Another Visit to the Virginia Springs
OR THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY HUMBUG, ESQ.
A new version of an old story.
Too much rest is rust,
There's ever cheer in changing;
We tyne by too much trust,
So we'll be up and ranging.
Old Song.
In order to recommend myself and the article, which, to use the fashionable phraseology, is now being prepared for the Messenger, to the favorable consideration of its readers, I beg leave to premise that I am a gentleman of good education and respectable talents—that I am in circumstances of ease and leisure, and what is a still stronger recommendation at the present alarming crisis, I am both from conviction and expediency, a decided anti-abolitionist. You must know, Mr. Editor, that besides having been afflicted all my life with that rabid propensity, which in classical dialect is called cacoethes scribendi, I have been troubled with another inconvenient and rather expensive malady, which I shall call the cacoethes perigrinantis, by which I mean, that about the time of the dog-days I am generally beset by an unconquerable desire for locomotion, an irresistible propensity to change my place of abode and all its multiform incidents and relations, and to launch forth as it were into a new creation—to look abroad upon Nature and Nature's works, and to contemplate my fellow-worms in some of their new antics and attitudes.
Accordingly, during the late summer, attracted by the fame of the Virginia Springs and the salubrious region in which they lie, I deposited my frame (none of the smallest) in one of those republican vehicles called a mail coach, a true and happy invention by the way, for bringing discordant spirits into close communion with one another—an admirable machine for levelling all artificial distinctions—a kind of itinerant temple where Patrician and Plebeian, both masculine and feminine, where mountebank and statesman, puritan and profligate, and all the moods and genders of character may nestle together and worship at the same altar of democracy. But for certain drawbacks and inconveniences which will readily suggest themselves to the reader—such as the dangers of dislocation and fracture, and sundry annoyances too tedious to mention—a man of observation like myself would find it as agreeable to spend his summers in a stage coach as any where else. It is a kind of moral Kaleidescope, where at every turn some new combination or some curious variety in human character is presented to the eye. It above all imparts a refreshing hilarity to the spirits, which are too apt to stagnate when chained down to one solitary spot on the earth's surface. But this is a digression. Having deposited myself in the vehicle as before mentioned, I shall not entertain the reader as is the custom with some of the more learned fraternity of tourists, by long and elaborate details of the several points of arrival and departure—by curious and profound dissertations upon the philosophy of a coach wheel revolving upon its axis—nor by beautiful and extatic bursts about the blue skies and verdant meadows and lofty forests. Suffice it to say, that I found myself on the evening of an August day, on the summit of the Warm Spring Mountain which overlooks the first thermal fountain in the Pilgrim's path to Hygeia. Here I commence my adventures. This is the starting point of my story, and it is henceforth of course that I shall expect my gentle reader to sharpen his attentive faculty—and as Mark Anthony said to his countrymen at Cæsar's funeral, "lend me his ears." Gently and by slow degrees had we surmounted the ascent of this celebrated mountain, (celebrated at least in the Old Dominion and by all travellers to the Springs,) and now we were about to pass down into the valley of the warm waters. Kind reader, if your steps have never led you thither, I must inform you that the descent on the western side is most exceedingly and unaccommodatingly abrupt. The pilot, however, alias driver, who in this instance at least entertained some regard for his living freight, used the precaution of locking, to speak technically, or rather of shoeing one of his hinder wheels—but no sooner had the yet untired steeds commenced their downward course, (the coach with its ton weight at least of flesh and bone rapidly following,) than spang went the lock chain asunder! and away flew the mettlesome animals as fast as their heels would carry them. Now, we plunged onward as if driving through the mountain forest,—then, suddenly turning, rolled at some distance on the margin of a frightful precipice, each moment expecting to be dashed headlong down its angry side. Here gliding as swiftly as an arrow over a tolerably smooth surface, and there jolting and rattling over some rocky gutter, which communicated its jarring vibration to each sensitive nerve—and then what confusion and consternation within! There was my unlucky self, for example, tossed to and fro, in a manner which reminded me of poor Sancho in the memorable blanket scene. First thrown in one direction, I found one of my elbows actually goring the side of a stout nullifier from the Palmetto State—then hurled to the opposite point of the compass by another pitch of the coach, I found myself in the act of suffocating a little New Yorker, whom I took to