University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

“Were you not delighted with the wild and
mountainous scenery of the country around the
Virginia Springs?” said Victor Chevillere to Miss
St. Clair, on the morning after the scene related in
the last chapter, as the lady reclined, in a pensive
mood, in the room before described.

“Oh, sir, you forget that I was too feeble in mind
and body to enjoy the scenery around me then, or
to partake of the enthusiasm of my friends on the
subject. The rich and romantic scenery of the
White Sulphur was highly attractive to me, when
I became somewhat convalescent; yet I shall
carry with me through life a sad remembrance of
scenes, which to many others of my age and sex
will ever be associated with the gay dance, the enlivening
gallopade, the stirring music, and with
adventurous equestrian excursions among the
mountains.”

“I believe,” said Chevillere, “that the most melancholy
reflections may be and are much softened
and mellowed in after-life, by being associated in
the mind with the profoundly poetical feelings excited
by the constant view of quiet mountain
scenery; such as the well-remembered, long, long

line of blue peaks, stretching far away until they
reach the clouds and the horizon.”

“It is indeed true,” said she, “that kind and
beautiful nature, in the season of green leaves and
flowers, will sometimes almost tempt us to believe
that misery is not the inevitable lot of the human
family; but when the consciousness of the one and
the beauty of the other are together present to
us, it depends entirely upon the degree, whether
the beauty softens the suffering or not.”

“In other words,” said he, “whether the evil be
so irremediable that hope cannot enter the heart;
that the ravishing beauty of nature cannot excite
benevolence, devotion, and love.”

“That was not entirely my case,” said she, “for
I am grateful for having felt some pleasing excitement
at the time, and for being able now to call up
many pleasurable remembrances, clouded as they
are for the most part with sadness.”

“If I have been rightly informed, you did not
visit all the other springs around the White Sulphur.”

“My health would not permit of our making
the entire fashionable round.”

“Oh, then you have missed much pleasure,” said
he. “There are the Sweet Springs, rising out of
the earth like a boiling caldron, with brilliant little
balloons of gas ever ascending to the top of the
water, and bursting in the sunbeams. There is
not perhaps in the world such another natural
fountain of soda-water. And there is the Salt

Sulphur, with its high romantic hills covered with
herds, and its beautiful meadows, and its long village
of neat white cottages, and its splendid assembly-rooms,
and its sumptuous banquets of wild
game and artificial luxuries. But, above all, there
is the Warm Spring, with its clear blue crystal
baths, large enough for a troop of horse to swim
in; there, likewise, is an extensive green lawn,
flanked on the one side by the same kind of neat
white cottages, and on the other by the line of
blue mountains, rising abruptly from the plain
within gun-shot of the baths. On a clear moonlight
night, one may see the invalids sitting out on
the green in front of their doors, enjoying the placid
scenery of the valley, and the profound and solemn
monotony of the overhanging mountains,—
sometimes, indeed, interrupted by the bustle of a
new arrival, the neighing of horses, the crash of
the wheels, the hoarse voices of the coachmen as
they exchange advice upon the descent into the
valley, or by the meeting of old friends and fellow-invalids,
perhaps acquaintances of a former season,
and fellow-sufferers with the gout, bantering each
other upon their speed.”

“From what little I saw of them, I think they
perfectly justify the southern enthusiasm which we
found everywhere on the subject; and I should
think that there is no finer opportunity of seeing
southern fashionable society.”

“True; our wealthiest and most fashionable
people resort thither every season. Yet I cannot

say in truth, from what I have observed myself,
that our aristocracy are seen there to the best advantage.
They are too much in their holyday suit
of manners,—too artificial,—too unnatural. I
have seen people who were agreeable at home,
become affected and disagreeable at watering-places.
I have also seen some who were reserved
at home, become quite affable there. The latter
effect, however, was by no means so common as
the former.”

“I did not see much affectation, or many unnatural
people at the White Sulphur,” said the lady.

“I cannot say that it is one of the besetting sins
of the southern fashionables; all I meant to say
was, that they show more of it there than at
home.”

“For my own part, I was delighted with the
generous, free, and open-hearted manner in which
I was treated by the few female acquaintances I
made; and I am almost ashamed to acknowledge
that they were far more intelligent and accomplished
than my prejudices had taught me to
expect.”

“You acknowledge, then, that you had some
provincial prejudices. Let me see! then I must
take you regularly to account, and catechise you.”

“Well,” said the lady, as lightly as her habitual
sadness ever permitted, “I will answer truly.”

“I know you will speak truly whatever you do
answer; but will you speak the whole truth in answer
to whatever I shall ask?”

A sad and afflicted expression appeared upon
her countenance as she replied, “I need hardly
say to Mr. Chevillere, that those questions which
are proper for him to ask and for me to hear shall
be fully answered.”

“You do me but justice in supposing that I
would not discredit my new dignity, by propounding
questions which would lessen me in the eyes
of a fair witness; but, to tell you the truth, I seriously
meditated putting a few in addition to such
as were local, and perhaps in a more serious mood
than these might demand.”

“Proceed, sir, proceed,” said the lady, somewhat
perturbed; “I must reserve the right to answer or
not. No trifling impediment, however, shall prevent
me from gratifying your curiosity.”

“Would you consider it a great misfortune to
reside in the southern states?”

“Places and countries are to me nearly alike.”

“How so? You surely prefer your native land
to all others?”

“Unhappiness soon makes us indifferent to mere
locality; situated as I am, many would prefer new
scenes.”

“Does not affliction enlarge the heart, and
extend the affections?”

“I believe that slight sufferings make us captious
—great ones, humane and benevolent.”

“Is it a natural consequence, that, when benevolence
becomes universal, personal affections and
partialities wither in proportion?”

“Certainly not, as a consequence; but it is questionable
whether blighted hopes do not generally
precede the enlarged philanthropy spoken of.”

“May not much travelling and experience of the
world produce the same effect?”

“I cannot speak experimentally on that point;
but I think it is very probable they do upon a masculine
mind.”

As Chevillere was about to continue his half-serious,
half-jesting questions, Mr. Brumley abruptly
entered, and announced to his daughter-in-law
his determination to proceed northward early
on the following morning; and almost at the same
moment, old Cato, with his stately step, profound
bow, and cap in hand, presented a letter to his
master, which he instantly knew by the superscription
to be from Randolph. Presenting his regards
to them both, he retired to peruse the epistle,
which will be found in the next chapter.