 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
TRUTH CRUSHED TO EARTH!
OUR CORRESPONDENT EXPELLED.
Congress Hall, Aug. 1st (morning).
Morning dawns. I look from my window and see a deserted
village, with now and then a wandering haggard resident. The
women and children are gone, but a set of desperate men are
left. They have seized the battery. Professor Chandler is missing.
The Indians have cleared away the last vestige of yesterday's
developments and Congress spring is placid, but deserted.
What mean these groups of determined men? Why do they
come under my window and then go away shaking their fists?
I do not like this place.
I think I shall go away—go over to Ballston. Ballston is a
healthy place—healthier for me than Saratoga. No one urges
me to stay here.
Evening, Ballston Spa.
I left Saratoga this afternoon. My exposure of the snakes in
Congress spring caused even more dreadful results than I, in
imagination, pictured. The Commercial was published in New
York at two P. M. I was flooded with telegrams from the City.
My friend S. W. Coe, telegraphed:
“They have the same snakes at Richfield and Sharon,—but
they are in their boots. Leave the place.”
So I left.
After the guests of all the hotels had fled, some of the oldest
inhabitants met and drafted resolutions inviting me to go away.
I said: “Gentlemen, in this case of Congress water versus the
snakes, I am retained by the snakes.”
One venerable gray-headed resident said I had destroyed the
confidence of a confiding village—that I had destroyed commerce—the
foundation stone onto which the village's greatness
had rested for a hundred years. “Go!” he said, “before you
make this once happy village a howling wilderness.”
I said “Let her howl; but truth—everlasting truth—”
LAN — INVITED TO GO!
And then a great crowd interrupted me, everybody pressing
his warm invitation upon me to leave—to go away—to “slope.”
They even packed my trunks and assisted me to depart.
I went.
I am here in Ballston—Ballston with its mammoth hotels, its
blacksmith's shop, and its immense printing office. I am a
wanderer and an outcast—from Saratoga. I am a victim of
misplaced confidence—confidence in men. My exposure of the
snakes in Congress spring did not result as I expected it would.
It struck hard, but it bounded back, and I had to leave the place.
The women believed the truth at first, but the men demoralized
them.
That night—that same night, after the expulsion of Professor
Chandler—Mr. Marvin and Colonel Johnson deposited in the
spring a fresh barrel of salt. I saw them do it from my window.
At 12, Wm. Leland appeared at the spring. He raised a
glass and drank like one athirst.
“By gum! it's the same old thing,” he exclaimed, and then he
drank sixteen tumblers full and fell fainting on the ground.
Others followed—Mr. King and Mr. Clements.
Then they all drank again. They telegraphed for Major
Selover, Henry D. Polhemus and Colonel Boody. They came
and drank. They said they were not afraid now the snakes
were gone.
Far from it.
I miss Saratoga. I miss the morning Germans. I miss those
pretty girls on Congress Hall balcony at night. I miss the
genial face of Mr. Saxe, the handsome Judge Hilton, the venerable
Vanderbilt, my woodcock with Colonel Bridgeland at
Moon's. I miss Mr. Southgate's 2:41¾ horses. I miss the instructive
sermons of Dr. Strong's, and the lovely base singing of
Dr. Hamilton's. I miss the midnight festive whirl at the Clarendon,
its aristocratic gray-headed matrons, and ceaseless talk of
love and its flirtations on the balcony.
I may return.
I can return if I change my name and deny what I have said.
This may be my last from Saratoga. Adieu!
THE EXILE'S RETURN.
Congress Hall, Aug. 3.
I arrived from Ballston this morning.
Yesterday the Saratoga Common Council met, and resolved
that I should remain a fugitive until I changed my name and
renounced my snake statement.
I did not exactly like Ballston. It was too quiet.
The Sans Souci Hotel there is remarkable for not resembling
Congress Hall, or the Sans Souci at Potsdam.
I spent the entire day visiting the blacksmith and carpenter
shops. They are mammoth structures. They have a spring
there called the Washington. G. Washington was named after
it. George didn't run often, but this spring runs all the time.
The water resembles Saratoga water, though it is not so bad.
Snakes are seldom seen in the springs there. If you go to
Ballston to spend the summer, I should advise you to board in
Saratoga. Ballston is too healthy. Chickens and tender young
lambs never die there—though some of the young ladies do.
One young lady sang in the parlor of the Sans Souci last
night:
“Tis sweet for one's country to dye;”
hair!
An old resident said Saratoga was once located at Ballston,
but that they had too much conscience to keep it there, so they
removed the big spring here. Ballston received its name from
the immense balls which they used to have at the City Hotel
there. This village was named after the Daily Saratogian. They
removed the springs over from Ballston, so that the guests could
be here to read the paper.
The Saratoga Common Council, with Colonel Johnson and
Mr. Marvin at the head, met me on the town-line this morning
with a conditional pardon and a promise of official protection if I
would sign it. I was sick of Ballston, and sighed to return to
Saratoga, where the people lead a religious life and smoke good
cigars. This is the article of capitulation which I signed:
I hereby certify that my name is not Lan — but Eli Perkins,—that I did not
see the snakes which came out of Congress Spring, and that I was not acquainted
with the man who did see them when they came out!
Eli Perkins né Lan—.
That certificate is a li—bel, but I had to sign it or go without
my woodcock and soft-shell crabs—so here I am at Congress
Hall.
I am happy to get back. The young men who smoke good
cigars in the office of Congress Hall whistled “Der Kaiser ist
Da!” as I came up the steps. Friends gathered around,
shedding tears of regret, and whispering words of condolence to
Mr. Hathorn. I went directly to my room, and feeling in a sad
mood, I wrote this sermon:—
| Saratoga in 1901 | |