be an abolitionist. Next, by another cross movement, I detected myself almost in the lap of a fat middle aged lady, who weighed at least thirty pounds more than myself, and presently I came almost in contact with the lips of a rosy cheeked damsel of seventeen, who was about to make her debut at the White Sulphur. And then what a crowding and jostling of knees, and what a thumping and bruising of shins! The ladies screamed—the nullifier roared and threatened, and the little Manhattaner protested that in case of any serious accident to the party, the coroner's inquest would be murder in the first degree against both the driver and proprietor. As for me, I confess that my thoughts were multitudinous and not very delightful. First I thought of Capt. John Gilpin, and wished most heartily that I might come off as well as that renowned officer of the London militia—then I thought of that silly old fellow Phoebus, who from paternal weakness alone committed the reins of his golden chariot to a foolish boy, and lastly I was harrowed in imagination at the terrible idea of Ixion revolving forever on his infernal wheel. Neither did I forget that classical sentence which flashed across my memory, and which I fear is too true in more senses than that in which the poet used it—
Facilis descensus Averni, &c.
Fortunately, however, the genius of terror passed over us without exacting any of the usual sacrifices of broken bones and dislocated limbs, and in a short time our Palinurus (who to do him the justice performed his part handsomely) landed us in front of the spacious portico of the Warm Spring Hotel.
Every person in the world (I mean that portion of the world which goes to the Virginia Springs,) who knows any thing of the great hotel at which we stopped—knows that it is kept by Col. Fry—one of the most polite, accommodating and facetious landlords that ever lived from the time of "Mine Host of the Garter" down to the present day. He will not only give you the best which his ample house affords, but he is always ready to say a good thing with a good grace, in order, I suppose, to put his guests in the most comfortable humor imaginable. The visitors to the Springs however never remain long at the Colonel's Caravansera at the commencement of the season. Those who come from the north and east generally give "mine host" a passing salutation attended by a stout promise to devour his substance as they return from their merry circuit. He on the other hand is not backward in hastening their return somewhat after the following manner. "After being well charged, gentlemen, with Calwell's sulphur—well salted by Erskine and Caruthers—your pulsations equalized—and your expectations realized by Burke—your palates feasted and sweetened at the bubbling fountain of friend Rogers—and your carcases boiled and sweated by Dr. Goode—you may then safely return and be fried under my special direction." All this terrible process it seems I was destined to undergo, and accordingly I gave my valedictory blessing to the Colonel, who take him for all in all is "a fellow of infinite jest and most excellent humor." Being again reconciled to my mail coach, notwithstanding recent alarms, I soon found myself alighted in the spacious lawn of the far-famed White Sulphur Springs. All who visit the mineral region are bound by a law more absolute than that of gravitation to wend to this favorite spot. It is the great magnet which alike attracts the way worn valetudinarian and the votary of fashion. Imagination depicts it as the very elysium of hope and the paradise of enjoyment! It is the Almacks of watering places, where all the dignitaries of the land—the learned and unlearned—the young, the gay and the beautiful, submit to humiliation and sacrifice, in order to gain admission. The multitudes who thronged the porches of the pool of Bethseda, looked not with more anxiety for the coming of the angel who troubled the waters, than do the hundreds who crowd around King Calwell's throne, await the approving smile (the Introito) of his principal Secretary of State. Woe be unto the luckless wight who is found at a crisis of pressure, in a public conveyance,—who does not bring along with him a flaming equipage and attendants; he is laid on the shelf, or to use the customary phrase, is turned off with the same sang froid with which a Netherlander smokes his pipe, or a Westerner shoots his rifle. To me, however, the stars were propitious, and when the little Grand Vizier tipt me the nod of assent, I followed the guide to my dormitory with as light a heart and elastic a step as if I had been appointed an ambassador with full powers. What became of my stage companions I did not stop to inquire. I was indeed so much elated with my own good fortune that for once I forgot my usual benevolence, and it was not until the next morning that I learned that a due proportion of them were sentenced to perform quarantine in the neighborhood. Here then, said I to myself, have I at last reached the goal of my desires! This is the spot where so many thousands are sighing to come without being gratified—where so many love sick city nymphs and whiskered beaux are panting to try their luck in the wheel of life's lottery. What a lucky dog am I to have gained admittance into this region of delight!
