SKETCHES FROM THE SPRINGS.

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BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

Saratoga Springs, July 22, 1833.

Dear ***—The jaunt from Albany to Saratoga,
over the rail-road, can now be accomplished in less
than three hours, and the consequence is that, even
at this early season, nearly all the hotels and board-houses
in the village are thronged with visitors.
There cannot be less than three thousand strangers
here at the present time, and every car is constantly
adding to the number. Congress-hall is, as formerly,
the resort of the light-hearted, the gay, the idle,
and the fashionable; but those who come to partake
of the life-giving waters, generally repair to more congenial
and quiet abodes. To those disposed to be
busy, there is no lack of employment. What with
eating and drinking, walking and riding, gunning
and fishing, dancing and flirting—balls, concerts,
and parties—dressing for this, that, and the other,
and similar suitable, and equally profitable occupations,
time is disposed of without the least trouble.
Every thing is calculated to beguile one of pensive
thoughts, and occasionally there is an

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entertainment of no ordinary description. The other evening,
for instance, we had a musical soirée, in which
that accomplished song-bird, Miss Hughes, assisted
by Sinclair, Horn, and other professional persons,
took part. The large room of the United States hotel
was occupied by an audience resembling those
which attended the Payne and Dunlap festivals;
all the performers were in fine spirits, and sung and
played delightfully. The “Young Cavalier,” the
“Mermaid's Cave,” and “Auld Robin Gray,” in
particular, were given by Miss Hughes in her own
impressive manner, and are now remembered as
“faded strains that float upon the mind like half-forgotten
dreams.” This young lady never looked
more lovely, nor warbled her melodies with more
effect.

Gossip, scandal, and killing character, are considered
innocent pastime at Saratoga. I am writing
this at a window that overlooks the piazza of Congress-hall.
The weather is pleasant—the “shades
of evening thicken slowly,” and the tide of fashion
is flowing beneath me like the waves of the sea. I
have been told the history and condition of numerous
individuals, and, for want of better materials,
and in compliance with the universal custom of all
modern letter-writers, I will point out a few of the
most conspicuous for your especial diversion.

First, we have a whole platoon of gentlemen
with canes, most of whom have been the subjects of
much enviable conversation lately. Johnson says

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that “a person who carries a cane has generally an
upper story to let!” The doctor was undoubtedly
a very great man, and a close observer of human
nature. His opinions, with me, have all the sanction
of law authority.

You perceive that stout gentleman in black?
He is an epicure, and does little else than eat, the
live-long day. He made a voyage to London last
year expressly for the purpose of enjoying a dish of
soles with shrimp sauce! and has come to the
springs now to put his digestive apparatus in good
order, before the ensuing season of plum-puddings,
buckwheat-cakes and mince-pies, three prime articles,
of which he professes to be exceedingly fond,
and of which he is said, about the holidays, to devour
a most inordinate quantity. He plays the best knife
and fork in the village, and is the admiration of all
the gourmands at the south. Move on, old Falstaff!

Room for a travelled dandy—a fellow who went
abroad a puppy, and returned as he went—with
nothing added to his former stock of information,
except the cut of his garments, a short-napped hat,
and that pair of enormous whiskers—in all of which
he “reigns and revels!”

Yonder floats a little man, with a little stick, a
little pair of gloves, and a little voice. He is engaged
to that enormously fat young widow beside him,
whose fortune is estimated at sixty thousand dollars.
The little man is not worth a groat, and is the very
antipodes of his dulcinea; but you know,

“In joining contrasts lieth love's delight.”

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Here comes a foreigner of distinction—a duke!
Mark his princely air and noble carriage. Observe
the diamond hoop upon his little finger, and the
circling hair upon his upper lip! Is he not a magnificent
specimen of the “paragon of animals?”
For the last six hours he has been the “observed
of all observers,” the presiding genius of the place,
and his flirtation with a certain meek, blue-eyed
quakeress, at the Union, who, for his dear sake, is
in imminent danger of being read out of meeting,
has created the first positive sensation of the season.
The duke is reported to be immensely rich—the
lady is known to be so.

