A Hermit of the Smoky Mountains?

Saint Paul the Hermit, Jusepe de Ribera, ca. 1638

Dig into obscure documents from 19th century America and you’re liable to find intriguing accounts of hermits. I’ve investigated the stories of several Southern Appalachian hermits and will continue to update those accounts. 

For now, let me introduce yet another eccentric with a scruffy beard and a scholarly bent. If the newspaper reporter is correct in placing him in “South” rather than “North” Carolina then it does narrow down the possibilities for precisely where he might have lived. Northern Oconee County? Pickens County? Or perhaps the Dark Corner of Greenville County? In any event, it is curious that the reporter alluded to the “Smoky Mountains of South Carolina.”

My initial research has yielded no information beyond the newspaper article itself but I won’t give up.  As usual with these tantalizing stories, you wish the writer could have told us more than he did.  Our hermit, on his way home from an Atlanta book- run, garnered attention and perhaps more than he would have wished, as he passed through Gainesville, Georgia. That’s all we know. At least for now.

Macon Telegraph [Macon, Georgia] April 5, 1897

QUEER OLD HERMIT.

Gainesville Visited by a Recluse From the Mountains of South Carolina.

Gainesville, Ga., April 4. — A very queer and curious specimen of humanity passed through this city the other day. A brief sketch of him and his life — the ideal life of a hermit of the woods — may prove interesting reading.

He gives his life as one of entire solitude, living aloof from the world out in a small hut over in the Smoky Mountains of South Carolina, but says that he is known far and wide all over this country. It was with much difficulty that he could be induced to speak at all, but when he had been given a good meal and had been taken to a warm cozy fireside and had a few pennies stored away in his old trousers' pocket, which were collected from the curious crowd about him, he threw off his mantle of faked dumbness and proceeded to narrate quite an interesting history of himself, his trials and successes is his area of travel.

He looks like a model Georgia cracker but converses as a wise old sage. He says that he is no tramp, but a true, honest and upright man, and that his only pleasure in life consists in living the life of one banished from society, away from a precise and an exacting, cruel world.

He has been on a trip to Atlanta for the purpose of purchasing a few needed books, for he could procure them there a few cents cheaper than elsewhere. He is now on his return trip carrying with him forty pounds of literature swung in a sack across his back. With his huge bundle of books, his large, long walking staff, his gray, grizzly and tangled beard, and his peculiar and cute manner, he presents quite an attractive and curious sight.

He told of his Irish parentage, being born in Dublin, Ireland, of his early childhood and his progress along these lines. He told of his love affairs and his marriage, his wife's sad death, and of his trials and successes as a school master and professor, told of being connected with several notable institutions of learning. He told of his service in the army, and of his privations in the service. He told how the people had treated him in his travels, of his life as a hermit with his home In the woods, no one he could call his friend, no one that cared what became of him, with only his walking staff, his book and the sad, fearful silence to keep him company, but he has accustomed himself to these things and cares not for them. He can stare the whole world in the face and not twitch a muscle.

Having told all this he joked a bit in a dry, cynical manner, and, warming up to his subject, he displayed a little of his oratorical powers in a short address. He spoke of ancient Rome, of the old heroes, quoted fluently from Shakespeare, touched on infidel religion. mythology, philosophy, geology, etc., and seemed to be personally and familiarly acquainted with all these things, he is surely a "diamond in the rough” and shows by his discourse that he is a smart and learned old individual, but owing to his total banishment from society, he appears uncouth and talks quite strangely at times.

The man is certainly an interesting, odd old character, and would furnish food for entertaining study.

*   *   *

See also, “A Gathering of Hermits”

https://heartofthecowees.blogspot.com/2024/09/a-gathering-of-hermits.html

A Gathering of Hermits

[From September 12, 2009]

 The instinctive act of humankind was to stand and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south, to be heard no more.

-Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd


Robert Harrill, The Fort Fisher Hermit

1

I’ve just finished reading a novel that will hit the shelves next month, and I can already anticipate the withering reviews. Years ago, a critic who read the manuscript described the “banality and triteness” of the work.

I must confess that I enjoyed it.

Admittedly, my taste in fiction is unsophisticated. Forthcoming reviews of the trite and banal novel will condemn its one-dimensional characters and contrived plot, but it had enough going for it to keep me turning the pages.

That’s just me, though. I’ll pick up ten books of essays before I’ll pick up one novel. And I can stay up half the night reading newspapers from the 1850s, when a work of fiction would put me to sleep after two pages. This unworthy novel was an exception. The author set the story in 1920s Swain County, creating a world where I felt surprisingly at home. To me, it was far more recognizable, hospitable and comprehensible than America 2009 spinning frenetically all around me.

