that conveys no sense of
insecureness. It trembles as a tree whispers in a light air.

And of the view from the bridge, it is too sweeping to carry wholly in
mind. Best, one thinks, it is seen in a winter dusk, when the panes of
Manhattan's mountains are still blazing against a crystal blue-green
sky, and the last flush of an orange sunset lingers in the west. Such we
saw it once, coming over from Brooklyn, very hungry after walking in
most of the way from Jamaica, and pledged in our own resolve not to
break fast until reaching a certain inn on Pearl Street where they used
to serve banana omelets. Dusk simplifies the prospect, washes away the
lesser units, fills in the foreground with obliterating shadow, leaves
only the monstrous sierras of Broadway jagged against the vault. It
deepens this incredible panorama into broad sweeps of gold and black and
peacock blue which one may file away in memory, tangled eyries of
shining windows swimming in empty air. As seen in the full brilliance of
noonday the bristle of detail is too bewildering to carry in one clutch
of the senses. The eye is distracted by the abysses between buildings,
by the uneven elevation of the summits, by the jumbled compression of
the streets. In the vastness of the scene one looks in vain for some
guiding principle of arrangement by which vision can focus itself. It is
better not to study this strange and disturbing outlook too minutely,
lest one lose what knowledge of it one has. Let one do as the veteran
prowlers of the bridge: stroll pensively to and fro in the sun, taking
man's miracles for granted, exhilarated and content.

THREE HOURS FOR LUNCH

Hudson Street has a pleasant savour of food. It resounds with the dull
rumble of cruising drays, which bear the names of well-known brands of
groceries; it is faintly salted by an aroma of the docks. One sees great
signs announcing cocoanut and whalebone or such unusual wares; there is
a fine tang of coffee in the air round about the corner of Beach Street.
Here is that vast, massy brick edifice, the New York Central freight
station, built 1868, which gives an impression of being about to be torn
down. From a dilapidated upper window hangs a faded banner of the Irish
Republic. At noontime this region shows a mood of repose. Truckmen loll
in sunny corners, puffing pipes, with their curved freight hooks hung
round their necks. In a dark smithy half a dozen sit comfortably round a
huge wheel which r