Of all the various modes and inventions devised since
the creation of the world, for passing the time, none can
compare with EATING; and nothing appears wanting to
human happiness, but the capacity of eating on without
stopping, from the cradle to the grave. But alas!
people cannot eat forever! and all they can do, after
one meal, is to anticipate the delights of another.
When we can eat no more, the best possible substitute
is to think of eating. Such are the glorious effects of
the waters at the springs, that they would constitute the
best substitute for Nectar, or Bingham, or Nabob, to be

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found upon this earth, if the good things to be eaten
were only in proportion to our appetite to eat them.
But alas! truth obliges us to confess, this is not the
case. No canvass backs, no oysters, no turtle, no
Goose and Gridiron, no Drozé, no Pardessus, no Sykes,
no Niblo, high priest and caterer of the gourmands of
Nova Eboracensis, we would say of the gods themselves,
were we not of opinion they knew little of the
importance of the grand science, as appears by their
omitting to ennoble one of their number, by installing
him god of eating, and thus placing him above the
great Bacchus himself. But on second thoughts, this
might have arisen from the jealousy of Jove, who doubtless
foresaw that such a deity would monopolize the
incense of mankind, and leave his shrine without a votary.

Well, therefore, might the great philosopher lay it
down as the grand secret of human happiness, that “we
should live to eat, and not eat to live,” since in this is
contained the true secret of the summum bonum, which
so puzzled all antiquity. Previous to those prodigious
steps in the march of mind, which have ennobled the
present age beyond all others that preceded, or that will
succeed it, the gentler sex were unhappily precluded in
some degree, from eating more than was absolutely
necessary. Nay, some of the most approved models
of heroines of romance, so far as we are without any
authority from the authors of these works to the contary,
never ate at all. It was considered indelicate to
eat as if they cared any thing about it; and there is
good authority for saying, that a great match was once
broken off, in consequence of the lady being detected
by her lover in eating raw oysters. But the world of

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late years, grows wiser, much faster than it grows older,
and thanks be to the steam engines for it! The interdict
against female eating is withdrawn, and it does
one's heart good to see how they enjoy themselves at
the springs, and at parties in town. They eat like so
many beautiful little pigeons, till their beautiful little
craws seem, as if they might peradventure, burst their
corsetts; and foul befall those egregious innovators, who
we hear are attempting to revive the fashion of giving
soirées, without the accompaniments of oysters, porter,
and champagne. May they be condemned to sponge
cake and lemonade all their lives, and be “at home” to
nobody, till they learn how to treat their friends.

One of the phenomena which has puzzled us more
than almost any thing in this world, is that people who
meet together solely for pleasure, should ever get tired
of themselves or their company. But so it is; there is
probably a greater portion of time hanging on the hands
of those who live only for amusement, than falls to the
share of any other class. Hence it is that rich and
fashionable people are so frequently dull, out of humour
and splenetic; while the labouring classes, and those
who ought, in reason and propriety, to be miserable,
enjoy an unaccountable hilarity of spirits, and actually
seem to crowd into one hour more real enjoyment than
a man of pleasure, whose sole business is to be happy,
gathers in a whole life of animated, uninterrupted
pursuit. How provoking it is to see a miserable linsey-woolsey
villain, without a single solitary requisite for
comfort in high life, laughing, and dancing, and revelling
in an exuberance of spirits, while a company of
people of pleasure, who have nothing to do but be

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happy, will sit inveloped in gloom, dance as if they were
following a funeral, and laugh, if they laugh at all, with
a melancholy indifference truly exemplary. Is it possible
that labour, or at least employment of some kind,
is necessary to the enjoyment of ease, and to the vivacity
of the animal spirits? Certainly it would seem so.
Nobody laughs with such glee as the chimney sweep,
and the negro slave of the south, whom we are always
pitying; and of all the grave people on the face of the
earth, the North American Indian, who despises work,
and lives a life of ease, is the gravest; while his wife
who carries the burdens, cultivates the corn, and performs
all the domestic labours, is observed to be gay
and cheerful. It is certainly passing strange, though it
would appear to be true, that the people we most envy,
namely the rich and the idle, enjoy the least of life's
sunshine, though they seem to be always basking in it.
The old indian affirmed that among the white men,
“the hog was the only gentleman,” for he never worked,
was fed upon the best corn, and at last grew so fat he
could not walk. Certainly the comparison is not far
from odious; but there are certain mortifying points of
resemblance between the quadruped and the biped gentleman.