Observing contemporary culture and considering myself in relation to it, I can only conclude that one of us is sane and the other is not. I would not presume to say which is which.

It might be more than coincidence that the author of the novel had fled from the mainstream normality of his own time to find a home, and to find himself, in these mountains. His well-known account of that process resulted in a (non-fiction) book that remains controversial a century later for reasons I don’t fully understand.

The soon-to-be-published novel and the old classic both reveal a great deal about their creator. He was, at times, what you might call a hermit. He had tried to live in a world where he did not belong. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to live with one foot in that world and one foot in a world that made sense to him.

Eventually, it was impossible for him to do anything but leave that divided existence behind and start anew in the Smokies. Whatever the rewards he found here, he continued to struggle with the pain and the complications of his chosen path (if you can even call it a matter of choice).

He had exchanged the impossible for the extremely difficult.



The Hermit (Tarot)


2

I grew up hearing vague legends about the “Hermit of the Uwharries.” And while hiking the many trails that snaked around near the Yadkin River, I would often imagine him lurking in the woods and, perhaps, watching me from a safe distance until I passed by. That could be ME up there on the hill, I would say to myself, cultivating a rosy view of the hermit’s life. I was young and naive back then.

In his account of the Hermit of the Uwharries, Fred Morgan reports:

The Hermit had a message for the world, but he froze to death not far from his shack before he could give it.

3

Over in Madison County lives a couple I know only from their website, where they’ve posted this statement:

Raven’s Bread Ministries is dedicated to serving the needs of a small but growing band of people who are dedicating themselves to an ancient calling - that of the spiritual solitary or hermit. In the 1950’s, a revival of the eremitic life began as more and more people discovered their need to live a life of dedication in silence, solitude and simplicity. Seeking the solace of God to counteract the fragmentation of modern life, one by one, individuals began to withdraw from the “madding crowd”. Some dared to call themselves hermits; others simply followed the attraction of the Spirit luring them into a lifestyle which healed their hearts and nourished their spirits. Many feel they are the only person in the world to find the noise, confusion and stress of present-day culture unbearable. They are not - in truth, they are part of an ever-expanding company of people who are embracing eremitical life.

I have nothing but admiration for Raven’s Bread and those who contribute to the journal. They exemplify spirituality, rather than religiosity. Yes, many of us “find the noise, confusion and stress of present-day culture unbearable”...but finding a lifestyle that would heal the heart and nourish the spirit? Ah, there’s the rub!



Peter the Hermit Meeting the Byzantine Emperor

4

The life of a hermit is a tough life. Take the case of a Pennsylvania hermit, Matthias Berger. On July 20, 1890, the New York Times published a story under the headline “An Old Hermit Murdered – The Recluse First Robbed and Then Killed Near His Cabin.” One sentence jumped out at me:

He was a frequent visitor to Reading and Hamburg, and many people here predicted that he would meet with a tragic end if he persisted in remaining a hermit on the mountain.

In recent years, Charles J. Adams has written about “The Hermit of Hawk Mountain,” calling him:

…an original and an enigma. He was fluent in German and English, known to be skilled in old German calligraphy, and was a fine carpenter…he was a voracious reader and, by all accounts, hardly anti-social.

Matthias was, by all accounts, a gentle and congenial man. When they reached the roughly 60-feet square clearing in the woods and called on the mud hut, they found Matthias Berger quite eager for the visit.

His hovel was about 7 feet square, and as many feet high. A wood stove, a bunk just large enough to accommodate Matthias’ 5-foot-6-inch frame, and a small chest were all the furnishings. Books and various papers were filed in every crack and crevice of the structure, and some tools and utensils were grouped in one corner.

As the visitors marveled at Matthias’ humble abode, their host told them how he had left his native Germany in 1846 after both of his parents had died, how he had hoped to ply his trade as a carpenter in America, and how he found no such work here.

He was unclear about the specific reason he decided to shun society and live a solitary existence on that particular mountain, but he did know and tell that it was Aug. 5, 1861, when he arrived at what would become his home in the thick mountainside forest.

Matthias baked his own breads, gathered fruits and herbs from the woods, and carted fresh water from the nearest spring, a quarter-mile away.

He made friends in the city, but was quick to return to his mountain because the noise in the city gave him headaches.

Despite all that, his killing in the summer of 1890 came as no great surprise to the townspeople.

5

In North Carolina, Robert Harrill became known as “The Hermit of Fort Fisher” in the 1960s. And while Harrill attracted thousands of visitors, he was also the victim of occasional beatings and other harassment.




