"---- night throughout the gelid air, Veils with her sable wings the solar glare; When modest Cynthia clad in silver light Expands her beauty on the brow of night, Sheds her soft beams upon the mountain side, Peeps through the wood and quivers on the tide," then faces light up with the gas lamps. The parlors begin to fill with elegantly attired ladies, the piazzas are thronged with chatty and sociable gentlemen, and the streets are crowded, far more than they are in the daytime, by pleasure strollers of either sex in elegant array. The ball-room becomes radiant with costly chandeliers whose effulgence is reflected by diamonds of the first water. One dark evening, at the height of last season, in the midst of the preparations for a brilliant ball, the gas which supplies the whole village became suddenly exhausted. Candles were the only resource, and there was by some mischance a limited supply of these. Bottles were improvised for candlesticks, and stationed in the corners and on the pianos of the massive parlors, rendering the scene grotesque and ludicrous in the extreme, while the closer nestling of lovers and the solemn stillness reigning on every hand gave sublimity to the picture. The poet Saxe happened to be among the guests at Congress Hall, and borrowed a candle from a pretty young lady. The next morning she found under her door the following beautiful lines: "You gave me a candle; I give you my thanks, And add, as a compliment justly your due, There is not a girl in these feminine ranks Who could, if she would, hold a candle to you." Verily "darkness brings the stars to view." On this occasion there was no little "sparking," and though the flames of the gas lamps gave no light, love's flame burned brighter than ever. Saratoga in Winter. Saratoga is not a "Country where the leaves never fall, and the eternal day is summer-time." As the gorgeous autumnal sunsets of October crown the golden-capped, or no longer verdant forests, the summer beauties prepare to return to their winter homes. The falling leaves in this vicinity are wondrously beautiful, and the cool sunsets will richly reward those who tarry to behold them; but "the season" is over, and the little town becomes almost a deserted village. "Brightly, sweet Summer, brightly, Thine hours have floated by." A shade of melancholy cannot but possess those who remain after the last polka is polked, the last light in the last ball-room is extinguished, and the summer ended. At length the railway engine whistles at long intervals; the mail-bags lose their plethora; the parish preachers, shorn of occasional help, knuckle to new sermons; the servants disperse; the head waiter retires to private life, and the dipper-boy disappears in the shades of the pine forests; the Indians pack up their duds, and, like the Arab, silently steal away; while the landlords retire within their sanctums to count over their hard-earned dollars.