Be this as it may, such being the difficulty which
environs the fortunate beings, who in their chase of
pleasure, at length run it down at the springs, and know
not what to do with themselves afterwards, we hold him
a great public benefactor, equal to the father of a canal
or a rail road, or a cotton manufactory, who shall devise
ways and means to rid these unfortunate beings—unfortunate
in having too much time and money on their hands

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—at least of a portion of the former. After much deep
and intense cogitation, we have devised a series of
amusements, which if followed up with proper industry,
will seldom, if ever, fail of the desired end.

The first and best preservative against ennui, is falling
in love. If you are successful, that cures all evils
for the time being; and if otherwise, the disappointment
is a sovereign remedy for ennui, which never
troubles people who have any thing else to trouble them.

Dressing is no bad preventative, provided you are
long enough about it, and take a proper interest in looking
well. We have known a dishabille give a tinge of
melancholy for a whole day; and more than one person
cured of a serious indisposition by resolutely getting
up, changing his linen, putting on a new suit, shaving
his beard, and perfuming his whiskers. Many ladies
have also been rescued from profound melancholy, by
putting on a gay coloured dress, with pearl ear-rings
and bracelets, which proved remarkably becoming.
The oftener you dress the better; for besides the manual
exercise, the frequent change produces a corresponding
change of ideas, and a consequent gentle exercise
of the animal spirits, highly salutary. Gay colours
are best, as they make people look gay, which is the
next thing to being gay. After all, we are but camelions,
and owe the colour of our minds to outward objects.

Gentlemen have a great resource in the reading
room, provided they have a literary turn, and are reduced
to great extremity to pass the morning. We recollect
a literary character at the springs, who spent three
hours over the newspapers every day, yet could never
tell the news, nor the day of the week, and what was

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thought rather remarkable, seemed never the wiser for
his studies. Ladies must, however, be careful to read
nothing but romances, lest they should pass for blue
stockings, which among the fashionables, are considered
synonymous with blue devils.

Music and reading parties, are not bad in a rainy day.
A little music, provided it is not out of tune or time,
will while along the leaden hours of pleasure wonderfully,
when there are admiring beaux to listen and applaud,
and who can relish pure Italian. Beware however
of di tanti palpiti, which is grown so common that
the very sweeps whistle it while making their way up
chimney. When any thing gets so common with the
vulgar, it is beneath the notice or patronage of people
of fashion, however beautiful it may be. One of the
great, indeed the sole objection to eating, drinking,
sleeping and breathing, is that we enjoy them in common
with the brutes, and the vulgar who are little better.
Moore's songs ought always to be preferred on these
occasions, because they are altogether sentimental, or
sensual, which is quite synonymous now a days. Next
to actual, bona fida kissings, embracings, palpitations,
luscious meetings, and heart rending adieus, is the description
of these things in luscious verse, aided by the
magic strains of melting melody. It almost makes one
feel as if really going through these delightful evolutions.
It is not worth while to mind what stiff people, who
affect decorum of speech, say on the subject. There
are many matters that may be sung, but not said. One
may sing about things, which it would be thought rather
critical to talk about.

