“Driver, that man in the gray coat is trying to frighten the old lady and gentleman away from your coach, by telling them it has had the small-pox.”

Oh I but did not the fire flash into his honest eyes, and leap into his swarthy cheek, and nerve his brawny arm, and clinch his horny fist, as he marched straightway up to the doomed offender, fiercely denounced his dishonesty, and violently demanded redress?  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, and eagerness and delight on every countenance, and a ring formed, and the prospect of a lovely “row,”—­and I did it; but a police-officer sprang up, full-armed, from somewhere underground, and undid it all, and enforced a reluctant peace.

* * * * *

And so we are at Saratoga.  Now, of all places to stay at in the summer-time, Saratoga is the very last one to choose.  It may have attractions in winter; but, if one wishes to rest and change and root down and shoot up and branch out, he might as well take lodgings in the water-wheel of a saw-mill.  The uniformity and variety will be much the same.  It is all a noiseless kind of din, narrow and intense.  There is nothing in Saratoga nor of Saratoga to see or to hear or to feel.  They tell you of a lake.  You jam into an omnibus and ride four miles.  Then you step into a cockle-shell and circumnavigate a pond, so small that it almost makes you dizzy to sail around it.  This is the lake,—­a very nice thing as far as it goes; but when it has to be constantly on duty as the natural scenery of the whole surrounding country, it is putting altogether too fine a point on it.  The picturesque people will inform you of an Indian encampment.  You go to see it, thinking of the forest primeval, and expecting to be transported back to tomahawks, scalps, and forefathers; but you return without them, and that is all.  I never heard of anybody’s going anywhere.  In fact, there did not seem to be anywhere to go.  Any suggestion of mine to strike out into the champaign was frowned down in the severest manner.  As far as I could see, nobody ever did anything.  There never was any plan on foot.  Nothing was ever stirring.  People sat on the piazza and sewed.  They went to the springs, and the springs are dreadful.  They bubble up salts and senna.  I never knew anything that pretended to be water that was half as bad.  It has no one redeeming quality.  It is bitter.  It is greasy.  Every spring is worse than the last, whichever end you begin at.  They told apocryphal stories of people’s drinking sixteen glasses before breakfast; and yet it may have been true; for, if one could bring himself to the point of drinking one glass of it, I should suppose it would have taken such a force to enable him to do it that he might go on drinking indefinitely, from the mere action of the original impulse.  I should think one dose of it would render a person permanently indifferent to savors, and make him, like Mithridates, poison-proof.