CANE HILL
Washington Co., Arkansas
From THE MEMPHIS (TN) DAILY APPEAL, April 10, 1859
From THE MEMPHIS (TN) DAILY APPEAL, April 10, 1859
There are many beautiful places in the State of Arkansas -- many rich, rolling prairies, chequered off into fertile fields, and dotted here and there with the houses and barns of an enterprising and intelligent population.
The northwestern part of the State abounds in picturesque scenery. The Ozark mountains extend through that section, and divide the cotton region from that in which small grain and Indian corn from the staple productions. Traveling north from Van Buren, on the Arkansas River, a spur of this mountain range must be crossed. This spur is called the Boston mountain, and separates Washington from Crawford county.
Washing county lies north of Boston mountain, having the Cherokee nation immediately on the west. The land is generally fertile and no inconsiderable portion of the county is prairie. In this country there is a remarkable hill, bearing the name which stands at the head of this article. It rises amid a prairie, being about six miles long and from three to four in width. Its greatest height (sic) is one hundred and fifty feet; in some places the ascent is gradual and easy, in others it is rugged and precipitous. The summit is almost level, and the soil is black, and equal in fertility to the celebrated American bottom in Illinois, or the valley of the Nile itself. The growth of timber, on the remarkable hill, is similar to that found in the creek and river bottoms of that vicinity; it is black and white walnut, sassafras, ash, oak, sweet gum, and the largest mulberry trees I have ever seen in any country.
Cane Hill is remarkable for its abundance of clear and beautiful spring water. There are hundreds of springs in and about it. Never did more delicious water burst forth from the bosom of our common mother than these clear, cold springs of Cane Hill. The longest droughts, and the most powerful freshets seem to have no influence either upon the quantity of quality of the water.
Near the center of Cane Hill several springs arise from a gentle eminence, and flow away to different directions in bold streams, which soon unite with others and become considerable, affording never failing water power for machinery at the places of their descent. Several valuable flour mills and one or two cotton factories have been erected there, within the last year or two, and are doing well. At the point where these springs arise are the remains of an ancient fort. A portion of the stone wall still exists, but the greater part has long since been demolished. When I first visited that locality, which was in 1832, two squares of wall were standing. The work was of rough, but substantial masonry, and about a half acre, including several springs, was enclosed. Much labor had been bestowed upon the springs. Huge stone basins, curiously carved, and of shapes and dimensions, were found there, and in the vicinity, by the early settlers.
Daniel Boone, the great pioneer, accompanied by he late Governor Baggs of Missouri, were the first white men who climbed that hill. They sighted it in 1804, or 1805, and gave it the name of the "Black Hill". The Indians then residing there told them that, as far back as their traditions reached, the fort had been there, and they had no definite idea by whom or when it had been built. An oak at least four feet in diameter, standing on a part of the dilapidated wall, and evidently planted since the erection of the wall, bears indisputable evidence of the lapse of several centuries.
It is said that the wild Indians, scattered over the wide West, for ages prior to the coming of the pale face to take away their hunting grounds, were in the habit of holding a yearly council within the ruins of that fort. They resorted thither to smoke the pipe of peace, and to hold consultations relative to their general good. They regarded the old fort as a consecrated place, and thought that they heard the Great Spirit speaking to them, as the winds moaned among the boughs of the mighty trees, or the thunder echoed back its startling peals from the neighboring mountains.
In vain do we ask, 'Who built that fort? What people lived there? When did they flourish? By what means did they become extinct?' There is no voice to respond -- no record to gratify curiosity -- no history to clear away the obscurity that hangs over the whole subject. Certain it is, however, that some people, far more advanced toward civilization than the red man, once had their home here -- these crystal waters once reflected back their images and slaked their thirst, the smoke from these altars once arose amid these groves, and their songs made response to the prowl of the wild wolf. Here, at these springs, councils met and debated grave questions, involving the fate of tribes and nations, and decided whether war or peace should prevail. Here, once lived a race that, like ours, and all others of the varied family of man, were sometimes oppressed with fear, as others, transported with joy; sometimes mourned in adversity, at others rejoiced in prosperity. But they are all gone!
The scene is now changed. The Anglo-Saxon is there, transforming everything by his wondrous touch into images of art and science. Agriculture and commerce now hold undisputed sway, and peace crowns the sylvan shade.
