“SHE is not quite pretty,” says a New York reporter, turning to me
during his contemplation of Miss Terry, who is very picturesque as she
sits by the taffrail at the stern; “but she is handsome, and she is
distinguished. I think we would like to ask her a few questions; will
you introduce us?”
I do the honors of this presentation. Miss Terry is too much under the
influence of the wonderful scene that meets her gaze to receive the
reporters with calmness.
“And this is New York!” she exclaims. “What a surprising place! And,
oh, what a river! So different to the Thames! And to think that I am in
New York! It does not seem possible. I cannot realize it.”
“If you had a message to send home to your friends, Miss Terry, what
would it be?” asks Reporter No. 1, a more than usually bashful young
man.
The question is a trifle unfortunate.
“Tell them I never loved home so well as now,” she answers, in her
frank, impulsive way.
She turns her head away to hide her tears, and Reporter No. 2
remonstrates with his companion.
“I wouldn’t have said it for anything,” says No. 1. “I was thinking how
I would add a few words for her to my London cable,—that’s a fact.”
“It is very foolish of me, pray excuse me,” says the lady; “it is all
so new and strange. I know my eyes are red, and this is not the sort of
face to go into New York with, is it?”
“I think New York will be quite satisfied, Miss Terry,” says a third
reporter; “but don’t let us distress you.”
“Oh, no, I am quite myself now. You want to ask me some questions?”
“Not if you object.”
“I don’t object; only you see one has been looking forward to this day
a long time, and seeing land again and houses, and so many ships, and
New York itself, may well excite a stranger.”
“Yes, indeed, that is so,” remarks No. 1, upon whom she turns quickly,
the “Liberty” scarf at her neck flying in the wind, and her earnest
eyes flashing.
“Have you ever felt what it is to be a stranger just entering a strange
land? If not you can hardly realize my sensations. Not that I have any
fears about my reception. No, it is not that; the Americans on the ship
were so kind to me, and you are so very considerate, that I am sure
everybody ashore will be friendly.”
“Do you know Miss Anderson?”
“Yes. She is a beautiful woman. I have not seen her upon the stage; but
I have met her.”
“Do you consider ‘Charles I.’ will present you to a New York audience
in one of your best characters?”
“No; and I am not very fond of the part of Henrietta Maria either.”
“What are your favorite characters?”
“Oh, I hardly know,” she says, now fairly interested in the
conversation; and turning easily towards her questioners, for the first
time, “I love nearly all I play; but I don’t like to cry, and I cannot
help it in ‘Charles I.’ I like comedy best,—Portia, Beatrice, and
Letitia Hardy.”
“Do you intend to star on your own account?”
“No, no.”
“You prefer to cast your fortunes with the Lyceum company?”
“Yes, certainly. Sufficient for the day is the Lyceum thereof. There is
no chance of my ever desiring to change. I am devoted to the Lyceum,
and to Mr. Irving. No one admires him more than I do; no one knows
better, I think, how much he has done for our art; no one dreams of how
much more he will yet do if he is spared. I used to think, when I was
with Charles Kean,—I served my apprenticeship, you know, with Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Kean,—that his performances and mounting of plays were
perfect in their way. But look at Mr. Irving’s work; look at what he
has done and what he does. I am sure you will be delighted with him.
Excuse me, is that the ‘Britannic’ yonder, following in our wake?”
“Yes.”
She kisses her hand to the vessel, and then turns to wonder at the
city, which seems to be coming towards us, so steadily does the
“Yosemite” glide along, hardly suggesting motion.
Then suddenly the word is passed that the “Yosemite” is about to land
her passengers. A few minutes later she slips alongside the wharf at
the foot of Canal street. The reporters take their leave, raising
their hats to Miss Terry, many of them shaking hands with Mr. Irving.
Carriages are in waiting for Mr. Barrett and his party. A small crowd,
learning who the new-comers were, give them a cheer of welcome, and
Henry Irving and Ellen Terry stand upon American soil.
“I am told,” says Mr. Irving, as we drive away, “that when Jumbo
arrived in New York he put out his foot and felt if the ground was
solid enough to bear his weight. The New Yorkers, I believe, were very
much amused at that. They have a keen sense of fun. Where are we going
now?”
“To the Customs, at the White Star wharf, to sign your declaration
papers,” says Mr. Florence.
“How many packages have you in your state-room, madame?” asks a sturdy
official, addressing Miss Terry.
“Well, really I don’t know; three or four, I think.”
“Not more than that?” suggests Mr. Barrett.
“Perhaps five or six.”
“Not any more?” asks the official. “Shall I say five or six?”
“Well, really, I cannot say. Where’s my maid? Is it important,—the
exact number?”
There is a touch of bewilderment in her manner which amuses the
officials, and everybody laughs—she herself very heartily—when
her maid says there are fourteen packages of various kinds in the
state-room of the “Britannic,” which is now discharging her passengers.
A scene of bustle and excitement is developing just as we are permitted
to depart. A famous politician is on board. There is a procession,
with a band of music, to meet him. Crowds of poor people are pushing
forward for the “Britannic” gangway to meet a crowd of still poorer
emigrant friends. Imposing equipages are here to carry off the rich and
prosperous travellers. Tons of portmanteaus, trunks, boxes, baggage of
every kind, are sliding from the vessel’s side upon the quay. Friends
are greeting friends. Children are being hugged by fathers and mothers.
Ship’s stewards are hurrying to and fro. The expressman, jingling his
brass checks, is looking for business; his carts are fighting their
way among the attendant carriages and more ponderous wagons. A line of
Custom-House men form in line, a living cord of blue and silver, across
the roadway exit of the wharf. There is a smell of tar and coffee
and baked peanuts in the atmosphere, together with the sound of many
voices; and the bustle repeats itself outside in the rattle of arriving
and departing carts and carriages. Above all one hears the pleasant
music of distant car-bells. We dash along, over level crossings,
past very continental-looking riverside _cabarets_ and rum-shops,
under elevated railroads, and up streets that recall Holland, France,
Brighton, and Liverpool, until we reach Washington square. The dead
leaves of autumn are beginning to hide the fading grass; but the sun is
shining gloriously away up in a blue sky. Irving is impressed with the
beauty of the city as we enter Fifth avenue, its many spires marking
the long line of street as far as the eye can see. The Brevoort House
has proved a welcome, if expensive, haven of rest to many a weary
traveller. To-day its bright windows and green sun-blinds, its white
marble steps, and its wholesome aspect of homelike comfort, suggest
the pleasantest possibilities.
Let us leave the latest of its guests to his first experiences of the
most hotel-keeping nation in the world.