1. CHAPTER I.
A TOPOGRAPHICAL DISCOURSE.
The belt of mountains which traverses the state of Virginia
diagonally, from north-east to south-west, it will be seen by an
inspection of the map, is composed of a series of parallel ranges,
presenting a conformation somewhat similar to that which may be
observed in miniature on the sea-beach, amongst the minute lines of
sand hillocks left by the retreating tide. This belt may be said to
commence with the Blue Ridge, or more accurately speaking, with
that inferior chain of highlands that runs parallel to this mountain
almost immediately along its eastern base. From this region westward
the highlands increase in elevation, the valleys become narrower,
steeper and cooler, and the landscape progressively assumes the
wilder features which belong to what is distinctly meant by “the
mountain country.”
The loftiest heights in this series are found in the Alleghany,
nearly one hundred and fifty miles westward from the first thread
of the belt; and as the principal rivers which flow towards the
Chesapeake find their sources in this overtopping line of mountain,
it may be imagined that many scenes of surpassing beauty exist in
those abrupt solitudes where the rivers have had to contend with the
sturdy hills that nature had thrown across their passage to the sea.
The multiplication of the facilities of travel which the spirit of
improvement has, of late years, afforded to this region; the healthfulness,
or,—to use a term more germain to its excellence,—the
voluptuousness of the climate, and the extraordinary abundance
of waters of the rarest virtue, both for bathing and drinking, have
all contributed, very recently, to render the mountains of Virginia
notorious and popular amongst that daintily observant crowd of
well-conditioned people who yearly migrate in quest of health, or
of a refuge from the heats of summer, or who, perchance, wander
in pursuit of those associations of hill and dale which are supposed
to repair a jaded imagination, and to render it romantic and fruitful.
The traveller of either of these descriptions, who holds his journey
westward, will find himself impelled to halt at Charlottesville, as a
pleasant resting-place in the lap of the first mountains, where he may
stop to reinforce his strength for the prosecution of the rugged task
that awaits him. His delay here will not be unprofitable. This
neat little village is not less recommended to notice by its position
in the midst of a cultivated and plentiful country, than by its contiguity
to the seats of three Presidents of the Union; and, especially,
by its immediate proximity to Monticello, whose burnished dome
twinkles through the crown of forest that adorns the very apex of
its mountain pyramid, and which, as it has now grown to be the
Mecca of many a pilgrim, will of itself furnish a sufficient inducement
for our traveller's tarrying. An equal attraction will be found in
the University of Virginia, which, at the distance of one mile, in the
opposite direction from that leading to Monticello, rears its gorgeous
and fantastic piles of massive and motley architecture—a lively and
faithful symbol (I speak it reverently) of the ambitious, parti-colored
and gallican taste of its illustrious founder.
From Charlottesville, proceeding southwardly, in the direction of
Nelson and Amherst, the road lies generally over an undulating
country, formed by the succession of hills constituting the subordinate
chain of mountains which I have described as first in the belt.
These hills derive a beautiful feature from the manner in which they
are commanded,—to use a military phrase,—by the Blue Ridge,
which, for the whole distance, rests against the western horizon, and
heaves up its frequent pinnacles amongst the clouds, clothed in all
the variegated tints that belong to the scale of vision, from the
sombre green and purple of the nearer masses, to the light and
almost indistinguishable azure of its remotest summits.
The constant interruption of some gushing rivulet, which hurries
from the neighboring mountain into the close vales that intercept the
road, communicates a trait of peculiar interest to this journey,
affording that pleasant surprise of new and unexpected scenery,
which, more than any other concomitant of travel, wards off the
sense of fatigue. These streams have worn deep channels through
the hills, and constantly seem to solicit the road into narrow passes
and romantic dells, where fearful crags are seen toppling over the
head of the traveller, and sparkling waters tinkle at his feet; and
where the richest and rarest trees of the forest seem to have chosen
their several stations, on mossy bank or cloven rock, in obedience to
some master mind intent upon the most tasteful and striking combination
of these natural elements.
A part of the country embraced in this description, has obtained
the local designation of the South Garden, perhaps from its succession
of fertile fields and fragrant meadows, which are shut in by the
walls of mountain on either hand; whilst a still more remote but
adjacent district of more rugged features, bears the appellation of the
Cove, the name being suggested by the narrow and encompassing
character of the sharp and precipitous hills that hem in and overshadow
a rough and brattling mountain torrent, which is marked
on the map as the Cove creek.
At the period to which my story refers, the population of this
central district of Virginia, exhibited but few of the characteristics
which are found to distinguish the present race of inhabitants. A
rich soil, a pure atmosphere, and great abundance of wood and water,
to say nothing of the sylvan beauties of the mountain, possessed a
great attraction for the wealthy proprietors of the low country; and
the land was, therefore, generally parcelled out in large estates held
by opulent owners, whose husbandry did not fail, at least, to accumulate
in profusion the comforts of life, and afford full scope to that
prodigal hospitality, which, at that period even more than at present,
was the boast of the state. The laws of primogeniture exercised
their due influence on the national habits; and the odious division
of property amongst undeserving younger brothers, whom our modern
philosophy would fain persuade us have as much merit, and as
little capacity to thrive in the world as their elders, had not yet
formed part of the household thoughts of these many-acred squires.
From Charlottesville, therefore, both north and south, from the
Potomac to the James river, there extended a chain of posts, occupied
by lordly and open-hearted gentlemen,—a kind of civil cordon
of bluff free-livers who were but little versed in the mystery of
“bringing the two ends of the year together.”
Since that period, well-a-day! the hand of the reaper has put in
his sickle upon divided fields; crowded progenies have grown up
under these paternal roof-trees; daughters have married and brought
in strange names; the subsistence of one has been spread into the
garner of ten; the villages have grown populous; the University
has lifted up its didactic head; and everywhere over this abode of
ancient wealth, the hum of industry is heard in the carol of the
ploughman, the echo of the wagoner's whip, the rude song of the
boatman, and in the clatter of the mill. Such are the mischievous
interpolations of the republican system!
My reader, after this topographical sketch and the political reflections
with which I have accompanied it, is doubtless well-prepared
for the introduction of the worthy personages with whom I am
about to make him acquainted.
