A Shadow of Romance
A Shadow of Romance
Nostalgia in the Mountain South
Abstract and Keywords
In 1869, Charles Lanman returned to the mountains of the South to report on the shape of the landscape after the Civil War. The resulting article, “The Novelties of Southern Scenery,” in Appletons' Journal contained Lanman's usual raptures to the mountain landscapes. Lanman's addition of moralistic mountaineers was unconceivable as a device for tourism before the Civil War. Postbellum promoters, though, found a new angle by adding white southerners to their landscape in ways that are blatantly nostalgic and exploitative. Writers like Lanman cast these poor farmers and their agriculture as nostalgic remnants of a frontier past, a quiet and uncomplicated folk living contentedly far from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. These poor farmers became devices to lure northerners to a landscape out of the past, a captivating rural retreat far from the pressures of the modern world in a South seemingly out of step with the rest of the United States.
In 1869, Charles Lanman returned to the southern mountains to report on the shape of the landscape after the Civil War. The resulting article, “The Novelties of Southern Scenery,” in Appletons' Journal contained Lanman's usual raptures to the mountain landscapes. He highlighted the wonders of Catawba County in North Carolina where “a brotherhood of mountains” was “particularly fantastic in their formation—now shooting forward, as if to look down into a narrow valley or ravine, and then again looming to the sky, as if to pierce it with their pointed summits.” He took readers to the Tallulah Chasm in northern Georgia where a “turbulent and angry stream” made five great leaps through a series of waterfalls with a roar that “comes to the beholder with a voice that bids him to wonder and admire.” In addition to the typical bucolic rhapsodies on unsullied nature, Lanman included something new. He told potential tourists of a “happy and contented people” who lived among these beautiful scenes. One could find, in this peaceful and countryside pastoral, a “moral and intelligent people” who made their homes in log cabins.1
Lanman's addition of moralistic mountaineers was unconceivable as a touristic device before the Civil War. Antebellum promoters had relied strictly on elegant resorts, sublime mountains, pastoral valleys, and crashing waterfalls to attract tourists to the South. Postbellum promoters, though, found a new angle by adding white southerners to their landscape in ways that are blatantly nostalgic and exploitative. Northern writers, and they were mostly northern in the 1870s and 1880s, played upon tourists' desire for a quiet escape in the country where they could observe and perhaps enter, in a very limited and temporary way, into the old-fashioned and simple lifestyles of poor white southerners. By marginalizing the mountaineers as backward or at the most on the periphery of (p.40) civilization, writers could also justify taking control of the resource-rich areas of the southern Appalachians on the premise that the locals were incapable of developing the area. Writers like Lanman cast these poor farmers and their agricultural lifestyle as nostalgic remnants of a frontier past, a quiet and uncomplicated folk living contentedly far from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. These poor farmers became devices to lure northerners to a landscape out of the past, one that was American but also peculiar, a captivating rural retreat far from the pressures of the modern world in a South seemingly out of step with the rest of America.
In the 1870s, such nostalgic images were pronounced in the promotional literature on the mountainous regions of Tennessee and North Carolina. Yet in the antebellum era, tourist boosters celebrated these areas for their mountain scenery and fine resorts. Guidebooks enticed tourists with majestic mountains, holding sway above the beauties of Mother Earth, streams bubbling playfully through lush green pastures and all the exquisite emotions they could bring forth in their viewers. They also tempted them with fashionable resorts and fine hotels as good as any other in the country. Promoters had tried to designate the southern mountains as American attractions.
Yet, while antebellum writers praised the picturesque mountain scenery they had often denigrated the white yeomanry who inhabited these beautiful regions. Charles Lanman, who wrote so fondly of the simple mountaineers in 1869, presented northerners with a very different society two decades earlier. In Letters from the Alleghanies (1848), Lanman, like his contemporaries, praised the southern mountains as wonderful American wilderness. The French Broad River was “one of the most beautiful rivers in this beautiful country.” He advised potential tourists that a sojourn there was a retreat, a “solitary place where not a sign of the breathing world could be seen… and the only living creature a solitary eagle.” He, like fellow travel writers, also tried to fit the southern landscapes into the larger American landscape. In this spirit, Tallulah Falls in nearby Georgia presumably matched Niagara Falls while Deaver's Sulphur Spring could boast accommodations worthy of Saratoga. Although Lanman admired the scenery, in the 1840s he could barely tolerate the people. He presented the locals as an ignorant and uncivilized group. They were poor white farmers living in “cheerless cabins” isolated from the rest of civilization. (p.41) Their “hovels” were so bad that no “respectable member of the swine family” would occupy them. He scorned one family in East Tennessee, calling the mother a “sickly and haggard” specimen whose husband was a “miserable drunkard” and whose numerous children wallowed in the “most despicable ignorance.” The only people that Lanman found somewhat appealing were the wealthy southerners and good families who summered in the region.2
Bostonian Anna Marie Wells delivered a similar description of the wonders and pitfalls of western North Carolina. In The Poetry of Travelling (1838) she spoke of the fine mountain scenery in Buncombe County with its breathtaking views but warned visitors about the crudeness of southern society. While the views from the mountains filled her soul with the wonder of God's glory, the local population did not. In relating the trials and tribulations of her coach ride through the highlands, she described her fellow passengers—in striking contrast to the charming mountains—as crude and uncivilized. She mocked their strange accents and their peculiar attitudes. “They all seem reckless of danger,” she complained. She told her readers of an idiot coach driver and a fellow passenger from the South who bored her with his foolish bragging. Even when she wandered into the countryside, Wells had little good to say about these southerners or their marks on the landscape. A log cabin made her want “to smile at its rudeness and insignificance” until she realized it was a church.3
Samuel Gilman followed a similar tack in another piece from The Poetry of Travelling. His “French Broad River—Paint Rock” described a river of ceaseless changes where “masses of white and pale gray rock, in every variety of form, stand up in the channel, and brave the angry dashing of the waters they oppose.” Such scenery proved spiritually uplifting, but like Wells, Gilman saw the mountain folk as anything but a tourist asset. In his eyes, they were ignorant barbarians who could not appreciate the beauty around them. He recounted how he had asked “every stupid boy and deaf old woman” where a certain waterfall was located but to no avail. How, he wondered, could these people be so blind to the “marvelous scenic wonders that were but a few miles from them?”4
