The Conceited Yankee Has To Learn That It Is Not He
Alone Who Can Be Accused Of The Thrift Of Craft.
There is at the
Warm Springs a thriving mill for crushing and pulverizing barites,
known vulgarly as heavy-spar.
It is the weight of this heaviest of
minerals, and not its lovely crystals, that gives it value. The rock
is crushed, washed, sorted out by hand, to remove the foreign
substances, then ground and subjected to acids, and at the end of the
process it is as white and fine as the best bolted flour. This heavy
adulterant is shipped to the North in large quantities, - the manager
said he had recently an order for a hundred thousand dollars' worth
of it. What is the use of this powder? Well, it is of use to the
dealer who sells white lead for paint, to increase the weight of the
lead, and it is the belief hereabouts that it is mixed with powdered
sugar. The industry is profitable to those engaged in it.
It was impossible to get much information about our route into
Tennessee, except that we should go by Paint Rock, and cross Paint
Mountain. Late one morning, - a late start is inevitable here,
- accompanied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the rope ferry,
and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the stream and
tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift water and
overhanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of
the river), to Paint Rock, - six miles. This Paint Rock is a naked
precipice by the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large
local reputation. It is said that its face shows painting done by
the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read. On this bold,
crumbling cliff, innumerable visitors have written their names. We
stared at it a good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics,
but could see nothing except iron stains. Round the corner is a
farmhouse and place of call for visitors, a neat cottage, with a
display of shells and minerals and flower-pots; and here we turned
north crossed the little stream called Paint River, the only clear
water we had seen in a month, passed into the State of Tennessee, and
by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain. The open forest road,
with the murmur of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating,
and as we rose the prospect opened, - the lovely valley below, Bald
Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountains rising as we came over
the ridge.
Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men,
knew anything of the route, or could give us any information of the
country beyond. But as we descended in Tennessee the country and the
farms decidedly improved, - apple-trees and a grapevine now and then.
A ride of eight miles brought us to Waddle's, hungry and disposed to
receive hospitality. We passed by an old farm building to a new
two-storied, gayly painted house on a hill. We were deceived by
appearances. The new house, with a new couple in it, had nothing to
offer us except some buttermilk. Why should anybody be obliged to
feed roving strangers? As to our horses, the young woman with a baby
in her arms declared,
"We've got nothing for stock but roughness; perhaps you can get
something at the other house."
"Roughness," we found out at the other house, meant hay in this
region. We procured for the horses a light meal of green oats, and
for our own dinner we drank at the brook and the Professor produced a
few sonnets. On this sustaining repast we fared on nearly twelve
miles farther, through a rolling, good farming country, offering
little for comment, in search of a night's lodging with one of the
brothers Snap. But one brother declined our company on the plea that
his wife was sick, and the other because his wife lived in
Greenville, and we found ourselves as dusk came on without shelter in
a tavernless land. Between the two refusals we enjoyed the most
picturesque bit of scenery of the day, at the crossing of Camp Creek,
a swift little stream, that swirled round under the ledge of bold
rocks before the ford. This we learned was a favorite camp-meeting
ground. Mary was calling the cattle home at the farm of the second
Snap. It was a very peaceful scene of rural life, and we were
inclined to tarry, but Mary, instead of calling us home with the
cattle, advised us to ride on to Alexander's before it got dark.
It is proper to say that at Alexander's we began to see what this
pleasant and fruitful country might be, and will be, with thrift and
intelligent farming. Mr. Alexander is a well-to-do farmer, with
plenty of cattle and good barns (always an evidence of prosperity),
who owes his success to industry and an open mind to new ideas. He
was a Unionist during the war, and is a Democrat now, though his
county (Greene) has been Republican. We had been riding all the
afternoon through good land, and encountering a better class of
farmers. Peach-trees abounded (though this was an off year for
fruit), and apples and grapes throve. It is a land of honey and of
milk. The persimmon flourishes; and, sign of abundance generally, we
believe, great flocks of turkey-buzzards - majestic floaters in the
high air - hovered about. This country was ravaged during the war by
Unionists and Confederates alternately, the impartial patriots as
they passed scooping in corn, bacon, and good horses, leaving the
farmers little to live on. Mr. Alexander's farm cost him forty
dollars an acre, and yields good crops of wheat and maize. This was
the first house on our journey where at breakfast we had grace before
meat, though there had been many tables that needed it more. From
the door the noble range of the Big Bald is in sight and not distant;
and our host said he had a shanty on it, to which he was accustomed
to go with his family for a month or six weeks in the summer and
enjoy a real primitive woods life.
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