University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The first requisite on arriving at either Ballston or
Saratoga, is to procure lodgings. In the choice of a
house, the traveller will do well to consult the newspapers,
to see if the landlord has a proper conception of
the art of puffing himself, without which, we affirm without
fear of contradiction, no man has any legitimate
claim to fashionable notoriety. A fellow who has not
interest to raise a puff, must be something more than a

swindler or a murderer. We are aware that certain
wiseacres, with less money than even wit, and less
knowledge of the world than a bookworm, have been
pleased on divers occasions to ridicule this system of
puffs and recommendations, as exclusively appertaining
to quackery in medicine. But let us tell them to their
teeth, that a system applicable to quack doctors, has
been found by actual experience, to answer just as well
for quack lawyers, quack parsons, quack politicians,
quack philosophers, quack poets, quack novelists, quack
publicans, and quacks of all sorts, sizes, dimensions,
qualities, appurtenances, and pretensions. “Let them
laugh that win,” said the renowned Pedagogus who
once compiled a book in which he made the unparalleled
and gigantic improvement of spelling words as they
are pronounced, instead of pronouncing them as they
are spelled. He got all the schoolmasters—we beg
pardon—principals of gymnasia, polytechnic, philotechnic,
chirographic, and adelphic academies, to recommend
his book, by selling it at a great discount.
Honest Thomas Dilworth forthwith hid his powdered
head, especially when in addition to this, upwards of
three hundred great politicians, who were ex-officio,
scholars and philosophers, recommended the book as a
most valuable work, distinctly marking the progress of
mind, and the astonishing strides of the gigantic spirit of
the age. All the rational people then living, of whom
however there were not above a hundred millions, laughed
most consumedly at the sage Pedagogus and his certificates;
but he only replied, “Let them laugh that
win.” The sage Pedagogus in the course of twenty
years, sold upwards of six million copies of his book,
and made his fortune. Which was the wiser, the sage
Pedagogus or the people that laughed at him?

Therefore it is we say again, and again, repeating it
three thousand times to all who will listen, go to the
house that has the greatest number of puffs to its back,
although it may, and doubtless does sometimes happen
that they are indited by some honest man of the quill,
who has settled his bill by bartering his praise for the
landlord's pudding.

2. CHAPTER II.
OF DRINKING THE WATERS.

There is no doubt in the opinions of those who have
observed the vast progress of the human mind, since the
discovery of the new planet Herschell, and the invention of
self-sharpening pencils, that the ancients laboured under
the disease of a constipated understanding. Else they
could never have differed as they did about the summum
bonum, or great good, holding at least three hundred
different opinions, some of which were inexpressibly
absurd; as for instance, that which pointed out the
practice of virtue as the only foundation of happiness.
But ever since the discovery of the new planet, and the
self-sharpening pencil, and above all, the invention of
the chess playing automaton, all rational animals, from
the philosopher to the learned pig, unite in pronouncing

a good appetite, with the wherewithal to satisfy it, to be
the real, and only summum bonum, the fountain of all
our knowledge, as well as the source of all substantial
happiness. How is it that the said pig is taught the
noble art of A, B, C, except through the medium of
his appetite? and what impels the animal man to the
exertion of his faculties, bodily and mental, but his appetite?
Necessity, says the old proverb, is the mother
of invention; and what is necessity, but hunger? The
vital importance of a good appetite, cannot be better
illustrated than by the following passage from the works
of M. Huet, bishop of Avranches, the most learned man
of his age, if not the most learned man of any age.
“Whenever,” says he, “I receive letters late in the
evening, or very near the time of dining, I lay them by
for another opportunity. Letters generally convey
more bad news than good; so that, on reading them
either at night or at noon, I am sure to spoil my appetite,
or my repose.”

It is doubtless in the pursuit of this summum bonum,
a good appetite, and the means of satisfying it, that
thousands of people flock to the springs, from all quarters.
It is for this they exchange the delight of making
money, for the honour of spending it; it is for this the
matron quits the comforts of her domestic circle, to
mingle in the crowd by day, and sleep at night, in a
room six feet by nine, opening on a passage where
the tread of human feet is never intermitted, from sunset
to sunrise—from sunrise to sunset. It is for this
the delicate and sensitive girl, musters her smiles, nurtures
her roses, and fills her bandboxes. It is for this the

snug citizen, who as he waxes rich, becomes poor in
appetite, and weak of digestion, opens his long accumulating
hoards, and exchanges the cherished maxims
of saving, for those of spending his money. It is for this
the beau reserves the last few hundreds that ought to go
to the paying of his tailor, determined to enjoy the delights
of eating, though the tailor starve, in spite of goose
and cabbage. In short, it is for this, and this alone, his
grace of York, of blessed memory, allowed to his cook,
the thrice renowned and immortal Monsieur Ude, twelve
hundred pounds sterling a year, of the money that ought
otherwise to have gone to the paying of his creditors,
to whom his grace bequeathed only the worst half of
the summum bonum, a good appetite, with nothing to eat.

Next to a good appetite for dinner, a keen relish for
breakfast, constitutes the happiness of our existence.
In order to attain to this the first requisite is to rise
early in the morning, and wait a couple of hours with
as much impatience as possible, drinking a glass of
Congress water about every ten minutes, and walking
briskly between each, till the walk is inevitably increased
to a trot, and the trot to a gallop, when the requisite
preliminaries of a good appetite for breakfast are consummated.
Philosophers and chymists have never yet
fairly accounted for this singular propensity to running,
produced by the waters, nor shall we attempt to solve
the difficulty. It is sufficient for us that the great good
is attained, in the acquisition of a good appetite for
breakfast. And here we will stop a moment to notice a
ridiculous calumny of certain people, who we suspect
prefer brandy and water to all the pure waters of the

springs: to wit, that it is the morning air and exercise
that produces this propensity to running, and the keen
appetite consequent upon it. The refutation of this
absurd notion is found, in the fact that the waters of
Ballston do not occasion people to run half as fast, and
that consequently they dont eat half as much as they do
at Saratoga. In truth, it is worth a man's while to go
there only to see people eat, particularly the amatory
philosophers, who maintain that some young ladies live
upon air; others upon the odour of roses; and others
upon the Waverley novels.

3. CHAPTER III.
OF EATING.

It is not necessary to be very particular on this head,
as the rules we have given in respect to the deportment
of the elegant tourist, in steam boats, will sufficiently
apply to the springs. We will merely observe that
great vigilance and celerity is necessary, in both places,
inasmuch as the viands have a habit of vanishing before
one can say Jack Robinson. One special rule, which
we cannot by any means omit mentioning, is, never to
stop to lose time in considering what you shall eat, or
to help your neighbours; if you do, you are a gone
man.

We remember to have seen a spruce John Bull, who

from his carrying a memorandum book, and making
frequent notes, was no doubt a forger of books of travels,
who, the first morning he attended breakfast at
Congress Hall, afforded us infinite diversion. He had
placed his affections most evidently on a jolly smoking
steak, that to say the honest truth, was the object of
our own secret devoirs, and stood leaning on the back
of a chair, directly opposite, waiting for that bell which
excels the music of the spheres, or of the veritable
Signorina, in the ears of a true amateur. At the first
tinkling of this delightful instrument, a nimble young
fellow, from the purlieus of the Arcade, with a body no
bigger than a wasp, slipped in between, took the chair,
and transferred a large half of the steak to his own
uses. The Signior John Bull looked awfully dignified,
but said nothing, and departed in search of another
steak, in a paroxysm of hunger. He had swallowed
eight tumblers of Congress that morning. In the
meanwhile he had lost the chance of getting any seat
at all, until he was accommodated at a side table,
where we detected him making several notes in his
memorandum book, which, without doubt, bore hard
upon the Yankees. It is astonishing how much the
tone of a traveller's book depends upon the tone of his
stomach. We once travelled in Italy with an English
book maker by trade, who occasionally read portions of
his lucubrations to us, and we always had occasion to
notice this singular connexion of the brain and the stemach.
If he got a good breakfast, he let the Italians
off quite easy; if his dinner was satisfactory, he grumbled
out a little praise; but if he got a good supper and
bed, he would actually overflow in a downright eulogium.
But wo to Italy if his breakfast was scanty—
his dinner indifferent—his supper wanting—and his
bed peopled with fleas. Ye powers! how he cut and
slashed away! The country was naught—the men all
thieves and beggars—the women no better than they
should be—the morals good for nothing—the religion
still worse—the monks a set of lazy dogs—and the
pope was sure to be classed with his old playmate, the
d—l! Of so much consequence is a good dinner to
the reputation of nations. It behooves, therefore, all
tavern keepers to bear in mind, that they have in trust
the honour of their country, and that they be careful to
stuff all travellers by profession, and all professors of
the noble art of puffing, with the good things of their
larders—to station a servant behind the back of each
of their chairs, with special orders to be particularly attentive—and
to give them the best beds in the house.
So shall their country flourish in immortal books of travels
and diurnals, and taverns multiply and prosper
evermore. There is no place in the world where this
rule of feeding people into good humour is more infallible
than at the springs, where the appetite becomes so
gloriously teasing and imperative, that it is credibly reported
in the annals of the bon ton, that a delicate
young lady did once eat up her beau, in a rural walk
before breakfast. Certain it is, the unfortunate young
gentleman was never heard of, and his bills at Congress
Hall, and at the tailors, remain unpaid even unto this
day.

The reader will please to have a little patience here,
while we stop to take a pinch of snuff before we commence
another chapter.

