 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
MR. PERKINS GOES TO THE CLARENDON.
Saratoga, August 17th.
My exposition of the gossip, committees, and funeral processions
at the Clarendon, has caused much excitement among the
aristocratic inmates of that hotel. They waited on Mr. Charles
Leland yesterday and requested that he should invite me to visit
the Clarendon officially and ascertain the truth or falsity of the
reports. Mr. L. sent me the following letter:
“My dear Mr. Perkins, Congress Hall—
Many of my aristocratic guests are grieved
at the reports which have gained credence
relative to the young gentlemen holding the
young ladies' hands, evenings, on the hotel
balconies. They also say that it is a very
common thing for them to be seen smiling,
and that dancing is not an unknown amusement
among them. I now invite you to
come and investigate for yourself. I assign
for the use of yourself and wife a suite of cheerful front rooms
overlooking the Catholic church and the graveyard, from the
windows of which you will be able to see everything going on in
our hotel.
“The chairmen of the different committees—on incomes, pedigrees,
dyed hair, and scolding husbands—will report directly to
you every mornin and every facility will be given you to ascertain
the truth. Yours, affectionately,
It is unnecessary to say to my readers that I have accepted
Mr. Leland's invitation, and that I shall leave Congress Hall for
the retired shades of the Clarendon. I go in the interest of
truth—I go to see for myself. I go for thirty-five thousand
Commercial readers, who desire to know the unvarnished facts
A POOR MAN.
Last night, between the sets, I strayed out into the hotel
corridors and ran upon an old silver-haired friend from Washington
Heights. He was in great distress. He
would puff his cigar a moment with great
energy—then he would settle himself back in his
chair and soliloquise. He seemed like one on
the verge of committing some heinous crime. I
looked him square in the face, but he was so
busy with his mutterings that he did not notice
me. I jogged against him, but he only pulled his hat lower over
his eyes and clenched his teeth more securely upon his stump of
a cigar. Not knowing but what his seeming remorse of conscience
was about to betray him into a confession of some terrible
crime, I listened to his mutterings. This is just what he said:
“Horace, you are a fool. You don't know when you are well
off. You ought to be kicked. There you were in the nicest,
cosiest house on Washington Heights—away from dust and
cinders—a big yard, splendid flower garden, and a cool breeze
blowing all day long around
you. You were the happiest
man in New York. You sat
on your own cool porch—you
enjoyed your fragrant partaga
—your friends dropped in—
the servants made the nicest
ices and cobblers, and Oh!”
he moaned, “how happy we
all were!” Then he leaned
forward on his hands, groaned
—and was silent. A moment,
and his mutterings commenced
again. “Horace, you
High hat, black coat, kid gloves! Ugh! Wife dancing up-stairs,
and Horace here melting with the heat.
“O dear,” he moaned, “my dear wife will kill me. I didn't
want to come; we haven't any girls to bring out. She said, `O,
dear Horace, it will be so nice:' and I turned my back on the
happiest home, the loveliest garden, to come and sit on these
infernal, dusty, scorching, crowded balconies! O Horace, you
are a darned old idiot!” and then he started up with a wild stare
in his eye, and strided toward the ball-room—a miserable, unhappy
victim of too much love and confidence—in his wife!
| Saratoga in 1901 | |