Society as I Have Found It
and about the city, where one could dine at all well, crossing ferries,
and driving up Broadway with the ease and skill of a veteran whip, which
he was. His projects were, if anything, too grand. He lavished money on
all these things; his conceptions were good, but, like many great minds,
at times he was too unmindful of detail. On one occasion, at Newport, he
came to me, and told me he had mapped out a country _fête_, asked my
advice about getting it up, but failed to take it, and then brought
about his first _fiasco_. He asked the _beau monde_ to embark on the
yachts then lying in the harbor, and go with him to Stone Bridge to a
dance and clambake. All the yachtsmen placed their yachts at his
disposal. At 12 M., all Newport, i.e. the fashion of the place, was on
these yachts. At the prow of the boats he had placed his champagne. Down
came the broiling sun, and a dead calm fell upon the waters. Tugs were
called in to tow the yachts. Orders had been given that not a biscuit or
glass of wine was to be served to any of the party on these boats, that
we might reach the feast at the Bridge with sharp appetites. The sun
went down, and the night set in before we landed. We were then taken to
an orchard, the high grass a foot deep all wet, and saw before us great
plates of stewed soft clams and corn that had been cooked and ready for
us at 2 P.M. The women put their plates on the grass, and their feet in
them, so at least to have a dry footing. The champagne was parboiled,
the company enveloped in darkness, and famished, so that all pronounced
this kind of clambake picnic a species of _fête_ not to be indulged in
knowingly a second time. The great wit of the day, his boon companion,
called it “The Melancholy Fête.” The following anonymous lines on this
clambake were sent me:
AN ADAPTATION OF A LAMENTATION.
Clams, clams, clams,
Will always be thrown in my teeth.
Clams, clams, clams!
I’ll be crowned with a chowder wreath.
Bread and pickles and corn,
Corn and pickles and bread.
Whenever I sleep huge ghosts appear
With _clam_orous mouths to be fed.
Oh, women, with appetites strong!
Oh, girls, who I thought lived on air!
I did not mean to leave you so long
With nothing to eat, I declare.
Clams, clams, clams!
I have nothing but clams on the brain.
I’m sure all my life, and after my death
I’ll be roasted and roasted again.
Oh, tugs, why could you not pull?
Oh, winds, why would you not blow?
I’m sure I did all that man could do
That my clambake shouldn’t be slow.
Not in the least discouraged by this failure, returning to New York, he
planned three dinners to be given by himself and two of his friends, to
be the three handsomest dinners ever given in this city. Lorenzo
Delmonico exclaimed, “What are the people coming to! Here, three
gentlemen come to me and order three dinners, and each one charges me to
make his dinner the best of the three. I am given an unlimited order,
‘Charge what you will, but make my dinner the best.’” Delmonico then
said to me, “I told my cook to call them the Silver, Gold, and Diamond
dinners, and have novelties at them all.” I attended these three
dinners. Among other dishes, we had canvasback duck, cut up and made
into an _aspic de canvasback_, and again, string beans, with truffles,
cold, as a salad, and truffled ice cream; the last dish, strange to say,
very good. At one dinner, on opening her napkin, each fair lady guest
found a gold bracelet with the monogram of Jerome Park in chased gold in
the centre. Now it must be remembered that this habit of giving ladies
presents at dinners did not originate in this city. Before my day, the
wealthy William Gaston, a bachelor, gave superb dinners in Savannah,
Ga., and there, always placed at each lady’s plate a beautiful Spanish
fan of such value that they are preserved by the grandchildren of those
ladies, and are proudly exhibited to this day.
ON THE BOX SEAT AT NEWPORT.
CHAPTER XV.
_The Four-in-Hand Craze--Postilions and Outriders Follow--A
Trotting-Horse Courtship--Cost of Newport Picnics Then and
Now--Driving off a Bridge--An Accident that might have been
Serious--A Dance at a Tea-house--The Coachmen make a Raid on the
Champagne--They are all Intoxicated and Confusion Reigns--A
Dangerous Drive Home._
It seemed at this time, that the ingenuity of man was put to the test to
invent some new species of entertainment. The winter in New York being
so gay, people were in the vein for frolic and amusement, and feeling
rich, as the currency was inflated, prices of everything going up,
Newport had a full and rushing season. The craze was for drags or
coaches. My old friend, the Major, was not to be outdone, so he brought
out four spanking bays; and again, an old bachelor friend of mine, a man
of large fortune, but the quietest of men, I found one fine summer
morning seated on the box seat of a drag, and tooling four fine
roadsters. But this did not satisfy the swells. Soon came two out-riders
on postilion saddles, following the drag; and again, several pairs of
fine horses ridden by postilions _à la demi d’Aumont_. A turnout then
for a picnic was indeed an event. In those days, a beautiful spot on the
water, called “The Glen,” was often selected for these country parties.
It was a romantic little nook, about seven miles from Newport, on what
is called the East Passage, which opens on the Atlantic Ocean.
