Ashville, North Carolina, May, 1848.
I have just returned from an excursion down the French Broad River
to _Patton’s Warm Springs_, and the neighboring curiosities, and I
now purpose to describe the “wonders I have seen.” The original
Indian name of the French Broad was _Pse-li-co_, the meaning of
which I have not been able to ascertain. Its English name was
derived from a famous hunter named _French_. It is one of the
principal tributaries of the Tennessee, about one hundred miles
long, from one to two hundred yards wide, and, taking its rise in
the Blue Ridge near the border of South Carolina, runs in a
northwestern direction. Judging of the whole, by a section of fifty
miles, lying westward of Ashville, it must be considered one of the
most beautiful rivers in this beautiful land. In running the
distance above mentioned it has a fall of nearly fifteen hundred
feet, and its bed seems to be entirely composed of solid rock. In
depth it varies from five to fifteen feet, and, generally speaking,
is quite clear, abounding in a great variety of plebeian fish. Its
shores are particularly wild and rocky, for the most part nearly
perpendicular, varying from one to four hundred feet in height, and,
though usually covered with vegetation, they present frequent cliffs
of granite, freestone, and blue limestone, which actually droop over
the rushing waters and present a most imposing appearance. With
regard to its botanical curiosities, it can safely be said that a
more fruitful and interesting valley can nowhere be found in the
Union. Here we have not only every variety of American forest trees,
but bushes, plants, flowers, and vines in the greatest profusion,
and of the most vigorous growth; many of the grape vines, which
weigh down the mighty sycamore, seem to be long enough, and strong
enough, to link together a hundred ships of war. When it is
remembered, too, that the air is constantly heavy with the fragrance
of flowers, and tremulous with the perpetual roar of the stream, it
may be readily imagined that a ride down the French Broad is a
unique pleasure. Back of the river on either side the country is
hilly and somewhat cultivated, but its immediate valley contains
nothing that smacks of civilization but a turnpike road, and an
occasional tavern. This road runs directly along the water’s edge
nearly the entire distance, and, on account of the quantity of
travel which passes over it, is kept in admirable repair. It is the
principal thoroughfare between Tennessee and South Carolina, and an
immense number of cattle, horses, and hogs are annually driven over
it to the seaboard markets. Over this road also quite a large amount
of merchandise is constantly transported for the merchants of the
interior, so that mammoth wagons, with their eight and ten horses,
and their half-civilized teamsters, are as plenty as blackberries,
and afford a romantic variety to the stranger.
In riding down the French Broad, I overtook a gentleman on
horseback, who accompanied me about twenty miles. Immediately after
the first salutation was passed, and he had ascertained that I was
from the eastward, he questioned me with regard to _the latest news
from China_. I was surprised at the question, and after telling him
I had none to communicate, I could not refrain from asking him what
was the secret of his interest in that remote Empire. He replied
that he resided on the French Broad, and was a dealer in ginseng. I
had heard of the article before, and knew that it was found in
abundance throughout this mountain region. My friend described it as
a beautiful plant, with one stem and some twenty leaves at the top,
and growing to the height of eighteen inches. That portion of it,
however, which is prepared for market is the root. The Chinese are
the only people in the world who make any use of it whatever; but
with them it has been an article of commerce from time immemorial.
It is said to be associated in some way or other with an unexplained
superstition. Formerly it was obtained exclusively from Tartary, and
the Tartars were in the habit of saying that they could never find
it, excepting by shooting a magic arrow, which invariably fell where
the plant was abundant. It is not thought to possess any valuable
medicinal quality, and only has the effect of strengthening the
sensual appetite. It is used in the same manner that we use tobacco,
and to the tongue it is an agreeable bitter. It has been an article
of export from this country for half a century, and the most
extensive American shippers reside in Philadelphia. It is sold for
about sixty cents the pound, and my travelling companion told me
that his sales amounted to about forty thousand dollars per annum.
What an idea! that even the celestials are dependent upon the United
States for one of their cherished luxuries, and that luxury a common
unnoticed plant of the wilderness! Ours is, indeed, “a great
country.”