I continued to soliloquize in this rapturous strain, until Blackamore (it was night fall on my arrival) conducted me to my chamber,—where, being somewhat fatigued, I proposed to retire at an early hour and to rise with the morning sun, renovated and refreshed for all the countless enjoyments of the next day. The serene current of my thoughts was, to be sure, somewhat ruffled, when on reaching my apartment I found it to be a quadrangle of about eight feet dimensions, with a cot and mattress on each side of the door arranged for two lodgers. A couple of chairs, a wash stand, and a fractured mirror about the size of the Jack of Spades, constituted the sum total of the furniture. "My worthy descendant of Ethiop!" I exclaimed, "here is some mistake! Do you take a gentleman of my size and respectability into a room not larger than a closet? No fire either to warm my limbs in the chilly night air of these mountains? I will forthwith complain to the Prime Minister!"
"Lod masser," answered Syphax, or Juba or Jugurtha, (I forget his name) "complaining will do no more good than saying nothing at all. Take a nigger's advice and keep quiet—for you ought to remember, sir, that mass Calwell don't charge not a cent for board nor lodging."
"Thou son of old Sycorax!" I replied fiercely, "do you take me for a strolling mendicant? I will teach you and your master too, and his Grand Vizier to boot, that I expect to pay for my accommodations, and must therefore have them to my taste."
"You're a high larned gentleman," said old Cato, (I think Cato was the name) "but nigger speaks the truth for all that. Mass Calwell not charge a four pence ha'-penny for eating and sleeping, but he charge
eight dollars a week for use of de water
."
Notwithstanding that I was upon the verge of permitting the organ of my destructiveness to preponderate over that of my benevolence, I could not forbear smiling at the old negro's logic. "Eight dollars a week for water!" exclaimed I—"A fellow might drink his pint a day of the very best London particular for one half of that sum—Well, sir, we will try this precious elixir to-morrow morning. In the meantime, thou worthy descendant of Ham, I shall be inexpressibly obliged to you if you will lead me down to the drawing room, in order that I may warm these wearied and rheumatic limbs before retiring to rest."
"Drawing room, sir," said old Cato, "I believe there is no such thing in the whole establishment. If folks want warming here they must go to mass Plumb's bar room, which is way down in the cellar."
"Bar room, sir!—Bar room!" I retorted, "can it be possible that men, rational men, can abandon the Spring—nature's own sweet medicinal compound, for those deleterious mixtures—those pernicious products of the corrupt art of distillation?" I forgot however that Cato had not entered into all the elaborate views and recondite reasonings of the Temperance Society—and I forthwith checked the rein of my imagination. I found that the best that I could do under all circumstances, was to betake myself to rest, and although I must confess that I had descended some few rounds on that golden ladder, which like Jacob's of old, I verily believed had led to the seventh heaven,—I consoled myself with the hope that to-morrow—delightful to-morrow—would spread a new and brighter coloring over my prospects. Cato being dismissed, I retired and slept soundly for the space of two hours at least; at the expiration of which time, I was suddenly startled by a noise immediately underneath me, which to my classical fancy seemed to resemble the shrieks of the ancient Bacchæ, the Priestesses of the Vine-loving God. Let that however pass! There was a mixture of music in it, or of something intended for music, which kept me in a tolerable humor and smoothed over those porcupine points which began to shoot forth at the unpleasant disturbance to my repose. The mystery was soon solved. Cato by direction of the Prime Minister, had placed me directly over the ball room—a most confounded location to be sure for a man fond of sleep—but still I thought that every one was bound to make some sacrifice in order to promote the enjoyments of others. "Tired nature's sweet restorer," lulled me once more into oblivion as soon as the clamor and screeching (for music it was not) had somewhat subsided. Again had the leaden God touched me with his wand, and again were my slumbers invaded by the arrival of my fellow lodger at midnight. I began to descend a few more rounds on my golden ladder. I thought of Sancho's exclamation, "Blessed is the man who first invented sleep!"—but what, thought I, is the invention worth if a man cannot use it even in this free country.
