 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
SARATOGA INDIAN STORY.
LENA AND ORONTA DISAPPEAR IN CONGRESS SPRING.
Congress Hall, Saratoga, Aug. 22.
1. CHAPTER I.
“Hast thou suffered?”
“No.”
“Then this letter is not for thee.”
2. CHAPTER II.
C'est un programme de la Renaissance.
Yesterday was a dreary day. Mr. Wheatley postponed the
races that the rain might go on undisturbed. Saratoga gathered
her 10,000 guests within doors. The merry laugh went on in the
hotel parlors despite the howling tempest without. Those who
patronized the shooting galleries and rode on the revolving
wooden horses in front of the Clarendon were careful to carry
umbrellas. Giddy misses and thoughtless young gentlemen, who
do not believe in punishment after death, played euchre for
caramels in the great hotel halls, while the more sober clergymen,
smoked their cigars in solemnity, read my religious sermon of
yesterday, and talked about the races. Senator Bayard, Senator
Robertson, and Simeon Cameron played draw-poker, with
nothing to mar their pleasure but the storm and the absence of
General Nye and General Schenck. Bernstein played dance
music in the parlors, remorseless young women amused us by
dancing the round dances, while the old ladies “killed time” on
embroidery, or talked about the years gone by when they were
the belles of Saratoga. Some of them showed photographs of
themselves in point lace capes, twelve button gloves and diamond
necklaces, and then lectured the young ladies on the extravagance
of the times.
Mrs. General Greene, who was married forty years ago in a
about the economy of Sallie Ward and Madame Le Vert.
Time moves on.
This is a common thing with Time. Twelve o'clock came.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE LONE INDIAN.
But Captain Brown was wide awake.
He loaded up his gun.
And then pursued the loving pair—and overtook them about
half-way to the parson's, when Reuben and Phœbe
Started upon a run.
I said the clock struck twelve. Hastily quitting the abode of
mirth, I buttoned up my coat, took the veil off of my hat, and
started past Congress Spring toward the Indian encampment—
the haunts of the wild savages in the hill. A fearful storm
brooded over the forest, and the wind howled among the trees.
I read that sentence in a book. A lone Indian woman met me
at the door of her tent. She welcomed me with a cold, haughty
look, and then she asked me if I would buy a basket. I handed
her five cents. Her manner softened, and she burst into tears—
then, turning her clear eye upon mine, she asked me if I would
tell her the story of my life. I said I would.
My mother was a Livingstone—a cold,
proud woman, entirely devoted to the
world and its fashions. She was poor.
My father was a Perkins, a haughty,
overbearing man. He was poor also.
Thirty-six summers ago they met—at
Saratoga—at the Union Hotel. Wm.
Leland introduced them. He told Miss
Livingstone that Mr. Perkins was worth
untold millions. Then he told Mr. Perkins
that Miss Livingstone owned twelve
blocks on Bleeker street. This was a li—bel. My father's
unhappy people in the same manner since. The Lelands do not
believe in punishment after death. I was the only fruit of their
ill-assorted union. I inherited my father's and mother's estates.
I am as proud as they, and I boast of my poverty.
“What do you think of my story, child of the forest?” I asked.
The warm-hearted Indian remained a moment sitting—then
she started up and asked for ten cents more. As soon as she
saw the money a tear dropped from her eye, and she commenced
telling me the story of her tribe and Congress Spring. It was
thus:
4. CHAPTER IV.
LOVE AND SUICIDE.
So rudely rent in twain.
“In years gone by, when the forest waved over the crystal fountain
which now unveils itself to the inquisitive white man in the
sparkling liquid of Congress Spring, my ancestors dwelt around
this hallowed spot. Then none save the Indian worshipper ventured
to gaze upon that fountain where their simple, yet beautifully
imaginative faith taught them to feel the presence of the
Great Being whose sighs were the storm and whose tears were
the drippings of the fountain. Our tribe worshipped the Great
Spirit, revered and protected the briny fountain of his remorse,
and drank the tearful waters in token of our awe.
