pass out, to the marching
music of the rattling chains and the swashing tide, to my
business,--perhaps a "better" one to be "about" than writing these idle
observations on a North-River Ferry.

F. N. ZABRISKIE.

THE ART OF READING.

Statistics as to the number of men and women of good standing in the
world who cannot read might have a certain interest. There are probably
more persons laboring under that disability than is usually supposed,
and this with no reference to unfortunates who in early life have missed
the opportunity of learning their A B C, but thinking only of those who
have never found the way to utilize a knowledge of letters,--of persons,
in short, who do not know what to do with a book. Trustworthy
statistics, however, would not be easily obtained: there is too strong a
prejudice in favor of books for any one to be very forward in confessing
a distaste for them. Now and then such an admission is made, but, for
the most part, people like to think that under auspicious conditions--if
they had time, or quiet, or health, or what not--they should be great
readers. It is a point on which it is quite possible to deceive one's
self and almost impossible to deceive others.

You are acquainted, perhaps, with some lady on whose table lies the book
that every one is talking about: it is not a novel, we will suppose.
"Ah, you have that!" you say to her. Yes, and she expects to enjoy it
_immensely_. She lifts the cover and casts a caressing glance upon its
pages, for all the world as if she could not wait to be at it. You know
the feeling, and sympathize with her. The next time you are there,
seeing the book again reminds you to ask how she liked it. "Why,
positively," she says, "I haven't had _a single minute_ in which I could
take it up!" But she still cherishes the same agreeable anticipations as
before with regard to it. After a considerable lapse of time, on the
occasion of another call you may notice a mark protruding in the region
of the first chapter, and if mischief or malice or any other inborn
propensity to evil prompts you to allude to the subject once more and
inquire if the book pleases her, on the whole, she will probably say
that it does _as far as she has read_, only there is an unconscious
plaintiveness about this statement which betrays that enthusiasm has
waned: the fact is, everybody is talking of another book now, and she
has the uncomfortable feeling of being behind-hand. But all th