Lynchburg Virginian

[By Request.]
From the Richmond Compiler.

A DELIGHTFUL WATERING PLACE.

We take pleasure in transferring to our columns the following article descriptive of a Watering Place which seems to be rapidly rising in public estimation. We understand that the water has been tested here recently, by those familiar with such matters, and pronounced to be fully as strong as that of the far famed White Sulphur. The spring is owned by one of our own citizens, than whom there is not one more estimable or more worthy of public patronage. If our brother of the Buchanan Advocate, from whose paper our extract is taken, has not drawn largely on his imagination, he must be a surly dog indeed who could not enjoy, with infinite zest, a sojourn of a few weeks amid the pure air and rich and varied scenery of Dagger's White Sulphur. We are informed that, a few days since, there were 130 visitors at this Spring.

From the Buchanan Advocate.

DAGGER'S SPRINGS.

We rejoice to learn that this excellent and beautiful watering place is obtaining the favorable notice, so richly merited by the medical properties of its waters, salubrity and purity of its atmosphere, its delightful situation, its fine accommodations, and the indefatigable and hospitable exertions of its intelligent and enterprising proprietors. Every comfort that disease could wish, every gratification that luxury could desire, from larder to bar,—from the smoking haunch of venison to the well-iced glass of julep—every innocent recreation that pleasure itself could ask, is here cheerfully afforded. Enjoyment stands Porter at the gate to wait upon "all sorts and all conditions of men." The Epicure here is perfectly at home; the sick man finds himself among good Samaritans: the poet may, if he be fool enough, court the muses' inspiration and nurse his "divine melancholy." in as much solitude as he wants, where under some shady tree he may sing of the pebbly brook that murmurs at his feet with its flower-fringed banks; instead of like a sensible man trying a bottle of the mint in a good glass of julep at the bar; the hunter shout his inspiring halloo as the hounds make the woods echo with their deep mouthed cries in the merry chorus, as they pursue the track of the antler'd deer: the lover may sigh forth his devotions to his captivating fair in a beauty of sentiment heightened by the picturesque and romantic scenery around him, and with an inspiration deepened by those glorious liquors that are now spending the last of a long and honored life at the Springs. A knot of good fellows is collected in the shade when the sun is at his meridian, roaring at the good things that are circulating around,—their excellent reception—heightened, doubtless, by the flow of spirits which mine host has set a going— spirits whose venerable age would secure them from profane mention, by the most rampant temperance fanatic in the land.—Hear the jocund voices of the glorious boys as they shout their uproarious mirth in their sports, and see the little chap waving his cap and yelling his triumphant joy, at having knocked down at one roll all the ten pins! The day—“a long—long summer day of holy-day and mirth," has passed, and night sets in. Hark to those inspiring notes that produce upon the Virginia exile the same effect that the song which lulled his childhood produces upon the enthusiasm of a native of the Rhine, when far off from his fatherland: Hark to "Old Virginia never tire!" The beaux bow to the fair ladies, who, giving coyly their hand, are led out on the floor; Cuffee nods his head and stamps his foot, and works his elbow —"lead down two"—there they are at it! How neatly the little foot is pointed—how gracefully she holds forth her arms—how majestically she moves along just touching the floor, over which she flies—how swimmingly she turns her rounded form! And now "hands round!" "promenade!" and the pressure of that warm, soft hand—and the lustre of the pleasure sparkling eye, and the tender glances and the gay badinage and the co-quettish smiles,—I get behind us, Satan!] Who that has warm blood in his veins has not his heart to beat twenty times more a minute to think of them? Warm blood indeed! the poor vegetable "has hardly a pint of cold sap!" Look at the parade of finery, arranged with all the taste of a graceful coquetry—hear the gay voices of laughter-loving—dear girls—their hearts as gay as the flowers that deck their shining hair! The set is out; refreshments are handed around, wine, cake, sangaree; and ladies are sipping the cordials and mumbling the cake as if they were affected with the Byronic sentiment of the unsentimentality of a lady's eating and drinking! And the beaux are bending over them, shewing their eager attentions and whispering their grateful nonsense, all the time their hearts lifted up by the combined influence of wine, music and love, as if they had inhaled a gallon and a quart of Nitrous Oxide. But the buzz commences again—what scrambling for fair hands! what hurrying to the set! the fiddle is heard in its preliminary—twe— a-a-ticce-dee dee! -And-[at this so vivid was the scene in our imagination, that we jumped up— made up to our junior Devil, with our most bewitching simper, saluted him with a bow such as the Count D'Orsay would have been chagrined to see —took his ink-dyed hand, supposing it to be the soft, white, jewelled hand of some fair girl—threw his stick of type into pi,—commanded our senior Imp to play up, bowed our prettiest to the right and left—and was just, as we recovered from our fit, about to knock our foreman into a cocked hat for trenching upon our prerogative by endeavoring to wrest our fair partner from ourself. We a-woke from the 7th Heaven to come down (what a fall!) all the way—down—down—down to a printing office! The smiles of beauty—the trappings of fashion—faded before our eyes, and the sounds of the music died in our ear, to give place to the figure of our swart Demon—and to his harsh grating call as "Copy,—Copy, Sir!"