pray speak for yourself,” says Sylvia. “I am quite sure that no one else would think of putting a few jolts and thumps in comparison with the grandest scenery—”

“In the Atlantic States!” says Charley. “I have heard that from Eric several times. I contemplated this scenery on many occasions, and from many different places, with no great degree of satisfaction; but the trout-fishing—that is something which warrants enthusiasm!”

“And the hunting!” says Rupert, with an ecstatic smile on his sunburned face. “How many deer did you kill last season, Brother Eric?”

“About the carriage,” says Aunt Markham, “I am inclined to think with Sylvia that it might be a good plan to send it to Asheville. The idea of traveling about the mountains in stage-coaches and hacks is insufferable!”

“But we are more than enough to fill the carriage,” says Eric.

“Take two saddle-horses, also,” cries Sylvia, with a bright light springing into her eyes. “One for you, and one for me—how delightful!”

“And how economical!”

She makes a gesture signifying that this consideration is not worth a moment’s attention.

“People expect to spend money when they are traveling,” she says, “and the cost of the whole expedition will be less than a month at a fashionable watering-place.”

“And I’ll take the horses along with the carriage,” cries Rupert, eagerly. “The rest of you may go on the railroad if you like, but give me a horse forever!”

“John will drive the carriage, and you can ride Cecil and lead Bonnibelle,” says Sylvia, with the air of a general issuing orders for a campaign.

“Eric, what do you say?” asks Aunt Markham, turning to her eldest son, who is autocrat of the household.

“What is left for me to say?” responds Eric, lighting his cigar. “The matter is apparently settled. I only desire that it may be clearly understood that I am not accountable for consequences. If the carriage is upset, and Bonnibelle breaks her own legs and Sylvia’s neck, nobody is to blame me.”

“Nobody will think of blaming you,” says Sylvia, “You accompany us under protest—and such trifles as broken legs and necks are to be exclusively our own affair.”

The next two weeks are devoted to preparing wardrobes and studying maps. Then, on a particularly warm Monday in August, we set forth on our journey. Rupert and John, with the carriage and horses, started the day before for Asheville, via Hickory-Nut Gap. We take the railroad, and turn our faces toward Swannanoa.

Our railroad-journey is uneventful, as railroad-journeys—unless varied by an accident—generally are. The cars are filled with the usual number of thirsty men and dusty women, of invalids, sight-seers, and pleasure-seekers. During the long pauses at the stations, we learn where most of these travelers are bound, and receive a great deal of interesting information about their social and domestic affairs. Few things strike one more forcibly in traveling than the general garrulity 6and egotism of human nature. This is entertaining for a time, but finally—taken in connection with a choking amount of dust, and a simmering degree of heat—it becomes almost intolerable. At last over the blazing noonday a grateful shadow steals, and, for the first time since early morning, we lift our window-blinds and look out. We are between the villages of Morganton and Marion, and fairly among the mountains. Already there is a greenness over the land, in striking contrast to the parched brownness of the low-country which we left behind; great hills roll up on all sides, and on our right

the magnificent dark-blue masses of Table-Rock and Short-Off Mountain stand clearly defined against a lurid thunder-cloud. The road just here follows the lovely valley of the Catawba, and we see the river in the foreground, with its level meadow-lands, over which suddenly a white rain comes driving in a quick, sharp shower.

“I am sorry this gust has come up just now,” says Eric. “I wanted to take you on the rear-platform of the car, and show you a very pretty view of the river-valley, with a glimpse of the Blue Ridge.”

But we are not sorry, for the rain is delightful. It dashes in spray against our windows, peals of thunder sound above the clatter of the train, and flashes of lightning dart hither and thither to frighten nervous travelers. It does not continue very long, however. As suddenly as it began, the vehemence of the storm abates, the thunder rolls away, the cloud is evidently passing. A minute later a ray of sunshine falls on the scene, and lo! the earth is enchanted. The shower, which is still falling, is lighted up with prismatic radiance; away in the south dark clouds are piled, but around us all is freshness and beauty. Mists rise, like the white smoke of incense, and when we lift our windows a rush of odor enters—a hundred sweet scents of growing things mingled and exhaled by the dampness.

After this the run to Old Fort is very pleasant. The dust is laid, the heat is tempered, the sunshine is still partly obscured by clouds that dapple the changing landscape with soft shadows, and now and then we have a glimpse of blue heights far away. We pass beautiful valleys glittering with the late rain; we glide by grassy meadows, and streams where old-fashioned mills stand embowered in trees. There is a shimmer over every thing—a mingling of mist and brilliance peculiar to a mountain-scene.

Presently our leisurely rate of speed abates, and we find ourselves at the end of our railroad journey—Old Fort. This place—which takes its name from an old fort that is supposed to have existed in the days of Indian warfare—has only risen to comparative importance since the railroad abruptly and unexpectedly ended here. At least the railroad track ends here, but for many miles beyond the road-bed is graded, and a great deal of heavy work in the way of bridging and tunneling is done, the sight of which moves one to fierce and futile indignation against the plunderers who have worked the people such grievous wrong.

“Is Old Fort a town?” asks Sylvia, looking round as we descend from the train.

“It is before you,” says Charley, “Judge for yourself.”