4. CHAPTER IV.
OF FASHIONABLE TOURNURE, AND THE BEHAVIOUR BECOMING
IN THE YOUNG LADIES AT THE SPRINGS.

1. Young ladies should never flirt very violently, except
with married men, or those engaged to be married,
because nobody will suspect they mean any harm in
these cases, and besides, the pleasure will be enhanced
by making their wives and mistresses tolerably unhappy.
Pleasure, without giving pain to somebody, is not
worth enjoying.

2. Young ladies should take special care of their
bishops. The loss of a bishop is dangerous in other
games besides chess.

3. Young ladies should take every occasion to indulge
to excess in drinking—we mean the waters—because
it is good for their complexions.

4. Young ladies should always sit down, whenever
they are tired of dancing, whether other ladies in the
set have had their turn or not; and they should never
sit down till they are tired, under the vulgar idea of
giving those a chance of dancing who have had none
before. It is the very height of tournure to pay not the

least attention to the feelings of other people—except
indeed they are of the first fashion.

5. If a young lady dont like the people standing opposite
to her in the dance, she ought to quit her place
and seek another, taking care to give the said people
such a look, as will explain her motive.

6. Young ladies should be careful to remember on all
occasions, that according to the most fashionable decisions,
it is the height of good breeding to be ill bred,
and that what used to be called politeness, is considered
by the best society as great a bore as the tunnel under
the Thames.

7. Young ladies should never forget that blushing is
a sign of guilt.

8. Young ladies, and indeed old ladies too, must always
bear in mind, that fine feathers make fine birds;
and that the more feathers they wear, the more they approximate
to high ton. It is of no sort of consequence,
according to the present mode, whether the
dress is proper for the occasion or not. A walking
dress ought to be as fine as one for an assembly, for
the peacock spreads his tail equally on the top of a hen
roost, as on the gate of a palace. The infallible rule
for dressing is, to get as much finery, and as many colours,
as possible, and put them all on at once. It
looks like economy to wear only a few ornaments at a
time, and of all things on the face of the earth, nothing
is so low, vulgar, and bourgeois, as economy. No
lady who utters the word, even in her sleep, can ever
aspire to tournure. We knew an unfortunate damsel,
who ruined herself for ever in good society, by being

overhead to say, she could not afford to buy a Cashmere.
She was unanimously left out of the circle
thenceforth and forevermore.

9. In going into a ball or supper room where there is
a great crowd, young ladies should not wait the motions
of the married ones, but push forward as vigorously as
possible in order to get a good place, and not mind a
little squeezing—it makes them look rosy. Nothing
on the face of the globe is so mortifying, as to be obliged
to take up with an out of the way seat at a supper
table, or the lower end of the room in a cotillion. We
have known ladies go into a decline in consequence.

10. Young ladies should always say they are engaged,
when asked to dance by a person they dont choose
to dance with. It is a pious fraud justified by the
emergency of the case.

11. In walking up and down the public drawing
room, it is always fashionable to keep up a bold front.
For this purpose it is advisable for five or six young
ladies to link arm in arm, and sweep the whole room.
If any body comes in the way, elbow them out without
ceremony, and laugh as loud as possible to show it is
all a joke.

12. Young ladies should be sure to laugh loud, and
talk loud in public, especially when they say an ill natured
thing about somebody within hearing, whom nobody
knows. Such people have no business at the
springs. Epsom salts is good enough for them. If
they must have Congress water, let them go to Lynch
& Clark's, and not bore good society.

13. Young ladies should dress as often, and in as

great a variety as possible. Besides passing away the
time, it sometimes achieves wonders. We have known
an obstinate undecided, undetermined hesitating, vacillating,
prevaricating beau, who had resisted all the
colours of the rainbow, at last brought to the ground,
by a philosophical, analytical, and antithetical disposition
of pink, yellow, green, white, black, blue, fawn,
Maria Louise, bronze, and brass coloured silks and
ribbons, that proved irresistible. As some fish are
only to be caught by particular baits, at certain seasons,
so some men are caught by particular colours. We
ourselves could never resist a flesh coloured gauze,
and silken hose of the same. Young ladies had much
better study the nature of these affinities, instead of
going to hear lectures on political economy, chymistry,
and anatomical dissections. The only part of a man
they have any concern with is the heart. Women are
like bees—because—. We will give a ball and supper
to the fortunate person, who shall solve this conundrum,
Why are women like bees?

14. Next to dress, which is, or ought to be, the first
object of a lady's care, is the management of the person,
for which the following directions will be found
highly useful. The first requisite to be graceful, is a
total departure from nature. What is the use of being
taught, if ladies do not exhibit the effects of teaching,
the whole object of which is to counteract the natural
vulgarity of nature? If nature gave them a grave or
pensive disposition, they must try and counteract it by
perpetual laughing. If she bestowed on them a playful,
animated mind, the whole object of attention should be

to appear sad, sorrowful, sentimental and sleepy. If
she gave them a light, airy, elastic step, all they have
to do is to creep softly along, with downcast look, and
silent, solemn inactivity. If on the contrary, she
vouchsafed them an outline like a dumpling, it is proper
and indispensable to dance, bounce, skip and curvet,
like an India rubber ball. In short, nature must be
counteracted in some way or other, and there is an end
of it. Without a little caprice, a little affectation, and
a great deal of fashionable nonsense, a young lady is
intolerable. Talk of nature, and sincerity, and singleness
of heart! A natural woman is no more fit for use
than a raw calf's head. She must be worked up with
the spices of fashion, or a refined man who has travelled,
will pronounce her entirely destitute of tournure.

15. The first requisite for a young lady, in walking,
riding, sitting, lolling, or dancing, is that she should do
it according to the fashion, whether it is set by an opera
dancer, or a person of high ton, who wishes to disguise
a deformity, and who does as she does, because she
cant do any better. If the said opera dancer, from the
mere force of habit, strides along, and lifts up her feet,
half a yard high, the young ladies must do the same. If
the aforesaid person of rank, walks with a wriggle, a
jerk, a stoop, or a lean on one side, or fiddles along with
the elbows and hips, without the aid of any other exertions;
if she does all this, because from some physical
incapacity she cannot do otherwise, still the young
ladies, by the laws of fashion, must do the same, and
creep, or wriggle, or jerk, or stoop, or walk cramp-sided,
or fiddle along with elbows and hips, as the law

directs. Whatever is fashionable is graceful, beautiful,
proper and genteel, let the grumbling and vulgar mob,
who affect to follow nature, say what they will. In
short, it is now a well established axiom, that the whole
tenour of a fashionable education ought to be to defeat
the vulgar propensities implanted by nature. To direct,
controul, or what is still more ridiculous, to facilitate
the expansion of natural beauties, qualities, or propensities,
is, to use a fashionable phrase just come out at
Almack's, “All in my eye, and Betty Martin.” It is
only the poets who make such a rout about following
nature, and the sincerity of their declarations may be
tested by the antithesis of their precepts, and their example.
Some one of these ranting, rhyming cavillers,
who is ashamed of his name, sometime ago bored the
English world with the following philippic against this
imitative quality, which is the distinguishing characteristic
of people of fashion, who on reading it, will no
doubt smile at the vulgar indignation of this Parvenue.
It is extracted with an alteration or two, to suit present
purposes, from an obscure poem, not long since published
in London, the name of which, if we remember right,
was “May Fair.”

Did ever mortal read such low stuff! It is almost as
vulgar and old fashioned as Juvenal. But this is not
the worst. Hear the villain!

We have given these extracts to show our fashionable
readers—and we despise all others—what human
nature in the form of a poet is capable of, as well as to
laugh at his presumption in finding fault with what constitutes
the charm of fashion—its uniformity. By its
magic influence on dress and demeanour, it reduces

grace and deformity, beauty and ugliness, youth and
age, activity and decrepitude, talent and stupidity, to a
perfect level. All are alike—all look alike, act alike,
talk alike, feel alike, think alike, and constitute as it
were one universal identity. “Can any mortal mixture
of earth's mould” compare with a fashionable lady
of the winter of 1828, except her fashionable cook or
chambermaid? Were not the latter, like Achilles, a
little vulnerable about the heel and ancle, this beautiful
symmetry of the whole sex would be complete. But
perfection is not to be looked for in this world—not
even in the world of fashion.

Next to the arts of dress and behaviour, the most
important thing to be studied, is the system of graduating
the thermometer of attention to the claims of the
beaux. This is a matter of no small difficulty, and requires
great tact, as the reviewers say. The following
general rules will be found useful, but long experience,
or frequent parental admonition, can alone perfect this
indispensable accomplishment.

First. Always proportion your attentions to the
claims of the gentleman who aspire to them. These
claims are of great variety. One man may claim consideration
from the tying of his neckcloth—another
from the cut of his coat—another from his accomplishments,
such as fiddling, dancing, talking English
French, or French English, or writing sleepy verses.
Others come forward with the appendage of a gig and
tandem, or a curricle—others with that of a full purse,
or great expectations—and others preposterously expect

consideration from the qualities of their heads and
hearts. These last deserve no mercy. The following
list is carefully graduated according to the latest discoveries
in the great science of bon ton.

Number one of the class of beaux, entitled to the
first consideration, consists of the thrice blessed who
are accommodated with full purses. These constitute
the first born of Egypt; they are the favourite offspring
of fortune, and carry with them a substitute for wit,
valour, and virtue in their pockets. They are entitled
to the first fruits of every prudent, well educated young
lady. Yet it is not actually incumbent on a young lady
to fall in love with them at first sight. If the fortunate
gentleman is worth fifty thousand, he is only entitled to
a gentle preference, a look and a smile occasionally.
If he is the meritorious possessor of a hundred thousand,
the preference must be demonstrated by double
the number of looks and smiles. Two hundred thousand
merit a downright penchant; three hundred thousand
justifies the lady in being very unhappy; and half
a million secures her pardon if she dies for love. N. B.
If it comes to this extremity, the mother is justified in
charging the half a million with practising upon the
young lady's affections, and insisting on his marrying
her.