*This article is from Volume 39 Number 3 of the Washington County Historical Societies publication of FLASHBACK 1989 and was supplied by Robert Myers who at that time was working on the Newspaper Project at the University of Arkansas.
The northwestern part of the State abounds in picturesque scenery. The Ozark mountains extend through that section, and divide the cotton region from that in which small grain and Indian corn from the staple productions. Traveling north from Van Buren, on the Arkansas River, a spur of this mountain range must be crossed. This spur is called the Boston mountain, and separates Washington from Crawford county.
Washing county lies north of Boston mountain, having the Cherokee nation immediately on the west. The land is generally fertile and no inconsiderable portion of the county is prairie. In this country there is a remarkable hill, bearing the name which stands at the head of this article. It rises amid a prairie, being about six miles long and from three to four in width. Its greatest height (sic) is one hundred and fifty feet; in some places the ascent is gradual and easy, in others it is rugged and precipitous. The summit is almost level, and the soil is black, and equal in fertility to the celebrated American bottom in Illinois, or the valley of the Nile itself. The growth of timber, on the remarkable hill, is similar to that found in the creek and river bottoms of that vicinity; it is black and white walnut, sassafras, ash, oak, sweet gum, and the largest mulberry trees I have ever seen in any country.
Cane Hill is remarkable for its abundance of clear and beautiful spring water. There are hundreds of springs in and about it. Never did more delicious water burst forth from the bosom of our common mother than these clear, cold springs of Cane Hill. The longest droughts, and the most powerful freshets seem to have no influence either upon the quantity of quality of the water.
Near the center of Cane Hill several springs arise from a gentle eminence, and flow away to different directions in bold streams, which soon unite with others and become considerable, affording never failing water power for machinery at the places of their descent. Several valuable flour mills and one or two cotton factories have been erected there, within the last year or two, and are doing well. At the point where these springs arise are the remains of an ancient fort. A portion of the stone wall still exists, but the greater part has long since been demolished. When I first visited that locality, which was in 1832, two squares of wall were standing. The work was of rough, but substantial masonry, and about a half acre, including several springs, was enclosed. Much labor had been bestowed upon the springs. Huge stone basins, curiously carved, and of shapes and dimensions, were found there, and in the vicinity, by the early settlers.
Daniel Boone, the great pioneer, accompanied by he late Governor Baggs of Missouri, were the first white men who climbed that hill. They sighted it in 1804, or 1805, and gave it the name of the "Black Hill". The Indians then residing there told them that, as far back as their traditions reached, the fort had been there, and they had no definite idea by whom or when it had been built. An oak at least four feet in diameter, standing on a part of the dilapidated wall, and evidently planted since the erection of the wall, bears indisputable evidence of the lapse of several centuries.
It is said that the wild Indians, scattered over the wide West, for ages prior to the coming of the pale face to take away their hunting grounds, were in the habit of holding a yearly council within the ruins of that fort. They resorted thither to smoke the pipe of peace, and to hold consultations relative to their general good. They regarded the old fort as a consecrated place, and thought that they heard the Great Spirit speaking to them, as the winds moaned among the boughs of the mighty trees, or the thunder echoed back its startling peals from the neighboring mountains.
In vain do we ask, 'Who built that fort? What people lived there? When did they flourish? By what means did they become extinct?' There is no voice to respond -- no record to gratify curiosity -- no history to clear away the obscurity that hangs over the whole subject. Certain it is, however, that some people, far more advanced toward civilization than the red man, once had their home here -- these crystal waters once reflected back their images and slaked their thirst, the smoke from these altars once arose amid these groves, and their songs made response to the prowl of the wild wolf. Here, at these springs, councils met and debated grave questions, involving the fate of tribes and nations, and decided whether war or peace should prevail. Here, once lived a race that, like ours, and all others of the varied family of man, were sometimes oppressed with fear, as others, transported with joy; sometimes mourned in adversity, at others rejoiced in prosperity. But they are all gone!
The scene is now changed. The Anglo-Saxon is there, transforming everything by his wondrous touch into images of art and science. Agriculture and commerce now hold undisputed sway, and peace crowns the sylvan shade.
*This article is from Volume 39 Number 3 of the Washington County Historical Societies publication of FLASHBACK 1989 and was supplied by Robert Myers who at that time was working on the Newspaper Project at the University of Arkansas.
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