 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
SARATOGA AMUSEMENTS.
Congress Hall, Aug. 4th.
“And every house was an inn, where each guest was welcomed and feasted,”
is the author of Evangeline's description of the hospitable
Acadian village of Grand-Pré. The Saratogians say that
Longfellow had just returned from a trip to Saratoga when he
wrote this, and that he got his inspiration from the long lines of
hotels which make up this American Wiesbaden.
This text of
Longfellow's was
once given to T.
Buchanan Read
by the members
of the Cincinnati
Artists' Sketch
Club to illustrate,
and then all the
artists looked at
the author of Sheridan's
ride as
much as to say
“Now we've geven
you a puzzler!”
What do you
think the artist
brought in as an
illustration?
A sketch of Crestline with two trains arriving with every house
an inn and every body whanging a dreadful gong and shouting
D-i-n-n-e-r!
Din-ner!!
Dinner!!!
En passant, let me tell another story about the artist-poet
which has never been seen in print, and which that awful gossiper,
Don Piatt, never got hold of. It shows the readiness of this
most acute punster, who never yet lost an opportunity of saying
a good thing.
That dear, good man, James Murdoch, had read up Read's
reputation as the author of “Drifting” and “Sheridan's Ride,”
until the dashing General invited the poet-artist to come and
see him in New Orleans.
Phil. was “running the town,” then, and at the dinner which
he gave to Read, were the wit, and blood, and beauty of the
Crescent City. Puns, reparties, and saucy anecdotes held carnival.
It was Wallack and Miss Jennings in the “Morning Call,” each
struggling to say the very best thing. It was after the third
course, and the gallant Phil. had toasted the historian of “the
ride.” “Now,” says Read (holding up an empty bottle of sherry),
“this is sherry done (handing it to the waiter), I propose to fill
sherry done” (Phil. Sheridan).
When Kirby Smith captured General Banks' trains of ammunition
and paper collars at Shrieveport, Albert Pike said the
Rebels were like Pharaoh's daughter—“they found a little profit in
the rushes on the Banks!”
Pike's triangular pun was almost as good as some of Read's.
Once somebody in Cincinnati asked Read's, advice about
buying Frankenstein's Niagara—a doubtful picture.
“Yes” said Read, “I'd go by (go buy) it, if I were in your
place!”
ONE MORE JOKE,
and I'll get to my Saratoga amusement part:—
Read was once dining at the writer's sister's, in Cincinnati.
The handsome General Hooker was there, and Sherman and
Colonel Loomis, fresh from the Nashville fight, with uniforms all
begrimed with smoke from ninety-one successful cannons, and
Mrs. General Lander, whose husband had given up his life at Rich
Mountain. Mrs. Lander had never heard the poet read “Sheridan's
Ride.” So the book was gotten, laid down by Read's plate,
and the poet was importuned to read “the ride.”
“Do read it, Mr. Read—do favor Mrs. Lander,” said my sister,
and General Sherman pushed the book into his hands.
“I wish I did favor Mrs. Lander,” said the poet with suaviter
in modo, which came near killing General Sherman.
AMUSEMENTS.
In the different hotels here they have different amusements.
At Dr. Strong's, the temperance water-cure boarding-house,
they have blessings, prayers, and sermons, daily. Sometimes Dr.
Cuyler narrates how the Israelites became carpet-baggers with
Moses down in Egypt—then the Hutchinsons sing a psalm.
At Dr. Hamilton's—the Crescent—they keep a sort of High
Church hotel. They sing more psalms and worse psalms there
every day than they do on Sunday on a negro plantation in
Louisiana. But they have some good sermons, to make up.
Last Saturday, Dr. Hamilton discoursed on “How to live a long
life.” He says the way to do it is to drink Hathorn water and
board at his hotel. Dr. Wright examined heads during the
evening. I have not heard the result. Dr. Leyburne, of Baltimore,
preaches a good deal, and sings bass beautifully.
At the American Hotel they have sixteen Catholic priests who
only eat meat four times a day at the hotel and once down at
Moon's. They are great lovers of woodcock and spring chicken
on the sly. After dinner you can count sixteen jolly red faces
on the back balcony, all smoking clay pipes and telling amusing
anecdotes.
At the Grand Union the guests all arise at 8 A. M., go down
to Congress Spring and imbibe, then come back and look at A.