Born in Gaffney, SC in 1893, Harrill worked at various jobs in the Carolinas, married and raised a family, but after his wife left him, he was admitted to the state mental hospital in Morganton. While there, he discovered the writings of Dr. William Marcus Taylor, who taught “Bio-Psychology” courses in Spruce Pine, NC. Dr. Taylor’s teachings convinced him to start a new life and, in 1955, he found his way to the marshes near Fort Fisher. He moved into an abandoned ammo storage building, gathered seafood, raised a small garden and conducted sessions of his “School of Common Sense.”

In a 1968 interview, Harrill explained his popularity:

Everybody ought to be a hermit for a few minutes to an hour or so every 24 hours, to study, meditate, and commune with their creator...millions of people want to do just what I'm doing, but since it is much easier thought of than done, they subconsciously elect me to represent them, that's why I'm successful.

The Fort Fisher Hermit was found dead in June 1972, under mysterious circumstances. Although the evidence suggested that he had been beaten, or was the victim of a cruel prank, officials ruled the cause of his death a heart attack.

The epitaph on his grave marker - “He Made People Think.”

Not a bad legacy for any hermit.

Stories from Sand Town

 [In a couple of weeks the NC Trail of Tears Association will hold a ceremony to dedicate an historic Cherokee village site known as Sand Town. Click here for details via the Cherokee One Feather.  The upcoming event brought to mind some notes from September 11, 2017.]

One of my favorite cemeteries is behind a little church, off the beaten path, in the Cartoogechaye section of Macon County, NC. The church itself has an interesting history, and if not for the unforgettable Rufus Morgan, the chapel would have been long gone. Who knows what that might have meant for the cemetery. Stories of Rufus Morgan must wait another day, though.

One monument in the cemetery is the most memorable of all, marking the graves of Chief Chuttasotee (also known as Jim Peckerwood) and his wife, Cunstagih.

I’d known just a little about Chuttasotee and the Sandtown Cherokees for years, but learned a lot more with the discovery of an article that appeared in The Franklin Press in 1934. I’ll post the newspaper article, written by Margaret Siler, in its entirety, after a couple of shorter stories regarding the village and its people.

But there's a story inside a story here, and it gets buried in the details.  So, I need to invert the usual way to tell the tale.  As will be expanded upon later, Sand Town was a small Cherokee settlement in the Catoogechaye section of Macon Co., NC,  during the decades after the Removal.  And we have some vivid accounts of the individuals who lived there, and particularly the settlement's headman and his wife, whose lives are commemorated in the cemetery.

The story inside the story is how the marker got there.

Chuttasotee and Cunstagih died in August of 1879.  Neighbors came from all around attend their church funerals.  Among the many mourners were four little girls who lived near Sand Town.  

Jump forward 53 years, and those same four, grown up and then some, vowed to raise a suitable memorial to the couple that they knew and loved.  In her 1934 newspaper article, Margaret R. Siler explained that the monument replaced some old makeshift markers:

...[from] the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies...revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

And that's how the monument got there!

Lanman Meets Hog-Bite

Charles Lanman met many a hermit on his travels through America in the 19th century. When Lanman visited Macon County in May 1848, he crossed paths with a Sandtown Cherokee named Hog-Bite:

The most interesting character whom I have seen about Franklin is an old Cherokee Indian, His name is Sa-taw-ha, or Hog-Bite, and he is upwards of one hundred years of age. He lives in a small log hut among the mountains, the door of which is so very low that you have to crawl into it upon your hands and knees.

At the time the greater part of his nation were removed to the Far West, the "officers of justice" called to obtain his company. He saw them as they approached, and, taking his loaded rifle in hand, he warned them not to attempt to lay their hands upon him, for he would certainly kill them. He was found to be so resolute and so very old, that it was finally concluded by those in power that the old man should be left alone.

He lives the life of a hermit, and is chiefly supported by the charity of one or two Indian neighbors, though it is said he even now occasionally manages to kill a deer or turkey. His history is entirely unknown, and he says he can remember the time when the Cherokee nation lived upon the shores of a great ocean (the Atlantic) and the color of a white man's face was unknown.

Sandtown Protest

Twenty years after Charles Lanman's encounter with Hog-Bite, James Peckerwood earned a place in the history books that warrants mention. In July 1868 a treaty was ratified between the United States and the Cherokees residing west of the Mississippi River. The Congressional Record for January 1869 includes a “Memorial of Headmen and People of the North Carolina or Eastern Cherokees” protesting against the ratification of that treaty.

Essentially, those Eastern Cherokees objected to the treaty because they would not receive any payments from the government as had the members of the Cherokee Nation (Oklahoma). The signers of that petition were from various communities in Western North Carolina.

