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.
III.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
Union Square, New York—An Enterprising Chronicler—The Lambs—The Newspapers and the New-comers—“Art Must Advance with the Times”—“Romeo and Juliet” at the Lyceum—“Character Parts”—No Real Tradition of Shakespearian Acting—“Mannerisms”—The Stage as an Educator—Lafayette Place—A Notable Little Dinner—The Great American Bird, “Not the Eagle, but the Duck”—A Question of “Appropriate Music”—Speculators in Tickets and their Enormous Profits—Middlemen, the Star Theatre, and the Play-going Public.
I.
“It is not like my original idea of it, so far,” said Irving, the next morning,—“this city of New York. The hotel, the Fifth avenue, the people,—everything is a little different to one’s anticipations; and yet it seems to me that I have seen it all before. It is London and Paris combined. I have been ‘round to call on Miss Terry. She is at what she calls ‘The Hotel—ahem!’—the Hotel Dam, in Union square. Dam is the proprietor. It is a handsome house. A fine square. The buildings are very tall. The cars, running along the streets, their many bells, the curious wire-drawn look of the wheels of private carriages,—all a little odd. Fifth avenue is splendid! And what a glorious sky!”
He rattled on, amused and interested, as he stood in the back room of his suite of three on the ground floor at the Brevoort.