Ashville, North Carolina, May, 1848.
The distance from Qualla Town to this place is sixty miles. The
first half of the route is exceedingly mountainous and almost
entirely uncultivated, but the valley of Pigeon river, down which
you have to travel for a considerable distance, is very fertile and
well cultivated. A pastoral charm seems to rest upon the scenery,
and in this particular forcibly reminded me of the upper valley of
the Mohawk. I occupied the most of two days in performing this trip,
and the only incident that I met with which was at all unique, was
upon this wise. I had stopped at a farm-house to take my dinner. It
so happened that my host was about to erect a new barn, and some
twenty of his neighbors were assembled for the purpose of raising
the framework to its proper position. An abundance of whiskey had
already been imbibed by a few of this rustic company, and among
these was one individual who had recently been grossly cheated in
purchasing a horse from a Tennessee horse-dealer. He had given a
mule and twenty dollars for the stranger’s gelding, and, though the
animal was quite respectable in appearance, it had turned out to be
old, unsound, and almost without a redeeming quality. The individual
in question was noted for making a fool of himself when intoxicated,
and on this occasion he was determined to prove true to himself. At
this time his horse speculation seemed to weigh heavily upon his
mind, and in his vehement remarks he took particular pains to curse
the entire State of Tennessee, including President Polk. The poor
man finally became so completely excited that he swore he would whip
the first man he met on the road who happened to be from Tennessee;
and so the matter rested. In about thirty minutes thereafter, as
fortune would have it, a man made his appearance on the road,
apparently from the West; and in jeering their noisy companion, the
farmers remarked that “now he would have a chance to revenge
himself.” The excitement of the horse-bitten speculator was
consequently greatly increased, and when the stranger reached the
hilltop he was accosted as follows:
“May I ask you, sir, if you come from Tennessee?”
“I do. What will you have?” replied the stranger.
The Carolinian then related his trading story, which he concluded by
carefully reiterating the determination he had made. The stranger
laughed at the idea, and was about to resume his journey, when the
reins of his horse were seized, and he found that it was indeed
necessary for him to fight his way out of the queer scrape. All
remonstrance on his part was in vain; but at the very moment the
fight was to commence, another horseman rode up, who was also
interrogated as to his native State. His presence had a tendency to
suspend hostilities; but when it was ascertained that he was _only_
a Kentuckian, the Carolinian insisted upon going on with his
business. The feelings of the Kentuckian were now enlisted, and he
declared his intention of regulating the fight; whereupon he made a
large ring, and taking out of his pocket a couple of pistols, he
told the combatants “to go ahead,” and at the same time warned the
bystanders that he would shoot the first man that interfered. The
conclusion of the whole matter was, that the intoxicated man
received a cruel thrashing for his ridiculous conduct, and the two
gentlemen from the West quietly resumed their several journeys.
On my way to this place, I stopped for a few hours at _Deaver’s
Sulphur Springs_, which are about four miles from the French Broad
river, on the road to Clarksville, Georgia. This is one of the most
popular watering-places in the South, not only on account of the
medicinal qualities of the water, but on account of the surrounding
scenery, which is remarkably interesting, and also for the
additional reason that the style in which people are entertained is
well worthy of even such places as Saratoga. The several buildings
connected with the establishment usually accommodate about two
hundred families during the summer months, and they are chiefly from
the cities of Charleston and Savannah. The people of Eastern North
Carolina do not seem to know that they have such a delightful
retreat within their borders which, to a man of genuine taste, is as
far ahead of Saratoga as a mountain stream is ahead of a canal.
With regard to Ashville, I can only say that it is a very busy and
pleasant village, filled with intelligent and hospitable
inhabitants, and is the centre of a mountain land, where Nature has
been extremely liberal and tasteful in piling up her mighty bulwarks
for the admiration of man. Indeed, from the summit of a hill
immediately in the vicinity of the village, I had a southwestern
view which struck me as eminently superb. It was near the sunset
hour, and the sky was flooded with a golden glow, which gave a
living beauty to at least a hundred mountain peaks, from the centre
of which loomed high towards the zenith _Mount Pisgah_ and the _Cold
Mountain_, richly clothed in purple, which are from twenty to thirty
miles distant, and not far from six thousand feet in height. The
middle distance, though in reality composed of wood-crowned hills,
presented the appearance of a level plain or valley, where columns
of blue smoke were gracefully floating into the upper air, and
whence came the occasional tinkle of a bell, as the cattle wended
their way homeward, after roaming among the unfenced hills. Directly
at my feet lay the little town of Ashville, like an oddly-shaped
figure on a green carpet; and over the whole scene dwelt a spirit of
repose, which seemed to quiet even the common throbbings of the
heart.