Secondly. The next class of pretenders are, the
gentlemen who gain young ladies as the champions at
the Olympic games gained their triumphs, by virtue of
their horses. A single horse goes for little or nothing;
a gig and mounted servant is something, and the owner
somebody; a tandem and servant makes a distingué;

and the fortunate proprietor of a phaeton and four may
fairly enter the list with any man, except the half a million,
or the second cousin of an English lord.

Thirdly. There is a class of beaux, who justly
claim considerable consideration on the score of their
costume. Dress being that which above all things distinguishes
the man from the brute, it follows of course
that the best dressed man is the first man in the creation.
Accordingly, the more accurate modern philosophers
have reversed the definition of man given by
Plato, to wit: “A two legged animal without feathers”—and
substituted one much more applicable to
his present state. They define him as, “An animal
without legs, but with abundance of pantaloons—
stitched, pressed, corsetted—composition—regent's
cloth—maker—Scofield, Phelps, & Howard.” Well
dressed young men are therefore entitled to great consideration,
and if not of the first rank, assuredly claim
to come in immediately after the cavaliers and their
horses, provided always they can show a receipt from
the tailor.

Fourthly. Prize poets, players on the piano, anniversary
orators, and all that sort of thing, belong to the
class of minor distingués, and are entitled to the notice
of a fashionable young lady; for all fashionable
young ladies ought to wear at least one blue stocking.
They will answer, however, only for beaux in public
and en passant, unless they possess the sine qua non of
a husband. Never fall in love with them as you value
a coach, a Cashmere shawl, a soiree, or a three story
house, with folding doors and marble mantel pieces,

If indeed the poet could build four story fire proof
brick stores, or brokers' offices in Wall Street, as
easily as he does castles in the air, or the chymist
transmute lead into gold—or the piano hero erect
walls by the magic of fingers, like Orpheus—or the anniversary
orator coin bank notes as he does words—
then indeed they might be worthy the homage of the
ladies' eyes and hearts;—but as it is, they will do well
enough to swell her train.

Fifthly. But really it is hardly worth while to notice
such a miserable, obscure set of beings, who seem
born for nothing else but to be useful. We mean the
men who claim the attention of young ladies, on the
score of merit, and an amiable disposition; who are
not worth a plum—who drive no horses—derive their
being from no tailors—and who can neither write prize
poetry, turn lead into gold, fiddle sonatos, nor spout anniversaries.
We should like to know what such people
were made for. Fortunately, however, there are
now but few such nonentities; for it is not the fault of
dictionaries, catechisms, and compendiums, if every
man, woman, and child cannot know or do something
to make them distingué. If they can do nothing else,
they can write poetry, that shall be excellent rhyme,
however it may lack reason. Of the few nonentities,
of whom the best that can be said of them is, that they
aspire to be respectable—a word not to be found in the
catalogue of the distingué—still fewer are to be met at
the springs, where neither the air or waters agree with
them. They will much more likely be found attending
to their paltry business, storing their minds with the

lumber of antiquated knowledge, or enjoying the sleepy
sodorifics of a domestic fire side—from which good
Lord deliver us! If by any rare chance, one of these
singular monsters should appear at the springs, and
peradventure make a demonstration towards a young
lady aspiring to tournure, we would advise her to
laugh him to death at once. Such men form a sort of
icy atmosphere about a woman, in which dandies die,
and dandizettes feel irresistibly impelled into the vulgar
ranks of nature and propriety.

5. CHAPTER V.
ON THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR MARRIED LADIES AT
THE SPRINGS.

1. A well bred wife should never take her husband
to the springs unless she is afraid to leave him behind.
If he is a stupid, plodding blockhead, he had better stay
at home to make money while his wife is spending it.
But if on the contrary, he is a little gay, gallant and
frisky, she had better bring him with her, that she may
have him under her eye, and justify her own little flirtations
by his example.

2. In case they come together to the springs, they
should never be seen together while there, as it is considered
indecent.

3. Married women should always single out old

bachelors, whose whole business is to attend upon pretty
women as moth fly about candles, not to light a flame,
but to be consumed in one. Or in default of these,
they should select young dandies, who lack a little
fashionable impudence, if such can be found; or in the
last resort, the husbands of other ladies, who devote all
their attention, as in duty bound, to the wives of other
men. A married woman detected walking arm in arm
with her own lawfully begotten husband, might better
commit a faux pas at once—her reputation is irretrievably
gone.

4. Never take children with you to the springs.
Leave them to the care of old nurse, at home, under the
superintendence of Providence. They are perfect
bores; and besides, even the most gallant Lothario,
will hardly have a face to make love to a woman surrounded
by her children.

5. Married ladies should never sit next their husbands
at meals, as it might give rise to a suspicion that
they could not get any body else to sit by them. Besides,
the presence of a husband is sometimes a disagreeable
restraint on the bachelor beaux, and spoils
many a gallant speech.

6. Married ladies with grown up daughters, had better
pass for their step mothers, if possible; but if this is
not possible, they should take every opportunity to observe,
that they were very young when they married.

7. Married ladies should forget they are married as
much as possible. The idea of a husband coming
across the mind is apt to occasion low spirits, and put
an awkward restraint on the behaviour. It is said of

the planters of Louisiana, that if you only mention the
word cocoa in their hearing, they immediately grow
melancholy, and lose their spirits. In like manner we
have often seen the most vivacious gambols of a wife,
checked and spoiled by merely pronouncing the name
of her husband in a whisper.

8. Neither husband or wife ought to say an ill natured
thing to each other in public, without prefacing it
with my dear Mr. and my dear Mrs. In private it is
no matter.

9. They should be particularly careful not to throw
any thing at each other's heads at meal times; it is almost
as bad as to be seen kissing in public. This
accident however cannot occur, if due regard be paid
to the first and second rules.

10. The first object of a married lady at the springs,
is or ought to be, to be talked about. Whether it be
for any thing commendable or praiseworthy, is a matter
of not the least consequence. This sine qua non, may
be attained in various ways. By eccentricity in behaviour
or dress; by making a fool of herself, in attempting
to pass for a young woman; or by drinking
such enormous quantities of the water, that people perplex
themselves to death in knowing what becomes of
it all. The best and most infallible mode, however, of
attaining to the greatest of all possible pleasures, that of
notoriety, is to encourage the attentions of some gay
coxcomb, till all the world begins to talk about nothing
else. This is the true eclat, without which it is not
worth while to take the trouble of breathing in this
world.

11. Mothers should never take grown up daughters
to the springs; it makes them look so old.

12. There is however one exception to the foregoing
rule: namely, when they wish to settle a young lady in
life. In that case, they ought to be careful of seven
things, to wit,

To make them leave their hearts at home, lest they
should give them away to young squires, who cant pay
value received.

To make them leave their feminine timidity, miscalled
modesty, at home; otherwise, they may not have
the face to make what is called at Almack's, “a dead
set” at the proper object.

To be sure to tell every body in the most solemn
manner, not more than twenty times a day, how fond
Miss Angelina, or Miss Adeline is of retirement, and
how backward in showing off her accomplishments in
public.

To ascertain the weight of a young gentleman's
purse, or at least that of his papa, before the young
lady's heart is in danger. This is sometimes rather a
difficult matter, as it is not uncommon now a days, for
gentlemen to make a vast figure with other people's
money. A copy of the will of the old gentleman is the
best security for a matrimonial speculation. But even
this is not infallible, for we ourselves once had a large
landed estate left us, by an old bachelor who had feasted
in our house for twenty years, which turned out to belong
to another person.

Never to lose an opportunity while condescending to
accept the arm of the selected Adonis, in a promenade

around the drawing or dancing room, to repeat all the
flattering things the young lady has not said in his praise.
Where one man, aye, or one woman, is taken by the
heart, a thousand are taken by this bait. We speak
from long experience, having never yet been able to
resist any woman who admired us, even though she
might not have been handsome enough to make a song
about.

If the mother of a young lady at the springs, has a
hard character to deal with in her daughter, that is, one
who cherishes certain pernicious and disobedient notions
about loving, respecting, or most of all, obeying a
husband, and prefers love to money, we know of no
more infallible way of curing this romantic folly, than to
point out to her notice, as many couple as fall under
observation, as possible, who have made love matches.
Ten to one but the contemplation of these will satisfy
the young lady, that money wears better than love.

Lastly, to consider merit, talents, amiability, and an
attractive person and manner, as dust in the balance,
worse than a woollen stocking on a handsome leg,
when put in comparison with money. Money not only
makes the mare go, but sets the horses to the coach,
and what is the climax of human bliss, secures the first
choice from a consignment of cast off bonnets of a
female opera dancer, to the happy lady who dont mind
how much she pays for it.

6. CHAPTER VI.
OF MARRIED MEN, AND THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR
THEM AT THE SPRINGS.

1. A married gentleman must never take an ugly wife
to the springs, lest he should have to wait upon her
himself; nor a handsome one, lest she should be too
much waited on by others. But if, as we are informed
is sometimes the case, the lady's health absolutely requires
it, and there is no help, the laws of fashion peremptorily
prescribe to the husband a total oblivion of
his wife, in all public places, where she must be left to
the exercise of her own powers of attraction upon
other men, for obtaining the attentions necessary to her
comfort and happiness. If she is handsome, she will
be sure of these; if she is easy of access, and free
from all vulgar airs of prudery, she will stand a fair
chance of coming in for a due share; if she is neither
one or the other, the Lord have mercy upon her—she
must fain take up with some forlorn bachelor in his
grand climacteric.