What is before us is a hotel perched on a hill. A few other houses are scattered widely and wildly around. Great wooded mountains rise in the background. The hotel-piazza seems crowded as we approach—Aunt Markham and Eric in front, Charley escorting Sylvia and myself. We are the last of the straggling procession of passengers, and receive the concentrated stares of all the languid ladies with yellow-backed novels in their hands and sundowns on their heads, all the open-eyed children, and lounging men.

“Why on earth do these people stay here?” asks Sylvia, struggling with a veil which she is trying to draw down. “It looks like a very uninteresting place.”

“It is healthy, and the rates of board are, no doubt, cheap,” says Charley. “Many of the people may also lack courage to cross the Gap—those being esteemed lucky who reach the other side whole of life and limb.”

This appalling statement is treated with the incredulous contempt which it deserves as we mount the hotel-steps.

Hamlet says that “there’s nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so;” and this remark applies with peculiar force to Old Fort. Some people think it a very good place in which to spend weeks and months. Others are averse to spending more time there than the necessary hour which elapses between the arrival of the train and departure of the coach.

7 We belong to the latter class. After dinner we assemble on the piazza and take a vote for going or staying; and it is nearly unanimous to go.

“Catawba Falls are in the neighborhood,” says Eric, anxious to fulfill his duties as cicerone. “If you stay until to-morrow you may see them, and they are well worth a visit.”

“Stay a night—stay two nights—here!” says Aunt Markham. “It is impossible to think of such a thing!”

“Are the Falls easily reached?” asks Charley, with his usual air of protest against any exertion.

“They are by no means easily reached,” answers Eric; “but they can be reached, which is the point, I take it.”

“By no means,” says Sylvia. “The point is to cross the Blue Ridge as soon as possible. Who cares for falls and cascades on this side? They may be pretty enough, but we are bound to the land of the sky—and yonder comes the coach to take us there. How splendid!”

It is not the coach which draws forth this commendation, but the six beautiful gray horses which are harnessed to it. We watch them admiringly, and Eric calls our attention to the manner in which they are controlled by their driver, who is no less a person than the renowned John Pence.

Of this famous character I have heard so much that I regard him with great interest. My knowledge of stage-drivers in real life being limited, I had drawn a fancy picture of a portly figure in top-boots and a “sprigged vest;” instead, I see a spare, sinewy man, dark as an Indian, with the eye of a hawk, who wears a pair of the brownest and dirtiest of corduroy trousers, a striped shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up above the elbows showing thin, muscular arms, and a hat slouched rakishly over his brow. This is John Pence, who for twenty years has driven back and forth over Swannanoa Gap, and whom his admirers declare to be the best driver on the continent. If success is the test of merit, merit certainly must be his; for during these twenty years no accident has ever happened to a coach driven by him; and those expert in such matters say that one hardly realizes the art of driving until one has seen him handle the ribbons.

That we have such a charioteer is a matter for congratulation, since the appearance of the coach is not calculated to fill us with confident hopes of a safe journey. It is evidently old and much dilapidated. It is also heavily loaded. The boot is full of trunks, and as many are piled on top as can possibly be put there. Besides which, Aunt Markham has the anguish of beholding her largest and most valuable one standing on the ground, while the proprietor of the house informs her that Mr. Pence says he is overloaded, and that trunk cannot possibly “go over the Gap this trip.”

“Mr. Pence!” repeats the lady, indignantly. “Who is Mr. Pence, pray? My trunk shall go!—Eric, do you hear this?”

“I hear, mother,” replies Eric, “but I don’t think there is any redress. The coach is overloaded, and I should not consent for you to enter it as it stands if anybody but John Pence was going to drive. When you see the precipices past which that top-heavy vehicle must pass—”

“Oh!” she says, turning pale, “if that is the case, tell him to take off my other trunk, and Sylvia’s and Alice’s also.”

But Sylvia and Alice protest against this, and a Babel of confusion follows. It is Eric who summarily ends it.

8 “Let me put you in the coach,” he says. “Leave the trunks to me. I will arrange for them to be sent over safely to-morrow.”

Then the labor of stowing us away begins. There are already an old lady, a middle-aged lady, two children, and an elderly gentleman, within the coach. By the united efforts of Eric, Charley, and the host, Aunt Markham is lifted and deposited inside. She sinks into her seat with an apoplectic “How fearful!”

I am lifted in next; but, when it comes to Sylvia’s turn, that young lady declines to enter.

“I am going up aloft—like the cherub that watches over poor Jack,” she says.—“I know you don’t want me, Charley—you want to smoke. But Eric will take me with him—won’t you, Eric?”

“I wonder if you think Eric doesn’t want to smoke?” says Charley.

“He can if he chooses, and you, too, for that matter—so don’t look so disconsolate, but help me over this wheel.”

She is assisted over the wheel, and elevated to the deck-seat. Charley sits down by her side, Eric springs to a place by the driver, that illustrious person cracks his long whip, the six horses start with one accord, the heavy coach sways. We are off.

This is what Charley sings to an improvised air, as we rattle down a steep hill and cross a clear, flashing, rocky-bottomed stream. The mountains which we are going to scale rise in towering masses before us—splendid heights that seem to defy the locomotive at their base. The gentleman who is our fellow-passenger points out some of the unfinished railroad-work. Aunt Markham looks at it regretfully.

“If only the road were finished to Asheville!” she says.

“No railroad in the country has been so mercilessly plundered, madam,” says the gentleman, sternly. “Ever since the war, it has been in the hands of rogues and swindlers, who have stolen every thing but the road-bed—which could not conveniently be made away with.”