In respect to reading, it is much to be regretted that

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we have nothing new of Lord Byron, but his helmet,
which we understand is to be exhibited at the springs
the present season, provided it is not disposed of to a
valiant militia officer, who is said to be in treaty for the
same. Formerly the literary society of the springs
could calculate upon a new canto of Don Juan every
month, redolent with the inspiration of misanthropy and
“gin and water;”[10] but now, at least with the exception
of this present work, unless a Waverley or a Cooper
tumbles down from the summit of Parnassus, there is
scarcely any thing worth reading but souvenirs, which
unluckily appear so out of season, that they are a hundred
years old before the spring, that is, the spring of
fashionable life at the springs arrives, with all the birds
of passage in its train. In this dilemma, the choice must
be left to the judgment of the party, with this solemn
caution, to select no work that is more than a month
old.

People who are not addicted to deep studies may
manage to get through a long storm pretty tolerably, by
looking out at a window, and wondering when it will
clear off. A northeast storm of two or three days is
the most trying time; for as nobody thinks of a fire in
summer, though it be never so cold, the votaries of
pleasure have no other resource than going to bed to
keep themselves from an ague. Gentlemen who play,
have a never failing resource for all times, seasons, and
vicissitudes of the weather, all which pass unfelt and
unnoticed, in the delightful excitement of winning and
losing. The best way to guard against these storms,
is to shut the windows, lock the doors, light candles,

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and turn day into night, as there are certain amusements
which are only proper for darkness and obscurity.

In addition to these domestic enjoyments, resources
may be found without doors in pleasant weather.
Among these is the excursion to Saratoga Lake, to ramble
along its banks, or fish, or flirt, or do any other
fashionable thing. The water of the lake is so pure
and transparent, that people with tolerable eyes, may
see their faces in it. Hence arises a great advantage;
for young persons who dont care to contemplate any
beauties but their own, may here behold them in the
greatest perfection, in the pure mirror of the waters.
So perfect is the reflexion, that more than one Narcissus
hath beheld himself there, and pined to death for love
of his own image; and many a fair and unsuspecting
damsel, that never saw herself in gilded mirror, has
here, for the first time, become conscious of her charms,
by the babbling of these tell tale waters. So vivid are
the pictures thus displayed, and so true to nature, that a
young fellow of our intimate acquaintance, who had somewhat
spoiled a pair of good eyes, by eternally squinting
through a glass, because it was the fashion, once actually
mistook the shadow of a young heiress in the lake,
for the young heiress herself, and jumped in to save her
from drowning. The lady was so touched by this gallant
mistake, that she took the will for the deed, and the
young man into the bargain. N. B. The fish are not
worth the trouble of catching, but the men that go there,
are, sometimes, and so are the ladies.

There is also fine trout in Barheit's Pond, to which there
is a pleasant ride through the pine woods, at least they
say there is fine trout, if one could only catch them with

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any thing but a silver hook. But such is the staid allegiance
of these loyal fishes, that they will not suffer themselves
to be hooked by any body but their sovereign lord,
the proprietor of the waters. We ourselves have fished
in this famous pool, till a great spider came and wove
his web, from the tip of our nose to the tip end of our
fishing rod, and caught several flies. But we caught
no fish, nor would St. Anthony himself, we verily believe,
had he preached ever such sound doctrines. N. B. Mine
host may possibly bite, though the trout wont.

For longer excursions, there is the famous field of
Saratoga, on which the key stone of the arch of our independence
was raised, and six thousand English invaders
laid down their arms, and where a pillar ought to
be erected to commemorate the triumph of free soldiers.
There is also Lake George, the master piece of nature,
and Hadley's Falls, which will richly repay a visit, and
charmingly occupy a day. There is also a pleasant
little ride, which we ourselves discovered, due north
of Saratoga, along an excellent road, skirted on one
hand by rich meadows, on the other by a rugged,
rocky hill, from which ever and anon, pours down a little
brawling stream, that loses itself among the high green
grass of the lowlands. Of a fine afternoon towards
sunset, when the slanting beams of the sun leave the
east side of the hills enveloped in cooling shades, it is
pleasant to ride along and taste the charms of nature,
after revelling in those of art at the springs. But what
are we talking about? we have forgot ourselves. Such
matters are unworthy our book and those to whom it is
addressed.