2. Married gentlemen would do well to keep their
marriage secret as long as possible, were it not for the
great advantage it gives them in flirting with the young
ladies.

3. Married gentlemen should be particular in reserving
all their good humour and spirits for public
use. As to their private deportment, that is of no consequence,
provided they have a discreet wife, who is

content to be a little miserable, provided every body
thinks her the happiest woman in the world.

4. Married men should never forget, that it is better
to be blamed for neglect and unkindness to their wives,
than to be quizzed for their attentions to them. It is
better to rob a church, than to be laughed at by people
of fashion. We have known several persons of great
sensibility who actually died of it.

5. It has been asserted by certain cynics and blockheads,
that old married men who live in the country, and
who have young, gay and handsome wives, had better
take them to Niagara, Montreal, Quebec, or—home, than
to the springs. Ballston and Saratoga, say they, are
great places for scandal, and it is not absolutely out of
nature, for a lady to gain her health and lose her reputation,
at one or other of these places. We hold these
cautions in utter and prodigious contempt, maintaining
in the very teeth of such heteroxy in fashion, that an
elderly gentleman, with a young, gay, frisky, handsome
wife, cannot do half so well as to take her every season
to the springs. There she will be in her proper
sphere—admired, followed, and caressed; and there,
if there be any virtue in the waters, she will be in a
good humour with her husband, if it be only to repay
him for the admiration of other men. There, if any
where in the world, he will enjoy domestic felicity, and
taste of that peace which surpasseth the understanding
of all vulgar husbands. He ought to go as early, and
stay as long, as there is a sufficiency of admirers to
keep his wife in good humour, for ten to one—and we
confess it, such is the insufficiency of all sublunary

means of happiness—that when they return to the quiet
enjoyment of domestic bliss, in their solitary home, the
recollection of past happiness may poison the enjoyment
of the present, and smiles be turned to desperate
frowns. For this, however, there is a sovereign remedy—a
journey to town, and lodgings at a fashionable
hotel.

6. If their wives cannot be happy at home, husbands
are bound to find them amusement abroad, in like manner
as they are bound to find them attendants, when
they dont choose to act the part of cavalier serventé
themselves.

7. As it is a received and inflexible law of the beau
monde here, to imitate all foreign fashions, as a matter
of course, we suggest to the fashionables who constitute
good society, to mince matters no longer, and not
stand shilly-shally, like a horse with his fore feet in the
water, and his hind feet out. We would have them do
exactly as the most elegant and fashionable models of
Europe do—marry for money or rank; for as to love,
that can be got any where. Secondly. To consider
marriage not as tying them up, but letting them loose.
Thirdly. To purchase their matrimonial freedom, by
mutually conceding to each other the right of self government
in all matters whatever, except the enormity
of being out of fashion. It is utterly inconceivable by
those who have not had the advantage of a European
tour, and seeing people of the highest rank—in their carriages
or at the theatres—it is utterly inconceivable how
this mutual freedom conduces to the happiness of domestic
life. But as example is said to be better than

precept, we will record an instance that came under our
observation, for the benefit of our fashionable readers,
craving only leave to omit the real names.

Honorious and Honoria married for love: it was the
fashion then—or it was the fashion for people to persuade
themselves they did so. The husband was a
first rate man of fashion; for he dined well, drove a
handsome carriage, gave parties, and lived in a three
story house, with folding doors and marble mantel
pieces; and the wife was indubitably a fashionable
lady; for she had a fashionable milliner, a fashionable
air, a fashionable coach, a fashionable acquaintance,
could not exist without silver forks, and her family was
of the first respectability—for it could show more bankrupts
than any in town. According to the most approved
fashion, Honorious gave punch, and Honoria
saw company, in the first style, with eight grooms and
groomesses of the first fashion; one of the former was
a foreigner of great distinction—for he could play the
piano divinely, and was third cousin to a principal tenant
of an English prince of the blood—no, we
mistake—to an English duke—the princes of the
blood in England having no land to plague themselves
with.

After seeing company, they moved into Broadway,
or Hudson Square—it matters not—into a three story
house, with folding doors and marble mantel pieces,
and for a time were as happy as the day is long, for the
whole town visited them, and admired the folding doors,
the marble mantel pieces, the carpets, and the damask

curtains of eight different colours. But alas! the
chase of happiness is nothing but the little boy running
after the rainbow, and falling into a ditch, unless people
set out at first in the right path. The twenty-ninth evening
after marriage, Honorious was detected in a yawn
at the fireside—for Honoria had insisted, before marriage,
that they should give up the world, and live to
themselves in the pure enjoyment of quiet domestic
bliss. A yawn per se is nothing; but with certain combinations
and associations, it becomes extremely formidable.
Honoria was unfortunately sufficiently awake
to see it, and it went nigh to break her heart. But as
she was too proud to show her real feelings, she only
exclaimed a little sharply: “Lord, my dear—I wish
you would leave off that practice of yawning, and showing
off those great black teeth in the back part of your
head.” Honorious had well nigh jumped out of his
skin at this speech, so wanting in tournure, and had
some trouble to answer mildly, that “Really he was so
stultified with want of exercise and variety, that he was
grown quite stupid.” “You had better say at once you
are tired of my company,” cried Honoria, bursting into
tears. Honorious assured her that he was not tired of
her company—that he never was tired of her company
—that he never would be tired of her company—and—
here he was stopt by another yawn, that was absolutely
irresistible.

That night neither party slept a wink, for the last
yawn was followed by a keen encounter of wits, that
ended in what might be called a matrimonial segregation.
However, people must be very bad tempered, if

they can remain long on ill terms with their nearest connexions.
A reconciliation soon took place, and Honorius,
to prove that he never was, and never would be
tired of his wife's company, staid at home all day, and
all the evening, although his health suffered materially
in the direful struggles to repress those violent impulses
towards yawning which sometimes beset the animal
man when he has nothing to say and nothing to think
about. Too much fat puts out the candle, and too much
of a good thing is good for nothing. Tedium is the
mother of ill nature, and testiness the offspring of ennui.
Honorius did not go out, and consequently brought
home no news, no topics of every day chit-chat—no
food for raillery, laughter, or ridicule, and thereupon
it actually came to pass, that our young and faithful
couple, actually sometimes came to want topics of conversation,
and took to disputing and contradicting,
merely to pass the time.

Peu a peu—by those imperceptible snails paces,
which so often lead from passion to indifference, from
indifference to dislike, from dislike to antipathy, the
good Honorius, who was a well dispositioned man, and
the amiable Honoria, who was really a reasonable
woman, as times go, came at length, to quarrel once,
twice, yea thrice a day; nay oftener, for being always
at home, they were continually coming in contact, and
when people have no other topics, they generally fall
out with each other. It is indeed quite indispensable
that we should have certain out door acquaintance to
criticise, for the security of peace within doors. This
is considered by some sensible people, as the principal

use of intimate friends. In short, Honorius found fault
with Honoria, and Honoria found fault with Honorius
even when they were both as free from blame as their
little infants. They fell out about the children—they
fell out about the servants, the inside of the house and
the outside of the house, the stars, the planets, the
twelve signs, and the weather, which never suited both
at a time. In short, they fell out about every thing,
and they fell out about nothing.

At length, after a severe brush, Honorius in a fit of
desperation, one day took his hat and actually sallied
forth into the places where merchants most do congregate.
There he heard the news of the day, the ups and
downs of life, the whys and the wherefores, the fires and
the murders, the marriages and the divorces, and all the
little items of the every day drama of the busy world.
He did not come home till dinner time, and Honoria
received him with the like kindness, as if he were come
off a long journey. They sat down to dinner, and she
asked him the news. He told her all he had heard, and
the dinner passed off without a single quarrel, although
we are obliged to confess Honoria once threw the
gauntlet, by finding fault with his spilling the gravy on
a clean damask table cloth.

In the evening, however, there was another desperate
duet of yawning in andante, succeeded by a quick measure
of altercation. Honorius took his hat once again,
and went to the play, whence he did not return till past
twelve; for what with horses, dogs, and devils, men made
by nature's journeymen, spectacles, singing, dancing,

tumbling, and the like, people now certainly get the
worth of their money at the play, in quantity if not in
quality. Poor Honoria was so alarmed at his long absence,
that she thought he had drowned himself in a fit
of desperation, and was so glad to see him that she forgot
to ask him where he had been, till the next morning
at breakfast. He told all about the horses, the dancers,
the devils, the flying Dutchman, the flying Indians, the
glums and the gawrs, and the machinery and the
pasteboard, till she laughed herself almost to death, and
accused him of having been at a puppet show. The
breakfast went off charmingly, although Honorius broke
a China tea cup belonging to a set that cost five hundred
dollars, and Honoria put twice as much milk in
his coffee as he liked.

By degrees this habit of going out increased upon
Honorius to such a degree, that he at length got to the
other extreme, and Honoria was often left day after day,
evening after evening, in loneliness and solitude; for her
children were yet too young for companions. She quarrelled
a little with Honorius about it, who coolly answered,
“My dear, why dont you go out too? nobody hinders
you.” “Where shall I go—we have completely got
out of society by visiting nobody.” “O give a rout;
I warrant you'll have company enough, every body will
be your acquaintance.” It was decided; a rout was
given and every body came. This of course entitled
them to invitations from every body, and instead of
spending every day and evening at home, they now
spent every day and evening abroad. This again produced
that desperate monotony, which whether of company

or solitude, excitement or stupidity, is equally
tedious and unsatisfactory in the end. They begun to
dispute their way regularly to and from parties, and
matters became worse than ever. Honorius was too
polite to certain ladies whom Honoria particularly
hated; and Honoria was too free with certain gentlemen
Honorius particularly despised.

