However, these long, roofed docks of famous Cunarders and American and White Star Liners, and of the French steamers (which have a round roof dock of a sort all their own) are interesting in their way, too, and the names of the foreign ports at the open entrance cause a strange fret to be up and going; especially on certain days of the week when thick smoke begins to pour from the great funnels which stick out so enormously above the top story of the now noisy piers. Cabs and carriages with coachmen almost hidden by trunks and steamer-rugs crowd in through the dock-gates, while, within, the hold baggage-derricks are rattling and there is an excited chatter of good-by talk.... [Illustration: Here is where the town ends, and the country begins.—Page 399. (High Bridge as seen Looking South from Washington Bridge.)] By the time you get up to Gansevoort Market, with its broad expanse of cobblestones, the steamship lines begin to thin out and the ferries are now sprinkled more sparsely. Where the avenues grow out into their teens, there are coal-yards and lumber-yards. On the warehouses and factories are great twenty-foot letters advertising soap and cereals, all of which are the best.... Farther up is the region of slaughter-houses and smells, gas-houses and their smells.... And so on up to Riverside, and beyond that the unknown wildness of Manhattan's farthest north, and Fort Washington with its breastworks, which it is pleasing to see, are being visited and picnicked upon more often than formerly. But over on the east edge of the town there is more to look at and more of a variety. All the way from the Bridge and the big white battle-ships squatting in the Navy Yard across the river; up past Kip's Bay with its dapper steam-yachts waiting to take their owners home from business; past Bellevue Hospital and its Morgue, and the antediluvian-looking United States Frigate New Hampshire moored nearby, (now used by the Naval Reserve), past Thirty-fourth Street ferry with its streams of funerals and fishing-parties; Blackwell's Island with its green grass and the young doctors and officials upon it, playing tennis obliviously; Hell Gate with its boiling tide, where so many are drowned every year; East River Park with its bit of green turf (it is too bad there are not more of these parks on our water-fronts); past Ward's Island with its public institutions; Randall's Island with more public institutions—and so up into the Harlem where soon around the bend the occasional tall mast looks very incongruous as seen across a stretch of real estate. And now you have a totally different feel in the air and a totally different sort of "scenery." It is as different as the use it is put to. Below McComb's Dam Bridge, clear to the Battery, it was nearly all work; up here it is nearly all play.