T. Stewart, the handsome Judge Hilton, and Judge Barnard's
hat; then they all shake hands with William Leland. Then
comes a promenade up to the Indian encampment, dinner, music
on the balcony, a ride over to Moon's, and then they all go into
the ball-room.
At the Clarendon they all sit on the balcony, look prim, form
cliques and cut every body. Sometimes they discuss pedigrees
and incomes, then listen to the Clarendon band—the hand organ,
or watch the shooting gallery and the revolving horses.
ELI PERKINS PREACHES ON PRICES.
A good deal is said and written about watering-place prices,
but every one will admit, on sober reflection, that prices here are
less than they are in New York.
Take the question of carriages:—In New York you pay $5 for
a two-horse barouche ride around the park. Here you get a
very neat span of horses for an afternoon ride around the Lake
for the same amount, and a horse and buggy for $3. The Saratoga
liveries are certainly very neat and comfortable affairs too.
Your barber charges five cents more for a shave here, and you
Avenue Hotel. You ride to the Lake and back for 25c. in an
omnibus, and over to the Geyser for 20c When we think that
the barber has only six weeks to work in, after the great expense
of coming from New York, and see the newsman's trouble and
frequent losses on newspapers—these little extra charges are
explained and justified.
FEEING WAITERS.
In regard to feeing waiters, I do not see much of it. I deem
it entirely unnecessary to the procurement of a quick and satisfactory
meal at Congress Hall; and the payment of a bonus to
the colored boy is a mere matter of fancy on the part of the
guest. Mark, I say it is simply a fancy and not a sine quâ non.
It may be, and I think it is a fancy, both gratifying to the waiter
and to the guest to now and then gladden his eyes with a substantial
reward. “Gratitude is a lively sense of favors to come,”
says Dr. Holmes, and this is the feeling which makes us all
work, love our neighbors, and pray the big prayers of our faith.
The extravaganza of “Saratoga,” as played at the Fifth
Avenue Theatre, and everybody here will have it that I am the
identical Mr. Lewis—I say this extravaganza, with the feeing of
waiters and all, was accepted, not because it was true, but because
it was cleverly told.
A cleverly-told thing is as good as a true one. How many
times we have called the Germans transcendentalists, when they
are in reality the most matter-of-fact people in the world. Their
religion is based on absolute reason. They will have no humbug
in music, painting, or war. Then, too, we have listened to the
clever stage Yankee and the blustering Southerner, with bowie
knife and a bandit hat—both characters which do not exist at
present. Again, we have noticed the common error of calling
the women of extreme Southern climes more hot-headed and
passionate than those of more Northern latitudes. This is a
mistake, for I have seen five times as much passion among the
ladies of St. Petersburg and Moscow as I have seen in the hot
climates of Leghorn, Rome, Marseilles and Madrid. The Northmen
consume more oxygen, more oil, more fat, while the Southmen
live on cool fruits and vegetables. In the North the people
drink brandy, Burgundy, whiskey, rum and gin—fearful engenderers
of passion, while in the South they imbibe light sour
wines, clarets, the Rhein-heimers, or champagne, which in itself is
the greatest passion-slayer among liquids. So when they talk
of high prices here, they speak from force of habit and because
that they get to believe them.
HATS.
As the guests came out from
dinner to-day, there was a good deal
of mixing up of hats on the rack.
“I've lost my new hat,” said
Juge B— complaining to the hatboy.
“What kind of a hat was it?”
asked the boy.
“It was a white felt Dunlap.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the boy, “this
is too late in the day for Dunlaps.
Dunlaps were out an hour ago.
We're now on the Amadons and
Youmans. Have one? Better take
it, for we'll be down to the Knoxes
in a few moments and then will
come those mean Cincinnati and
Chicago hats.”
The boy has been arrested.
ELI IS LAN—
The Daily Saratogian says to-day,—“It's out! His alias is
“Lan.” His real name is Eli Perkins, of Litchfield, Connecticut.
The old sexton smoked him out and came in and told us, and
now he signs his letters to the Commercial with his genuine sig.
“Lan” is a little more liquid (no reference to the Moon-Congress-Spring-Ballston
affair), more euphonious-like. We believe
the Perkinses claim to have come over in the Sunflower.”
| Saratoga in 1901 | |