New Lebanon is a pleasant village, near the eastern line of the state of New York, lying in a most fertile and valuable tract of country, with alternations of gently sloping hills and smiling valleys, all of which seem arable and productive. The most popular public house is that to which the Spring that gives a name to the place, belongs. It is very well kept, but was far too crowded for comfort,—the day of our arrival being Saturday, and great numbers having come from Albany, Troy, Saratoga, Ballston Spa, &c. to witness the worship (?) of the Shakers on the Sabbath.
The waters of these Springs have no very decided mineral or medicinal qualities,—but as they are very profuse in their flow, and as their temperature is always rising of seventy degrees, Fahrenheit, they are delightful for bathing in the summer season. The proprietors have, accordingly, fitted up commodious bathing houses, which are very well attended, and afford, by no means, the weakest attraction to be found at New Lebanon. But even in this respect they cannot be compared with the Warm and Hot Springs of Bath county in Virginia.
The truth is, New Lebanon invites the visiter more by the salubrity of its climate, the rural beauty of its scenery, the quiet seclusion which it offers to the town-weary traveller, and more than all, by its accessibility from so many populous parts of the country, than by any magic virtues possessed or imparted by its “springs,” and all these inducements combine to keep the pretty little village full to overflowing from spring to autumn. I saw many visiters from the southern states there among the rest, and was gratified to learn that there is an annual increase of business at “Columbian Hall.” In my next I shall describe a scene at the Shaker's Church.
VIATOR.
SACRED SONG.
“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,”
When the heart's best affections are yielded to God,
And the spirit that wandered, returns to the fold
Of the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood!
One moment of rapture so holy, is worth
Far more than whole ages of wandering bliss;
And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
It is this, it is this!
The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain—
The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream,
E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain,
When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam.
But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birth
Into favor with God, is ineffable bliss;
And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
It is this, it is this!
T. J. S.