“The form of Hercules affects the sylphs.”

But who is that mild, intellectual-looking being,
languishing in the shade? She is leaning upon
the arm of General Van R. and talking to Chancellor
K. That lady, I mean, attired in the plain
white dress, with her hair modestly parted on her
forehead—she of the smiling lip and speaking eye—

“That looks not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet is on't.”

What a contrast she presents to the proud, haughty
belle in her wake, half buried beneath the weight
of gold and jewels!

“Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes.”

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Heavens, how she tosses her pretty head, and gives
the nod of recognition to those around her!

“The wealth of worlds is heaped on her in vain.”

But what have we next? generals and judges,
and public characters by the score! A whole bevy
of widows, old maids, and solitary spinsters, without
any particular claim to distinction.

A sudden pause in the crowd. Several carriages
with their out-riders have rolled up to the door,
emblazoned with the crests of the nobility of
this democratic land! I cannot admire the horses
sufficiently; but as for those who have just
alighted —

The bell rings for supper—so, ladies and gentlemen—
no time for compliments.

Is it not strange that the very things to which
this village is indebted for all its consequence, are
most neglected? The hotels are spacious—the accommodations
convenient, and the attendance unexceptionable;
but the springs themselves are in a
shocking condition. Instead of splendid colonnades,
attractive apartments, spacious pump-rooms,

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marble counters, sparkling fountains, and neat, well-dressed
women to wait upon the company, as in
other countries, you are compelled to stand ankledeep
in the mud, or upon a miserable platform, constructed
over a filthy brook, and receive the water
from a bare-footed, meanly-clad juvenile, who dips
it up in an unclean vessel, and flings it at you with
a sleight of hand peculiarly his own. In place of
taking the water as an inviting, health-restoring
beverage, you seize the glass with a wry face
and an involuntary shudder, and swallow its contents
with the same repugnance you entertain for
nauseous medicine. On rainy days, invalids cannot
go to the springs, unless they are satisfied to
have the outer as well as inner man, most thoroughly
drenched, as there is no friendly covering
to shield them from the weather. Really this is
too bad, for the most fashionable watering-place in
America.

Congress-hall, Saratoga, July, 1833.

Dear —, The tides of fashion, like those of
the sea, are constantly in motion: no sooner does
one wave recede than another takes its place; and
so, at the springs, as one carriage passes away with
its light-hearted occupants, another arrives at the
gate; and there stands mine host of the Congress,

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with his ever-pleasant smile and courteous bow,
ready to

“Welcome the coming—speed the parting guest.”

Nearly every house in the village is overflowing,
and visitors are still coming. I shall not attempt
to give you a particular description of all the individuals
I have encountered here; and for ten thousand
reasons, three of which, however, will suffice at
the present time. In the first place, I have no idea
of manufacturing a book of travels during this hot
weather. In the second, (mark what an eye I have
for business,) most of the people here are subscribers
to the Mirror, and I never take any liberties
with them, you know. And “lastly, and to conclude,”
those who are not subscribers, (if any such
there be!) cannot be supposed worthy of either the
time or the trouble. Yet, dear —, if you will
take a chair with me in this spacious drawing-room,

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(you had a glimpse at the piazza in my last,) I will
point out a few characters from among the company
here assembled, and tell you all I know about
them. This may amuse you till the bell rings for
tea. Oh, come along; we will say nothing to
wound the feelings of any body, for scandal, I am
aware, is your abhorrence, yet it is a very fashionable
accomplishment at most watering-places, although,
I am happy to say, I have heard little of it
here.