“Then, in days gone by, it was customary to offer a living
sacrifice once a year to this boiling fountain, which the pale face
calls Congress Spring, and which trickles from the eyes of the
Great Spirit.
“In the bright autumn month of August, when all earth's
flowers were at their richest, and the fruits had attained their
mellowest tints, ere time could bring his sickle round them, our
watchful Sachem gave the word, and our fairest maiden, who had
just arrived at womanhood, was bedecked with fruits and flowers
there to sink, in the presence of the assembled tribes, forever
beneath the surface of the spring!
5. CHAPTER V.
“Lena was the only child and the darling of Oronta, the proudest
chief of our warlike tribe, the Saratogas. Full many a bloody
fight had seen his single feather pass in triumph, like the pestilential
blast, scathing when he came, and leaving, when he left,
the red track of his hatchet and tomahawk.
“Perhaps Oronta was the Sachem who founded Tammany
Hall,” I remarked, with my eyes full of tears.
“Alas!” she sighed, “it is too true—but you anticipate.”
“Spring followed Spring, Summer breathed on Autumn, and
Autumn prepared her glories for withering Winter's `cold embrace.”'
“Withering Winter? Ah, I've seen him at Congress Hall
frequently,” I remarked, “and he's still on the embrace.”
“Sh—! pale-face, and listen!
“Each annual round had sent an offering to the water spirit
of the weeping fountain.”
6. CHAPTER VI.
“Oronta danced in pride and triumph at many a holy feast
which followed the sacrificial gift that our rejoicing tribe had in
their turn given. But Oronta felt not for the fathers whose precious
jewels were thus taken from their wigwams and committed
to the grave of the boiling fountain. Oronta thought not that
they had earthly feelings which the ardor of religion could not
always quite subdue. Oronta had lost his fair wife Calma; but
it was by a foeman's arrow, and terribly had he avenged his
bereavement.
“Since that event his motherless child had felt the glow of
fifteen summers—'till like a rose she opened all her beauties to
the maturing breath of Nature.
“The day of sacrifice came. It belonged to the Saratogas, and
Lena is the only offering fitting the occasion!
“Can the proud Oronta show his weakness? Can he let the
father's bursting bosom be seen to tremble? Can he give ear to
Nature lest she blend his love and pity in a tear, that may fall
down a blot upon his name?
7. CHAPTER VII.
“The moon-lit hour is come. The Oneidas and Senecas have
joined the Saratogas, and the rejoicing war dance goes on,
Oronta has parted from his Lena to meet where the Great Spirit
reigns. His wigwam in the pine grove is lonely now.
“The yell of frantic triumph goes up from a thousand Saratogas.
The beautiful Lena stands above the spring, her robes
festooned with flowers and playing in the breeze. She looks
smilingly upon her watery grave, while the mad Sachems shout
to heaven their joyous benedictions.
“Lena casts one wandering look upon her brave companions,
and then—behold another form, arrayed in white, streaks through
the misty twilight and both look down upon the boiling spring.
It is Oronta. He brings his full grown glories of battle and of
chase a willing offering for a reunion with his wife and child.
“The Oneidas send up a terrible shout, and rush, like a whirlwind,
to rescue their proud foe, Oronta. Alas! the Great Spirit
has called too soon, for Lena and Oronta clasp in a last embrace.
One look—one mutual look of love, of hope, of happiness, is
exchanged—when they both disappear beneath the surface of
the waters.
“The forest rings again with the yell of the Saratogas, as father
and child disappear in their watery grave—the tear-fountain of
the Great Spirit.”
“Child of the forest,” murmured my venerable statician, overcome
with emotion, “thy story accounts for the many Indian
have thrown to the surface of the spring, and also for the Indian
taste to the water.”
She made no reply.
| Saratoga in 1901 | |