Even Addison Richards, one of the loudest of all the southern promoters, was not above belittling the mountain folk in his praise of southern scenery. In an article, “The Landscape of the South,” he described all the standard picturesque wonders. The Carolina mountains had “the loveliest of valleys” and “skies soft and glowing in the genial warmth of summer (p.42) suns.” Southern society, though, was anything but lovely. According to Richards, the highlanders lived in the most wretched circumstances, in cabins lacking furniture or even windows. They slept on dirty pallets and subsisted on meager diets. He warned that in “no part of the Union is the mental condition of the peasantry so low as among the inhabitants of the Southern mountain lands.” In fact, tourism could be beneficial, in part, because visitors might lift benighted southerners out of their ignorance by giving them an example of “a better more civilized way of living.”5
While Richards roundly castigated these benighted southerners the majority of promotional pieces simply ignored poor mountain whites. They were much more interested in marketing southern landscapes as some of the nation's finest, and poor mountain whites did not fit into their scheme of things. Much like the rhetoric concerning Native Americans, promoters could ignore the poor whites who were not, in their opinion, using the land to its full potential. Thus, up to the Civil War, white mountaineers were either ignored or presented as a blight on an otherwise beautiful American landscape.6
After the war, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to take a vacation to the southern Appalachians. Military campaigns had devastated huge areas. Hotels had been destroyed, roads made full of ruts, and railroads broken to bits. Federal troops occupied much of the South, and Yankees were not generally welcomed. In 1865, war correspondent Whitelaw Reid found this out when he went on an official inspection tour of the South headed by Supreme Court Chief Justice Salmon P. Chase. Reid took a train from western Virginia to East Tennessee. After leaving the “gloomy depot” in Lynchburg he was crammed into a railroad car. Being November, it was chilly outside but also inside the car as the windows lacked glass. The train only averaged nine miles an hour because of crushed rails, shaky cross-ties, and rough pine trestles where there had once been bridges. It did not take long for the other passengers to realize that Reid and his party were northerners and soon they began to eye them and whisper. A fellow traveler who was from Massachusetts later told Reid that the southerners had wanted to have him lynched or at least tarred and feathered even though the former rebels knew it was impossible as “that thing was played out” after “this damned war.” Reid was no tourist and being part of an official entourage of federal officials made him a target, nonetheless this was not a tourist paradise for Yankees. As another northern journalist told the (p.43) curious in 1866, “Let no man come into the Carolinas this fall or winter for a so called pleasure trip.”7
It was therefore surprising when in 1866 D. Appleton and Company reissued its Hand-Book of American Travel series with a separate volume on the South. Retitled The Southern Tour, the new editor, Edward H. Hall, made only minor changes from Richards' 1857 edition with the most obvious addition being notes on the various Civil War battles in the region. Battlefields had attracted visitors even before the surrender at Appomattox. Northern publishing houses understood the public's thirst for information, and many firms quickly commissioned histories of the Civil War. Benson Lossing, after his success with his field book on the American Revolution, capitalized on the Civil War with a pictorial history. He travelled to all the sites and published three volumes of his history complete with maps. Magazines also published articles on how to get to sites. A case in point was Harper's Monthly Magazine, which in 1868 published “Lookout Mountain and How We Won It” by William Franklin Gore Shanks, an article that gave the northern tourist advice on how to get to the area, provided maps, and then gave directions to get the best vantage points for reimagining the maneuvers of the armies.8
In the 1870s, though, the South was beginning to attract more than just the battlefield tourist. In the mountains of Virginia, the mineral springs were still an attraction. In 1867, the “Queen of the Virginia Springs” White Sulphur re-opened under the ownership of the Peyton family of Virginia. During the war, the “Old White” had been a Confederate headquarters, barracks, and hospital. It had not been totally destroyed, but it was in bad shape. Steps had crumbled, roofs were leaking, and paint was peeling. Even the famed statue of Hygeia was missing. The Peyton family did their best to refurbish the resort, and when they re-opened they did not have high hopes for record crowds. There were fewer tourists as many of the previous visitors, the wealthy planters of the South, had been greatly diminished in both wealth and size, and the Peytons were more than half a million dollars in debt. The Peytons understood, as many owners of the surrounding springs, that to be profitable they needed to make transportation easier for visitors coming from the north. Help came in the form of the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad that came to the springs in 1869.9
The Peytons put advertisements in southern newspapers that they could accommodate one thousand visitors. A big draw for southerners (p.44) was the appearance of Robert E. Lee at the springs. Lee was president of the nearby Washington College in Lexington. His wife Mary had suffered from rheumatism and the couple sought out the White Sulphur as a way to ease her pain. Lee became one of the best advertisements for the springs, and the Peytons understood the appeal of Confederate heroes for southerners and in 1868 asked naval officer Matthew Fontaine Maury to be their invited guest.10
The Virginia Springs with the help of northern capital and better railroads regained a hint of their past glory. In North Carolina business was slow in the whole area right after the war, but numbers increased when the Western North Carolina Railroad reached nearby Asheville in 1880. Yet, before the railroad had even penetrated the area, northern promotional writers saw the advantage of the Carolina mountains as a potential tourist site. While the Virginia Springs emphasis was more on the aristocrats of old who used to summer at the spas, in the more southern reaches of the Appalachians writers used nostalgic images of poor whites as a sentimental hook for urban Americans.11
These new postbellum promoters were trying to attract a northern rather than a southern audience. In the aftermath of war, few southerners had the wealth or the even the inclination to travel for pleasure. So promoters sought to reach well-to-do white northerners, people who had the money and the motivation to be tourists. They also attracted attention of those northerners who were just interested in knowing what the South was like as a region apart from its political woes. Promotional pieces were designed to convince potential travelers and armchair tourists of the feasibility and the desirability of a vacation in the former Confederacy.
D. Appleton and Company had been the first publishing house to realize that the southern highlands presented new opportunities for tourism, though in 1866 the editors had not yet figured out how to make the region attractive to a northern readership. For obvious reasons, the South was a curiosity for northerners, but, in addition, the southern mountains could be an economical alternative for a burgeoning northern middle class eager to enjoy the quiet, serenity and status of a picturesque mountain retreat. By going southward, Yankee tourists could enjoy the beauties of nature without the crowds or the expense of the northern resorts like Saratoga. Ironically, the war had made the South desirable by seemingly resolving troubling sectional questions. Yet the question remained: How would promoters envision the defeated Rebels?