You observe that mild, matronly-looking lady,
near the window yonder? Is she not a pattern of
neatness and propriety? Her story must be an interesting
one, and not destitute of a moral. I wish
I knew it. I remember her from my boyhood, and
shall never forget her looks one fine Sunday morning,
as she entered Trinity church, leaning on the
arm of poor —. I never saw any thing more
beautiful than she, at that moment, appeared to my
inexperienced eyes; all my after dreams of female
loveliness were associated with her. I could not
imagine a being more perfect; but I was very
young then, and she was engaged to be married.
I saw her again, after I had arrived at man's estate;
but oh, how altered! She was still single. —
and she ha some misunderstanding, and he had
gone to England, and died there, I think they told
me. I never heard any further particulars. Still
she was much admired for her beauty, and beloved
for her goodness of heart; and, as she was

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immensely rich, must have had opportunities enough
of forming what is generally understood, a “convenient
alliance,” for men, or I am much mistaken,
were as worldly-wise formerly as now. I never saw
her afterward, until we met the other day at these
springs. There are more old maids in the world
than remain so from necessity.

That “no American should wish to trace his ancestry
further back than the revolutionary war,” is
a good sentiment. I admire and will stand by it.
Yet, while I disapprove, most heartily, of the conceited
airs and flimsy pretensions which certain little
people arrogate to themselves on account of their
birth-right, I cannot subscribe to one particle of the
cant I am in the habit of hearing expressed on these
subjects. It is not “the same thing,” to me, at least,
whether my father was a count or a coal-heaver, a
prince or a pickpocket. I would have all my relations,
past, present, and to come, good and respectable
people, and should prefer the blood of the Howards
to that of the convicts of Botany-bay—nor do I
believe I am at all singular in these particulars. It
is nothing more than a natural feeling. Still I
would not think ill of a man on account of any misfortune
that may have attended his birth, nor well
of a man simply because he happened to be cradled
in the lap of affluence and power. The first may
be one of nature's noblemen, and the other a poor
dog, notwithstanding all his splendor; and that
this frequently happens, every day's experience

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affords us abundant testimony. That the claims of
all to distinction should rest upon one's own individual
talents, deportment, and character, is also sound
doctrine, and cannot be disputed: yet this is no reason
why we should not have an honest and becoming
pride in the genius, integrity, or gallant bearing of
those from whom we sprung. Now, yonder stands
a gentleman, who, in my humble judgment, cannot
but indulge a secret glow of satisfaction, while contemplating
the roots of his family tree. He came
from a good stock—the old Dutch settlers of New-Amsterdam—
than which no blood that flows in the
human veins is either purer, better, or braver. His
forefathers were eminently conspicuous as Christians,
soldiers, and sages; they occupied the high
places of honor and authority—were the ornaments
of their day and generation, and, notwithstanding
the shade of ridicule which a popular writer has
cast around and interwoven with their history, their
memories will ever be cherished until virtue ceases
to be an attribute of the human mind. The
public spirit of this gentleman and his liberal
views have long been the theme of universal praise;
and although I do not enjoy the privilege of his
personal acquaintance, I know he must be a gentleman—
the mild and benignant expression of his
face—his unassuming habits—his bland and courteous
demeanor, all bespeak it; and, to use the language
of Queen Elizabeth, are unto him “letters
of recommendation throughout the world.”

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That gentleman is one of the few Americans who
combine a literary taste with indefatigable business
habits. Had he devoted his life to letters instead of
merchandize, he would have been conspicuous
among the most gifted of his countrymen. I heard
him deliver an address once, that surprised me by
its elegance of style, and literary discrimination.
But this is a money-making land; and Mr. —,
like Halleck, Wetmore, Sprague, and others, has
found the counting-house more profitable than the
muses' temple—his account-book more certain than
all books besides—and bank-notes the very best
notes in the universe.

Young — is famous for his flute, his dog, and
the number of his servants. He never travels without
half a dozen. One he dresses in livery, and has
him always within calling distance. He plays the
German flute with great unction, and with a most
determined air, and keeps an enormous dog, of a
very peculiar breed, constantly at his heels. He
lodges at — hotel, near the top of the house—
that apartment having been assigned him on account
of his musical propensities—he not wishing
to be interrupted in his studies, and the landlord desiring
to have the neighborhood disturbed as little
as possible by his eternal noise. He is the horror of
the surrounding country; and complaints have frequently
been lodged against him for annoying quiet,
well-disposed citizens throughout the day, and keeping
them awake during most of the night.

