THE clocks are hammering out the midnight hour on Saturday, January
5th, as several carriages dash over the snowy streets of Brooklyn,
one of them made more conspicuous than the rest by the antics of an
attendant dog. It is a black and white fox terrier, with a suggestion
of the lurcher in its pedigree. Busy with many tram-cars and a variety
of other traffic, the streets are bright with gas and electric lamps.
“Fussy” is quite a foreigner in Brooklyn; carriage, horses, and driver
are strange to him. One looks out to see the sagacious animal leaping
along through the crowd, never heeding the calls of boys and men, now
making short cuts to head the vehicle, and now dropping behind.
“You will lose him one day,” I say to Fussy’s owner, by way of warning.
“Oh, no!” says Miss Terry. “He follows my carriage everywhere,
day or night, going to the theatre or leaving it, strange town or
otherwise. I have a small piece of carpet for him to lie upon in my
dressing-room. Sometimes, just as we are leaving for the theatre, my
maid pretends to forget it. But Fussy will dart back to my room and
bring it, dragging it downstairs into the street, and only dropping it
by the carriage-door. One day, at New York, he leaped into the hotel
elevator with it, and out again on the ground floor, as if he had been
accustomed to elevators all his life.”
We are three,—Miss Terry, Irving, and myself. We are making our way to
the Brooklyn ferry. The boat belonging to the Pennsylvania Railroad is
waiting to convey us across the North river to the Desbrosses-street
depot of that well-known corporation. “Fussy” is there as soon as
we are, and poor “Charlie,” who is getting blind, has to be carried
aboard. Nearly all the members of the company are here already. They
are a picturesque group in the somewhat uncertain light of distant
lamps, and a world of stars sparkling in a frosty sky that seems
further away from the earth than our English firmament. Mr. Terriss
looks like a dashing Capt. Hawksley on his travels,—fur coat, cap,
self-possessed air, and all. Mr. Tyars wears a “Tam O’Shanter” and
ulster. He might be the laird of a Scotch county, just come down from
the hills. The grey-haired, pale-faced gentleman, muffled to the
eyes in fur cap and comforter, is Mr. Mead, whose imperial stride
as “the buried majesty of Denmark” is repeated here in response to
the call of a friend in the cabin. Mr. Howe carries his years and
experience with an elastic gait, and a fresh, pleasant face. He is a
notable figure in the group, dressed in every respect like an English
gentleman,—overcoat, hat, gloves. He has a breezy country manner,
and, if one did not know him, one might say, “This is a Yorkshire man,
who farms his own land, going to the West to have a look at Kansas,
and perhaps at Manitoba.” Mr. Ball, the musical conductor, wears his
fur collar and spectacles with quite a professional air. Norman Forbes
brings with him ideas of Bond street, and Robertson, who sings “Hey,
Nonnie,” to the swells in Leonato’s garden, is wrapped up as a tenor
should be, though he has the carriage of an athlete. The American
winter lends itself to artistic considerations in the matter of cloaks,
coats, leggins, scarfs, and “head-gear.” The ladies of the company have
sought the hot shelter of the spacious saloon. Miss Terry pushes the
swinging-door.
“I shall be stifled in there,” she says, retreating before a blast of
hot air.
“And starved to death out here,” says Irving.
“Well, I prefer the latter,” she replies, taking her place among the
crowd on the outer platform.
“Our English friends would complain of heat at the North pole,” says an
American gentleman to another, as they push their way into the saloon.
It is an impressive sight, this great, rolling flood of the North river
at midnight. The reflection of the boat’s lights upon the tide give it
an oily appearance.
“Looks harmless enough, eh?” remarks an American friend, answering
his own question; “but it aint. The strongest swimmer might fail in
breasting the current at this state of the tide.”
Bright electric lamps mark out the graceful lines of the Brooklyn
bridge. The twinkling signals of river craft are seen afar off beneath
the span of the suspended roadway, along which gay-looking cars are
flashing their white and red and green lights. We pass and meet
gigantic ferry-boats, as large as the Terrace at Harley-on-Thames would
be if converted into a houseboat, but a thousand times brighter, with
tier upon tier of illuminated windows. Irving, in his great Astrachan
overcoat, contemplates the scene with deep interest.
“It is, indeed, very wonderful,” he says. “We could give an idea of the
bridge at night on the Lyceum stage; but these ferry-boats would bother
us, eh, Loveday?”
“Not more than they do now with their heat and cold. Don’t you think
Miss Terry ought to go inside? It is very bitter here.”
“No, I’ll die first!” says the lady, amidst a general laugh.