(p.45) Charles Lanman supplied one of the answers. The man who had written about miserable drunkards and haggard women living in wretched hovels in 1848 was twenty years later claiming his affection for the simple-hearted people who lived amid the grand scenery of the southern mountains. His “Novelties of Southern Scenery” appealed to the northerners' longing for a rustic retreat and an escape from the pressures of civilization. In the South, he asserted, one will not find the “dandified waiters” or the “cumbersome coaches” of the North but tidy farmhouses that serve good plain cooking. At these farmhouses, one can find a humble country folk living a simple life. He tried to charm readers with the story of an old woman who lived at the base of a mountain gorge. This was no sickly hag but one of the most interesting and hospitable people the author had ever met. Claiming to be a hundred and twelve years old, she still spoke with energy and could even remember her father's stories of soldier life in the American Revolution. A small woman, she dressed simply in a “frock of blue homespun cloth” and a “cap made of brown cotton” to cover her flowing white hair. “She professed the utmost confidence in the goodness of Providence” and “had a horror of the poorhouse.” She supported herself by selling a little flour to travelers and “cultivating a small garden, surrounded by a brush fence, which she had herself made.” Though her cabin was plain and her life simple she was thoroughly contented, claimed Lanman, happy to spend her free moments “thinking of her great, good, and sweet Father in the heavens.”12
Lanman's paean to the poor mountain white's simple lifestyle proved only the first of many tourist tracts to lure Yankees with a nostalgic vision of a simple country life. After the war, writers no longer blurred the differences between North and South or avoided sectional characteristics. By the 1870s, the Confederacy was defeated and would never rise again. A new spirit of reconciliation was blowing in the wind, and tourism realized that poor white farmers could be assets in making the mountains appear even more of a retreat from urban society. They could also appeal to northern capitalists wanting to invest and potentially exploit the mineral-rich Appalachians. The mountaineers of western North Carolina had an additional advantage. Northerners believed that many of these people had supported the Union during the war, thus the poor mountaineer was more palatable than the rich Georgia planter. These images pleased many southerners as well by praising a segment of their society. Most promotional tracts from the 1870s based their nostalgic landscapes on three (p.46) elements: picturesque rural scenery, simple yet proud white farmers, and an old-fashioned lifestyle. Together these elements created a southern vacation spot that spoke to northerners' needs and desires for an escape from the industrial northeast.
After the favorable reception of Lanman's article, Appletons' Journal decided to run more stories on the delights to be found in the South with its “Picturesque America” series, which along with a rival series “The Great South” from Scribner's Monthly did more to push the touristic potential of the South than anyone else in the fragile years of Reconstruction.
“Picturesque America” began in the November 1870 issue of Appletons' Journal and continued for more than a year before the publishing house decided to re-issue the articles as part of a two-volume set, sold by subscription. Picturesque America, the set, was completed in 1872 and included extra chapters not previously in the magazine. As literature, Picturesque America defies exact classification. It was an extravagantly illustrated “giftbook” whose aim was to celebrate in word and picture the beauty that was America. Each segment featured a specific locale and included one steel engraving suitable for framing, about a dozen wood engravings, and roughly twenty-five pages of accompanying text. The publisher billed the illustrations as “splendidly-executed views of the most unfamiliar and novel features of American scenery,” and the text expounded on these with added snippets of local history and a few amusing anecdotes.13
Besides celebrating American scenery, Picturesque America was meant to promote tourism. Though not set up as guidebook, the segments regularly mentioned traveling and were very specific on how to get to a place. For example, on the essay on Natural Bridge the author writes how it is “in the southeastern corner of Rockbridge County” and could be “reached from Lexington 14 miles distant, by stage, and from Lynchburg, by canalboat, thirty-six miles.” Many of its descriptions also found their way into a new edition of Hand-Book of American Travel: The Southern Tour. Thus D. Appleton and Company could stimulate interest in their travel guides that were often advertised near the articles that were originally in Appletons' Journal. Yet even if one didn't take the trip, the reader was instructed to sit “in the easy chairs and slippers” and follow the authors' lead “through one of the most civilized… and curiously picturesque mountain district.”14
The series editor was the respected author William Cullen Bryant, though one strongly suspects that his eminent name was more important than his editorial input as he had little to do with the series besides writing (p.47) the preface to the set. The true force behind the work was journalist Oliver Bell Bunce and illustrator Harry Fenn.15
Bunce was a native New Yorker who had come to D. Appleton and Company with extensive experience in writing and publishing, particularly illustrated gift books along the lines of Picturesque America. In his early forties, Bunce oversaw the entire publication of Picturesque America and wrote twelve of the chapters, most of them on the South. His writings reflected his reputation as a man of culture and morals. He wrote once that travel as well as music, books, a tasteful home, and choice dinners was the mark of “an active, socially-disposed, [and] cultivated person.” He also had a keen interest in the picturesque and the South.16
Illustrator Harry Fenn proved a natural choice for Bunce as Picturesque America's main artist. Fenn was born in England where he trained as a painter and engraver. He had also studied art in Italy before coming to New York City before the outbreak of the Civil War. In America, he had made his reputation with illustrations in popular books, most notably an edition of John Greenleaf Whittier's Snow Bound. He was also known for being the main illustrator for Henry Ward Beecher's weekly journal, The Christian Union. His sentimental and charming engravings proved perfect for the aims of Picturesque America.17
Together Bunce and Fenn would guide the direction of Picturesque America and make the South the focus in their search for the picturesque. The southern angle might have been influenced by William Cullen Bryant who had traveled south before the war and returned in 1873 after which he wrote three letters for the “New York Evening Post” where he pleaded for moderation in Reconstruction, saying that he harbored no ill feelings for the South. Yet, because he did so little with the actual editing of the series this is questionable. Bunce, though, certainly had a hand in the selection of the South. In general, he espoused a sympathetic view of the region. Before coming to Appleton he had published Surrey of Eagle's Nest by John Estes Cooke, a novel about the Confederate cavalry that was both sympathetic to the South and very profitable.18