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Wherever he goes he pays double board, as all fluting
gentlemen undoubtedly ought to do, and therefore
enjoys a kind of privilege to blow away as loud and
as often as he thinks proper. His man in livery
answers his bell, which is everlastingly going. At
the first stroke of the hammer away runs John,
and away runs the dog close behind him. It is
curious to see these two worthies hurrying up stairs,
and the exhibition never fails to create a laugh
throughout the building, which, however amusing
to the spectators, is a source of the deepest mortification
and chagrin to poor John, who is the butt of
all his associates in the kitchen on this account.
John has long looked upon himself as an injured
and most unfortunate man, and once summoned
sufficient resolution to remonstrate with his master
upon his grievances—telling him, with tears in his
eyes, and in a heart-rending manner, that if the dog
was not discharged, he should be compelled, however
reluctantly, and notwithstanding the high
wages, to look out for another situation, as it was
quite impossible to say, when the bell rung, which
was wanted, the dog or himself. It is entirely out
of the question to describe the indignation of Monsieur
Flute, on hearing this complaint. At first he
turned all the colors of the rainbow—then arose
from his seat, eyed his rebellious subject from head
to foot, and tried to give vent to his passion in a
stream of words; but, finding the effort vain, he
promptly kicked him out of the room, and commanded
him from his presence forever! John,

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however, is a prudent fellow, and knows the value
of a good place and high wages, or, to use his
own phrase, “which side his bread is buttered”—
so he concluded to retain his place, in defiance
of the laugh and the kicking, and still remains
in his former service, and is still followed by that
everlasting dog. Now, young — is a nuisance,
and so are his servants, and so are all private
servants at public hotels. During meals, they are
always in the way. You are liable to mistake them
for the regular waiters of the house, and issue your
orders accordingly. These they refuse to obey, of
course. This is provoking. Then they seize upon
all the choice dishes on the table, to convey them
to their masters, who sit gormandizing while your
plate is empty, and the dinner is getting cold. This
is monstrous. Then the man with a servant sometimes
gives himself airs towards the man without a
servant. This is intolerable. I have heard of two
duels on account of private servants, and therefore I
repeat, they are a nuisance in a moral point of view,
and ought to be abated.

There is a knot of politicians—the “great hereafter”
and his distinguished colleagues, whom I
must not mention, for fear of entering the dreaded
arena of politics—near them are descendants of
Carroll, Clinton, Tompkins, and other renowned
men,

“Whose names are with their country's woven;”

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beaux of all descriptions. The gentleman in a drab
coat, is quite a famous fellow here—a member of
the temperance societies—temperate in every thing
but water, of which he drinks twenty tumblers
every morning before breakfast at the congress
spring, and has done so for the last six summers.
He is a firm believer in its efficacy—delivers long
orations on the subject to any person who will listen
to him—pulls every new comer by the button, as
soon as he enters the premises, and is known and
avoided by the name of the “Water King.” That
little girl in black, who snaps her fingers at the
slender buck in whiskers, has refused six offers of
marriage within the last twelve days. She is certainly
a bewitching creature, and often puts me in
mind of Clara Fisher in the Country Girl.

Ah, ha! my little Frenchman! That fellow is a
character. I will tell you a story about him. I
stopped at West Point, not long since, and found
the hotel crowded with visitors. It was late in the
evening when I arrived, and being almost worn out
with the fatigue of my journey, for I had been the
inmate of stages, railroad-cars, and canal-boats,
without closing my eyes for the last two days, I repaired,
with all convenient haste, to the solitary
couch that had been assigned me in the basementstory,
in the hope of passing a few comfortable
hours in the “arms of Morpheus;” but one glance
at the “blue chamber below,” convinced me of the
utter folly of any such expectation. I found it nearly