A young friend of mine, then paying court to a brilliant young woman,
came to me for advice. He wanted to impress the object of his
attentions, and proposed to do so by hiring two of the fastest trotting
horses in Rhode Island, and driving the young lady out behind them to
the “Glen” picnic. His argument was, that it was more American than any
of your tandem or four-in-hands, or postilion riding; that the pace he
should go at would be terrific, and he would guarantee to do the seven
miles within twenty minutes. He was what we call a thorough
trotting-horse man; much in love; worshipped horses; disliked style in
them, going in for speed alone. I tried to dissuade him.
“It will never do,” I said; “it is not the fashion; the lady you drive
out will be beautifully dressed, and you will cover her with dust;
besides, the pace will alarm her.”
“Never fear that, my man,” he answered. “The girl has grit; she will go
through anything. She is none of your milk-and-water misses; I can’t go
too fast for her.”
“Have it as you will, then,” I said; and off he went to Providence to
secure, through influence, these two wonderfully speedy trotters.
We were all grouped beautifully at the Glen, when, all of a sudden, we
heard something descending the hill at a terrific pace; it was
impossible to make out what it was, as it was completely hidden by a
cloud of dust. Down it came, with lightning speed, and when it got
opposite to the Major and me, we heard a loud “Whoa, my boys, whoa!” and
the vehicle came to a stop. The occupants, a man and woman, were so
covered with mud and dust that you could barely distinguish the one from
the other. I ran up to the side of the wagon, saw a red, indignant face,
and an outstretched hand imploring me to take her out. Seizing my arm,
she sprang from the wagon, exclaiming, “The horrid creature! I never
wish to lay eyes on him again,” and then she burst into tears. Her whole
light, exquisite dress was totally ruined, and she a sight to behold.
Turning to him, I saw a glow of triumph in his face; his watch was in
his hand. “I did it, by Jove! I did it, and ten seconds to spare!--they
are tearers!”
I quietly replied, “They are indeed tearers, they have torn your
business into shreds.”
“Fudge, man!” he said; “she wont mind it; she was a bit scared, to be
sure; but she hung on to my arm, and we came through all right.” He then
sought his victim. I soon saw by his dejected manner that she had given
him the mitten, and, as I passed him, slowly walking his horses home, I
philosophized to this extent: “Trotting horses and fashion do not
combine.”
Our next great day-time frolic was at Bristol Ferry. There we had a
large country hotel which we took possession of. We got the best dinner
giver then in Newport to lend us his _chef_, and I took my own colored
cook, a native of Baltimore, who had, at the Maryland Ducking Club,
gained a reputation for cooking game, ducks, etc. We determined, on this
occasion, to have a trial of artistic skill between a creole woman cook,
the best of her class, and the best _chef_ we had in this country. We
were to have sixty at dinner; dishes confined to Spanish mackerel,
soft-shell crabs, woodcock, and chicken partridges. It is needless to
say, the Frenchman came off victorious, though my creole cook contended
that the French _chef_ would not eat his own cooked dishes, but devoured
her soft-shell crabs.
On this occasion we had a grand turnout of drags, postilions _à la demi
d’Aumont_, and tandems. I led the cotillion myself, dancing in the large
drawing-room of the inn; and it all went so charmingly that it was late
into the night when we left the place. It was as dark as Erebus. We had
eleven miles to drive, and I saw that some of our four-in-hand drivers
felt a little squeamish. My old bachelor friend had in his drag a
precious cargo. On the box-seat with him sat our nightingale, and I had
in my four-seated open wagon our queen of society and a famous Baltimore
belle. “Is the road straight or crooked?” I was asked, on all sides.
Having danced myself nearly to death, and being well fortified with
champagne, I found it straight as an arrow, as I was then oblivious to
its crooks and turns. Off we all started up the hill at a canter. I
remember my friend, the Major, shouting to me, “The devil take the
hindmost,” and the admonition to him of his old family coachman, who
accompanied him that day, “Be careful, sir, the road is not as straight
as it might be.” Driving along at a spanking pace, the horses fresh, the
ladies jubilant, I as happy as a lord,--there was a scream, then
another, then a plunge, and a splash of water. Dark as it was, standing
up in my wagon, I shouted, “By Jove! he has driven off the bridge,”--and
off the bridge he was, drag upset and four horses mired in mud and
water. One young fellow, in the excitement of the moment, sprang to the
side of my wagon, and tried to wrench off one of my lamps. How then I
admired the plucky, cool little woman at my side! She never lost her
presence of mind for a second; gave directions quietly and effectively,
and soon brought order out of chaos. From a jolly, festive procession,
we were turned into a sad, melancholy species of funeral cortège. The
ladies were picked out of the wreck, and placed in the different drags
and wagons, and we wended on our way at a walk, ten dreary miles to
Newport. One brilliant youth of the Diplomatic Corps, as we passed a
farm-house, making it just out in the dark, was asked to procure for our
invalids a glass of water. He rushed to the house, banging against the
door, and shouting, “House, house, house, wont you hear, wont you hear?”
The old farmer poked his head out of the window, answering him, “Why,
man, the house can’t talk! what do you want here at this time of night?
I know who you are, you are some of McAllister’s picnickers. I saw you
go by this morning. I s’pose you want milk, but you wont get a drop
here.”
As picnics, country dinners, and breakfasts were then Newport’s
feature, they took the place of balls, all the dancing and much of the
dining being done in the open air. I would here say that as every family
took to these parties their butler, and carried out the wines and all