Picturesque America was clearly for northerners. Authors often refer to “us northerners” and “New York customs.” Its audience was middle class, those interested in landscape and art and who could afford the expensive subscription rate of 24 dollars per segment. Existing subscription lists record this with names such as Longfellow and Emerson on the roles. And there was no doubt that Picturesque America was popular. The Appleton (p.48) firm boasted that they made over a million dollars in its initial offering. It was the featured book of the Philadelphia Centennial in Appleton's section of the American Book Trade Association and displayed at the 1878 World's Fair in Paris. The New York Times lauded it as “one of the greatest successes of this age of successful publications.” When Harry Fenn died in 1911 Harper's Weekly claimed it was found “on the center-table of every orthodox parlor.” It was indeed a parlor book, a badge of gentility and good taste to be displayed on the center-table as a public expression of one's private tastes.19
While the first installment of Picturesque America featured Florida, the second was on the French Broad River in North Carolina. Felix de Fontaine wrote the piece with illustrations by Harry Fenn. De Fontaine was not a southerner but was very sympathetic to the region. Born in Boston, he spent the war years as a correspondent for the “Charleston Courier.” By 1868, he was back in the North as the managing editor of the “New York Telegram.” Fenn and de Fontaine produced a piece that combined the “wild and romantic” French Broad, which “abounds in the most picturesque and beautiful scenery” with the equally charming old-fashioned culture that still existed in these mountainous areas.20
De Fontaine employed the usual florid scenic descriptors of the genre. The journey from Asheville to Warm Springs was “one of the most picturesque that can be perceived.” The whole area sprang forth from nature with “marvelous variety” where there existed a “soft, sweet, delicacy which breathes almost of the celestial” and made the viewer feel conscious of “the panorama of loveliness before him.” Waterfalls were melodious, rivers were rushing and tumbling, and mountains were full of “the sublimity of solemn grandeur.” He recounted the usual Indian legends of nineteenth-century travel writing by quoting William Gilmore Simms' poem “Tselica” in which a “siren” lured a hunter to the river where she “strangles him in her embrace.”21
As illustrator, Fenn highlighted the old-fashioned delights. His potent combination of scenery can be seen in two engravings of Lover's Leap. Lover's Leap was an unusually large cliff that jutted out over the road along the French Broad River. It had been a popular site to sketch from before the war, and with its romantic associations and status as a natural wonder it was a perfect fit for Picturesque America. Fenn's first print was fairly conventional (figure 2.1). Set in the daylight it seemed a typical picturesque landscape. The craggy rock took up fully half of the picture, and (p.49)
In the second illustration, set at night, Fenn was more heavy handed in playing upon the nostalgic charms of the region (figure 2.2). Here Lover's Leap was barely visible. The focus instead turned on an old-fashioned stagecoach barreling down a rutted road. Four black steeds, their manes flying in the wind, pulled the coach guided by a quaintly dressed man. Next to him was another man blowing an absurdly long horn. Northerners would see this relic of the past as more evidence of the simple life they could enjoy in the South, especially with the addition of de Fontaine's commentary. De Fontaine noted that visitors could have the wonderful opportunity to ride the “old fashioned stage coach” which lumbered “around the flower lined mountain roads” of North Carolina. There was, indeed, he wrote, “a shadow of romance in traveling through these solitudes in the good old style of our forbearers.”23
In addition to stagecoaches, Fenn's illustrations and de Fontaine's words attempted to entice northerners with other pre-modern conveyances. In his engraving, “A Ferry on the French Broad,” Fenn offered another conventional picturesque river scene with a southern twist (figure 2.3). Mountains filled in the background and the swift currents of the French Broad flowed through the foreground. Coming down the river was an old flat boat, little more than a couple of boards bound together, pulled to the shore by a large group of men. De Fontaine was divided between the need for southern progress and the imperatives of the picturesque. In the text, he lamented that this “veritable southern institution” was among the “most interesting relics of old-style things fast passing away.” But then he noted that “happily, bridges are taking the place of these antique relics” and soon railroads will whirl the tourist down the French Broad, which will make “travelling luxurious” even if it robs the visitor of “half the pleasures that attach to the good old way.” The addition of African Americans only heightened the southern setting to northern eyes.24
Fenn and de Fontaine also played up the traditional ways of southern life. In the engraving of “The Old Mill at Reems Creek” (figure 2.4), Fenn depicted a broken-down mill still in operation. Several boards were loose; grass grew through the gaps. The roof had several large holes, no glass was visible in the windows, and no door filled in the empty frame. Long (p.52)
The same conflation was evident in another segment on nearby Lookout Mountain. Fenn illustrated this piece but Bunce wrote the text, not de (p.55) Fontaine. In many ways, the literary style of the piece was different. Bunce wrote from the perspective of a tourist. He complained about Chattanooga's dreariness, its unpaved streets, its rough and tumble houses but offered hope for the future where in time the city will be a “prosperous and agreeable place.” His optimism was more pronounced in descriptions of Lookout Mountain. He told potential tourists that the mountain's two hotels will “give entertainment to all comers.” He described the Summit House where he and Fenn stayed and where they “held first place in our landlord's affections” and were capably looked after by a “little Negro Lass” who was full of work, zeal, and admiration.”27
He draped the scenery around the hotel in conventional picturesque garb and used the convention of comparison to the North to elevate the landscapes. Rock City, a large and irregular field of massive stones, was arranged “with all the dignity of a Fifth Avenue mansion.” Lulu Falls had a cascade of uncommon beauty “nearly as high as Niagara.” The valleys and dells of the Tennessee River when viewed from on-high surpassed “the Hudson in the loftiness of its banks.” But he also added commentary on the late war. His was not a Lost Cause sentiment, though. Rather he wondered why the Confederate lines were not safer in what seemed like the impregnable barrier of the mountain cliffs. Fenn's engraving of Lookout Mountain complemented Bunce's theme of directing the viewer away from partisanship by casting the battlefield in a distinctly American light instead of southernizing it (figure 2.6). The picture owed its composition to Thomas Cole's The Oxbow, arguably the most famous painting in America at the time. Fenn used the u-shaped bend of the Tennessee River as a compliment to the bend in Cole's work. However, whereas Cole's master-piece was a commentary on the meeting of civilization and nature, Fenn's landscape was much less philosophical. It was an attempt to lure tourists by de-politicizing a well-known battlefield in a spirit of reconciliation.28