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crammed with my fellow-lodgers, who, if I might
judge from the melancholy display of hats, boots,
socks, and other articles of wearing apparel, scattered
over the floor, in most “admired disorder,” had
evidently retired with unbecoming eagerness to secure
their places to themselves, and thereby guard
them against the possibility of intrusion from others,
doubtless believing, that in this, as well as similar
cases, possession is nine points in the law. As the
apartment was very confined, and all the inhabitants
wide awake, I thought I might as well spend
an hour or two in the open air before going to bed,
and was about to retire for that purpose, when a
voice called, “If you do not wish to lose your berth,
you had better turn in.” Observing that nearly all
the cots, sofas, settees, chairs, etc., were occupied,
and hearing that several of my fellow-passengers
were sleeping on the house top and in the halls, I
deemed it prudent to follow the advice just given to
me, so at once commenced disrobing, and was soon
stowed away in a snug corner, and it was not long
before I found myself gradually and imperceptibly
sinking under the power of the gentle god. I began
to congratulate myself—to commiserate the unhappy
condition of my less fortunate companions, and
to bid good night to all my cares, when that short,
thin, merry little Frenchman came dancing into
the room, and, after cutting a pigeon-wing or two,
humming a passage from a favorite opera, and skipping
once or twice around the vacant beds, sat himself
upon the most commodious, with the

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exclamation, “Ah ha! I find him—this is him—number
ten, magnifique! Now I shall get some little sleeps
at last.” Again humming a part of a tune, he proceeded
to prepare himself for bed. After divesting
himself of his apparel, and carefully depositing his
trinkets and watch under his pillow, he fastened a
red bandanna handkerchief around his head, and
slid beneath the counterpane, as gay and lively as
a cricket. “It is superb,” he once more exclaimed
aloud; “I have not had some rest for six dozen days,
certainement—and now I shall have some little
sleeps. But, waiter,” bawled he, suddenly recollecting
himself. John came at the call. “What
is it o'clock, eh?”

“Nearly ten, sir.”

“What time de boat arrive?”

“About two.”

“When he do come, you shall wake me some
little minute before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you shall get some of de champaign and
oysters all ready for my suppare?”

“Very well, sir. You may depend upon me, sir,”
said John, as he shut the door, and made his exit.

“Ah, très bien, and now for de little sleeps.” Uttering
which, he threw himself upon the pillow,
and, in a few seconds, was in a delightful doze.

The foregoing manœuvres and conversation had
attracted the attention of all, and aroused me completely.

“D—n that Frenchman,” growled a bluff

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old fellow next him, as he turned on the other side,
and went to sleep.

Most of the other gentlemen, however, raised
their heads for a moment, to see what was going on,
and then deposited them as before, in silent resignation.
But one individual, with more nerves than
fortitude, bounced out of bed, dressed himself in a
passion, swore there was no such thing as sleeping
there, and went out of the room in a huff. This
exploit had an electric effect upon the melancholy
spectators, and a general laugh, which awoke all
the basement story, was the result. For some minutes
afterward the merriment was truly appalling.
Jokes, mingled with execrations, were heard in
every direction, and the uproar soon became universal.
Silence, however, was at length restored;
but all symptoms of repose had vanished with the
delusion that gave them birth. The poor Frenchman,
however, whose slumbers had been sadly broken
by the nervous man, had turned himself upside
down, and had actually gone to sleep once
more! He began to breathe hard, and, finally, to
snore—and such a snore!—it was enough to have
awakened the dead! There was no such thing as
standing that. The equanimity of his immediate
neighbour—a drowsy fellow, who, on first lying
down, said he was resolved to “sleep in spite of
thunder”—was the first to give way. He sprang
bolt upright, hastily clapt both hands over his ears,
and called out, at the top of his compass, for the
Frenchman to discontinue “that diabolical and