While many of them were from “Qualla,” others (like Jim Peckerwood) were from Sand Town. Others communities where small remnants of Cherokees remained in the late 1860s, were identified as Buffalo Town, Hewassee Town, Cheoah Town and Hangdog Town:

JOHN WAYNENA, chief, Buffalo Town

LONG BEAR, Sand Town

ALLEN BUTTER, Sand Town.

TRAMPER, Buffalo Town.

WM. MCLEMORE, Hewassee Town.

JOHN AXE, Hangdog Town.

SOWANOOKAH, Buffalo Town.

JAMES BLYTHE, Buffalo Town.

SKEEGEE, Bufi'alo Town.

JOHN ELIJAH, Qulla Town.

WILLSON AXE, Sand Town.

MINK, Buffalo Town.

KURSKEELESKEE, Qulla Town.

TAHQUAHTEEHEE, of Uheou Town.

LITTLE JOHN, Qulla Town.

ISAAC DAVIS Qulla Town.

JACKSON BLYTHE, Qulla Town.

BEN NEWTOWEE, Qulla Town.

JAMES PECKERWOOD, Sand Town.

OO-SOWEH, Qulla Town.

JOHNSON KATEGUH, Sand Town.

Margaret Siler Recounts Life in Sandtown


CHEROKEE LORE, by Margaret R. Siler, Article III, THE INDIAN LOVE CALL, Franklin Press, March 1, 1934

BETWEEN Muskrat Gap and-the Winding Stair nestles a small valley, protected on the East, North and West by sheltering mountains, and open only to the warm winds from the South. Rushing down from the mountain to the North, Muskrat brook curves around one side of the valley.

On the other side ripple the. clear waters of Cartoogechaye creek. Situated in this ideal spot was a Cherokee settlement, the last in Macon county, known to the white people as Sandtown, because, it is thought, the clay soil in that vicinity contained a portion of sand. This sheltered little valley must have been the home of old Chief Santeetla, whose threats failed to deter those young bloods, Siler and Britton, from settling on the banks of Cartoogechaye creek a few miles East.

The brave pioneer, Jacob Siler, remained to make fast friendship with the Cherokee tribes that peopled the region. Returning later to his home near what is now Asheville, he persuaded his brothers, William, Jesse and John, to come over the mountains with him and settle in this virgin country lavishly endowed by nature with beauty, food and noble trees from which to build homes.

The brothers erected dwellings within a mile or so of each other, William Siler choosing for his site a sheltered nook near the point where Wayah creek joins Cartoogechaye creek. For many, years he was the closest white neighbor of the Sandtown Indians It was here that Albert Siler, my father-in-law, grew up.

The first conversation I had with Albert Siler about his old neighbors made me realize how deeply he was attached to them. He said they were like trustful children and were always loyal to their friends.

The Cherokees, "Father" Siler told me, were easily moved, although they did not always show it. He related how as a young man he would visit Sandtown on Sunday afternoons and read lhe Bible to the Indians. Frequently, he said, when he raised his eyes he saw that the faces of his listeners were streaming with tears, although some of them could not understand a word he was reading to them.

Especially was this true in the cabin of Jim and Sallee Peckerwood, as they were known to their white friends. Their Cherokee names were Cha-cha Chuta-sotee and Cun-stay-gee Chuta-sottee. When the federal government rounded up the Cherokee and was marching them to the far West the Indians were beset with a scourge in Tennessee.

One night Cha-cha and Cun-stay-gee and some of the other Sandtown Indians escaped and fled back to their old homes. From time to time they were joined by others of their tribe, ragged, hungry and footsore after their escape from the caravan being prodded Westward across the Mississippi. William Siler was so moved by the plight of his old neighbors that he deeded back to them some of the land which they had been forced to leave under heart-breaking circumstances, that they might continue to live in the mountains they loved so well. The Indians were deeply grateful.

Chief Chuta-sottee loved William Siler with the devotion of an ardent Indian nature. When the latter died the bereaved Cherokee was his self-appointed chief mourner, following directly behind the hack which carried the body from the home on Cartoogechaye to the cemetery in Franklin. This was; a journey of eight miles and Chuta-sottee plodded through the mud, step by step, with his head solemnly bowed.

I was surprised when "Father" Siler told me there were class distinctions among the Indians. He said Cha-cha Chuta-sottee was an aristocrat and his wife, Sallee, or Cun-stay-gee, was a plebeian. Despite this difference in rank, however, they were a devoted couple. Sallee had strength for the long, weary trek back from Tennessee. Perhaps the hardships of that fearful journey helped to knit their hearts together more strongly. Who knows?

