Greenwell Springs Was Famous

Resort Just Before The Civil War

 

Editors Note: This paper was read at the April, 1917, meeting of the Historical Society of East and West Baton Rouge.   It was written by C. K. David and read by Col. I. D. Wall.   It is available at several different sources, including the December 16, 1942 issue of Morning Advocate.

 

 Fifteen miles northeast of this, our capital city, as the crow flies, nestled in the pines, on the bank of the beautiful River Amite, is what is known as the famous Greenwell Springs.   How old these springs are, we know not;   it is fair to presume that they have been there since “the stars sang out on earth’s glad natal morn”;   it is possible that they were used to slake the thirst and sure the ills of our Indian predecessors.   In fancy’s eye we ay see the dusky Indian maid drinking of the health-giving waters and using its still surface as a mirror by which to make her toilet.

 

Dr. Jessie Fairchild was kind enough to loan us a copy of a map of Greenwell Springs dated 1853 that shows the old resort hotel. Dr. Fairchild, who was medical director at Greenwell Springs Hospital for many years and who has published a book on the history of the area, said the site of the present day hospital is just west of where the old hotel was located.

It is not evident that Ponce de Leon did not discover them, else they would have been named Eureka, and the search for the fountain of youth abandoned and old age abolished.   With their antiquity, this brief has nothing to do.

 

Mr. Greenwell’s Farm

The modern history begins about the middle of the last century- about 1850, as well as can be ascertained- when they were discovered by accident, as nearly all discoveries have been.   Three young men set out on horseback on a bright autumn morning in search of game and fish and armed “cap-a-pie”.   They took the open road, going eastward.   What else they found we know not, but toward night they came upon a farmhouse in a small clearing, and near by, just under the hill, they found a spring.   They drank the water, using the “old guard” (now proscribed and succeeded by the drinking cup).   They found the water good;   they drank again and found it very good.   They then approached the farmhouse, owned by Mr. Greenwell, and asked his kind hospitality for the night.   He consented to do the best he could, but told them that he had no bed for them, except in the corn crib, which was accepted with grateful thanks, and they retired, but not to sleep.   Their experience was exciting, and repeated now is amusing.   The rats, the weevils, the owls, the watch doe, made sleep impossible.   They arose early and sought the spring again, where they made ablutions and drank the water.   They were very thirsty, as they had a mysterious bottle of something which seems to create thirst.

 

If they killed game or fish, we know not.   They returned to town filled with the story of this wonderful spring- possibly exaggerated.   Their wonderful stories about the water finally reached the ears of one W. S. Pike, a young banker of Baton Rouge, who investigated and became the purchaser of the farm and spring.   He divided a portion nearest the spring into lots and began to improve the same by building a summer cottage.

 

At first the sale of lots was slow, but by judicious advertising, aided by an epidemic of yellow fever in New Orleans and Baton Rouge, in 1853, a demand was created and the rush began.   Lots were bought by people of Baton Rouge, New Orleans and along the Mississippi river, Iberville, etc.   Cottages ranging in price from $200 to $3,000 were built, a large hotel erected, a store was added to the colony to supply the small wants of the people;   streets were laid out and the village was lighted- the streets with pine knot fires and the houses with tallow candles. By the year 1858, when another visit of yellow fever occurred in New Orleans and Baton Rouge and served to create an exodus to this village, Greenwell Springs was “on the map”.

 

There was no municipal government, just a nice village of about 1,000 of the best people, all law abiding and bent only on doing right and being pleasant and agreeable.   Prominent among the improvements were both bath houses in the river below the spring, and a large pavilion over the spring, which served the purpose of a resting and assembling place, and for dancing.   Every night the people assembled at the pavilion to gossip, talk politics, etc., and dance by the light of the fires and candles to the music of the violin, “when music arose with its voluptuous swell, soft eyes looked love to eyes which spoke again, and all went merry as a marriage bell.”

 

A line of daily hacks was run to and from the Springs to Baton Rouge, bringing ice, provisions, and passengers, and the whole length of the road was marked by clouds of dust.   All who could do so went out to board or built a cottage.   Not to do one or the other was to be refused register in the “Who’s Who” book.   All enjoyed themselves and helped make life pleasant for everyone else.   Barbecues, political meetings, all these served to pass the time pleasantly.

 

War Ruined All

How long this happy state would have lasted, had not the Civil war with all its unhappy consequences come down upon the scene, we cannot say.   After the state of Louisiana seceded from the Union, pandemonium reigned; the war was upon us, and the decline of the beautiful village began.   Some of its inhabitants went into the army, others left for their permanent homes in the city.   The hotel was burned, either by accident or vandalism; cottage after cottage became vacant, and was destroyed   till only a few were left, and the end of the Civil war, this once beautiful village was a memory only.   It was a pity to see the rapid destruction, but such is history, “Tempora mutantur.”

 

One August night in 1865, I saw two young men loading the last piece of lumber from the last cottage in the village.   The day had been hot, and the night was chosen for work.   The moon was shining through the branches of the pines.   The soft notes of the whippoorwill were in the air; the bark of a dog in the distance, all added to the sadness of the occasion.   The wagon drove away, and down the road the whistling boys drove the teams, while the creaking wheels of the loaded wagon was the requiem of Greenwell Springs.

 

The spring was left, and is still there.   Yes, the memory of the pleasant days and nights of old arise… If our American people journey to Europe to be benefited by their spring water, it is not unreasonable to hope that we shall again see this once delightful place take its station among the many health and pleasure resorts of this, our charming Southland…”Nous verrons.”   -DIOGENES.