University of Virginia Library

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.