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dreadful noise.” Up jumped the red nightcap, rubbing
its eyes in mute astonishment. After hearing
the heavy charge against it, with “a countenance
more in sorrow than in anger,” and making every
apology in its power for the unintentional outrage
it had committed, down it sunk once more upon the
pillow, and glided away into the land of Nod. But
new annoyances awaited my poor Frenchman; for
scarcely had this event happened, when the door
was flung open, and in came a gentleman from Cahawba,
with a fierce-looking broad-brimmed hat
upon his pericranium, that attracted general attention,
and struck awe and consternation to the hearts
of all beholders. He straddled himself into the
middle of the floor, thrust both hands into his
breeches pocket, pressed his lips firmly together,
and cast his eyes deliberately around the apartment,
with the expression of one who intended to insist
upon his rights. “Which is number ten?” he demanded,
in a tone which startled all the tenants of
the basement story. “Ah, I perceive!” continued
he, approaching the Frenchman, and laying violent
hands upon him. “There's some mistake
here. A man in my bed, hey? Well, let us see
what he's made of. Look here, stranger, you're in
the wrong box! You've tumbled into my bed—so
you must shift your quarters.” Who shall depict
the Frenchman's countenance, as he slowly raised
his head, half opened his drooping organs of vision
and took an oblique squint at the gentleman from
Cahawba! “You are in the wrong bed,” repeated

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he of the hat—“number ten is my property; yonder
is yours, so have the politeness just to hop out.”
The Frenchman was resigned to his fate, and gathering
himself together, transported his mortal remains
to the vacant bed, without the slightest resistance,
and in eloquent silence. It was very evident
to him, as well as the rest of us, that there was
no withstanding the persuasions of his new acquaintance,
who had a fist like a mallet, and who
swore that he always carried loaded pistols in his
pocket, to be ready for any emergency. The inhabitants
of the basement would have screamed
outright this time, but for prudential considerations,
for the gentleman from Cahawba realized the description
of the “determined dog,” mentioned in the
comedy, who “lived next door to a churchyard,
killed a man a day, and buried his own dead.”
Was this, then, a man to be trifled with? Certainly
not. Better to cram the sheets down your throat,
and run the risk of suffocation from suppressed
laughter, than to encounter the displeasure of a
person who wears such a hat. They are always
to be avoided.

But to return to the Frenchman. He was no
sooner in his new resting-place, than John came to
inform him that his champaign and oysters were
ready. Like one in a dream he arose, sat upon the
side of the bed, and slowly dressed himself, without
a single murmur at his great disappointment. He
had hardly finished, when the steamboat bell sounded
among the highlands, and he received the

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gratifying intelligence, that in consequence of the time
he had lost in dressing, he had none left to eat his
supper—and that, if he did not hurry, he would be
too late for the boat! At this, he arose—yawned—
stretched his person out at full length, and, with the
ejaculation—“I shall get some little sleeps nevare”—
bid us good-night, and slowly took his leave.

Saratoga, August, 1833.

Early rising, active exercise, country air, and the
congress spring have done, are doing, and will continue
to do wonders for invalids. They are all
excellent in their way; but to produce a beneficial
effect upon weak nerves and debilitated constitutions,
they must be enjoyed in moderation. Nothing is
more true than that all excess is hurtful; and nothing,
one would suppose, is more self-evident: yet
many people in delicate health go to Saratoga under
the impression, it would seem, that the more
water they drink, the faster they will get well.—
Some of the visitors are in the habit of swallowing
fifteen, twenty, thirty, and even forty glasses every
morning before breakfast! The result of such imprudence
can, of course, be easily foreseen. Instead
of getting the better of their several complaints, they
daily grow worse, and are not unfrequently compelled
to abandon the use of the waters altogether, for

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want of proper caution in the first instance. The
resident physician at the springs, as every body
knows, is an able practitioner, a man of science,
and a finished gentleman. We were seated one
morning, during the present season, in his study,
when an individual knocked at the door, and immediately
gained admittance. He was a large, fat,
unwieldly piece of humanity from the south, with
a face like the full moon just rising, and had the
appearance of one “who could kill an ox with his
fist, and pick his teeth with its horns.” But, alas!
appearances are deceitful; my man mountain was
sadly out of repair, and could do no such thing. A
chronic affection of his stomach embittered all his
days, and his doctor had sent him to the springs for
relief. Every other remedy had been tried, but to
little or no purpose. The waters then were his only
reliance, his last resort. If they failed him, his case
was hopeless—his disease incurable. Accordingly,
on his arrival, he had taken to hard drink, like a
brave fellow; but finding, to his unutterable astonishment
and confusion, after a whole week's melancholy
experience, that the mineral fluids had done
him an infinite deal of mischief, and not the least
discernible good, he had now repaired to the apartment
of the resident physician, entirely out of humor
with the waters, himself, and all the world
besides, and in utter despair. No wonder, then,
that he was angry, or that he should frown indignantly
on coming into the presence of the learned
professor of the healing art. Placing his cane

