University of Virginia Library

LETTER ONE.

Dear Theodore—The jaunt from Albany to Saratoga,
over the rail-road, can now be accomplished
in less than three hours, and the consequence is that,
even at this early season, nearly all the hotels and
board-houses in the village are thronged with visitors.
There cannot be less than three thousand strangers
here at the present time, and every car is constantly
adding to the number. Congress-hall is, as formerly,
the resort of the light-hearted, the gay, the idle,
and the fashionable; but those who come to partake
of the life-giving waters, generally repair to more
congenial and quiet abodes. To those disposed to
be busy, there is no lack of employment. What with
eating and drinking, walking and riding, gunning
and fishing, dancing and flirting—balls, concerts,

and parties—dressing for this, that, and the other,
and similar suitable, and equally profitable occupations,
time is disposed of without the least difficulty.
Every thing is calculated to beguile one of pensive
thoughts, and occasionally there is an entertainment
of no ordinary description. The other evening,
for instance, we had a musical soirée, in which
that sweet song-bird, Miss Hughes, assisted by
Charles Horn, Sinclair, and other professional persons
took part. The large room of the United States
hotel was occupied by an audience resembling those
which attended the Cooper and Dunlap festivals.
All the performers were in fine spirits, and sung and
played delightfully. The “Young Cavalier,” the
“Mermaid's Cave,” and “Auld Robin Gray,” in
particular, were given by Miss Hughes in her own
impressive manner, and are now remembered as
“faded strains that float upon the mind like half-forgotten
dreams.” This young lady never looked
more lovely, nor warbled her melodies with more
effect.

Gossip, scandal, and killing character, are considered
innocent pastime at Saratoga. I am writing
this at a window that overlooks the piazza of Congress-hall.
The weather is pleasant—the “shades
of evening thicken slowly,” and the tide of fashion
is flowing beneath me like the waves of the sea. I

have been told the history and condition of numerous
individuals, and, for want of better materials,
and in compliance with the universal custom of all
periodical letter-writers, I will point out a few of the
most conspicuous for your especial diversion.

First, we have a whole platoon of gentlemen with
canes, most of whom have been the subjects of much
enviable conversation lately. Johnson says that “a
person who carries a cane has generally an upper
story to let!” The doctor was undoubtedly a very
great man and a close observer of human nature.
His opinions, with me, have all the sanction of law
authority.

You perceive that stout gentlemen in black? He
is an epicure, and does little else than eat, the live-long

day. He made a voyage to London last year
expressly for the purpose of enjoying a dish of soles
with shrimp sauce! and has come to the springs
now to put his digestive apparatus in good order,
before the ensuing season of plum-puddings, buck-wheat-cakes
and mince-pies, three prime articles, of
which he professes to be exceedingly fond, and of
which he is supposed, about the holidays, to destroy a
most inordinate quantity. He plays the best knife
and fork in the village, and is the admiration of all
the gourmands at the south. Move on, old Falstaff!

Room for a travelled dandy—a fellow who went
abroad a puppy, and returned “the same old two
and six pence”—nothing added to his former stock
of information, except the cut of his garments, a

short-napped hat, and that pair of enormous whiskers
—in all of which he “reigns and revels!”

Yonder floats a little man, with a little stick, a
little pair of gloves, and a little voice. He is engaged
to that enormously fat young widow beside him,
whose fortune is estimated at sixty thousand dollars.
The little man is not worth a groat, and is the very
antipodes of his dulcinea; but you know,

Here comes a foreigner of distinction—a duke!
Mark his princely air and noble carriage. Observe
the diamond hoop upon his little finger, and the
circling hair upon his upper lip! Is he not a magnificent
specimen of the “paragon of animals?” For

the last six hours he has been the “observed of all
observers,” the presiding genius of the place, and
his flirtation with a certain meek, blue-eyed quakeress,
at the Union, who, for his dear sake, is in
imminent danger of being read out of meeting, has
created the first positive sensation of the season.
The duke is reported to be immensely rich—the lady
is known to be so.

But who is that mild, intellectual-looking being,
languishing in the shade? She is leaning upon the
arm of General —, and talking to Chancellor —.
That lady, I mean, attired in the plain white dress,

with her hair modestly parted on her forehead—
she of the smiling lip and speaking eye—
Oh, I see—Miss —. I should have known her
among ten thousand, for she is an ornament to her
sex and country.

What a contrast she presents to the proud, haughty
belle in her train, half buried beneath the weight
of gold and jewels!

Heavens, how she tosses her pretty head, and gives
the nod of recognition to those around her!
Lady, for all your smiles and winning ways, I do
not envy the poor youth who wears your chains;
they are woven of any thing but flowers. She has
the riches of Crœsus, the beauty of Hebe—but the
temper of Xantippe. Yet mind, dear Theodore, I tell
you this in confidence, so don't let it go any further.

But what have we next? generals and judges,
and public characters by the score! A whole bevy
of widows, old maids, and solitary spinsters, without
any particular claim to distinction.

A sudden pause in the crowd. Several carriages
with their out-riders have rolled up to the door,
emblazoned with the crests of the nobility of this
democratic land! I cannot admire the horses
sufficiently; but as for those who have just alighted—the
“least said the soonest mended.”

The bell rings for supper—so, ladies and gentlemen,
by your leave.

Is it not strange that the very things to which
this village is indebted for all its consequence,
are most neglected? The hotels are spacious—the
accommodations convenient, and the attendance unexceptionable;
but the springs themselves are in a
shocking condition. Instead of splendid colonnades,
attractive apartments, spacious pump-rooms, marble
counters, sparkling fountains, and neat, well-dressed
women to attend the visiters, as in other countries,

you are compelled to stand ankle-deep in the
mud, or upon a miserable platform, constructed over
a filthy brook, and receive the water from a bare-footed,
meanly-clad juvenile, who dips it up in an
unclean vessel, and flings it at you with a sleight of
hand peculiarly his own. In stead of taking the
water as an inviting, health-restoring beverage, you
seize the glass with a wry face and an involuntary
shudder, and drain its contents with the same
repugnance you entertain for nauseous medicine.
On rainy days, invalids cannot go to the springs,
unless they are satisfied to have the outer as well as
inner man, most thoroughly drenched, as there is no
friendly covering to shield them from the weather.
Really this is too bad, for the most fashionable
watering-place in America.