FOUR o’clock in the morning, October 21, 1883. A cheerful gleam of
light falls upon a group of Lotos guests as they separate at the
hospitable door-way of that famous New York club. Otherwise Fifth
avenue is solitary and cold. The voices of the clubmen strike the ear
pleasantly. “Going to meet Irving,” you hear some of them say, and
“Good-night,” the others. Presently the group breaks up, and moves
off in different directions. “I ordered a carriage at the Brevoort
House,” says one of the men who pursue their way down Fifth avenue.
They are the only persons stirring in the street. The electric arcs
give them accompanying shadows as black as the night-clouds above
them. The Edison lamps exhibit the tall buildings, sharp and clear,
against the darkness. Two guardians of a carpet-store, on the corner
of Fourteenth street, sleep calmly among the show-bales that decorate
the sidewalk. An empty car goes jingling along into Union square. A
pair of flickering lights are seen in the distance. They belong to “the
carriage at the Brevoort House.” It will only hold half our number. The
civilities that belong to such a situation being duly exchanged, there
are some who prefer to walk; and an advance is made on foot and on
wheels towards the North river.
For my own part I would, as a rule, rather walk than ride in a private
carriage in New York. The street cars and the elevated railroad are
comfortable enough; but a corduroy road in a forest track is not more
emphatic in its demands upon the nerves of a timid driver than are
the pitfalls of a down-town street in the Empire city. I nevertheless
elect to ride. We are four; we might be any number, to one who should
attempt to count us, so numerous does the jolting of our otherwise
comfortable brougham appear to make us. We are tossed and pitched
about as persistently as we might be in a dingy during a gale off some
stormy headland. Presently the fresh breeze of the river blows upon
us as if to justify the simile; then we are thrown at each other more
violently than ever; a flash of gas-light greets us; the next moment
it is dark again, and we stop with alarming suddenness. “Twenty-second
street pier,” says our driver, opening the door. We are received
by a mysterious officer, who addresses us from beneath a world of
comforters and overcoats. “Want the ‘Blackbird’?” he asks. We do.
“This way,” he says. We follow him, to be ushered straightway into
the presence of those active scouts and skirmishers of the American
press,—the interviewers. Here they are, a veritable army of them, on
board Mr. Starin’s well-known river steamer, the “Blackbird,” their
wits and their pencils duly sharpened for their prey. Youth and age
both dedicate themselves to this lively branch of American journalism.
I tell a London friend who is here to “mind his eye,” or they may
practise upon him, and that if he refuses to satisfy their inquiries
they may sacrifice him to their spleen; for some of them are shivering
with cold, and complaining that they have had no rest. Finding an
English artist here from the “Illustrated London News,” I conduct
him secretly to the “Ladies’ cabin.” It is occupied by a number of
mysterious forms, lying about in every conceivable posture; some on
the floor, some on the sofas; their faces partially disguised under
slouch hats, their figures enveloped in cloaks and coats. They are
asleep. The cabin is dimly lighted, and there is an odor of tobacco
in the oily atmosphere. “Who are they?” asks my friend, in a whisper.
“Interviewers!” I reply, as we slip back to the stove in the saloon.
“What a picture Doré would have made of the ladies’ cabin!” says the
English artist.