 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
ECLIPSE OF THE GAS WORKS.
Congress Hall, Saratoga, August 19.
Yes, I have returned!
The Clarendonites invited me very warmly to go away, but
this was not the only cause of my coming back. Deeds were
done generally and liberties were committed, particularly against
my person, at that aristocratic hotel, which outraged my sense
of propriety and justice.
On Friday night, while the committees on pedigree, income,
and old maids were sitting in the parlor, the gas suddenly went
out.
The gas-works had used its last barrel of oil and the supply of
material was exhausted. It was Egyptian darkness. The face
of a black waiter made a light spot in the room. All Saratoga
was in darkness. “The Sun” office had only one candle. The
Saratogian lighted up two old “Wide-awake” lamps. The
Chesterfieldian Hathorn, with one candle in a bottle, went around,
like Diogenes with his lantern, looking for an honest man.
“Alas! I found one,” he said, “but he was sitting on the stairs with
a young lady from 5th Avenue.” During the darkness, Dr. Hamilton's
chief bass singer gave out, and Dr. Strong adjourned his
prayer meeting.
It was just in this darkness that light came to me all at once
at the Clarendon.
It was ten o'clock.
The stage drove up from the depot. Almost every lady expected
her husband on the train. Many young ladies expected
their sweethearts. Neither the stage, the driver, nor the horses
were visible. From force of habit the passengers felt their way
to the reception-room. I got mixed up with the crowd.
Twenty-five married ladies, seven old
maids, and four young ladies commenced
greeting the passengers in the
darkness.
“My dear William! why did you
stay so long?” exclaimed a sweet young
wife, and then she threw her arms
around my neck—our lips met, I wasn't
going to be a “darned” fool.
Far different.
Now, a dear, sweet, liquid-eyed brunette threw her arms wildly
around me. “O, Eugene, why did you not write oftener?”
she sobbed, and then she sank sweetly on my bosom. I said,
“Weep not, Julia,” and then I kissed her sweetly twenty-two
times. It was delicious. It made me think of my first wife and
my college days at Yale.
A ponderous matron now approached—dress décolletée, hair à la
Pompadour. She took me in her arms and whispered, “O,
Charles, did you bring my beautiful dog—did you?”
“Madame, my name is not Charles, and I hate dogs. I'd kill
every d-d-d-,” but she fell fainting at my feet.
A sweet, golden-haired blonde now
took my hand. She pressed it gently,
saying: “Dear Albert, I know it is you,
and I am so glad to see you!
“You won't dance with Lizzie Smith,
now, will you? Now, do promise me!”
I said I wouldn't. Then she held her
cheek close to mine. It was hot with
love's young hope and sweet affection.
We were very happy. None but a
wicked man would have brought sadness
affection, and beautiful with splendid girlishness.
“Do you still love me, Albert?” she whispered.
“Undoubtedly,” I remarked.
“How much, darling?”
“A heap.”
“O, I am too happy!” she murmured, as she twisted her
fingers in my auburn hair and held me in a sweet embrace.
This sort of thing went on for seventeen minutes, when C.
Leland appeared in the distance with a tallow candle. I quietly
withdrew and mingled unobserved in the crowd. As the candle
appeared, twenty-seven young gentlemen were seen shaking hands
with as many young ladies in the different corners. I have
seldom seen such a display of affection. One married gentleman
was holding the hands of two ladies.
The hair of the ladies was generally crimpless, while the hair
of the young gentlemen did not display a parting place.
I reflected, “How kin such things be, and overcome us like a
summer shower?” I consulted with J. Billings. He says they
kan't. So I resolved to leave the place. I came back to Congress
Hall and found the young ladies and young gentlemen
having a grand ball by candle light. Each young lady held in
her hand a penny dip. They flew through the lancers like
ghosts in “Macbeth.” Eight streaks of light made a terrible
criss-cross, as the dance went on. When the grand chain came,
the lights revolved like a gigantic fourth-of-July pin-wheel.
It was a great night for Saratoga.
Seventeen young people of the Clarendon and fifteen of Congress
Hall became engaged that night. The young lovers liked
it—the darkness. Some flirting old bachelors took advantage of
the darkness too. Mothers in many instances tied veils over the
faces of their daughters. Why, alas! I am ashamed to tell.
Some prefer darkness rather than light, because their ways are
evil. I do.
TO SLEEP.
When people came to go to bed there was a great demand for
candles. There were twelve hundred people at Congress Hall—
two hundred candlesticks and three hundred bottles—five hundred
lights in all.
Young gentlemen stood outside of doors while sweethearts
undressed and handed the candle over the transcient. Old men
slept with their boots on, because they could
not find the bootjack. Married men got into
the wrong rooms, and only found out their mistake
the next morning.
An old lady bathed her face with Harrison's
Columbian ink to cure the toothache. She
thought it was a bottle of Pain-Killer. She discovered her mistake
just before coming to breakfast.
Mr. Saxe borrowed a candle of a beautiful young lady. The
next morning she found under her door these beautiful lines:
And add as a compliment justly your due—
There is not a girl in these feminine ranks
Who could, if she would, hold a candle to you.”
The following was picked up on
Congress Hall balcony the next
morning after the eclipse of the gas
works:
Go sigh it East and West:
Say, “I've been kissed—so sweetly kissed
By one that I love best.”
Upon my own his glowing lips
In fervor fondly pressed;
And though we never spoke a word,
We each our love confessed.
| Saratoga in 1901 | |