But to return to the past. When Newport was in its glory, and outshone itself, the young men of that day resolved to give me a lesson in picnic-giving. What they had done well in and about New York, they felt they could do equally well in Newport, so they sent to the city for Delmonico with all his staff, and invited all Newport to a dance and country dinner at a large teahouse some six miles from Newport, adjoining Oaklands, the then Gibbs farm, later on the property of Mr. August Belmont, and now belonging to Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, being his model farm, one of the loveliest spots on Newport Island. Delmonico took possession of this huge barrack of a house, and to work his waiters went to arrange in the large, old dining-room his beautiful collation, which was all brought from New York. The entire party were dancing the cotillion in the front parlor of the house, and grouped on its front piazzas. As 5 P.M. approached, an irresistible desire, an inward craving for food, became apparent. Committeemen were beset with the question, when are we going to have the collation? They rushed off to hurry up things, and then one by one reappeared with blanched faces, and an unmistakable anxious, troubled look. Finally they came to me with, “My dear fellow, what is to be done? Come and see for yourself.” Dragging me into the dining-room and pantries of the hotel I there indeed saw a sight to behold. All the coachmen and grooms had made a foray on the abundant supplies, tumbled Delmonico’s French waiters into the cellar of the hotel, and locked them up; then, taking possession of the dining-room, held high carnival. Every mouthful of solid food was eaten up, and all the champagne drunk; the ices, jellies, and confectionery they left untouched. As I viewed the scene, I recalled Virgil’s description of a wreck, “_Apparent rari in gurgite nantes_.” Every coachman and groom was intoxicated, and, as the whole party at once took flight to secure dinner at home, the scene on the road beggared description. The coachmen swayed to and fro like the pendulum of a clock; the postilions of the _demi d’Aumonts_ hung on by the manes of their horses, when they lost their equilibrium. The women, as usual, behaved admirably. As one said to me, “My man is beastly intoxicated, but I shall appear not to notice it. The horses are gentle, they will go of themselves.” My old friend, the Major, at once held a council of war, and it was suggested that all turn in and thrash the fellows soundly, but prudence dictated that at that work man was as good as master, that the result might be doubtful; so all dolefully got away in the best manner possible. The Major thus harangued his old family coachman: “Richard, I am astonished at you; the other men’s rascally conduct does not surprise me, but you, an old family servant, to so disgrace yourself, shocks me.” The reply was, “I own up, Major, but indade, I am a weak craythur.” SOCIAL UNITY. CHAPTER XVI.