_Spectator_--"Whoever wished to find a gentleman commonly asked not
where he resided, but which coffee house he frequented."

Among the many things to admire along Fulton Street (not the least
of which are Dewey's puzzling perpetually fluent grape-juice bottle,
and the shop where the trained ferrets are kept, for chasing out
rats, mice, and cockroaches from your house, the sign says) we vote
for that view of the old houses along the south side of the street,
where it widens out toward the East River. This vista of tall,
leaning chimneys seems to us one of the most agreeable things in New
York, and we wonder whether any artist has ever drawn it. As our
colleague Endymion suggested, it would make a fine subject for
Walter Jack Duncan. In the eastern end of this strip of fine old
masonry resides the seafaring tavern we spoke of above; formerly
known as Sweet's, and a great place of resort (we are told) for
Brooklynites in the palmy days before the Bridge was opened, when
they used to stop there for supper before taking the Fulton Ferry
across the perilous tideway.

The Fulton Ferry--dingy and deserted now--is full of fine memories.
The old waiting room, with its ornate carved ceiling and fine,
massive gas brackets, peoples itself, in one's imagination, with the
lively and busy throngs of fifty and sixty years ago. "My life then
(1850-60) was curiously identified with Fulton Ferry, already
becoming the greatest in the world for general importance, volume,
variety, rapidity, and picturesqueness." So said Walt Whitman. It is
a curious experience to step aboard one of the boats in the drowsy
heat of a summer afternoon and take the short voyage over to the
Brooklyn slip, underneath one of the huge piers of the Bridge. A few
heavy wagons and heat-oppressed horses are almost the only other