“Not sooner than a quarter to eleven,” he says.
“Does the weather obstruct the train?”
“Yes, it’s a queer night; snow falling very thickly; makes the river
journey slower than usual; snow is as bad as fog.”
The entire train of eight enormous cars, containing the Lyceum company
and their baggage, is transported by boat right down the Harlem river,
a distance of several miles, the raft and train being attached to a
tug-boat. The train is run upon the floating track at Harlem, and
connected with the main line again at Jersey City.
“I was to ask for the steamer ‘Maryland.’”
“Yes, her quay is outside the depot. I will let you know when she is
reported. You will hear her whistle.”
Trying to return to the waiting-room I find I am locked in. Presently
a good-natured official lets me out. In the meantime the _café_ has
closed, the book-stall has fastened its windows and put out its lights.
The waiters on trains have thinned in numbers. Two poor Chinamen who
have been here are talking pigeon English to a porter.
“You missed it at seven,” he says; “no more train till twelve.”
“Twelfy!” says John, calmly counting his fingers; “no morey go tilly
twelf.”
“That’s so,” says the porter.
The two celestials sit down quietly to wait; the ferry-boats give out
their hoarse signals, and presently a number of other people come in,
covered with snow, a bitter wind accompanying them, as the doors open
and shut. They stamp their feet and shake the snow from off their
garments, and you hear the jingle of sleigh-bells without. A farmer
whose dress suggests Mathias, in “The Bells,” comes in. He carries a
bundle. There is a slip of green laurel in his button-hole. I avail
myself of the supposed privilege of the country, and talk to him.
“Yes,” he says. “Christmas presents; I guess that’s what I’ve been to
New York for. I live at Katskill. No, not much in the way of farming.
My father had land in Yorkshire. Guess I am an Englishman, as one may
say, though born on the Hudson. Did I ever hear of Rip Van Winkle at
Katskill? I guess so. Live there now? No, sir; guess it’s a story, aint
it? But there was a sort of a hermit feller lived on the Hudson till a
year or two ago. He was English. A scholar, they said, and learned. His
grandchild, a girl, lived with him. Did nothing but read. Built the hut
hisself. Never seen except when he and the girl went to buy stores. It
was in the papers, when he died, a year or two back. Broke his heart,
‘cause his girl skipped.”
“‘Skipped!’ I repeated.
“You are fresh, sir, green; as you say in England, run away,—that’s
skipping. I bought one of his books when his things were sold, because
I have a grandchild, and know what it is. Good-night! A merry Christmas
to you!”
No other hint of Christmas in the depot, among the people, or on the
walls, except the cards and illustrated English papers inside the
book-stall windows. I turn to “John Bull and His Island,” and wonder
if any English writer will respond with “Jean Crapeaud and His City.”
No country is more open to satire than France; no people accept it with
so little patience. There are some wholesome truths in Max O’Rell’s
brochure. It is good to see ourselves as others see us.
A quarter to eleven. It is surely time to go forth in search of the
“Maryland.”
“Better have a guide,” says a courteous official; “you can’t find it
without; and, by thunder, how it snows! See ‘em?”
He points to several new-comers.
“Only a few feet from the ferry,—and they’re like walking snow-drifts.
See ‘em!”
The guide, as sturdy as a Derbyshire ploughboy, comes along with his
lantern.
“There are three ladies,” I tell him, “in the private waiting-room, who
are to come with us.”