 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
Clarendon.
Clarendon Hotel, Saratoga, August 18.
I am here! I came yesterday. I am happy. I was glad to get
away from vulgar people who live down in the village, and glad
to come up here among the nobility. My suite of rooms overlooks
everything nice—the balconies, the graveyard, the Catholic
church, the aristocratic shooting gallery, and the revolving
caravansary of wooden horses where our aristocratic children
ride with the sons of the other nobility.
The hand-organ which accompanies the children in their
aristocratic amusement was imported by one of the old Roman
families—one of the Borghese whose ancestors own the Borghese
gallery and the villa outside of the Pizza del Popolo.
The musician hasn't a tooth in his head,
and yet he plays the most aristocratic airs
with one hand.
Mr. Levy, who bugles down at the
Grand Union, has to wear eye-glasses.
It is the mode to be exclusive here, and
not to know any one. My name has been
before the committees on incomes, pedigrees
and flirtation. I understand that I have passed all but the
last. My name, as recorded in the Secretary's book, reads thus:
“Mr. E. Perkins, author and littérateur; income, $5,000; pedigree,
son of Judge Perkins; grandfather on Governor Trumbull's staff
in the Revolution. Flirtation—Has been seen holding young
lady's hand at Congress. Hall—unsatisfactory.
WATCHING THE BALCONY.
Last night I watched the hotel balcony with the old Quaker
lady all night. Morning found my haggard form still hanging
like it. The only disturbing noise was the Catholic priests
coming to early mass this morning. I heard them grumbling
under my window because they had to get up so early. I did
not blame them. I swear myself whenever awakened before
eight A. M. So did Thomson, who wrote the “Seasons.” This
book sold well, and he made a good deal of money advising
other people to get up early, but he was careful himself to sleep
till ten A. M.
I think I was deceived when I wrote about the young gentlemen
holding the hands of the Clarendon young ladies. Such
reports cannot be true.
Far different.
But I do believe that they do this hand-holding business at
Congress Hall. Here the principal recreation is to sit up prim.
I have been introduced to but one gentleman and his wife.
We have formed a clique. No one can get into our clique. We
sit by ourselves all day and stun people with aristocratic looks.
We occupy twelve chairs with India-shawls, umbrellas, and such
aristocratic books as Disraeli's novel, the Galaxy, and the Atlantic.
Sometimes we look haughty, and talk loud enough to be heard
by the common people around us. When I came down, this
morning, Mrs. De Livingstone remarked, “My dear, your eyes
look all bunged-up.”
“I dined late with a jolly party of larkers,” I remarked.
“One has to do something to kill time in the absence of the
opera and our accustomed society,” said Mrs. De L.
“Yes, it is devilish pokey,” said Mr. De L., “to sit here all
day without saying anything; but, you know, it is very common
to be talking to people who may not belong to our set.”
Then we all yawned, fumbled the magazines, wished for
another funeral procession, and sighed for the arrival of the
evening paper.
I don't know how long I can stand it here. Mrs. De L. says
“she does wish it was time to go back to New York.” So does
everybody at the Clarendon. If the Commercial could only
come three times a day, life here would be delightful.
Do send it oftener.
| Saratoga in 1901 | |