I come now to speak of the Warm Springs, which are thirty-six miles
from Ashville, and within six of the Tennessee line. Of the Springs
themselves there are some half dozen, but the largest is covered
with a house, and divided into two equal apartments, either one of
which is sufficiently large to allow of a swim. The temperature of
the water is 105 degrees, and it is a singular fact that rainy
weather has a tendency to increase the heat, but it never varies
more than a couple of degrees. All the springs are directly on the
southern margin of the French Broad; the water is clear as crystal,
and so heavy that even a child may be thrown into it with little
danger of being drowned. As a beverage the water is quite palatable,
and it is said that some people can drink a number of quarts per
day, and yet experience none but beneficial effects. The diseases
which it is thought to cure are palsy, rheumatism, and cutaneous
affections; but they are of no avail in curing pulmonic or dropsical
affections. The Warm Springs are annually visited by a large number
of fashionable and sickly people from all the Southern States, and
the proprietor has comfortable accommodations for two hundred and
fifty people. His principal building is of brick, and the ballroom
is 230 feet long. Music, dancing, flirting, wine-drinking, riding,
bathing, fishing, scenery-hunting, bowling, and reading, are all
practised here to an unlimited extent; but, what is more exciting
than all these pleasures put together, is the rare sport of
deer-hunting; and hereby “hangs a tale” to which I must devote a
separate paragraph.
My polite landlord had intimated his intention of affording me a
little sport, and immediately after a twelve o’clock dinner, on a
certain day, he stepped out upon his piazza and gave two or three
blasts with a small horn, the result of which was, that, in about
fifteen minutes, a negro mounted on a handsome horse made his
appearance, accompanied by some twenty yelping hounds. The horn was
next handed to the negro, and he was requested to go to a certain
spot on the mountains, about three miles off, and put the dogs out
after a deer. Two hours having elapsed, the landlord, his son, and
myself each took a rifle, and, after riding some three miles up the
French Broad, we stationed ourselves at different points for the
purpose of welcoming the deer, which was expected to take to the
water on the opposite side. We had scarcely been ten minutes in our
hiding places before the loud baying of the hounds was heard, as
they were coming down one of the mountain ravines, and in another
instant a very large buck (with his horns as yet only about a foot
long) plunged into the rapid stream. Instead of crossing the water,
however, he made his way directly down the river, now swimming and
now leaping, with the entire pack of hounds directly in his foamy
wake. It was evident that he considered himself hard pressed, and,
though now approaching a very rocky fall in the stream, he gave
himself to the current and went over, and it seemed as if he must
inevitably perish. But another call was immediately made upon our
sympathies, for we discovered the entire pack of hounds passing into
the same hell of waters. We remained in suspense, however, but a few
moments, for we saw the pursued and the pursuers all emerge from the
foam entirely unharmed, and still struggling in the race. Now the
deer took to an island, and then to another, and now again to the
water, and away did the whole pack speed down the river. By this
time the buck was evidently becoming tired, and certain of being
overtaken; and, having reached a shallow place in the river, he
turned upon the dogs and stood at bay. His movements during this
scene were indeed superb, and I could not but pity the noble
fellow’s condition. His sufferings, however, were of short duration,
for, while thus standing in full front of his enemies, the
landlord’s son sent a ball through his heart from the shore, and
with one frightful leap the monarch of the mountains was floating in
a crimson pool. The mounted negro now made his appearance, as if by
magic, and, having waded and swam his horse to the dead deer, took
the creature in tow, brought him to the land, threw him upon his
horse, and so ended the afternoon deer-hunt.