Bunce hesitated to comment much on the late war but happily spoke about the local society in Chattanooga. These people were not, according to Bunce, the “poor whites” to be found in other parts of the South but “a proud and intelligent set” that were more comfortable as hunters than farmers. It would be a mistake, he counseled, to think them ignorant despite the fact that they have little interest in developing the land, an argument made by those northerners wishing to develop the land themselves. He recounted his visit to a cabin that locals had told him offered a nice dinner. He approached with trepidation but was pleased to find (p.56)
Like de Fontaine, the old-fashioned ways captivated Bunce. He spent several paragraphs describing the old rope ferry on the Tennessee River that replaced a bridge destroyed in a flood, and Fenn used all his picturesque conventions to make its rude construction and dilapidated appearance appear quaint (figure 2.7). It was a typical river scene except for the rickety contraption floating down the current, a tangle of rope and old boards. To add the extra southern touch, Fenn opted for a “Mammy” (p.58) instead of the African American boys he used in his engraving of the French Broad River.30
De Fontaine's and Bunce's appeals were devised to be appealing to a northern bourgeoisie wishing to retreat from the materialism of a consumer society. Northerners, perusing the promotional literature in parlors full of bric-a-brac, could believe that southern farmers led a much less complicated existence. They needed only a little, claimed Bunce, to be happy: Just “a gun, a dog, a horse, a cottage, a wife, and a cow—and pretty much in the order enumerated.”31
With such rhetoric, northerners could believe that the South was not poor but rather preserving a simpler and more natural way of life, its poor society not destitute but child-like and almost primitive. It was an appeal that southerners also made. Promotional writer Henry Colton from North Carolina described the charm of a group of North Carolina mountain men, “the last of a vanishing frontier breed.” He told how seven local men climbed to the top of Mount Mitchell. Of course, they appreciated the picturesque qualities of the scenery going through “thickets of rhododendron, magnificent with crimson flowers” wandering around cascades “rich in artistic beauty,” and hiking up to a plateau to take “far-extended view.” Nevertheless, these men also linked the area to the frontier past. They spoke in quaint archaic accents and even hunted bears for food. Two men boasted that their fathers were the first settlers in this area where Daniel Boone had “learned to shoot Indians,” an image that was picked up by de Fontaine.32
Picturesque America played the nostalgic angle in 1872 and so did Edward King two years later. King was the author of another series promoting southern tourism, The Great South. Inspired no doubt by the success of Picturesque America, rival publishing house Scribner and Company had hired King, a journalist, and artist James Wells Champney to go South and report their findings in the fledgling Scribner's Monthly Magazine. King had earned a reputation as “one of the ablest of the younger American journalists.” Born in Massachusetts in 1848, King got his start as a war correspondent for two newspapers in Springfield, Illinois. He garnered his reputation as a travel writer after publishing his observations on Parisians and the Paris Exposition in the 1868 publication of My Paris: French Character Sketches that quickly went through three editions in five years. When Dr. Josiah Gilbert Holland, editor of Scribner's Monthly, contracted him to write on the condition of the South, King was still a young man, (p.59) only 24. It was a monumental undertaking as King travelled 25,000 miles in a little over a year visiting every southern state including the border states of Maryland, Missouri, Kentucky, and West Virginia.33
For much of the trip, artist James Wells Champney accompanied King. Just a few years older than King, Champney was also born in Massachusetts and was trained as an engraver but was comfortable in most any artistic medium. He had some familiarity with the South as he had spent a year in the 45th Massachusetts Volunteers serving much of his time on garrison duty in South Carolina. After the war, he went on an extended tour of Europe where he met King. Known for his prolific output, Champney's style was much in keeping with the picturesque conventions of artists like Harry Fenn.34
Like Bunce and Fenn, King and Champney worked well together, with King's text contextualizing Champney's illustrations. They were both intent on promoting the South, including its economic promise, political progress, and tourist potential. This literary union makes for difficult reading as King provided social commentary mixed with commercial opportunities, leavened with travel anecdotes, but the mix would not have seemed odd for the northern audience. When dealing with tourism, King highlighted attractions such as mineral springs, historic sights, large cities, and natural wonders while mentioning railroad routes and major hotels. That others responded to it as a travel guide was evident when the Richmond and Danville Railroad published a tourist brochure in which they claimed King had done a good job describing the beauty of the western North Carolina scenery.35
The whole work was a gamble by Scribner. The firm spent $33,000 for the trip. The gamble paid off, though. The original articles helped Scribner.'s Monthly, which had only been launched in 1870, to boost its circulation and capture the same market as Appletons' Journal. The magazine's success with the series led to the work being expanded and published as a separate work in both the United States and England.36
Reconciliation was the theme that winds its way throughout the text. King noted with satisfaction that southerners and northerners “forget their sectional bickerings” to come together in mutual harmony and admonished those who met him with the “occasional bitterness.” The public responded, and his work was credited with being truthful and unbiased in southern as well as northern newspapers. A Petersburg, Virginia, paper claimed, for example, that King seemed unburdened by “any of (p.60) the prejudices [of] which malice and ignorance were the most hateful parents.”37
The potential tourist market was another theme King expounded upon. Like Picturesque America the old-fashioned ways, though pitied in the sections on commercial potential, only enhanced the picturesque beauty of region. Champney made the Swannanoa River near Asheville nostalgic by adding a small two-wheeled coach in the foreground of a little mountain lake (figure 2.8). In an illustration of the Greenbrier River in West Virginia, Champney heightened the charming scenery with three skiffs being pulled to a dock. King added that these humble “bateaux” could also be hired for travelers who wish to explore the wonders of the romantic mountain scenery.38
King, like Bunce, embellished the simple but virtuous life of these white farmers whose log cabins were Spartan but clean. Rows of polished tins and glistening buckets adorned wooden shelves, and the people were the same way: solid and functional. King implied the same messages in a description and accompanying picture of a “rustic mill built of logs” near Virginia's White Sulphur Springs. Tourists, he implied, could take a side trip from the springs and imagine they were stepping back through history to a simpler time.39
