THE FISHING-EAGLE. 37 



baggage under a kind of shed, and resumes its noisy 

 career. You are at Saratoga. 



At first sight, Saratoga has nothing to distinguish 

 it from other country towns in the United States. 

 You see a large town of wooden houses, and streets 

 lined with trees, built partly in the end of a small 

 valley and partly up the side of the hill. In the 

 middle, there is a Broadway of shops, and on each side 

 pavementless streets, which lose themselves in the 

 neighbouring fields or woods. In a word, nothing 

 remarkable, nothing exceptional. 



Presently, however, you begin to recognise by 

 certain signs that there is something remarkable 

 about the town. You seek in vain for the indications 

 of some special commerce or manufacture, and look 

 around in vain for mills or factories. At the station 

 there are no waggons for bales of goods, nor is there 

 any sound of industry, that unmistakeable symptom 

 of a busy or commercial people. In point of fact, 

 Saratoga has nothing to sell but its mineral waters, 

 aad derive^ all its fortune from the fashion which 

 attracts people to them. 



As soon as you have thus brought yourself to 

 look into matters more closely, you have no difQ- 

 culty in recognising the symptoms of a place fre- 

 quented by pleasure- seekers. The numerous hotels 

 are evidently beyond the normal requirements of 

 such a place. Then there are the idleness, the air of 

 strangeness, and the elegant attire of those who 