My first expedition on arriving here was to a gorge in the Blue
Ridge called the _Hickory Nut Gap_. How it came by that name I
cannot imagine, since the forests in this particular region, so far
as I could ascertain, are almost entirely destitute of the hickory
tree. It is true that for a distance of four miles the gorge is
watered by a brook called after the hickory nut, but I take it that
this name is a borrowed one. The entire length of the gap is about
nine miles, and the last five miles are watered by the Rocky Broad
River. The upper part of this stream runs between the Blue Ridge
proper and a spur of the Blue Ridge, and at the point where it
forces a channel through the spur its bed is exceedingly rocky, and
on either hand, until it reaches the middle country of the State, it
is protected by a series of mountain bluffs. That portion of the
gorge which might be called the gateway is at the eastern extremity.
From any point of view this particular spot is remarkably imposing,
the gap being not more than half a mile wide, though appearing to
narrow down to a few hundred yards. The highest bluff is on the
south side, and, though rising to the height of full _twenty-five
hundred feet_, it is nearly perpendicular, and midway up its front
stands an isolated rock, looming against the sky, which is of a
circular form, and resembles the principal turret of a stupendous
castle. The entire mountain is composed of granite, and a large
proportion of the bluff in question positively hangs over the abyss
beneath, and is as smooth as it could possibly be made by the rains
of uncounted centuries. Over one portion of this superb cliff,
falling far down into some undiscovered and apparently unattainable
pool, is a stream of water, which seems to be the offspring of the
clouds; and in a neighboring brook near the base of this precipice
are three shooting waterfalls, at the foot of which, formed out of
the solid stone, are three holes, which are about ten feet in
diameter and measure from forty to fifty feet in depth. But, leaving
these remarkable features entirely out of the question, the mountain
scenery in this vicinity is as beautiful and fantastic as any I have
yet witnessed among the Alleghanies. At a farm-house near the gap,
where I spent a night, I had the pleasure of meeting an English
gentleman and tourist, and he informed me that, though he had
crossed the Alps in a number of places, yet he had never seen any
mountain scenery which he thought as beautiful as that of the
Hickory Nut Gap. My best view of the gorge was from the eastward,
and just as the sun, with a magnificent retinue of clouds, was
sinking directly in the hollow of the hills, and as I gazed upon the
prospect, it seemed to me, as was in reality the case, that I stood
at the very threshold of an almost boundless wilderness of
mountains.
Before visiting this remarkable passage through the mountains, I
endeavored to ascertain, from the Cherokees of Qualla Town, its
original Indian name, but without succeeding. It was my good
fortune, however, to obtain a romantic legend connected therewith. I
heard it from the lips of a Chief who glories in the two names of
_All Bones_ and _Flying Squirrel_, and, though he occupied no less
than two hours in telling the story, I will endeavor to give it to
my readers in about five minutes.
There was a time when the Cherokees were without the famous
_Tso-lungh_, or tobacco weed, with which they had previously been
made acquainted by a wandering stranger from the far East. Having
smoked it in their large stone pipes, they became impatient to
obtain it in abundance. They ascertained that the country where it
grew in the greatest quantities was situated on the big waters, and
that the gateway to that country (a mighty gorge among the
mountains) was perpetually guarded by an immense number of little
people or spirits. A council of the bravest men in the nation was
called, and, while they were discussing the dangers of visiting the
unknown country, and bringing therefrom a large knapsack of the
fragrant tobacco, a young man stepped boldly forward and said that
he would undertake the task. The young warrior departed on his
mission and never returned. The Cherokee nation were now in great
tribulation, and another council was held to decide upon a new
measure. At this council a celebrated magician rose and expressed
his willingness to relieve his people of their difficulties, and
informed them that he would visit the tobacco country and see what
he could accomplish. He turned himself into a mole, and as such made
his appearance eastward of the mountains; but, having been pursued
by the guardian spirits, he was compelled to return without any
spoil. He next turned himself into a humming-bird, and thus
succeeded, to a very limited extent, in obtaining what he needed. On
returning to his country, he found a number of his friends at the
point of death, on account of their intense desire for the fragrant
weed; whereupon he placed some of it in a pipe, and, having blown
the smoke into the nostrils of those who were sick, they all revived
and were quite happy. The magician now took it into his head that he
would revenge the loss of the young warrior, and at the same time
become the sole possessor of all the tobacco in the unknown land. He
therefore turned himself into a whirlwind, and in passing through
the Hickory Nut Gorge he stripped the mountains of their vegetation,
and scattered huge rocks in every part of the narrow valley;
whereupon the little people were all frightened away, and he was the
only being in the country eastward of the mountains. In the bed of a
stream he found the bones of the young warrior, and having brought
them to life, and turned himself into a man again, the twain
returned to their own country heavily laden with tobacco; and ever
since that time it has been very abundant throughout the entire
land.