Not at all cast down by the general glumness which pervaded the atmosphere yesterday, the bright, red-whiskered face of Mr. Bram Stoker, Henry Irving’s manager, peeped over the high bulwarks of the Etruria as that big steamer was slowly warped into her dock at about noon, and no sooner had the end of her gangplank been safely made fast under cover, then Mr. Bram Stoker’s big English body hustled itself down to the pier and his big English voice called loudly for the Custom House official to go through his “things.” When that interesting operation had been successfully accomplished, and the “things” bundled into a handy cab, their owner, who is to decide whether Mr. Irving shall visit these shores next year, followed their example and was driven as fast as the horse could take him—and his things—to the Hotel Brunswick.