By reading about tidy cabins and rows of glistening buckets, northerners could imagine that they were temporarily escaping into an older, simpler world, one sharply at odds with their urban lifestyles. Instead of the slovenly dwellings prominent in the antebellum period, the farmers, described in postwar promotional pieces, lived in humble abodes remarkable for their cleanliness. Edward King captivated readers with the plain unvarnished lifestyle of a country parson and his large family from the Blue Ridge Mountains. At first, King claimed that the cabin appeared too small for the twelve members of the family and the visitors. Yet upon further consideration, he proclaimed that it was ample shelter. He described the cabin furniture as plain but adequate. The main room had a fireplace, a table, a few benches, and a spinning wheel; the bedroom held two beds, a small mirror on a rustic bureau, and a little table upon which a Bible lay prominently displayed. He reported that the mother, “a tall matron” dressed simply in a straight homespun gown, was reportedly happy, never feeling “the need for anything more than she possessed.” The mountain folk, like their dwellings, were a study in homespun simplicity, for the parson's family was polite and hospitable. The parson, wrote King, was (p.61)
King did not paint all of the poor whites of the South with the same nostalgic gloss. In some of the rougher mountain areas, he claimed that locals looked upon strangers with suspicion but conceded that this did not represent the mass of the people. He often denigrated poor whites as uneducated, shiftless, and unwilling to raise their rude style of living but then noted that many are charming and friendly and only need the civilizing influence of the North to rise above their previous station. It was an argument that attracted tourism as well as entrepreneurs who could bring with new industry some of that civilizing force.41
Yet the majority of King's mountain farmers lived in a culture of wonderful simplicity and contentment. In the eyes of a northern bourgeoisie, these pure, innocent, and un-materialistic farmers were a huge contrast to the rough and uncouth workers in American cities. Unlike the lower class in the urbanized northeast, King's idealized mountaineers may have been curious about the outside world but they were happy to live away from industrialization. And King was careful to make them strange but not frightening. Their life was simply agricultural. “There were none of the modern conventionalities of dress about them,” and though they talked (p.62) strangely, preferring “you uns” and “we uns,” they were nonetheless familiar. Images of these people were a comfort to an industrial elite feeling the pressure of “the dangerous classes” of the city.42
Other works echoed King's sentiments. An article in Overland Magazine by Washingtonian poet Esmeralda Boyle emphasized rustic accommodations. Boyle described her unconventional trip to the mountains of South Carolina. At first she was a bit disappointed in a mountain cabin she had rented. The “roughly built frame house” had rooms that were unpapered, unplastered, and unpainted, just “standing in their native nakedness of yellow pine.” Nevertheless, “the bare floors and hard beds were clean… and their roughness had attractions for those travelers accustomed to the luxurious hotels of a northern climate.” As to the locals she found them “industrious and law-abiding” and intelligent. They were eminently hospitable, though she warned that their manner might seem “a rude form” of politeness to a Yankee stranger.43
As great an influence on perceptions of Appalachia from a potential tourist angle came not from guidebooks but from the scores of fictional stories published in New York magazines. In the 1870s and 1880s, mass-produced journals like Scribner's, Appletons', Harper's, and Century published “local color pieces,” short stories that described the charms of a particular region. The southern mountains often featured in these pieces and many times these stories took the form of a travel account where authors blended fiction and non-fiction with no need for boundaries between the genres. In the earliest years, such works fixed the image of the southern Appalachians as peculiar yet nostalgic reminders of a long ago past.44
Writing under the pseudonym Christian Reid, Frances Fischer Tiernan, was one of the most influential in the early tourist perceptions of western North Carolina. Born in Salisbury, North Carolina, and the daughter of a railroad executive, Tiernan made her name as a local color writer in the 1870s and 1880s. In 1875, she took a trip down the French Broad with a group of friends and relations and then wrote a barely fictionalized account of her travels that was published as a novel, Land of the Sky, or Adventures in Mountain By-Ways by D. Appleton and Company in 1876. The story centered on the Markham family from the North who had come to North Carolina for an inexpensive vacation. Tiernan presented the readers a fairly gentle portrait of the highlanders and described them as humble and hospitable, though a bit gloomy. One of the fictional (p.63) group, after trying to get some information out of the locals living near the French Broad, proclaimed that “mountaineers are, as a rule, melancholy.”45
Tiernan penned another travel article the next year, “The Mountain Region of North Carolina,” in which she stressed visitors could find respite for their hurly-burly lives, “a subtle sense of repose” and “charm for a weary body, or dispirited soul.” Though some mountaineers admittedly were “ignorant and lawless,” Tiernan confidently told northern tourists that the majority of the people were “intelligent, industrious, and eminently good citizens.” The mountaineers may have lived in a primitive fashion but they were hospitable and moreover offered necessary escape from the pressures of modern life. “Secluded from the fret and tumult of the world,” they led lives that were simple and quaint, though slightly odd. Tiernan's influence was large on the region. Her moniker of “Land of the Sky” quickly became Asheville's nickname, a name that exists today.46
Another female local color writer was Constance Fenimore Woolson who accentuated the absence of the luxuries of modern life in mountain society to appeal to northerners longing for a taste of the simpler life. Unlike Tiernan, Woolson was a northerner, born in New Hampshire and raised in Ohio. She turned to writing when she was in her thirties as a way to make ends meet after her father died in 1869. Although she wrote pieces about many different locales, regions, and countries, she published four articles on the South in the 1870s for Harper's Monthly Magazine, including a fictionalized account of her trip in the summer of 1874 to the French Broad River.47
“The French Broad” told of the adventures of a group of well-to-do northerners taking a pleasure trip through the Carolina highlands in early spring. There were two young women, chaperoned by an older uncle and a geology professor. It was clear that these people represented Woolson's affluent and educated readers. Through the characters, northerners could feel like they were there, hunting, fishing, hiking, and searching for wild flowers and mineral rocks.48
Like their audience, these fictional travelers were clearly well educated and able to appreciate the finer things in life. They traveled to seek relief from the humdrum bustles of daily life. The group claimed to be drawn to the French Broad because it was not yet “thronged with artists and tourists.” Here one could forget about the strictures of Victorian society, wear casual clothes and act carefree. The South as presented by Woolson was a (p.64) place to play. The geology professor, the stuffiest of the characters, walked about wearing an old straw hat to which he has stuck several flowers into the brim. “I too can be pastoral,” he quipped.
