University of Virginia Library

LETTER TWO.

Dear Theodore—The tides of fashion, like those
of the sea, are constantly in motion: no sooner does
one wave recede than another advances; 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,
ever ready to

The hasty farewell is scarcely spoken, before the
“new arrival” engrosses all the attention; and your
mineral-water companion of yesterday vanishes
from your memory, to make room for some new
acquaintance of to-day, who, in his turn, is also
doomed to mingle with the misty recollections of
the past, and, in a brief period, to be forgotten forever.
Friendships formed here are fleeting and
evanescent. Excitement is the grand object of pursuit;
and how can people be so unreasonable as to
expect those to feel, who never have leisure to think?

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 Theodore, if you will
take a chair with me in the drawing-room, (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. Come, we
will say nothing to wound the feelings of any body;
for scandal, I am aware, is your abhorrence; yet
it is very fashionable at most watering-places, and
I have heard sufficient here to last me the rest of
my life-time.

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 all. 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 grown to be a man; but oh,
how altered! She was still single. — and she
had some misunderstanding, and he had gone to
England, and died there, I think — told me. I
never heard any further particulars. Still she was
much admired for her beauty, and beloved for her
gentleness; and, as she was 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 wordly-given
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.

“No American should wish to trace his ancestry
further back than the revolutionary war,” says
a recent writer. I admire this sentiment. 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 pride. The

first may be one of nature's noblemen, and the other a
poor creature, notwithstanding all his splendour; and
that this frequently happens, every day's experience
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 honour 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 have not 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 demeanour,
all bespeak it; and, to use the language of
Queen Elizabeth, are unto him “letters of recommendation
throughout the world.”

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 merchandise, he would have been conspicuous
among the most gifted of his countrymen. I heard
him deliver an address once, remarkable for the
beauty of its style and the soundness of its doctrines.
But this is a money-making land; and Mr. —,
like Halleck, Wetmore, Sprague, Strong 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 neighbourhood 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. 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 changrin 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 colours of the
rainbow—then arose from his seat, eyed his rebellious
valet 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, 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
to the man without a servant. This is intolerable.
I have heard of one or 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,

and the room is filling with beauties, belles and
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 stage-coaches, railroad-cars, and canalboats
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 basement-story,
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
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 in 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 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 favourite opera, and skipping once
or twice around the vacant beds, sat himself upon
the most commodious, with the exclamation, “Ah
ha! I find him—this is him—number ten, magnifique!
Now I shall get some leetle 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 leetle 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
leetle minute before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you shall get some of de champaign and
oystare 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 leetle 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.

“Confound that Frenchman!” growled a bluff 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 complaints, 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 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 pockets, 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 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 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 leetle sleeps nevare”
—bid us good-night, and slowly took his leave.