Transcriber’s Note: obvious printer’s errors have been repaired.
THE
Southern States.
MARCH, 1894.
THE FRENCH BROAD RIVER.
SKY-LAND!
The late Judge William D. Kelley wasan intensely practical man, and so notgiven to rhapsody, but he has left onrecord that Western North Carolina wasthe most beautiful country upon whichhis feet or eyes ever rested. He hadvisited many lands and gazed uponmany transcendent panoramas unrolledby the Master of the Universe. He wasa loyal and devoted son of Pennsylvania,and enthusiastically loved and admiredher noble scenery, but when he beheldthe unrivalled majesty and picturesquenessof Western North Carolina, hishonest soul expanded with the prospect,and, in a burst of genuine candor, hedeclared that never before had he lookedupon a region at once so sublime andentrancing. What Judge Kelley utteredhas been, by many other enthusiasts, repeatedin varying phrase and similartenor. It is not called the Land of theSky because of its altitude. There arenumerous localities that surpass it inthis particular, but rather, I think, becauseof a peculiar phenomenon of theregion, where the azure atmosphere thatwe call the skies descends, or seems to[2]do so, actually and magically upon thetree tops and mountain sides, so that thedazzled spectator almost instinctivelyputs forth his hand to grasp the mysteriouspanoply. When a child ofearth is thus moved, as it were, byheaven, with the blue ether glorified bysunlight, and the alpine groups transformedin shape by fugitive clouds, nowonder his mind becomes blissfully inebriated,his soul uplifted, and his sensesplumed to take wing from the solidglobe that imprisons his feet. The dullestfancy cannot resist the spell.
The ardent, poetic temperament hasa conditional foretaste of what it is toescape the flesh envelope and assumespiritual alertness. But it is not alwaysthus that this gorgeous land presentsitself. It has moods of tremendousenergy, and to make returning mildnessmore alluring, as the cunning master ofmusic intersperses rude chords in hisglorious melody, it veils the comelyperfection of its face in a storm offrowns, but only such as triumphantbeauty can assume betimes. Then thealpine cliffs are garmented with mist,while the Hyder Ali of Cloud Landpoises on the declivities, concentratedwith black wrath, before rushing downin fragmentary battalions upon the plainsbelow. But there is no ravage. Thelittle hut of the inhabitant remains unscathed,still emitting from its roughchimney a curling smoke, and the lordlymansion, perched on some aspiringpeak, stands steadfast, while the fairymaiden shrined there playfully dabblesher white fingers in the foam of theupper deep. From the dark canopy ofthe great giant of the Smoky range leapsthe live lightning, and a thunder rollbellows or crackles or mutters in amyriad strange defiles, but we knowthat behind this lowering front, hintingof God’s smile behind the tempest, ourwinsome Lady of the Sky is laughingstill, with the spring in her brilliant eyes,and the wild flowers, smitten by sunshinein her golden hair. Anon, as theseasons are made mutable, anotherphase is disclosed. The air grows coldas if in the clutch of some Siberian intruder,and feathery flakes pour downtheir “snow storm of stars