About six miles from the Warm Springs, and directly on the Tennessee
line, are located a brotherhood of perpendicular cliffs, which are
known as _the Painted Rocks_. They are of limestone, and rise from
the margin of the French Broad to the height of two, three and four
hundred feet. They are of a yellowish cast, owing to the drippings
of a mineral water, and in form as irregular and fantastic as can
well be imagined. They extend along the river nearly a mile, and at
every step present new phases of beauty and grandeur. Taken
separately, it requires but a trifling effort of the fancy to find
among them towers, ramparts and moats, steeples and domes in great
abundance; but when taken as a whole, and viewed from the opposite
bank of the river, they present the appearance of a once magnificent
city in ruins. Not only are they exceedingly beautiful in
themselves, but the surrounding scenery is highly attractive, for
the mountains seem to have huddled themselves together for the
purpose of looking down upon and admiring the winding and rapid
stream. With regard to historical and legendary associations, the
Painted Rocks are singularly barren; in this particular, however,
they are like the entire valley of the French Broad, where relics of
a by-gone people are few and far between. The rugged aspect of this
country would seem to imply that it was never regularly inhabited by
the Indians, but was their hunting ground; and what would appear to
strengthen this idea is the fact that it is, even at the present
day, particularly famous for its game.
On the day that I returned from my trip down the French Broad the
weather was quite showery, and the consequence was, the rain was
occasionally employed as an apology for stopping and enjoying a
quiet conversation with the people on the road. At one of the places
where I halted there was a contest going on between two Whigs
concerning the talents of the honorable gentleman who represents the
famous county of Buncombe in Congress. The men were both strongly
attached to the representative, and the contest consisted in their
efforts to excel each other in complimenting their friend, and the
climax of the argument seemed to be that Mr. Clingman was not “_some
pumpkins_,” but “PUMPKINS.” The strangeness of this expression
attracted my attention, and when an opportunity offered I questioned
the _successful_ disputant as to the origin and meaning of the
phrase he had employed, and the substance of his reply I might give
you if it was of a nature to interest the reader.
At another of the houses where I tarried for an hour, it was my
fortune to arrive just in time to witness the conclusion of a
domestic quarrel between a young husband and his wife. On
subsequently inquiring into the history of this affectionate couple,
I obtained the following particulars: The young man was reported to
be a very weak-minded individual, and ever since his marriage had
been exceedingly jealous of his wife, who (as I had seen) was quite
beautiful, but known to be perfectly true to her husband. Jealousy,
however, was the rage of the man, and he was constantly making
himself very ridiculous. His wife remonstrated, but at the same time
appreciated his folly, and acted accordingly. On one occasion she
was politely informed by her husband that he was very unhappy, and
intended to hang himself. “Very well,” replied the wife, “I hope you
will have a good time.” The husband was desperate, and having
obtained a rope, and carefully adjusted a certain stool, he slipped
the former over his head, and, when he knew that his wife was
looking on, he swung himself to a cross-beam of his cabin. In
playing his trick, however, he unfortunately kicked over the stool,
(which he had placed in a convenient spot for future use in
regaining his feet,) and was well nigh losing his life in reality,
but was saved by the timely assistance of his wife. His first remark
on being cut down was, “Jane, won’t you please go after the doctor:
I’ve twisted my neck dreadfully.”
I also picked up, while travelling along the French Broad, the
following bit of history connected with one of the handsomest
plantations on said river. About forty years ago a young girl and
her brother (who was a mere boy) found themselves in this portion of
North Carolina, strangers, orphans, friendless, and with only the
moneyed inheritance of one hundred and fifty dollars. With this
money the girl bought a piece of land, and, her little brother
having died, she hired herself out as a housekeeper. In process of
time she married, gave her little property into the keeping of her
husband, who squandered it, died a drunkard, and left her without a
penny. By the kindness of a friend she borrowed a couple of hundred
dollars, and came to Ashville and opened a boarding-house. In the
course of five years she made ten thousand dollars, married a second
time, and by the profligacy and death of her second husband again
lost every penny of her property. Years elapsed, and the unceasing
industry of the poor widow was recompensed by the smiles of fortune,
and she is now the owner of a large and valuable plantation, which
is the fruit of her own individual toil, and a number of strong and
manly sons are the comforts of her old age. But enough! I am now in
Ashville, and at the conclusion of my letter.