 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
UP THE HUDSON
Off for Saratoga!
Steamer St. John, July 10.
A TRIP up the Hudson with
a boat load of excursionists,
horse-racers, gamblers, and adventurers,
is a trip full of interest.
The keen observer never
wearies with the ever-changing
scene. The air is full of interest.
Men, fast horses, beautiful
women, charming villas, and
beautiful scenery occupy the
mind. The boat is a little miniature
world floating away from the
rest of humanity. Then the dialogues
which you hear on every
side have in them much to amuse
and a world of wisdom to instruct.
By the side of Dr. Hepworth, full
LONGFELLOW
& OLD JOHN
[Description: 628EAF. Page 002. In-line Illustration. Image of a man holding a horse by the bridle.]
of muscular Christianity, will be Belmont and Traverse, full of pictures and horses; Astor, full of tenant-houses, and Peter
Cooper, full of glue and gelatine. Everything is discussed, from
theology to pigs' feet, from horses to viaduct railways.
HORSE-RACERS.
Among the rest, we see several professional horse-racers from
Kentucky. They are men who remain idle during the winter,
and as spring breaks, they commence their race-track tramp.
First they run down to New Orleans, then up to Long Branch,
then to Saratoga, then back to the Branch. Back again to Saratoga,
and an end-up at Jerome Park, and their summer's work is
done, and their pockets are lined with the happy results of their
observation and knowledge. You will find these men at peep of
day around the race-track, talking with the boys or observing
the horses in course of training. When the race comes off they
know every horse—his pedigree, what he has done, what he can
do, and what he will do.
Old John Harper, the owner of Longfellow,
was with them last night, but the old fellow
would not talk. He stood like an animated
ghost, with his white hair
streaming in the wind, but
not one word could they
get out of him about Longfellow.
“What is the best he ever
did?” asked one.
“O, he's done some right
smart trotting down in
Kentuck,” replied old John, and then he was as silent as the
grave, his sharp gray eyes all the time resting admiringly on his
beautiful horse.
It is a queer sight to see this venerable old batchelor, bending
under the weight of eighty winters, tottering along after his only
love—a horse! His pet, a four year old 17-hand white faced
Eclipse), is always with him. Indeed, as they announced the
arrival of Bismarck in Paris in '67, “accompanied by the King
of Prussia,” so they now announce the goings and comings of
Longfellow, accompanied by John Harper.
Longfellow's competitor is Kingfisher
(four years old, sired by Lexington,
dam Eltham Lass), a beautiful horse
owned by Mr. Belmont, and the eyes
of a nation are concentrated on this
coming race at Saratoga.
GAMBLERS.
Crowds of professional gamblers
from New York gather in knots on the
deck of the St. John, on their way to
visit the “gilt-edged hells” in Saratoga.
They are a handsome set of rascals, but the gambler sticks out
in every feature. Who could fail to recognize the profession in
the long, dyed mustache of that handsome scamp Johnnie Lynch?
The observant eye can pick them out of a crowd of Christians
as it can separate the Cyprians on Broadway from the innocent
children of virtue. It is always a mystery how these fellows
make and spend so much money. They cannot make it out of
the faro-banks, for the banks must make enough themselves to
pay expenses. In this quandery I questioned a friend who knows
all their ways and “tricks which are vain.”
“Make it by legitimate gambling!” he exclaimed. “No, sir!
They are `ropers-in-men.' They bring others to play, and when
they have lost fortunes they receive a percentage as their commission
from the owner of the bank. These fellows are brokers
—faro-bank brokers, and though they play and lose ever so
much, it is only done to crowd the tables and create an interest.
The keeper pays back their losses.”
On the boat were groups of
laughing, banjo-playing negroes
—men and brothers and the connecting
links in the great Darwinian
theory. Where would Darwin's nice talk be without the
darkey? No one would think of jumping from the monkey to
5th Avenue. First we commence with the ape, then the Hottentot,
then the Sandwich Islander who loves and eats the tender
missionary who taught him to love his fellow man, then the
Chinese, then the darkey, then the voters in the shanties on the
rocks around Central Park,—then the 5th Avenue belles and swells
in fly-away bonnets and dashy tandems.
CLERGYMEN
Twice I was awoken out of a profound sleep by a party of
Methodist Ministers bound for Round Lake camp-meeting. They
were having a serious discussion with an unbeliever, and while a
zealous minister was arguing, I came out of my state-room.
The good man turned towards me and asked as he laid his
right forefinger argumentically on the palm of his left hand:—
“Was or was not Moses right?”
Moses who?
“Moses in the Bible.”
Colonel Heywood, who had seen
a good many scoffers in California,
came to my relief. He said: “Moses
was all right. His head was level.”
Then the cabir was quiet again.
The last heard of the Colonel he
was trying to prove that Sunday
was the strongest day in the week.
“Why?” asked the clergyman.
“Because all the other days are
week days.”
“Oh!!”
Then again we only heard the
heavy thug of the engine.
Thug—a—! thug—a! thug—a!
The Old Pilot.
The pilot of the St. John is an
excentric old fellow. He stands
all day long, rain or shine, alone
in the pilot-house. He has no
one to talk to, so he converses
aloud to himself. Sometimes he
stands and talks to himself for
hours. He was talking to himself
last night as I stood by the
pilot-house door. This is the
way he conducted the dialogue:
“Why are you up here in the
mist and rain of this God-forsaken
pilot-house, Billy? You are a
man of enterprise, you can keep
books, you can speculate, you can
run a newspaper, you could be an
Alderman and go to Saratoga.
Then what's the good of standing
here turning this wheel?”
“I will tell you, sir,” he replied, “it is because
you are a fool, Billy, an idiot, and a jackass.”
“But what business is it to you?” continued
Billy. “You come out here into the pilot-house to
brow-beat me do you? Who are you?”
“You are a low-lived, sneaking,
chicken-livered, salaratus-eating
Connecticut Yankee, any way,
and I'm honest, hardworking
William Munson!! D— your
soul, take that!” Then he chuckled
at his joke, and went on turning
his wheel, which, like his dialogue,
went round and round, but finally
stopped at the same place.
LAN—
| Saratoga in 1901 | |