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Who indeed would waste his time in loitering about
these ignoble scenes, unsaid and unsung by names of
fashionable note, when they can walk back and forth
the long piazzas at the springs, where ladies bright are
sitting in the windows, ready to talk and be talked to; to
exchange smile for smile, and to accompany any body in
this charming promenade—if you only ask them?
When they can take a ride to Ballston if they are at
Saratoga, or to Saratoga if they are at Ballston, all the
way through the beautiful pine woods, show off their
airs—we mean graces, display their fashionable dresses,
spy into the enemies' camp at Sans Souei or Congress
Hall, criticise rival belles, rival houses, rival waters,
and bring home matter for at least one day's conversation,
which is no trifling affair let us tell them.—
Dire indeed is the hostility between these rival houses
of Sans Souci and Congress Hall, the Montagues and
Capulets, the Guelphs and Ghibelines of modern days.
Dire are the conflicts between the votaries of the diuretic
and cathartic nymphs of the springs, and dire the
scandals they utter of each other, when under the influence
of the inspiring draughts. Not rival cities, such
as Athens and Sparta, Rome and Carthage, London and
Paris, New York and Philadelphia; not rival belles,
rival poets, rival reviews, rival players, potentates, or
politicians ever breathed such defiances as Congress
Hall and Sans Souci. As sings the prize poet:

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No vulgar conception can possibly comprehend the
exquisite excitement of this civil warfare of fashion, and
what a capital resource it is to the votaries of pleasure
at the springs, most especially on a stormy day. In
vain hath Professor Silliman essayed to neutralize these
conflicting and angry waters, by equally bearing testimony
to the unequalled merits of both, unknowing that
there exist antipathies, which are not dreamt of in his
chymistry. The war still rages and will continue to rage
till Ballston and Saratoga, like Babylon and Nineveh
are no more, and their sweet waters, for the sins of the
people, turned into dead seas and lakes of sulphur.

It may however happen, since all things are possible
in this wonderful age, that notwithstanding all
these resources, these varied and never ending delights,
people may be at last overtaken even here, by the fiend
ennui, which seems to have been created on purpose to
confound the rich and happy. In that case, they may
as well give up the pursuit of happiness at once, as desperate.
There is nothing beyond the SPRINGS; they are
the ultima thule of the fashionable world, and those who
find not pleasure there, may as well die at once—or go
home. In vain will they toil on to old Ti, the Plains of
Abraham, the Falls of Montmorency, and the Lord
knows where. In vain fly from Ballston to Saratoga,
from Saratoga to Ballston, from Ballston to Lebanon,
from Lebanon to Rockaway, and from Rockaway to

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Long Branch, where they may have the satisfaction of
bathing in the same ocean with people of the first
fashion. It is all in vain; let them despair and go
home; and as a last forlorn hope, endeavour to find
happiness in administering to the happiness of those
around them, an expedient we have actually known
to be successful in more than one instance. The
young ladies to working caps for a time of need;
their mothers to their homely household gods; their
husbands to planting trees, breeding merinos, and cultivating
politics and ruta baga; the brokers to shaving
closer than ever to make up for lost time; the dandy to
the limits; and his spruce rival the shop keeper, to his
counter. “O what a falling off!”

“The greatest fall since Adam's.”

And now, gentle tourist! having conducted thee
safely, and we hope, pleasantly, to the sanctuary where,
if thou findest not happiness it is not our fault, since we
have shown thee where she dwells and how to woo her,
we bid thee an affectionate farewell, cautioning thee, as
a last proof of our solicitude for thy welfare, not to go to
Niagara, lest peradventure, thou fallest into the hands of
the “Morgan Committee.” Mayest thou—to sum up
all in one consummate wish—mayest thou pass thy
whole life in travelling for pleasure, meeting with glorious
entertainment by the way, and at length find
peace and repose at that inn, where sooner or later, all
mankind take up their last night's lodging.