NIGHTON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1582, 25 March 1887, Page 3

NIGHTON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.

" What is it?" asked the reporter.

The sights aud sounds on the New York and Brooklyn Bridga at night differ from those of the day, says the Aew York Tribune, as much as the great arc of electric lights on that arial highway differ from the glare of high noon. Countrymen by the hundreds drift idly across the slruc-tu-e between sunrise and sunset every day. People visiting New York for the first time linger long on the bridge. They look at the hurrying crowds who rush along the promenade, going westward to New York in the morning, and eastward to bed and board in Brooklyn at night fall They hang over the parapets, let their glances range

over the two great cities throbbing with busy life, mark the rapid tide of tho East river flowing under their feet, with tho fleets and fl ign of the world lying at the wharves, ply the wearied policeman with countless queries about the bridge, and then when they return to theirhoroesth* y talk to their friends and acquaintances for hours concerning thi stupendous structure. But they have seen only one side of life on the bridge. It is after the electric lights havo supplanted the day, when the apparently end'ess string of vehicles and funer.il processions that hive been rumbling across tho roadway for twelve hours has dwindled t» an occasional truck or carriage that the second side of life sets in. The steady roar of the cities ceases to jar on the etr; the last traveller homeward to Brooklyn with a weary look on his face and thoughts of supper in his bead nan passed hurriedly on. The mighty arch is now given over to fami ! y groups and to lovers. The last to leave the bridge are the overs. The "young fellow" and his " b j st girl" will let blissful companionship trench on sleepiness every time. Taoy form a pleasant feature of evening life on the bridge, these lovers. S ditary among moving crowds, his muscular arm encircles her w list and she trustfully submits to the caress. Nobody notices them. They are too common, and in that belief is their great solace and assurance. But, though they iove to linger, by 11 o'clock they are following in the wake of the vanishing domestic circles. Trie benches under the towers become vacant. Perhaps some lone youth lingers upon them to read again in the white glare of tho electricity a missive, w°llthnmbed, dirty, and misspelled. The policeman looks at him pityingly and passes on to his little cabin, whe r e his can of coffee simmers gently on the oil Btove. " Poor idgir," said tho policeman softly to himself, " he's oat'n his white bread now." The policeman gets $2 a day and has to support a wife, mother-in-law, and eight children out of that. He pities the young fellow on the bench. But the young fellow doesn't care frr the policeman. llh cons the letter with the faulty orih igraghy, and his ardent affection for the writer grows with increased fervour.

Midnight sees the last lover gone from tho bridge. At that hour the policemen are changed. The membors of tho m'trht squid that then omes on wear dilferent expressions from those of tho day men. The stony stare and curt reply of the day policeman, who delights to freeze the marrow in the bones of countrymen seeking information, find no imitators among the uitrht patrol. The night man talks with any passing foot traveller so long as the latter will be beguiled. When the foot travellers cease to amuse, there is usually an animated dialogue going on between the policeman on the promenade and his neighbour down •in tho driveway. These intellectual exchanges of news have a wide scope, and embrace religion, politics, philosophy, and the price and quality of the varied brands of chewing tobacco. There are no jumping cranks to worry tho soul and vex the vision of a night policeman. But there is no lack of incidents to interest the night watchman. A reporter crossing the bridge at three o'clock one morning noticed a policeman leaning over the parapet in a listening attitude. The reporter stopped walking and listened. Faintly on the night air he could hear crios that seemed to come far up the East River, about opposite Havemeyers's sugar refinery. A woman was screaming " Murder ! Murder!" Presently the cries ceased.

" Some divlishness going on down the river," muttered the policeman. " We often hear cries of people in distress out on the river. We are helpless to do anything up here. By and by the cries stop, and that is the last of it. Sometimes we see a man tjo down to the docks. We can see him plainly by the light jump into the river. If he ever comes out, we never see him."