 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
SARATOGA AGAIN IN 1901.
August 27th, 1901.
This afternoon I walked around Saratoga again with the same
old statician who used to furnish me figures thirty years ago.
We found the park filled with cozy double seats, and the young
people from the different hotels were enjoying themselves very
nicely under the shady trees.
The band played in the park, and it was such a relief, it
seemed to me, from the dry, crowded hotel balconies of thirty
years ago. The villagers started this custom of the band playing
in the park, and soon they drew all the guests from the hotels,
who liked it so much better in the park that they all left the
hotels, and no one was left to listen to the balcony music.
The one seat that used to command all the approaches on the
hill is still there. My venerable statician says 5,968 people
eventually exchanged hearts on that bench, but that now the
heart business is going on all over the park. He says the double
benches have facilitated the engagement business a good deal—
that twenty times a many engagements are now consumated in
Saratoga as there used to be—and all just on account of these
benches.
“Why,” said the old man, “it was a hard thing to pen a young
lady up in the corner of a hotel balcony long enough to get her
`on a string;' and just as sure as you were on the point of proposing,
some old fool of an uncle would come along and say:
“`O Fannie! are you using my newspaper? I want to see the
market reports.'
“Confound it!” exclaimed the old statician, “the old fool
didn't know we were using it, and that when he took it away he
unmasked a battery and left poor Fannie's beautiful hands
exposed to the vulgar gaze of the remorseless balcony trampers.”
The fact is, when they got those double seats in the park,
daughters long distances just to avail themselves of our superior
opportunities. Saratoga became a grand matrimonial mart,
and, as Mr. Saxe wrote in 1881:
Now come again to marry off their daughters.”
CONGRESS SPRING DRIES UP.
“But how came it?” I asked of my venerable “statician.”
“You see,” said the old man, “everybody in Saratoga got to
boring for private springs. The new Indian Spring set them
crazy. They all wanted private Geysers for fountains in their
gardens. During the year 1880, no less than seventeen springs
were bored in Saratoga door-yards.
Of course there was an end to the water, and by-and-by, I
think in 1884, the old springs began to dry up. First, the
Columbian, then Congress Spring, then the Hathorn. It affected
Saratoga a good deal, and caused good old Mr. Hathorn's death.
People kept away for a little while, but they soon found that the
water from the deep springs was fully as bad as the old water,
and so they got to drinking it again.
GROWTH OF SARATOGA.
Saratoga now extends all along Lake Avenue to Saratoga
Lake. There are four beautiful rows of elms all the way, and it
is one of the most delightful drives in the world—so much better
than when I saw it in 1871! There is also the same kind of a
Boulevard extending over to Ballston, past the Geyser, where
they have a mammoth hotel. Moon died in 1892. His potato
trade got to be immense. Moon was ambitious, and one day
he heard Mr. Vanderbilt and Mr. Stewart talking about the
“eclipse of the Moon.” He made no inquiries as to facts, but
took to heart. He died happy, and his last words to Mrs. Moon
were, “Never let the Frank Wadel bottle get empty while Sam
Duncan lives.”
Mr. John R. Cecil, a most genial wit, who died many years
ago, used to tell the venerable Charles Wall that “Moon took
too many `quarters' and `halves,' and then got to be a `full
Moon' too often. He was able, alas! to make a good many
changes, but he finally died broken hearted because he could
have no `new Moons.”'
Meyers continued to shoot “kilmaroos” in
August, and partridges in September for
many years. When Commodore Vanderbilt
died he bequeathed him $500,000 with which
to build a monument to the woodcock and
black bass, which had been eaten there by
himself, Mr. Boody and Mr. Marvin. The
monument stands on the shores of the lake,
a warning beacon to black bass to keep away
from the shoals of Cedar Bluff.
Meyers many years afterwards was buried under the same
monument.
LONGFELLOW AND UNCLE JOHN HARPER.
“Do you remember the great Longfellow race in 1871?” I
asked of my silver-haired statician.
“Perfectly,” he replied. “You know it came near breaking
Uncle John's heart! Well, he went back to Kentucky with his
three-year-old pet—took good care of him, worked him every
day, and in 1872 the old man brought him up to the Branch.
Old General Buford brought up Enquirer; Babcock entered
Helmbold; and Belmont entered Kingfisher. The race was four
miles—and such a race! Old John had not smiled for twelve
months—ever since Longfellow was beaten. He had not cut
his hair or shaved. The burden of his mind and soul was to
win the race.
“The race came. Millions of people gathered to see it. I got
close to old John. They started—the horses. Jupiter Tonans!
what a race!”
“Who beat?” I asked, unable to conceal my excitement.
“Well, old John had it this time. A year had put bottom
into `Old Long,' and he came out just three lengths ahead of
Kingfisher, Enquirer, and Helmbold, who were almost neck and
neck.”
“And old John?”
“Lord, the old man threw up his cane and broke into a laugh
—his hoarse voice sounded all over the track. He embraced his
horse and laughed again. He laughed all day—the next day—
for a week. Nobody could stop him. It was a horse laugh. It
gave everybody the nightmare to be with him. Finally, after
the physicians gave him up, old John died—died laughing.”
THE BOYS.
“What became of the boys who with jokes and fun used to
make everybody happy at Congress Hall?” I enquired of my
old statician.
With tears in his eyes he continued: “You know, Greeley
eventually became President, but he was impeached for
using the regular army to drive people west. Senator Robertson
and Mr. Summer made a speech for Greeley, but both soon after
died. Mrs. Traverse was converted, became an enthusiastic
religionist, built a memorial church, and then went to that
bourn from which no traveller returns. The Chesterfieldian
Fernando Wood lived many years. He said when the forty
thieves got reduced to four, his mission on earth was ended, and
he was willing to die. Sam Tilden and John B. Harkins were
months. Hugh Hastings died in 1895. After Mr. Weed's death
he became very sad and dejected. He even refused his regular
meals. He finally died of a broken heart, and was buried by the
side of Thurlow Weed.
B. F. Beakman and Mr. Bissell, and thirty-six other Christian
gentlemen, succeeded in purchasing the Club House for a free
library and reading-room, and it now stands a monument to
their many virtues. Mr. B. spent most of his time there, engaged
in reading and reflection, during the last years of his life. He
often said to his family clergyman:
The scent of the rose will hang where it used to.”
| Saratoga in 1901 | |