No summer resort in the country possesses greater advantages than the Warm Springs—if these advantages were only made the most of. Even now, despite the constant annoyance which bad management causes, the place is very popular, especially among the people of Tennessee and the Gulf States, who go there in numbers. Nature has certainly done every thing for it. The great hills recede, forming a beautiful basin. There is a green, well-shaded lawn in front of the hotel, at the foot of which the French Broad sweeps, chanting its everlasting refrain, while on the other side bold cliffs and mountains rise. In the rear of the hotel flows Spring Creek, one of the brightest and loveliest of mountain streams. It runs down a picturesque gorge in crystal rapids and falls, with the laurel-clad cliffs towering so sheer and steep on each side that it is only by springing from rock to rock in the bed of the stream that one is able to explore its wild beauty. The warm springs are large pools that bubble up near the river and range in heat from 98° to 102° Fahr. They are almost of miraculous virtue for rheumatism and neuralgia, and one sees helpless cripples who have the entire use of all their limbs in the bath, when out of it they cannot move hand or foot. The worst cases of rheumatism are always alleviated by these waters, and many persons are wholly cured. We cross the river in a ferry-boat—the bridge not having been yet rebuilt—and in doing so are the objects of many stares from a party of equestrians who are waiting on the other side. At a place of this kind newcomers are always certain of being stared at— generally in a very ill-bred manner—but on this occasion there is more than ordinary excuse for the starers. Evidently they are at a loss to imagine where we can possibly have come from. They know that Laurel is “up,” for the stage from Asheville has not crossed since Monday, and this is Thursday. As we approach the bank, we hear them exchanging wonders and conjectures. “The waters must be down,” says one. “Of course the stage will come to-night,” remarks another. “We could assure them to the contrary, if we chose,” says Sylvia. “Our boatman told us, you know, that the stage cannot possibly cross until to-morrow—if then.” We drive into the grounds and up to the door of the hotel with the air of people who feel that they have a right to make a sensation. Our appearance certainly excites a great deal of wonder and interest among the lounging groups on the long piazza. “From Asheville?” says the astonished clerk who opens the carriage door. “How is it possible you’ve crossed Laurel? The stage hasn’t been here in a week.” “People can generally accomplish what they want to do,” says Eric. “The stage-drivers are probably not so anxious to cross as we were. Here we are, and we want good rooms immediately.”