all goldfish floated there in liquid
quicksilver. The spring itself, flowing over its ancient mound of
lime, iron and clay, like the venerable beard over the Arabian
prophet's yellow breast, shed another light as if through a veil
fluttered the molten fire of some pulsating crater. The whole scene of
the narrow valley, the group of springs, the sandy walks, dark
foliage, and in closing ridges took a pale yellow hue from the
effervescing water and the irradiant bottle in the eagle's beak. The
people walking to and fro and drinking and returning, all carried
their hands upon their stomachs or sides, and sighed amidst their
flirtations. Mr. Waples saw, despite their garments, which represented
a hundred years and more of all kinds, from Continental uniforms and
hunting shirts to brocades, plush velvets, and court suits, that not a
being of all the multitude contained an abdomen. He stopped one large
and portly man, who was carried on a litter, and said:

"Have you a window through you, too, old chap?"

"'Sh!" exclaimed one of the supporters of the litter, who wore the
feathers and attire of an Indian. "'Tis Sir William Johnson--he who
receives to-night."

"Young man," exclaimed that great and first of Indian agents, "this is
the spot where all people come to find their stomachs. Mine was lost
one hundred and ten years ago. The Mohawks, my wards, then brought me
through the forest to this spot. Faith! I was full of gout and humors,
and took a drink from a gourd. One night in the year I walk from
purgatory and quench my thirst at this font. The rest of the year I
limp in the agonies of dyspepsia."

A large and short-set woman was walking in one of the paths, wearing
almost royal robes, and her train was held up by a company of young
gallants, some of whom whistled and trolled stanzas of foreign music.
"Can you tell me her name!" asked Waples, speaking to a bystander.

"It is Madame Rush, the daughter of the banker who rivalled Girard.
She was a patroness of arts and letters in her day, full of
sentiment."

"But disguised in a stomacher!" interrupted our friend. The lady
passed him as he spoke, and, looking regretfully in his face,
murmured:

"Avoid hot joints for supper! Terrapin must crawl again. Drink nothing
but claret. Adieu!"

"Really," thought Andrew Waples, "this is a sort of mass meeting of
human picture-frames. But here is one I know by his portrait--the
god-like head, the oxen eyes, the majestic stalk of