“Alas!” said Honorius one day to himself, “is there
no peace to be found in this world!” And Honoria
repeated the same exclamation to herself just at the
same moment. A sudden ray of light broke in upon
Honorius, as if in response to this pathetic appeal. If
we cannot be happy together, is it not possible to be
happy asunder? Honorius went out by himself the
very next night, the night after, and the night after that.
Honoria could hold out no longer, and reproached him
bitterly. “My dear,” answered Honorius, mildly,
“why cant you go out by yourself too?” The carriage
was ordered on the instant by Honoria, who went to
one party, and Honorius went in a hack to another.
They both passed such a delightful evening, that they
repeated the experiment again, and again. Each succeeded
better and better, and the arrangement has subsisted
ever since. Honorius is out all day, and when
he happens to be at home at night, Honoria is out at a
party, or to the play. In the winter they are never seen
together, except by accident, at a public place, when
you would take them for perfect strangers. In the summer
she goes to the springs, he to Long Branch; the
children are left at home with the nurses, to preserve
peace and quiet in the family abroad. Honoria never

gets up to breakfast with Honorius, and Honorius never
is at home to dine with Honoria. She is at a ball till
two in the morning; he at the faro table all night.
They never meet—they never quarrel. Honoria is the
delight of fashionable gentlemen; Honorius of fashionable
ladies, who all envy Honoria the possession of such
an agreeable, witty, polite husband. In short, they have
found the grand secret of preserving domestic peace and
tranquillity at home—by never meeting there.

7. CHAPTER VII.
OF THE EXQUISITES, AND THE WHOLE DUTY OF MAN AT
THE SPRINGS.

Happy the man who is born with whiskers, for he
will not be under the necessity of buying a goodly pair,
without which it is impossible to live. As the May Fair
poet we have quoted heretofore with reprobation, most
insolently sings:—

Rule 1. Next to whiskers, dress is all important to
the success of a young gentleman, at all places, especially
at the springs. Not manners, but the tailor
makes the man in the present improved state of the
world, and nothing is more certain than that success in
life mainly depends on the cut of the coat, the exuberance
of the whiskers, and above all the tie of the
cravat. We know several young fellows, who have
carried off heiresses, solely by virtue of superior excellence
in this last indispensable requisite.

2. Be sure you pay no attention to that musty old
saw, about cutting your coat according to your cloth,
except it be to reverse the ignoble maxim by cutting
it directly the contrary. N. B. For the cut of your coat,
and for the most approved attitudes, see the figures in
the windows of the men mercers and man milliners in
Broadway.

3. Never get any article of dress from a cheap tailor,
for he will be sure to make you pay for it; whereas a
real fashionable, expensive tailor, always charges his
good customers in advance, to pay for his bad ones;
for it would ruin him irretrievably, and frighten half his
customers to the uttermost ends of the town, were he to
be guilty of the ill manners of sueing one of them. He
must never do this till he is about leaving off business.

4. Never stop to inquire whether you want a new
coat, or whether you can pay for it. If the tailor trusts
you, good—it is at his own risk, and if you dont pay

him, somebody else must, after the manner hinted at in
the preceding rule.

5. If you happen to see a wretch coming down the
street, to whom you have been indebted three or four
years, you have only to stop short, consider a moment,
then turn suddenly around and trot off in a contrary
direction. People will take it for granted you have
forgot something.

6. Never pay any debts if you can help it, but debts
of honour: such as tavern bills, and generally all bills
for superfluities. By the law of nature, man has a
claim on society for the necessaries of life, and therefore
is not bound to pay for them.

7. Never be deterred from going to the springs by
any sordid motives of economy. All that is necessary
is to pay your way till you get there. Once there, you
have only to play at cards, pocket your winnings and
pay none of your losings, and it will go hard if you dont
create a fund for indispensable necessaries. Failing in
this, you have only to tell mine host, that you have been
disappointed in remittances, and are going to Albany or
New York to see about them. Never mind his blank
looks, he wont dare to arrest you, for fear of losing one
half of his lodgers, who would not fail to resent such an
unfashionable procedure, not knowing how soon their
turn might come, if such unheard of enormities were
tolerated in fashionable society.

8. Never pay any attention to the ladies, and they
will be sure to pay attention to you; that is, if you have
plenty of whiskers, plenty of cravats, and know how to
tie them; plenty of coats, a curricle or gig and tandem,

and look grim. N. B. Heiresses are excepted; they
expect to be sought after.

9. It is needless to caution you to avoid the desperate
imprudence of falling in love with a lady who is
poor in every thing except merit. Nobody commits
such a folly now a days, especially since the vast improvement
in taste, and the prodigious advances made
by the spirit of the age. Formerly, in the days of outer
darkness, “when Adam delv'd and Eve span,” poor
people might marry without coming upon the parish.
But it would be the extreme climax of folly to do it
now, when it is impossible to fit out a wife of the least
pretensions for a walk in Broadway, under a sum, that
in those miserable days of delving and spinning, would
have purchased independence for life. Since the age
of paper money, brokering, speculating, and breaking,
and ever since the great encouragement of “domestic
industry,” women of decency, never spin any thing
but “street yarn,” a fashionable article, which has all
the fashionable requisites to recommend it, being entirely
useless. What would be the fate of an unfortunate
youth, who is without a penny, and without the
means or arts to gain one, who should marry a fashionable
young lady, who possesses but one single art, that of
spending thousands? How would he get a three story
house with folding doors and marble mantel pieces?
how would he obtain the means of purchasing hats at
fifty dollars—pelisses at a hundred—veils at twice as
much—and shawls at ten times? How would he be
able to keep a carriage, give parties, and drink Bingham,
or Nabob, or Billy Ludlow? Without these

things what man or woman in their senses will marry?
And then the children! How are they to be furnished
with artificial curls, and necklaces, and bracelets, and ear-rings,
and pink hats of immeasurable size, and pelisses,
and silken hose, and ruffles, and laces, and made to look
like Lilliputian ladies? How are they to be taught the
art of arts, the art worth all the arts, the indispensable
art of spending money, unless there is money to spend?
We know of but one way, and that is by running in
debt, and getting white washed. This cant be done
above eight or ten times, without people beginning to
grow shy of trusting you for any sum that will make it
worth while to go into the limits. It is however hoped
that the wishes of the philanthropists will soon be realized,
by the passage of a law to do away with this inhuman
necessity, and that the time is not far distant when
the march of mind and the spirit of the age, will lead to
the consummation of all things, when people may indulge
in all the luxuries of life without money, and run
in debt without the disagreeable alternative of paying, or
going into retirement. Then every body will be rich—
then every body can live in a three story house with folding
doors and marble mantel pieces, give parties, live luxuriously,
get the dyspepsia as well as messieurs the
brokers, run in debt without the necessity of running
away, get married, be happy, and dress their little girls
for a walk in Broadway as fine as a fiddle! Until then,
however, we repeat our caution not to marry any body
that labours even under the suspicion of being poor,
the worst of all possible suspicions for a young lady;
it is enough to ruin her reputation past all recovery.
Until then, the young gentlemen must be content with
looking all the horrors of bachelorism in the face; and
the young ladies riot in the anticipations of single blessedness,
which melancholy as it may be, is better than
living in a house without folding doors and marble
mantel pieces, and giving no balls. While the old gentleman
lives, he must work, and shave, and speculate,
and turn his pennies ten times a day, to keep the young
ladies in the costume becoming the march of mind and
the spirit of the age; and when he fails, or dies, they
must trust to providence and the orphan societies.
There is but one remedy for all this, but it is ten times
worse than the disease—economy. As it is, bachelors
will multiply prodigiously, marrying for love will go out
of fashion, and there will not be a sufficiency of apes in
all Africa, to supply the place of the dandies of this life,
in the life to come.

10. After singling out the lady who possesses the
sine qua non—to wit, not less than a hundred thousand,
it behooves the young gentleman to be particularly attentive
to the—mother—if the young lady unfortunately
has one at the springs. Daughters are all so dutiful,
that they never reject the recommendation of their parents
in cases of this kind, especially if they threaten to
disinherit them. He must be always on the alert; dip
her water, offer his arm, sit next her at table, run
down all the rest of the married ladies, praise the
daughter for looking so like the mother, perfume his
whiskers, and take every opportunity of looking at the
young lady tenderly, playing with his watch chain, if he
has one, or in default, fiddling with his cravat, at the

same time; there is nothing like suiting the action to
the look. He must be pensive, abstracted, and distracted;
affect solitude, and drink enormously—we
mean of the waters. He must wander in the woods,
lose his appetite in public and make it up in private,
bite his thumbs, chew his lips, knit his eye brows, and
grow as pale as he possibly can. Should all this fail,
if he can afford it, he must give a ball, or a collation, or
a party on the lake, and upset the boat, on purpose to
have an opportunity of saving the lady's life. But if even
all these fail, he must resort to the desperate expedient
of the hero who gave name to the famous rock, of
eternal memory, near Ballston, known, and ever to
be known, by the appellation of the Lover's Rock.
The story is as follows, on the best possible authority.

