We have only to add, that Mr. B. has since been successful in making the Red Sulphur every thing which the tourist or the valetudinarian could desire.
At 10 A.M. on the 10th September, [says Mr. Prolix] we left the Red Sulphur Spring in a private carriage, to pay a visit to the Gray Sulphur, situated at the distance of nine miles in a south-west direction, just within the border of Giles county.
This is a new establishment, grown up by magic since the first of June last. It belongs to John D. Legare, Esq. of South Carolina, a gentleman of established literary talent, who by his great enterprise and good taste, has made this lovely wilderness blossom like the rose, and bring forth the fruits of civilization and comfort. There is a comfortable new brick house standing near the middle of a gently sloping plain of about twenty acres, nearly cleared of trees, and entirely surrounded by forest-covered mountains, between whose base and the house are several beautiful conical hills, rendering the view from the portico exceedingly pleasing. Every thing here is conducted after the polished and agreeable manner of South Carolina. All is redolent of the Palmetto, and a little pleasant circle from that state, may generally be found here.
There are two springs under the same cover, within ten feet of each other; one containing, inter alia, bicarbonate of soda, which is an excellent anti-dyspeptic, and is well taken an hour after dinner, which is always so good here that every body eats too much. The other contains some sulphuretted hydrogen and several neutral salts, rendering it aperient and diuretic. It should be taken an hour before breakfast. The breakfasts and suppers are capital, furnished forth with various cakes, in form and color new to the northern eye, of rice, of corn and wheat; and in discussing these interesting subjects, a quiet deliberation reigns, affording the epicure the double opportunity of curing hunger and gratifying taste. The wine is so good, that he who drinks it, falsifies the old adage, that omnes errorem bibunt,—there is no mistake about it.
A YEAR IN SPAIN.
A year in Spain. By a Young American. Third Edition, enlarged. New York. Harper and Brothers.
We have more than once recorded in the Messenger the high pleasure afforded us by the pages of Lieutenant Slidell. The “Year in Spain” with the exception of its third volume, is no novelty, we are sure. Its well-limned natural scenery—its exceedingly happy groups of banditti, and boleros, and mouse-colored asses, and muleteers, and modern Sancho Panzas, and Sangrados, and primitive Alcaldes, and pallazzos, and plazas, and posadas, are still passing before the eyes of a great majority of our readers in a Kaleidescopal freshness and variety, unimpaired, and unimpairable. It would hardly be worth our while then to tell the public what the public know quite as well as ourselves—that the book has a vigorous interest—has received a great deal of commendation—and deserves it. The third volume in the present edition is superadded to the English imprimatur, and embodies what we consider the most effective portion of the narrative—an account of the author's visit to Grenada. The mechanical execution of the book is honorable to the Messieurs Harpers. The vignettes in each of the volumes, are particularly good. We would sincerely recommend our friends to procure a copy of the work forthwith—to give it a niche in their libraries—and to remember that it may safely be referred to upon occasion, as a most creditable specimen of American talent.