A certain air of romance and tradition hangs about the French Broad and the Warm Springs, which the visitor must possess himself of in order to appreciate either.This was the great highway of trade and travel.At certain seasons there was an almost continuous procession of herds of cattle and sheep passing to the Eastern markets, and of trains of big wagons wending their way to the inviting lands watered by the Tennessee.Here came in the summer-time the Southern planters in coach and four, with a great retinue of household servants, and kept up for months that unique social life, a mixture of courtly ceremony and entire freedom, the civilization which had the drawing-room at one end and the negro-quarters at the other,--which has passed away.It was a continuation into our own restless era of the manners and the literature of George the Third, with the accompanying humor and happy-go-lucky decadence of the negro slaves.On our way down we saw on the river-bank, under the trees, the old hostelry, Alexander's, still in decay,--an attractive tavern, that was formerly one of the notable stopping-places on the river.Master, and fine lady, and obsequious, larking darky, and lumbering coach, and throng of pompous and gay life, have all disappeared.There was no room in this valley for the old institutions and for the iron track.
"When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, We, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise."This perverted use of noble verse was all the response the Friend got in his attempt to drop into the sentimental vein over the past of the French Broad.
The reader must not think there is no enterprise in this sedative and idle resort.The conceited Yankee has to learn that it is not he alone who can be accused of the thrift of craft.There is at the Warm Springs a thriving mill for crushing and pulverizing barites, known vulgarly as heavy-spar.It is the weight of this heaviest of minerals, and not its lovely crystals, that gives it value.The rock is crushed, washed, sorted out by hand, to remove the foreign substances, then ground and subjected to acids, and at the end of the process it is as white and fine as the best bolted flour.This heavy adulterant is shipped to the North in large quantities,--the manager said he had recently an order for a hundred thousand dollars' worth of it.What is the use of this powder? Well, it is of use to the dealer who sells white lead for paint, to increase the weight of the lead, and it is the belief hereabouts that it is mixed with powdered sugar.The industry is profitable to those engaged in it.
It was impossible to get much information about our route into Tennessee, except that we should go by Paint Rock, and cross Paint Mountain.Late one morning,--a late start is inevitable here,--accompanied by a cavalcade, we crossed the river by the rope ferry, and trotted down the pretty road, elevated above the stream and tree-shaded, offering always charming glimpses of swift water and overhanging foliage (the railway obligingly taking the other side of the river), to Paint Rock,--six miles.This Paint Rock is a naked precipice by the roadside, perhaps sixty feet high, which has a large local reputation.It is said that its face shows painting done by the Indians, and hieroglyphics which nobody can read.On this bold, crumbling cliff, innumerable visitors have written their names.We stared at it a good while to discover the paint and hieroglyphics, but could see nothing except iron stains.Round the corner is a farmhouse and place of call for visitors, a neat cottage, with a display of shells and minerals and flower-pots; and here we turned north crossed the little stream called Paint River, the only clear water we had seen in a month, passed into the State of Tennessee, and by a gentle ascent climbed Paint Mountain.The open forest road, with the murmur of the stream below, was delightfully exhilarating, and as we rose the prospect opened,--the lovely valley below, Bald Mountains behind us, and the Butt Mountains rising as we came over the ridge.
Nobody on the way, none of the frowzy women or unintelligent men, knew anything of the route, or could give us any information of the country beyond.But as we descended in Tennessee the country and the farms decidedly improved,--apple-trees and a grapevine now and then.