A young gentleman of good family, who could look
back at least two generations without tracing his pedigree
to a cobbler, or a shaver—we dont mean a barber—
but whose fortune was in an inverse ratio to his birth,
having the good luck to raise the wind by a timely hit,
visited the springs in a gig and tandem. He had received
the best education the country could afford;
that is, he had learned enough Greek, and Latin, and
natural philosophy, and mathematics, to forget it all in a
year after leaving college. He had learned a profession
which he did not practise, and he practised many
things which he did not learn from his profession. He
had a vast many wants without the means of supplying
them, and professed as lofty a contempt for all useful
occupations, as if he had been rich enough to pass for
a fool. He was always well dressed, well mounted,

and well received on the score of these recommendations,
added to that of his ancient descent; for as we
said before, he could trace back to a great grandfather,
whom nobody knew any thing about, so nobody could
deny his having been a gentleman. Nothing is so
great a demonstration of ancient descent, as the utter
obscurity of the origin of a family.

Be this as it may, our hero was excessively fond of
style, good living, and gentlemanly indulgencies of all
sorts; but his taste was cramped by the want of the
one thing needful. 'Tis true, he got credit sometimes;
but his genius was consequently rebuked by frequent
dunnings of certain importunate people, who had the
impudence to want their money sometimes. If it were
not for this, living upon credit would be the happiest
of all possible modes of life, except that of a beggar,
which we consider surpassingly superlative. Beggars
are the true gentlemen commoners of the earth; they
form the only privileged order, the real aristocracy of
the land—they pay no taxes—obey no laws—they toil
not, neither do they spin—they eat when they are not
hungry, and drink when they are not dry—they neither
serve as jurymen, firemen, or militiamen—nor do they
work on the highways—they have neither country to
serve, or family to maintain—they are not obliged to
wash their hands and faces, or comb their hair every
morning—they fear nothing but the poor house—love
nothing so well as lying, except drinking—and eat what
they please in Lent:—In short, as the Old Song says:

Truly it is a noble vocation; and nothing can afford a
clearer proof of the march of mind and the improved
spirit of the age, than the multiplication and daily increase
of this wise commonwealth of beggars, who
have the good sense to know the difference between
living by the sweat of their own brows, and that of
other people. Next to the wisdom of begging, is that
of borrowing—or, as the cant phrase is, living upon
tick.

The outward man of our hero was well to look at,
especially as it was always clothed in the habiliments of
fashion. He was tall, straight, stiff, and stately; his
head resembled the classical model of a mopstick; and
his whiskers would have delighted the good Lady Baussiere.
The ladies approved of him; and if he had only
been able to achieve a three story house in Hudson
Square or Broadway, with mahogany folding doors and
marble mantel pieces, together with certain accompaniments
of mirrors, sofas, pier tables, carpets, &c. it was
the general opinion, that he might have carried a first
rate belle. But alas! without these, what is man?
Our hero felt this at every step, and his spirit rose manfully
against the injustice of the world. At one time,
he had actually resolved to set down to his profession,
and by persevering attention, amass a fortune that
would supply the place of all the cardinal virtues. But

alas! the seductions of Broadway, and the soirées, and
the sweet pretty belles, with their big bonnets and bishops—there
was no resisting them; and our hero abandoned
his profession in despair. Finding he could not
resist the allurements of pleasure, he resolved within
himself to kill two birds with one stone as it were—
that is, to join profit and pleasure—and while he was
sporting the butterfly in Broadway, to have an eye to
securing the main chance—a rich wife—at the same
time.

In pursuance of this gallant resolution, he made demonstrations
towards every real or reputed heiress that
fell in his way. Every Jack has his Gill—if one wont,
another will—what's one man's meat, is another man's
poison—there is no accounting for tastes—and he who
never gets tired will come to the end of his journey at
last—quoth our hero, and continued to persevere in the
midst of eternal disappointments. He might have succeeded
in some instances, but for the eternal vigilance
of the mamas, who justly thought, that having brought up
their daughters to nothing but spending money, the least
they could do was to provide them with rich husbands.
Either the pursuit itself, or the frequent failures of our
hero in running down his game, began to lower him in
the estimation of the world—that is, the little world in
which he flourished. Success only can sanctify any
undertaking; and a successful highwayman, or prosperous
rogue, is often more admired than an unlucky
dog who has nothing but his blundering honesty to recommend
him. Besides, there is, we know not for what
reason, a prejudice against gentlemen who pursue fortune

in the shape of a young lady of a hundred thousand—charms,—we
mean dollars. Men labour their
fortunes in various ways; some by handicraft trades—
some by shaving beards, and some by shaving notes—
some by long voyages by sea, and others by long perilous
journeys by land. They spend the best part of
their lives in these pursuits, and at last, when worn with
care, hardships, and anxieties, they sit down in their old
age, to nourish their infirmities and pamper their appetites
with luxuries, that carry death in their train. Now
we would ask, is it not better to carry fortune by a coup
de main, and achieve an heiress off-hand, than to chase
her all our lives, and only be in at our own death, instead
of the death of our game? The prejudice
against fortune hunters, as they are called, is therefore
unjust; and we advise all young fellows of spirit to
hunt away bravely, rather than drudge through the desperate,
long, lingering avenues of a profession.

Be this as it may, our hero began to be held rather
cheap by the young ladies, who used to compare notes,
and find out that he had made the same demonstrations
towards some score or two of them. It is observed by
deep philosophers, that the last thing a man or woman
will pardon in others, is the fault of which they are
most guilty themselves. All these pretty belle-butterflies
had flirted with divers young men, and intended to
do it again; but they were exceedingly indignant at our
hero, and turned their backs—no, their bishops—to him
on all public occasions. Some ignoble spirits would
have turned, in grovelling despair, to a profession, and
quit forever the pursuit of these fatal beauties. But

our hero was not the man to despair. He mustered all
his credit, and made a dead and successful set at his
tailor, who furnished him with two full suits, the price of
which he apportioned equally among his punctual customers,
who, he justly thought, ought to pay something
for being in good credit. He blew a desperate blast,
and raised the wind for a gig and tandem, which he obtained
by means which have puzzled us more than any
phenomenon we ever witnessed in all our lives. He did
all this, and he triumphantly departed for the springs,
where the quo ad hoc hook catches many an inexperienced
belle and beau, and where the pretty rice-fed
damsels of the south do congregate, whose empire extends
not only over the whole region of beauty, but
likewise over divers plantations of cotton, and divers
scores of gentlemen, both of colour and no colour.

The arrival of our hero at the springs occasioned
quite a sensation. The young ladies inquired who he
was, and their mammas what he was worth. The answer
to this latter question was by no means satisfactory;
although nothing absolutely certain could be gathered
for some time, as to the precise state of his finances.
Meanwhile he singled out a daughter of the sun, of
whom fame reported that she was heiress to a great
dismal swamp of rice, and plantations of cotton, and
feudal lady over hundreds of serfs, who bowed to her
sway with absolute devotion. Our hero baited the quo
ad hoc hook, and angled for the fair lady of the rice
swamp, with more than the patience of a professor of
what Isaac Walton calls the “gentle craft.” The
young lady was quite unknowing in the ways of the

bon ton. She had been bred up in the country, where
she studied romance in books of religion, and religion
in books of romance. She had never run the gauntlet
through a phalanx of beaux, every one of whom gave
her a wound; nor had she lost the sweetest inheritance
of a woman—that willing, wilful credulity which almost
loves to be deluded, and which had rather be deceived
into a conviction of worth, than be obliged to believe
it has been deceived. She was in truth deplorably
unsophisticated in the ways of men and of the world.
She did not even dream that money was actually necessary
to supply our wants, much less did it enter into her
innocent fancy, that it was utterly impossible to be married
at present, without the indispensable requisites of
mahogany folding doors and marble mantel pieces, silver
forks, satin curtains, Brussels carpets, and all those
things which constitute the happiness of this life. In
short, she had no tournure at all, and was moreover a
little blue, having somehow imbibed a notion, that no
man was worth a lady's eye, unless he was distinguished
by something of some sort or other—she hardly knew
what. It never entered her head—and why should it?
for this is the result of experience alone—it never entered
her head, that good sense, a good heart, and a
good disposition, were far more important ingredients
in the composition of wedded bliss, than a pretty turn
for poetry, or a decided vocation to the fine arts.

But her lady mother, under whose guardian wing our
heroine now first expanded her pinions, was another
sort of “animal,” as the polite Johnnies say of a woman.
She was perfectly aware of the ingredients necessary

to the proper constitution of a rational wedding.
None knew better than herself, that money only
becomes the brighter for wearing, and that a vast many
other things especially valued by inexperienced young
ladies, not only lose their lustre and value, but actually
wear out entirely in the course of time. Experience
had taught her, that Cupid was only the divinity of
youth, whereas honest Plutus never lost his attractions,
but only fascinated his votaries the more strongly as
they grew in age and wisdom. In short, she had a
great contempt for merit, and a much greater veneration
for money.

Acting under these opposite conclusions, it is little
to be wondered at, if the old lady and the young one
drew different ways. Our hero made daily progress
with the daughter, and lost ground with the mother
faster than he gained it with the other. The old lady
watched him intensely, and always had something particular
to say to her daughter, whenever he occupied
her attention for a moment. She could not stir a step
without the young lady, and grew so weak and infirm,
that at length she could not walk across the room without
the aid of her arm. Our hero entered the lists in
the art of mining and countermining, but he was no
match for the old lady, who, though she had but two
eyes, and those none of the brightest, saw all that Argus
could have seen with his fifty. The opposition of
currents is sure to raise the froth; and opposition in
love hath the same effect on the imagination, which is
Cupid's prime minister, if not Cupid himself.

