Our driver quickened his speed as the distance before us diminished, and we reached the Red Sulphur just after night had drawn his sombre curtains around the silent hills. Our first impressions of this spring, were very favorable: the effect was exceedingly imposing. On our arrival the whole establishment had been lighted up, and from every range of buildings, streams of light were pouring across the area. The large hotel presents at any time a beautiful appearance. The whole building has a light and airy piazza connected with each story, and on the flank of the edifice most conspicuous on approaching the spring, the upper floor is open and surrounded by a balustrade. The first story of this building contains a large dining room, connected with which is a drawing and reading room. When we approached, these piazzas were all lighted up, and from the doors and windows of the halls and apartments of the hotel, the chandeliers were pouring forth their brilliant streams. Two long and handsomely set tables, were visible through the doors of the dining room, and every thing had the aspect of comfort and even of luxury. The lower piazza was thronged with cheerful groups of visiters, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our coach, which on that evening was rather behind its usual time.
For the last hour our meditations had been excited only by the gloom and wildness of the dark mountain hollows, and the song of the frogs from the neighboring creeks, or the cry of the screech owl as the rattling of our coach echoed through his dark domains. In the midst of the pensive reveries incident upon such circumstances, the buildings of the Red Sulphur burst upon us in all their brilliancy. The scene of light, and life, and bustle, came over us like enchantment. The valley before us presented a picture of brightness and refinement, whilst on each side the venerable peaks of the Alleghany rose in all their wildness, and spoke to our hearts in silent sublimity, as we discerned their rugged outline against the evening sky. One might have found it almost difficult to convince himself, that he was not taking for reality the romantic visions of his sleeping hours. This impression is not diminished by the winding of the post horn from the "western stage," as it rattles over the crags of the mountain above, or by the plaintive notes of "Home, sweet home," wafted from the band stationed in the drawing room.