While northerners could play at being pastoral at any resort, Woolson added a little southern charm to make the mountains a distinctive vacation spot. When one of the northern women cattily poked fun at the farm wives' outfits, exclaiming that they do not even wear their veil “down fair and square over the face, city fashion, where it belongs,” a southern gentleman in the group gently chided the girl. “Under those gaunt, ungraceful exteriors” are kind people, willing to help a stranger under any circumstance. These women, he said, would come from miles away to nurse you, sharing with you a cake on a hard winter's day, even making you clothes from their spinning wheel.49
In 1883, Louise Coffin Jones re-affirmed Tiernan's earlier images of mountaineers and offered northerners a nostalgic retreat into a society seemingly unmarred by class conflict. In a short article she presented her version of the old-fashioned frontiersman for a northern audience. In North Carolina, the visitor almost literally had stepped back in time to the “days of our great-grandmothers.” Simple wooden cabins were scattered throughout the land, women cooked over the fireplace, washed their clothes by the stream, and owned small stoves that were probably in use when Jefferson was president. Food cooked over the hearth was better than a fancy dinner. She found the people's simple ways largely laudable. At one house, a woman came to the door and though she spoke strangely was nonetheless gentle and kind. Such women, Jones wrote, made excellent wives and mothers. To prove her point, she described her trip to a small farm where seventeen family members greeted her. The white-haired children were resplendent in their garments of homespun and the father happily played the violin. Even when Jones visited a small windowless cabin in which she expected “the most wretched inhabitants” to live, she found instead an intelligent girl dressed in a neatly made calico dress. Though this city woman questioned how one could live in this remote region, she did note that on this girl's face there was “nothing but settled contentment.”50
Like other writers, Jones asserted that the mountains offered an escape from the modern materialism of her modern world. Of course, Jones and her companions could enjoy this simple rural life because they themselves did little in the way of work. They spent their day smelling (p.65) the rhododendrons and gazing at the scenery instead of hoeing the fields, milking the cows, or preparing their own food. Jones even admitted that they bought all their food from the locals. Nonetheless, for Jones, as for her readers, these pictures of the southern mountains appeared as the perfect escape for the tumult of modern life.
Northerners embraced these images of simple southern folk because they offered such a striking contrast to their own lives. For many urbanites these scenes appeared more genuine than the artificial atmosphere of an industrial city. To take a vacation in the mountains was to re-energize oneself in a pastoral “simple life” that seemed to have faded away forever. These agrarian stereotypes were also popular with the tourist audience because they offered a model of how a white elite believed the lower classes should behave. Instead of the strife and unease that marked society in the large cities, these people were content and happy, eager to welcome their “betters.” The imagery also justified how outsiders, particularly northerners, could come southward and help civilize these poor mountain folk by creating new industries.
Tourists generally noticed the mountaineers, but the reality was that most northerners were not eager to spend time in a mountaineers' cabin and in fact had little interaction with the highlanders. Instead they became part of the landscape, visible but apart from the tourist itineraries. To see their homes or the old buildings was to be able to reminisce about the way things were. They could buy stereographs at Rufus Morgan's store or postcards from several dealers in the area. The theme of the images changed on whether it was city or country. The postcards of Asheville depicted a modern city with banks, churches, hotels, restaurants, railroad stations, and smart homes. In the country, views often included shots of log cabins with distants of mountaineers. By the turn of the century focus had been replaced on the mountaineers themselves, either in their daily chores or selling their mountain handicrafts to the locals.51
Such imagery allowed northerners to critique the South. While stagecoaches and old ferries offered a distinctive contrast to life in the northern city, they also pointed to the absence of anything modern and industrial. In a culture that celebrated progress, such images possessed a certain picturesque charm in their own way, but they could also label these mountain areas as backward. More than one promoter expressed this dual identity. In the 1870s, de Fontaine expressed it best in his pleasure of traveling in “the good old way” of ferries and stagecoaches and his eagerness in seeing (p.66) palace cars whizzing down steel tracks. Likewise, in the 1880s, Charles Dudley Warner claimed Warm Springs reminded him of a palatial shanty, although he claimed this was part of its charm: “We liked the place better than if it had been smart, and enjoyed the negligé condition and the easy going terms on which life is taken there.”52
The same ambivalence characterized the depictions of supposedly simple mountain folk. Marion Wilcox, a northern journalist, published a semi-promotional piece on the North Carolina mountains that stressed the strange but still curious ways of these people that you “cannot see anywhere else in America.” They did not hurry or worry. Nor were they typically restless Americans; they wanted to stay where they were. They were “un-American” and not “one of us.” Likewise, Edward King, who praised the mountaineers who have “none of the modern conventionalities of dress about them,” simultaneously noted that their “language was peculiar” and their manners, while courteous, “were awkward and rough.”53
This ambivalence took an about-face toward the end of the century. More writers and tourists were seeing more of the peculiar than the nostalgic. Part of the ambivalence grew from local-color stories about Appalachia. A good example is Mary Noailles Murfree. A native of middle Tennessee, Murfree's stories, written under the pseudonym of Charles Egbert Craddock, offered a striking portrait of highlanders prone to violence and drunkenness. In “The Dancing Party at Harrison Cove” Murfree described a feud between two mountain families, the Johns and the Pearsons and how a tourist ends up breaking up a fight between the two clans by stepping in when two boys from each warring family tried to start trouble at a local dance. “The Star in the Valley,” Murfree's most popular work, told of a mountain girl who purposely encouraged her father and brother to get drunk so that she could warn another family of an impending attack from a group of highlanders, including her brother and father.54
By the end of the century, such imagery built an idea in the American mind of the southern mountains and mountaineers as a backward place that was interesting but strange and somewhat violent. The nostalgic stereotypes were first accompanied and then superseded by the hillbilly, mountaineers living in primitive enclaves, poor whites who loved to feud, and fight, and drink moonshine, and the reality of northern industrialists and their colonial approach to the mountain resources. It was a stereotype that both northerners and southerners would propagate for the rest of the (p.67) twentieth century. By World War I, the hillbilly stereotype had solidified. Yet, mountaineers' simple, nostalgic life had already been seared into the cultural consciousness of the nation as distinctly southern. A darker nostalgia, however, formed at the same time as the picturesque nostalgia of the mountains. In the southern lowlands, particularly in Florida, swamps and moss became the backdrop for a newly gothicized South.
