WE left Boston at about two o’clock in the morning of the 3d of March,
and after breakfast, at half-past ten, some of us turn out to stretch
our legs on the railroad track by the side of the Harlem river. Once
more we are shunted on board the “Maryland,” that is to convey us
“down stream, to connect with the Pennsylvania road.” At about eleven
o’clock we are afloat. Presently we pass Blackwell’s Island. The pretty
villas on the opposite bank are in notable contrast with the hard,
prosaic buildings of the island. The morning is grey and cold. The
snow is falling lightly and is full of crystals. Most of the company
are on deck, which stretches right over the snow-covered cars. Some
are promenading and enjoying the change from railway to river travel.
Others are breakfasting in the steamer’s spacious saloon. Howe and his
wife; Terriss (his hand in a sling); Tyars (in his long Scotch ulster,
which was evidently new to the gamins of Philadelphia, where they
said, as he passed, “Here’s a dude!”); Mrs. Pauncefort, and others,
are defying the sharp weather at the bows of the vessel, which, with
its freight, is a continual surprise to them. Miss Millward, the
picturesque Jessica of “The Merchant,” is romping merrily with the
children of the company, who are quite a feature in the garden and
church scenes of “Much Ado.”
We steal quietly along the river without noise, but with a steady
progression. Blackwell’s Island prisons are enlivened in color by a
little company of women, who are being marched into the penitentiary.
They turn to look at the “Maryland” as they enter the stony portals.
As we creep along, villas on our left give place to lumber-yards, with
coasting-vessels lying alongside. Leaving Blackwell’s on the right, the
shore breaks up into picturesque wharfage, backed, in the distance,
by the first of the steeples of Fifth avenue. The eye follows them
along; wharves and river-craft in front; the spires against the grey
sky, until they are repeated, as it were, by forests of masts,—first
a few, and then a cluster. We meet another train coming up the river,
then another; and now we get glimpses, through the haze, of distant
ferry-boats ahead. There is a dull mist on the river, and here and
there it hangs about in clouds. We pass Long Island railroad pier. It
is very cold; but the children of the company still trot about, ruddy
and merry.
“You don’t say so!” exclaims somebody. “Is it true, the train we saw at
Harlem, which we thought full of poor emigrants, was the Opera Company
on their way to Boston,—the chorus?”
“Quite true.”
“Then I can now understand,” is the rejoinder, “that the passengers
on board the ‘Rome,’ when we came out, thought us a most respectable
crowd.”
“That has been remarked before,” says the buxom Martha of “Louis XI,”
“and in far more complimentary terms.”
Presently, through the mist on the larboard side, we catch a glimpse of
the Brooklyn bridge. A few gulls are sweeping down the river before us.
On both banks there are wharves and ships. One of the vessels flies the
British flag, which is greeted with a cheer from some of our people. On
the left bank of the river is a great sugar factory, with a picturesque
red brick tower. We have now left the Harlem river, and for some little
time have been steaming down the East towards the North river, with
Bedloe’s island—a dot in the distant Sound—and Sandy Hook somewhere
in the mist beyond. We now pass Hunter’s Point, and slue gradually
round towards the North river. We glide along beneath the wonderful
bridge, and look up among its net-work of roads and rails; past Piers
50 and 51 on our right, with freight-cars and steamers ready for the
river; past the New York, New Haven, and Hartford Railway quays,
hugging the South-street docks and ship-repairing yards, Governor’s
Island at our bow. Ships and steamers stretch along to Battery Point,
which we round into the North river, and pass Castle Garden. It is here
that we catch sight of Bedloe’s and other distant islands, and look far
in the direction of Sandy Hook, whence fierce tug-boats are steaming
along, with great barges in tow. Now we cross the river to Jersey City.
It is two o’clock. Our cars are once more on the rails, and, at about
nine o’clock that night, we ran into Washington.