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.