Morning at last dawned—but oh! what a morning? The rain fell in torrents—and the wind came whistling down the mountain hollows as if old Æolus had resolved that his voice should be distinctly heard and his strength clearly understood. What was I to do? To walk abroad was impossible—so I even resolved to lay quietly ensconced in my cot, hard as it was, until my fellow lodger, who was one of the Saturnine breed, should take his departure, and the merry bell should invite me to breakfast. My naturally sweet temper had become a little soured at my various discomforts—but my appetite was keen, and I thought with the immortal dramatist, that "when the veins are unfilled, we are neither apt to give nor forgive." When the hour arrived, I hastened with the aid of umbrella and cloak to the banquetting hall. The crowd had assembled in the long portico awaiting the signal of admission. A few only of the fairer part of creation were interspersed, and they—were any thing but fair. I presumed that the more delicate and fragile of the sex would not encounter "the peltings of the pitiless storm." The doors being opened, the multitude rushed in. What a resistless force thought I, is caused by the concurrent movement of 400 human appetites about to engage at the breakfast table. It was a new discovery in mechanical philosophy, and I felt confident that the momentum was at least equal to a hundred horse power. "Body of Bacchus!" as the Italians say, what a furious set-on there was! I sat at one end of the table in silent consternation! At length I ventured to ask one waiter for a hot cup of coffee—of another I civilly requested a chop—and a third I respectfully solicited to hand me a roll. I might as well have addressed my language to the door post. The menials rushed by me like a whirlwind. It seems, as I afterwards learned, that every mother's son of them had been bribed to wait on particular gentlemen; and if I had screamed at them loud enough to rupture a blood vessel, the knaves would have been as deaf as adders. At length I addressed myself to a juvenile looking man who was sitting not far to my right, and who though young in years was evidently a veteran in that sublime science called Number One; for I perceived that by a good understanding with the members of the Kitchen Cabinet and the black Alguazils of the breakfasting room, he had gathered around him as many tit-bits as would have feasted a London Alderman. "Pray sir," said I, "will you be so kind as to help me to one of those extra dishes in your vicinity!" The youngster looked at me with perfect amazement. I might as well have asked him for one of his wisdom teeth! By the by, I am not certain that he had cut either of them,—at all events I was confident of one thing, and that was, that the youth had never graduated in good manners. So I let him pass. But why relate my melancholy and fruitless efforts and my innumerable rebuffs at the table. There I had to sit a full three quarters of an hour at least, before my longing appetite was appeased. Regaled it was not,—unless a cold mutton chop which retained the flavor of the wool, and a cup of decoction compounded by the rule of three grains of coffee to a gallon of water—can be said to constitute the highest felicity of eating.