(1.) Lanman, “Novelties of Southern Scenery-I,” 257, 258; Lanman, “Novelties of Southern Scenery-II,” 296–97; Lanman, “Novelties of Southern Scenery-III,” 328–29.
(2.) Lanman, Letters from the Alleghanies, 431–32, 447, 456, 437
(3.) Gilman, The Poetry of Travelling, 272–74
(4.) Gilman, The Poetry of Travelling, 342; 295
(5.) Richards, “Landscapes of the South,” 721–33
(6.) See Colton, Guide to the Mountains of Western North Carolina; and Simms, “Summer Travel in the South,” 24–32 for promotional pieces that ignored mountaineers.
(7.) Reid, After the War, iii–iv; 339–43. Andrews, The South Since the War, 201.
(8.) Hall, Appletons' Hand-Book; Shanks, “Lookout Mountain and How We Won It,” 1–15. This book is not focused on the battlefield tourism, but there is an extensive (p.178) literature on preservation, tourism, and commemoration. For how union veterans remembered the war see Hunt, The Good Men Who Won the War. For how reconciliation was a theme of memory see Blight, Beyond the Battlefield. For a look at how Chickamauga was established as America's first national military park see Smith, A Chickamauga Memorial.
(9.) Chambers Drinking the Water, 184–93. Railroads were critical in bringing in the tourists to the South. Though almost all of the southern railroads were destroyed in the war, by the 1870s and 1880s new companies were building tracks across the region, consolidating smaller railroads, and competing for new travelers. On competition between railroads in general see Stilgoe, Metropolitan Corridor, 51–71.
(10.) Reniers, The Springs of Virginia, 208. Chambers, Drinking the Water, 193–97.
(11.) Martin, Tourism in the Mountain South, 89
(12.) Lanman, “Novelties of Southern Scenery-II,” 259
(13.) For the history of Picturesque America see Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, and Ramsier, “Picturesque America.” Customers received two twenty-four-page installments every month. The publisher eventually compiled the forty-eight sections into two hefty bound volumes of either muslin or Moroccan leather “stamped with the elaborate and appropriate designs” in shiny gilt lettering. A subscription cost $24.00 for each set. Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, 274. See announcement in Apple-tons’ Journal, October 29, 1870.
(14.) Bryant ed., Picturesque America, vol. 1, 8, 90, 378, 199
(15.) Besides Bunce and Fenn, there were another twenty-seven writers and thirteen engravers.
(16.) Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, 46–50
(17.) Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, 32–43
(18.) Glicksberg, “Letters of William Cullen Bryant from Florida,” 253–57. Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, 47.
(19.) Bryant, Picturesque America, 8, 90, 378, 199American Literary Periodicals: The 18th and 19th CenturiesNew York Times,Harper's WeeklyPortrait of a PublisherPublisher's WeeklyCulture and Comfort
(20.) Rainey, Creating Picturesque America, 110AppletonsMagazinePicturesque AmericaPicturesque America
(21.) De Fontaine, “The French Broad River, North Carolina,” Appletons' Journal, 644
(22.) De Fontaine, “The French Broad” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 138–39
(23.) De Fontaine, “The French Broad” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 134–37
(24.) De Fontaine, “The French Broad” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 145
(25.) De Fontaine, “The French Broad” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 143–46
(26.) Morgan, “Alexanders' Mill.” Illustrated Catalog of Southern Scenery in Durwood Barbour Collection of North Carolina Postcards (P077), North Carolina Collection Photographic Archives, Wilson Library, UNC-Chapel Hill, 3.
(27.) Bunce, “Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 52–69
(28.) Bunce, “Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee,” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 57. On Cole's intent see Miller The Empire of the Eye, 39–49. On the popularity of the image and its connection to property statutes see Brophy, “Property and Progress: Antebellum Landscape Art and Property Law.”
(29.) Bunce, “Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee,” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 65
(30.) Bunce, “Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee,” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 64
(31.) Bunce, “Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee,” in Picturesque America, ed. Bryant, 65
(32.) Colton, “Picturesque America, part 3: Reems's Creek,” 135–37
(33.) See introduction for King, The Great South. Ed. Drake and Jones. Johns, The Best Years of the Century, 39–40; Johnson, Remembered Yesterdays, 96–97.
(34.) Johnson, ed. Encylopaedia of American Biography, 606. Benjamin, Our American Artists, 32–33; Waters and Hutton, Artists of the Nineteenth Century and Their Works, 128.
(35.) Silber, The Romance of Reunion, 73–74
(36.) The Best Years of the CenturyJohnson, Remembered Yesterdays, 96–97
(37.) King, The Great South, 674, 341; King, The Southern States of North America, 4
(38.) King, The Great South, 509, 670
(39.) King, The Great South, 678–79
(40.) King, The Great South, 480–81
(41.) King, The Great South, 730, 734, 774–75
(42.) King, The Great South, 482–83
(43.) Boyle, “The Mountain-Slopes and River-Banks of North Carolina,” 537, 540
(44.) Shapiro, Appalachia on Our Mind, 3–17; Martin, Tourism in the Mountain South, 46–47; and O'Donnell ed., Seekers of Scenery, 25–27.
(45.) Martin, Tourism in the Mountain South, 50–51. Reid, Land of the Sky, 72.
(46.) Reid, “The Mountain Region of North Carolina,” Appletons' Journal March 1877, 203
(47.) O’Donnell ed., Seekers of Scenery, 131–32; Woolson, “The French Broad,” Harper's New Monthly Magazine, April 1875, 617–36.
(48.) Woolson, “The French Broad,” 630
(49.) Woolson, “The French Broad,” 630
(50.) Jones, “In the Backwoods of Carolina,” 747–56
(51.) “Allanstand Cottage Industries, 33 Haywood St., Asheville, N.C.” in Durwood Barbour Collection of North Carolina Postcards (P077), North Carolina Collection Photographic Archives, Wilson Library, UNC-Chapel Hill.
(52.) Silber, The Romance of Reunion, 77; de Fontaine, “The French Broad,” 147. Warner, On Horseback, 548–49.
(53.) Wilcox, “The Poetry of Commonplace; chapter 1, ‘A North Carolina Incident,’” 239–50; King, The Great South, 482.
(54.) Murfree, In the Tennessee Mountains, 215, 152–53; Martin, Tourism in the Southern Mountains, 84–85; Shapiro, Appalachia on Our Mind, 25–26.