In this way things went on; our hero was in the situation

of a general with two frontiers to defend, and
lost ground on one as fast as he gained it on the other.
With the young lady he was better than well; with the
old one, worse than bad. About this time, another
pretender entered the lists against our hero, equally
well dressed, equal in whiskers, equal in intrepidity,
and equally in want of the sine qua non. A rival is
sure to bring matters to a crisis, except in the case of
a young lady who knows and properly estimates the exquisite
delights of flirtation. The good mother saw
pretty clearly, that this new pretender would infallibly,
by the force of repulsion, drive her daughter to the opposite
side—that is, into the arms of our hero. She
therefore cut the matter short at once, and forbid the
young lady to speak, walk, sit, ride, or exchange looks
with our hero. The young lady obeyed in all except the
last injunction; and, if the truth must be told, made
up in looks for the absence of all the others. The old
lady saw it would not do, and forthwith sending for our
hero, peremptorily dismissed him, with the assurance
that her daughter should never marry him—that if she
did, she would never see or speak to her more, but hold
her alien to her heart forever. She then quitted our
hero with tears in her eyes, leaving him with his eyes
wide open.

He took his hat and stick—paid his bill—no, I am
wrong; he did not pay his bill—and casting a look at
the window of his “ladyé love” that cracked six panes
of glass, proceeded in a fit of desperation to the rock
then without a name, but now immortalized as the Lovers'
Rock. This rock frowns tremendously, as all

rocks do, and hangs in lowering majesty over the stream
of Kayaderosseros—a name in itself sufficient to indicate
the presence of something extraordinary—if not
actually terrible. On arriving at this gloomy, savage,
wild, and dreary spot, our hero took out a pocket-glass
and adjusted his whiskers to the nicety of a hair—he
then deliberately drew forth his pen knife with a pearl
handle and silver springs, and cleaned his nails. After
this he pulled up his neckcloth five or six times, and
shook his head manfully; then he took off his coat,
folded it up carefully, laid it down, took it up, kissed
it, and shed some bitter tears over this object of his dearest
cares: then after a solemn and affecting pause, he
tied a white pocket handkerchief about his head, cast
his eyes upwards, clasped his hands, took one farewell
look at himself in the pocket glass, then dashing it into
a thousand pieces, he rushed furiously to the edge of
the precipice, and turning a sommerset by mistake backwards,
fell flat on his bishops, on the hard rock, where
he lay motionless for sometime—doubtless as much surprised
as was poor Gloster, when he threw himself as he
supposed from Dover Cliff, to find that he was not dead.
The truth is, our hero could hardly believe himself alive,
until at length he recognized to his utter surprise and
disappointment, that he had committed an egregious
blunder in throwing himself down on the top, instead
of the bottom of the rock.

He determined, in his own mind, to do the thing better
next time, and was preparing to avoid a similar
blunder, when through the dim, wicked, enticing obscurity
of the pine grove, he thought he saw a sylph like

figure, gliding—not walking—swiftly in the direction of
the rock. He gazed again, and it assumed the port of
a mortal woman. A little nearer, and it emerged from
the glossy, silver foliage, in the form of the sovereign
lady of his heart, the mistress of the rice swamps. She
had seen him depart with murder in his eye, and desperation
in his step; she had heard from her mother of
his summary dismissal, and had no doubt he had gone
to that rock, where erewhile they had looked unutterable
things, to kill himself as dead as a stone. Taking advantage
of the interregnum of a nap, she escaped the
maternal guardianship, and followed him at a distance.
She had seen his preparations for self immolation; she
had seen the pathetic farewell between him and himself,
the tying of the handkerchief, the pulling off of the coat,
the wringing of the hands, the rush towards the edge of
the rock; and she had seen him disappear, just as with
a shriek, which he heard not, she had fallen insensible
to the ground. When she came to herself, and recalled
what she had seen, she determined to follow her murdered
lover to the rock, and throw herself down after
him, in the bitterness of her despair. But what can
describe her delight, when on arriving at the fatal spot,
she saw her true lover running towards her apparently
as well as ever he was in his life! An explanation took
place, which was followed by words of sweet consolaon
the part of the lady.

“I swear,” said she, “by the genius which inhabits
this rock, by the nymphs which sport in this babbling
brook, by the dryads and hamadryads that live in these
hollow pines, that I will not obey my cruel mother. I

will marry thee, and should my obdurate parent disinherit
me, and send me forth to beggary, I will share it
with thee. Let her disinherit me if she will; what is
fortune—what is—”

“Dis—dis—disin—disinherit, did you say?” interrupted
our hero, staring in wild astonishment.

“Yes, disinherit,” replied the young lady, enthusiastically,
“I will brave disinheritance, poverty, exile, want,
neglect, contempt, remorse, despair, death, all for you,
so you dont kill yourself again.”

“Dis—dis—disin—disinherit,” continued our hero,
in a state of increasing distraction, “pov—, ex—,
wa—, neg—, con—, re—, des—, death; why what is
all this, angel of my immortal soul?”

“O dont take on so—dont take on so—my own dear
heart: I swear again, and again, a hundred, aye, ten
hundred thousand million times, that I dont care if my
mother cuts me off with a shilling—”

“Cut—cut—off—shilling—why I thought—that is—
I understood—that is, I was assured that—that—you
had a fortune in your own right?”

“No, not a penny, thank heaven; I can now show
you the extent of my love, by sacrificing fortune—every
thing for you. I'll follow you in beggary through the
world.”

“I'll be — if you will,” our hero was just going
to say, but checked himself and cried out in accents of
despair, “And you have no fortune of your own?”

“No, thank heaven!”

“No rice swamps?”

“No, thank heaven!”

“No cotton plantations?”

“No, thank heaven!”

“No uplands, nor lowlands, nor sea island, nor
long staple, nor short staple?”

“No, thank heaven!”

“Nor crops of corn?”

“No, thank heaven!”

“Nor neg—I mean gentlemen of colour.”

“Not one, thank heaven!”

“And you are entirely dependent on your mother?”

“Yes; and she has sworn to disinherit me if I marry
you, thank heaven; you have now an opportunity of
showing the disinterestedness of your affection.”

Our hero started up in a phrenzy of despair—he rushed
madly and impetuously to the edge of the precipice,
and avoiding a similar mistake with that he had just
committed, threw himself headlong down into the terrible
torrent with the terrible name, and floated none knew
whither, for his body was never found. The young lady
was turned into stone—dont be alarmed, gentle reader—
only for a few minutes, at the end of which she bethought
herself of following her lover; then she bethought
herself of considering the matter; and finally
she fell into an inexplicable perplexity, as to what
could have got into our hero, to drown himself in despair
at the very moment she was promising to make
him the happiest of men. She determined to live till
she had solved this doubt, which by the way she never
could do to the end of her life, and she died without
being able to tell what it was that made her lover make
away with himself at such an improper time. Be this

as it may, the landlord and the man-mercer, like the
“devil and the king,” in the affair of Sir Balaam, divided
the prize; one taking the gig, the other the tandem.
From that time the place has gone by the name of the
Lover's Rock, and not a true lover, or true hearted
lady ever visits the springs without sojourning many an
hour of sentimental luxury on the spot where our hero
could not survive the anguish of even anticipating, that
he should cause the lady of his heart to be disinherited
for love of him.

8. CHAPTER VIII.
OF THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR ELDERLY SINGLE GENTLEMEN
AT THE SPRINGS.

In days of yore, before the march of mind and the
improvements in style and dress which distinguish the
present happy age, old bachelors deserved no mercy
unless they came under the class of disappointed lovers,
or proved to the satisfaction of the world, “they would
if they could.” But now unless a man is born rich, he
cant afford to marry till he grows rich, in doing which he
is very apt to grow old. Hence the number of bachelors
is sure to increase with the progress of refinement,
which mainly consists in the invention or adoption of
new modes of dress, new fashioned furniture, and new
ways of spending money. Bachelors have, for these
reasons, become of late sufficiently numerous to constitute

a class by themselves, and to merit a code designed
especially for their use and government. At the same
time we premise, that all things considered, we are of
opinion, that since it is indecent for a man of any pretensions
to get married until he can afford to live in a three
story house with mahogany folding doors and marble
mantel pieces, he ought not to be classed with old
bachelors, till it can be proved he has been five years
rich enough for the deed, or till he is fully convicted of
threescore, when he must give in, and take his place in
the corps.

1. Bachelors, or more politely, single gentlemen
of a certain age, ought never to marry any but very
young, sprightly belles, of the first fashion and pretensions.
The true foundation of mutual affection is
in the attraction, not of affinity, but of contrast. This
contrast is perfect, between a gentleman of fifty and a
young lady of sixteen, and nothing can come of such a
union, but mutual love, and perfect obedience on the
part of the lady, who ten to one will look up to him
as a father.

2. Single gentlemen of a certain age, who are rich
enough to afford a curricle, together with a three story
house with folding doors and marble mantel pieces, need
not be under any apprehensions of being rejected by a
young lady, brought up as she ought to be, with a proper
insight into the respective value of men and things.
But they should not be more than ten years making up
their minds, remembering the fowler, who was so long
taking aim that the bird flew away before he drew the
trigger.

3. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
play a double part, or sport with the hearts of inexperienced
young ladies.

4. Single gentlemen of a certain age, should beware
of the widowers, who are always in a hurry. We have
known a bachelor cut out by a brisk widower, before he
knew where he was.

5. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
plead guilty to a single ache or pain, except growing
pains. They should never remember any thing that
happened more than ten years back. To recollect
past times, is a melancholy proof of old age.

6. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
attempt a cotillion, or cut a caper, except they are sure
of going through with it. If they are once laughed at in
public it is all over with them. They had better be poor.

7. Single gentlemen of a certain age should beware
how they “buck up” to widows, unless they have previously
brought themselves, as Lady Macbeth—who was
undoubtedly a widow when Macbeth married her—says,
“to the sticking place,” that is, to the resolution of
committing matrimony at a moment's warning. Your
widows, if they mean to marry again at all, never like
to linger on the funeral pyre of a bachelor's indecision.

8. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
marry, except they have proof positive of the disinterested
affection of the young lady. In order to ascertain
this, it would be well to circulate a rumour of great
losses, or actual bankruptcy, and put down the equipage.
Any lady—we mean any young lady, of the real, fashionable
tournure, that can stand this, must have a heart like
a stone.

9. Single gentlemen of a certain age ought never to
have more than two ladies in prospect at one time;
one for each eye, else they may chance to lose both.
The prevailing offence of bachelors, is that of ill bred
pointers: you cannot bring them to a dead point, although
they will be popping their noses every where.

10. Single gentlemen of a certain age, being always
young, should never keep company with old people, for
fear the old proverb, about birds of a feather, should be
fired at their heads. They should now and then commit
a gentlemanly excess, such as drinking six bottles
at a sitting, or playing cards all night, though it might
be expedient not to appear in public till the effects are
gone off. An old field is not so easily renovated as a
new one.

11. Single gentlemen of a certain age, who are well
to do in the world, ought to make the first advances
to the mothers of young ladies they are inspired with a
desire to appropriate. The former know the value of
money better than the latter, and a well bred daughter,
will think it indelicate to pretend to know any difference
between one man and another, except as respects his fortune.
For, as the great poet says, “worth makes the
man,” that is, the money he is worth.

12. Single gentlemen of a certain age, which phrase
we ought before this to have explained, as indicating
gentlemen whose ages are altogether uncertain; such
gentlemen ought never to deceive the young ladies in
any thing but their age and their money. A desire to
appear young, and to be thought rich, is so natural and
amiable, that none but a cynic, would ascribe it to a
bad motive.

13. Very old single gentlemen of a certain age should
be careful how they marry in the month of January, for
reasons which shall be nameless; or in February, for
reasons which will readily present themselves; or in
March, for reasons we do not think proper to specify;
or in April, for reasons best known to ourselves; or in
May, for reasons of the first magnitude; or in June,
for reasons which cannot be obviated; or in July, for
reasons which no one will venture to controvert; or in
August, for reasons which every body will understand;
or in September, for reasons which to be ignorant of
would impeach the reader's understanding; or in October,
for reasons highly appropriate; or in November,
for reasons deep and profound; or in December, for
reasons as plain as the nose on our face. There are,
moreover, seven days of the week in which very old
single gentlemen of a certain age ought not to think of
being married. Monday, because that is washing day.
Tuesday, or Twosday as it was originally written, because
that is ominous, “man and wife will be two” before
the end of the week. Wednesday, or Wedding-day,
as is the true orthography, for that is generally the
day of all others an old single gentleman of a certain
age recollects with the least satisfaction. Thursday,
or Thorsday, because it was christened after the Pagan
deity, Thor, and marriage is a Christian ceremony.
Friday, because it is hanging day, and he might be
tempted to disgrace the anniversary of his wedding by
turning himself off that day. Saturday, because that is
too far from the middle of the week, and the maxim in
dealing with the ladies is, medio tutissimus ibis. Nor,

above all, on Sunday, for that is dies non, and no monied
transactions, or purchases and sales, are lawful on that
day. Any other day in the week it is perfectly safe for
them to marry.

9. CHAPTER IX.
OF MATRIMONY, AND THE BEST MODE OF INSURING
HAPPINESS IN THE STATE, BY A DISCREET CHOICE OF
A HELPMATE.

In the present improved system of society, when the
young ladies wear spatterdashes, and the young gentlemen
corsetts, money is absolutely essential to the patient
endurance of the married state. The choice of a
rich husband, or wife, supersedes, therefore, the necessity
of all rules, as wealth secures to the successful adventurer
all the happiness this world can give, so long
as it lasts. But as every one is not so fortunate as to
achieve a rich heir or heiress, the following hints may
enable them to make a choice that will in some measure
supply the absence of the aforesaid indispensable requisite.

1. Beauty is a principal ingredient of happiness in
the married state, and it is scarcely ever observed that a
handsome couple is otherwise than truly happy. If it
is objected that beauty is but a fading flower, we answer,
that when it is faded, all that the parties have to
do, is to think each other beautiful. If such an effort

of the imagination is beyond them, they must do the best
they can, and admire each other for their good qualities.

2. Next in value to beauty, is the capacity of making
a figure at all public places, by dressing well, dancing
well, and making oneself agreeable to every body.
Nobody, except such as have experienced it, can conceive
the happiness of having one's wife, or husband,
admired by all the world. As to how they conduct
themselves in private, and in the domestic tete a tete, that
is a matter of very little consequence, so long as they
have sufficient discretion to keep their own secrets, and
sufficient good breeding not to quarrel before the public.

3. As nothing is so outrageously vulgar, as the idea
of not spending money, because people have not got it
to spend, the next best gift to a rich or handsome wife,
is a wife that knows how to spend a fortune. This is
an infallible proof of high breeding, and great cleverness
withal. Any fool can make a figure with money, but
to make an equal figure without it, is an invaluable
qualification in a wife.

4. Never marry any body you have ever heard or
seen laughed at by people of fashion, unless he or she
is rich, or who does not always follow the recent fashions
in every thing. A bonnet or a coat out of fashion, infallibly
degrades people from their station in society, whether
they are young or old, and a person that leads the
ton, is almost an equal prize with an heiress or a beauty.

5. Never marry a lady who appears unconscious of
her beauty or accomplishments, except she is an heiress;
for this presupposes a degree of blindness and stupidity
truly deplorable. How can you expect a woman to see
the good qualities of her husband, who is blind to her own?

6. Never marry a woman of prudence, good sense,
good temper, and piety, excepting always she is rich;
for if you happen to turn out an indifferent husband, all
the world will blame you; whereas if she is as bad, or
worse than yourself, you will have the best possible
excuse.

7. Never marry a woman who is particularly retiring
in her disposition and habits. This bespeaks shyness,
and shyness indicates slyness, and slyness, hypocrisy.
Your bold faced, harem-scarem women, who show all,
and disguise nothing, are the best. There is no deception
about them, and it is a proof that they have nothing
to hide, when they hide nothing. Ladies that eat nothing
in public, generally make it up in the pantry, and to
quote a saying fashionable at Almack's, “The still
sow, &c. &c.”

8. Beware of that monstrum horrendum, a woman
that affects to have a will of her own, before marriage,
and to act up to certain old fashioned notions of propriety
and decorum. One who refuses to make herself
ridiculous, though it is the fashion; who will not waltz
in public with a perfect stranger, though it is the fashion;
who will not flirt with any body that comes in her way,
though it is the fashion; and who absolutely refuses to
act and look like a fool, though every body else sets her
the example. Such a woman will trouble you exceedingly,
and ten to one, never let you rest till you become
as ridiculous as herself.

9. Beware also of a woman who had rather stay at
home and read Paradise Lost, than walk up and down the
Paradise of Broadway, in a high wind and a cloud of

dust, holding her hat with one hand, and her cloak with
the other. Such a woman decidedly prefers exercise of
mind to exercise of limbs, and will never make a good
waltzer.

10. Beware of blue stockings, for they are abroad.

11. Beware of bishops and hoop petticoats, for they
are abroad.

12. Beware—we address ourselves particularly to
the ladies—beware of all manner of men, that aspire to
be useful in their generation, except they be rich; beware
of all men who look as if nature had any hand in
their composition, except they be rich; beware of all
that aspire to be better and wiser than their neighbours,
except they be rich; beware of young lawyers, who
think of nothing but estates and ladies—intail; beware
of young physicians, whose knowledge of anatomy and
craniology enables them to dive into all your secrets;
beware of the young parsons in spectacles, who look
through and through your hearts; beware of all manner
of men who look at bills before paying them; beware of
all sorts of handicraft men, except Monsieur Manuel,
the barber, and Monsieur Simon, the cook; and, above
all, beware of your stiff, starched fellows, that aspire to
the cardinal virtues, for that smacks of Popery.

We had thoughts of following up these rules for entering
the happy state of matrimony, with some general
directions for preserving harmony after marriage. But
upon the whole it is scarcely worth while. The great
thing after all, is to be fairly and honestly married, and
what happens afterwards is of minor consequence. If

you have money you cannot be otherwise than happy.
If you have beauty, fashion and good dancing, it is your
own fault if you are not happy; and if you have none of
these, you have no right to expect happiness. If you
are only contented and comfortable, that is all you can
hope for in this world, without riches, beauty, or fashion,
and that is more than you deserve for marrying only a
discreet, prudent, sensible, amiable, tolerable looking
dowdy of a man or woman. We shall therefore conclude
this portion of our undertaking, by cordially wishing
all our fashionable readers, well, that is, richly married;
a wish which includes all sublunary blessings.

10. CHAPTER X.
OF THE BEST MODES OF KILLING THE GRAND ENEMY OF
THE FASHIONABLE HUMAN RACE, WHO HAVE NOTHING
TO DO IN THIS WORLD—BUT BE HAPPY.

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

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

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

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

—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

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

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;”[1] 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,

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

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.

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:

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

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!”

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.