I arose from the table and descended a few more rounds on my gilded ladder of hope. What was I to do? The rain continued to fall in such torrents that Neptune himself could not have surpassed them, had he held his throne in the clouds. Cato had informed me the over night that there was no drawing room—and I was cold—my limbs were shivering. I resolved to visit the subterranean regions of the bar room and post office. There, to my unutterable grief, I found groups of individuals gathered together in such motley disorder, and withal forming so complete a blockade to every avenue approaching the fire—that I stood like a statue of despair. A cluster on my right were discoursing in grandiloquent style on the recent discoveries in the moon—another on my left were discussing the attempted assassination of the King of the French—a third were denouncing the whole army of abolitionists and lamenting that Tappan and Thompson did not find it convenient to visit the White Sulphur Springs—a fourth were denouncing the vengeance of Judge Lynch against the Chevaliers D'Industrie—anglicè black legs,—a fifth were pouring a volley of exterminating epithets upon the head of Amos Kendall and the Little Magician; and a sixth, did not even spare his majesty King Calwell himself and his minister of the home department, for putting them in Fly Row to be devoured by those cantackerous1 vermin, the fleas. I forgot that there was a seventh circle standing near Mr. Plumb's cabinet—who were very intently engaged at the early hour of ten—not in discussing domestic or foreign politics—lunar discoveries or abolition—but with all the ardor which distinguished the disputants on those several topics, were trying experiments upon a quart glass of genuine ice-crowned mint julep; and judging from the rapid fall of the fluid in the vessel which contained it, I thought that their experiments were likely to prove very successful. Unhappy me, that I was unable to participate in any of these conversational or bibaceous enjoyments! "I will not despair," thought I to myself, as between the hours of eleven and twelve the elements had ceased their strife, and a few spots of azure were already visible in the clouded vault. Presently the monarch of day himself peeped out from behind the black curtain which had hidden his shining countenance. I looked out and saw multitudes hastening to the Spring. This, said I, is the grand climacteric of my happiness!—now will I revel in the joys of that ambrosial fount which will console me for the sorrows of disappointment. The statue of the Nymph Hygeia2 which surmounted the dome of the Spring house, looked more white and beautiful, as refreshed by the morning's shower bath she reflected the beams of her venerable grandsire.3 Down I went to the Spring—and whilst the throng which preceded me were eagerly quaffing the delicious beverage, I had leisure to survey their countenances and to gather materials for reflection. It was evident that upon the pallid cheeks of some, wasting consumption had fixed her fatal seal. Others bore the jaundiced and cadaverous marks of obstructed bile. A few were the hobbling victims of hereditary or acquired gout, and were either suffering for the sour grapes which their fathers devoured, or paying the penalties of their own luxurious indulgence. By far the greater portion however had the ruddy complexions and smiling countenances of health. "Wonderful elixir!" said I to myself—"incomparable panacea! which not only cures all diseases, but is even beneficial to health itself." I hastened to dip my glass in the flowing nectar, and realize my fond anticipations. Alas! alas! the saying of the wise man of Greece rushed upon my memory—"Desire nothing too much!" My dream of bliss was suddenly dispelled! Instead of nectar, I smelt and tasted a mixture of brimstone and eggs in a state of putrescency! What an extinguisher to my air-built hopes and delusive fancies! And is it for this, I exclaimed within myself, that hundreds and thousands toil up craggy precipices and swelter under August suns? Is it worth eight dollars per week to partake of this "villainous compound?" Must we sacrifice home and comfort, and real enjoyment, in order to sacrifice also to this heathen block4 which sits upon the top of the dome? Reason, prudence and common sense forbid it! I left the Spring with a degree of disappointment bordering upon despair! In the fulness of time the dinner bell tolled. It was indeed the knell of sorrow rather than the merry peal which invites to innocent enjoyment. Shall I describe that dinner?—no, not for a thousand dinners, "with all their appliances and means to boot;"
"I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Whom you all know are honorable men."
Neither will I describe what occurred "about the sixth hour when men sit down to that nourishment they call supper." I went to my apartment, all desolate and fireless as it was, to prepare for the Ball.
1 See Mr. Forsyth's Speech in the United States Senate.
2 The gift of Mr. Henderson, a wealthy gentleman of New Orleans.
3 Hygeia was the daughter of Æsculapius, and was granddaughter of Apollo or the Sun.
4 Mr. Henderson's White Lady was no doubt a liberal donation; but alas! it is nothing but a block of painted wood.
* * * * *
(To be continued.)
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
← Back to The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35