Shortly after three o'clock we started in a coupe with two stout horses
driven by a man above suspicion of having "taken anything," at least at
the start. It is a curious fact that eight or ten inches of damp snow
can so nearly paralyze the transportation facilities of a city like New
York, but such is the case. The elevated rails become slippery, the
wheels will not grip, and the entire wheel traffic of the streets
betakes itself to the tracks of the surface lines, where trolley, truck,
and private carriage all move along solemnly in a strange procession,
like a funeral I once saw outside of Paris, where the hearse was
followed by two finely draped carriages, then by the business wagon of
the deceased, filled with employees, the draperies on this arranged so
as not to disturb the sign,--he kept a patisserie,--while a donkey cart,
belonging to the market garden that supplied the deceased with
vegetables, brought up the rear.
In the middle and lower parts of New York the streets and their life
dominate the houses; on the east side of the park the houses dominate the
streets, and the flunkies, whose duty it is either to let you in or
preferably to keep you out of these houses, control the entire
situation. I may in the course of time come to respect or even like some
of these mariners of the Whirlpool, but as a class their servants are
wholly and unendurably objectionable, and the sum of all that is most
aggravating.
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