We can but conjecture concerning the courtship of the brave young couple, but their beautiful life was a thing of positive knowledge to many. After the dignified and courageous young Chuta-sottee led his straggling band back home they made him their chief. But although they were now living on their own land, deeded to them by William Siler, the threat of ejectment was not yet over.

In 1843 Major James Robinson (father of the James Robinson who became Lieutenant Governor of North Carolina) was appointed by the authorities in Washington to persuade the Cherokees still remaining East of the Mississippi to join their fellow-tribesmen in the West. On the day appointed Chief Chuta-sottee gathered his band together.

They listened respectfully while Major Robinson painted in glowing colors a picture of the Happy Hunting Grounds to which he wanted to take them. He made a forceful argument for emigration of the Cherokees; but when he had finished speaking Chief Chuta-sottee rose with the dignity of a king and, lifting his right hand majestically, replied with simple but convincing solemnity: "In sight of that mountain I have lived. In sight, of it I expect to die. My talk is ended."

Major Robinson knew well enough that the old Cherokee chief’s decision was absolutely final. No one ever again suggested that this loyal Cherokee leave his native home. His wish was granted that he might die in sight of the sloping, almost level-topped mountain between Muskrat Gap and the Winding Stair. His door, facing the West, caught the last rays of the golden sun as it slipped behind the mountain.

Here he lived his remaining days. “Father” Siler visited Chuta-sottee often during his last sickness and one day after reading him the Bible, the old chief said gently as he watched the last rays of the August sun light his doorway: "Al'ert, Jim going soon. Bury Jim like white man." Mr. Siler at once promised to bury him in the Siler family cemetery in the yard of little St. John's Episcopal chapel; at the foot of the same mountain where the chief lived.

The late Rev. J. A. Deal, who lived in Franklin forty-odd years, was the rector of St. John's and often made pastoral visits to Jim and Sallee Peckerwood. Jim told Mr. Deal of the request he had made of "Al'ert" Siler and Mr. Deal assured him the service would be all he could desire. A few days after this "Father" Siler again called on Jim, late one, afternoon.

As the sun sank behind the mountain the old chief, who was about 80 and who had witnessed so many heart-rending changes wrought by the white man in his paradise, said in a quiet voice: "That the last time Jim see the sun set over his mountain, Al'ert."

Early next morning one of Jim Peckerwood's sons, named Will Siler after my father-in-law's father, came and called "Al'ert" from his bed. Jim Peckerwood had died in the night (about 4 a.m. August 15, 1879.) He was buried the next morning in the little church yard of St. John's chapel with all the care and reverence that could be given the best citizen in the community, for Jim Peckerwood was held in high esteem by both white people and Cherokees for miles around. The little church yard was filled with his friends of both colors.

"Father" Siler said Jim and Sallee had lived together for more than 50 years and he felt so sorry for the Indian woman in her bereavement that he visited her late in the afternoon after the funeral. She was seated in the doorway, her head resting against the side and her face turned to the west. Her sad eyes, "Father" Siler said, seemed to pierce the setting sun and see beyond. He sat down beside her and said all the comforting things he could think of, but she only looked into the sun, seeming not to hear him.

Finally, she came out of her reverie and said gently: "Jim calling Sallee, Al'ert. Sallee go to Jim before another sun set." Very early the next morning Will Siler Peckerwood went to Albert Siler and told him, "Sallee gone to Jim." So, two days after Jim was laid away the same friends laid Sallee beside him and she, too, was buried with the Christian ritual of the white man.

“Father" Siler's daughter, Nettie, had the marble top of a dresser broken in two and placed at the heads of the graves of the faithful couple in the shadow of their loved mountains. But today a nobler monument rises above the graves of the last chief of the Sandtown Indians and his wife. There were four little girls at the funerals of these devoted old lovers who are living today. Now they are Mrs. Maggie Gillespie Slagle, Mrs. Laura Siler Slagle, Mrs. Maggie Stalcup Cunningham and Mrs. Andy Setser.

In 1932 this group of ladies, with the aid of The Franklin Press and Highlands Maconian, revived interest in the love story of Chah-chah and Cun-stay-gee and started a movement for the erection of a permanent marker above their graves. On July 30, 1932, a beautiful monument, hewn from the strong, gray-blue granite of Macon county, was unveiled with appropriate exercises.

Among those taking part in the exercises was Chief Bly from the Cherokee reservation in Swain county. After he had heard other speakers tell of Chief Chuta-sottee, he remarked with typical Indian brevity: "They say all good Indians are dead. This must have been a good Indian.”