In the fall of 1852, again in search of health, which of all things belonging to this life (save an unblemished character) was ever the most prized by your dear grandfather, we determined to pass the whole of the approaching winter in the South. We started early in November, went to “Bailey’s Springs,” in North Alabama, intending to proceed from thence to Charleston, then to Mobile, and take New Orleans in our way home in the spring. But after reaching “the Springs” we concluded to give them a fair trial before proceeding further, as we understood from friends, who had tested these waters, that they often proved as beneficial in winter as in summer. Accordingly as we had learned that the accommodations were very indifferent, we made arrangements with the proprietor to rent us three nice, new log cabins, telegraphed to St. Louis for our servants, carriage and horses, and were speedily set up for ourselves. With our own kitchen and cook we needed nothing, for Bailey Springs were situated only nine miles from Florence, where my parents had lived seven years, more than twenty years previous, and our experience did not prove the old adage, “out of sight out of mind,” or the truth of the poetical effusion, “what is friendship but a name.” For our old friends were friends indeed, evincing the most delicate attentions, and making up to us the deficiency in our supplies, from a carpet, to keep the wind from penetrating our open cabin floors, to dog-irons, or a dutch oven, and the like useful articles, besides many rare sweetmeats from their own choice kitchens. Our main supply of provisions, however,--for these Baileys could not understand that mortal man needed more than “hog and hominy”-–came every week from my nephew’s, who is a cotton planter, residing eighteen miles from the Springs. As sure as Friday or Saturday came, so sure came the pack horse, laden with fresh butter, mutton, &c. The presiding genius of these luxuries, who safely guided the richly laden vessel into port, was a grinning, half grown cuffy, whom they called “Bowlegs.” But my only object in telling you of this delightful, but very novel winter sojourn, made so pleasant because of the unwearied attentions, and choice society of a small circle of friends, is to give you a peep at your beloved grandfather in these new circumstances. Cut off, necessarily, a greater part of the time from society, in a wild country, without occupation or recreation, excepting such as we could originate, with many it would have been esteemed unendurable. Especially to men possessing the active and stirring habits of a city life, and to young ladies accustomed to a large circle of congenial friends. But we did not find it unendurable by any means. Your mother often said to me while there, “Mother, I did not know before that my father was such a delightful man, we really need no other society.”