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FLIRTING—DANCING—DRINKING—GAMBLING.

What do the “swells” do in Saratoga?

Well, at eight A. M. they appear
on the hotel balcony. He is dressed
in soft hat, with feather, and English
cut-away coat; she in Leghorn hat,
cocked up with plume. She carries
a pongee parasol, bound with black
lace, and wears a pongee redingote,
with black lace sleeves to match her parasol. In the
old time of Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis and Mrs. Dr.
Rush, young ladies and poodles in hot weather both
needed muslin; but times have changed.

“Aw, Miss Astor,” Augustus remarks, “thwal I
ethkort you to the Congwes spwing?”

“Thanks, Mister de Courtney, thanks!” replies
Miss Astor, taking his arm.

Then they saunter to the spring, drink two glasses,
and walk around the park. She hangs lovingly on his
arm as she watches the squirrels and fawns, or looks
up sweetly as she gossips confidentially about the “horrid
dresses the Scroggs girls wear.” Returning to the
spring, they drink the third glass and return to the
“States.” Now they walk three times up and down

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the balcony to show their morning costumes; then
sweep in to breakfast, where they read the Saratogian,
eat Spanish mackerel, woodcock, and spring chicken,
give the waiter a dollar, and gossip about the Jones
girls, whose mother used to keep a boarding-house.

“Bah! some people do put on such airs!” remarks
Miss Astor.

After breakfast and cigars all sit on the back balcony
of the “States” to talk and “spoon” and hear
the music.

Time, half-past ten. Sentimental young ladies now
“spoon” under mammoth umbrellas, with newspapers
in front.

“Oh, Augustus! I am afraid somebody is watching
us.”

“No, they kon't, yeu kneuw, Miss Mollie; but it's
hawid to sit in such a cwowd—perfectly atwocious;
let's walk up to the gwaveyard.”

“To see the Indians, Augustus?”

“Oh, yes; they're jolly nice — perfectly lovely —
splen—”

And off they go to the Indian encampment on the
hill.

At two P. M. dinner—sweetbreads, salad, Philadelphia
squabs, and champagne.

“O gracious! Augustus, aren't my cheeks red!”

Augustus's father, after eating squabs and drinking
champagne, sherry, and claret, remarks:

“Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Perkins, that a plain
liver like me could have the gout?”

Dinner over, and all retire to balcony to smoke and

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read the papers. Sentimental young people retire to
corners and flirt under umbrellas and twenty-inch fans,
and Augustus reads sentimental poetry:

Miss Astor reads:

Then the “spooniest” young people saunter over to
the ten-spring woods or down to the double seats in
Congress Spring Park.

After tea the grand balcony tramp commences.
Ladies in full dress—gros grain silks, tight to hip, long
train, with white lace sleeves. Hair braided in short
stem behind. Gentlemen in “swallow tails.”

“O, Augustus! isn't this dress too sweet for anything?”

“Just too lovely, Miss Astor. And ain't the mewsic
awful jolly to-night?”

Admiring mothers now look on and hold extra chairs.
Rich old bachelors who own dog-carts bow, present
bouquets, and retire. Engaged couples seclude themselves
in unlighted corners.

“Yes, Augustus, we'll go to Washington on our
bridal trip.”

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At nine, children are led off to bed, mothers occupy
long lines of chairs around the hop room, and dancing
commences. Small talk usurps the time between the
sets.

Young Gentleman—Charmin' evening, Miss Astor.

Young Lady—Yes, awful charmin'—perfectly lovely—
splen—

Young Gentleman—Donce a squar donce to-night?

Young Lady—Oh, Augustus! I kon't, yeu kneuw.
The squar donces are beastly—perfectly atwocious—
hawible — perfectly dre'ful. Let's donce a galop.
They're awful jolly—perfectly divine.

Twelve P. M.—Hop over and lights out. Girls drink
lemonade in reception room, talk about ruined dress
skirts, and handsome fellows rush down to Morrissey's.

“I'll make or break to-night.”

Table loaded with white and red checks, champagne
flows, and cigar smoke fills the air, like a cherubim.

“Gus, lend me $10?”

“The white loses and the red wins,” slowly repeats
the dealer.

“My God, I'm ruined!”

After midnight—streets silent; hotel dark. The click
of the gamblers' checks sounds out from the gilded
haunt of the revelers. Lizzie dreams of dresses, of
love, of heaven—and of her dear, dear, innocent
Augustus.

“Who smashed that champagne bottle into the mirror?”

Then they carry Augustus home—hair over his face
and his blue eyes bleared and blinded.

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“Oh, please keep it from father!”

Why do I reflect? Why do I look upon all this
sinning and sorrowing — this verity and vanity—this
gladness and giddiness, and see no good? Sorrowfully
I bow my head and say:

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