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against the wall, in a firm and decided manner,
and tossing his hat upon the table with a peculiar
emphasis, he threw himself into a chair with a
thundering whack; then taking a blue and white
handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the perspiration
from his face, crossed his legs, folded his
arms, compressed his lips, and eyed the doctor from
head to foot, with mingled feelings of scorn and
indignation. “So,” said he, at length, “you're a
doctor, are you?” “At your service, sir. May I ask
who you are?” “Oh, certainly, I am a man that has
come six hundred miles, like a blockhead, in compliance
with the advice of a quack-doctor, to drink
your infernal waters—and they've made me worse—
that's who I am. Now, what do you say to that,
hey?” “Why,” replied the doctor, with his usual
good-nature, and without allowing himself to be
disturbed, in the least, by the abrupt deportment of
his new acquaintance, “why, my friend, that I am
very sorry for it. But what's the matter with you?”
“Oh, sir, I'm in pain all over.” “Indeed; what are
your symptoms?” “I've every symptom you ever
heard of.” “That's bad.” “Bad!” said the man
with a stomach, “it's infernal—it's diabolical—it
will be the death of me!” “In pain all over, you
say?” “Yes, all over, I tell you!” “Any pain in
your foot?” “Well, I don't exactly know as to that,”
said the gentleman from the south, evidently drawing
in his horns. “If you had any there, would you
not be likely to know it?” pursued the doctor, mildly.
“Well, I suppose I should.” “Then, you have

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no pain in your foot?” “Why, no.” “Then, what
do you mean by pain all over?” The patient would
have explained; but the doctor went on with his
professional cross-examination. “And how many
tumblers of water do you drink a-day?” “Why, I
began moderately. When I first came I only took
eight; but I have increased the quantity every day,
and, this morning I got down thirty-two.” “Thirty-two?”
repeated the doctor, coolly, but with evident
surprise. “Only thirty-two? Then permit
me, my friend, to remark you have not taken—”
The man from the south interrupted him—he
would hear no more—he thought the doctor was
going to tell him he had not taken half enough—
and the idea made him shudder. “Now stop, doctor,
stop, I beseech you. That's all very true, what
you're going to say. I know it. If I must die, I
must; but I can't drink more than thirty-two tumblers,
any way under heavens—nor will I attempt
it, happen what may.” It is unnecessary to give
the remainder of the dialogue. The reader has sufficient
to show him with what views some people
visit the springs, and how little they know of the
properties and effects of the waters. This, however,
is only one of a thousand similar instances. The
invalid in question, for such he really was, notwithstanding
his enormous bulk and jolly round physiognomy,
was soon convinced of the absolute absurdity
of the course he had been pursuing; and, after
listening to a little salutary advice, which, we make
no doubt, will be of service to him during the

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

remainder of his natural life, took his leave, with the
resolution to become a more temperate man in future.
We saw him again, about a fortnight after
the conversation here recorded, and were gratified
to learn, that, by following a few simple directions,
his “pain all over” had entirely disappeared, and
that he was a new creature, or, to use his own expression,
“as good as new.” He looked the picture
of perfect health, and said he felt as well as he looked.
“Then you have changed your opinion of the
waters?” “Entirely. They have acted upon me
like a charm. But no man should touch them, until
he has first received the advice and directions of
some competent physician.” “True, and this simple
fact it would do no harm for all to bear in mind
who visit the springs.”