blame them. If one kept shop on a breezy tip of the
Delectable Mountains with all the regions of the world laid out below,
he could not be expected to climb up for the hundredth time with a first
exhilaration, or to swing his alpenstock as though he were on a rare
holiday. If one had business across the Styx too often--although the
scenery on its banks is reputed to be unusual--he might in time sit below
and take to yawning. Father Charon might have to jog his shoulder to rouse
him when the boat came between the further piers.

But are you one of those persons who, not being under a daily compulsion,
rides upon a ferry boat for the love of the trip? Being in this class
myself, I laid my case the other night before the gateman, and asked
his advice regarding routes. He at once entered sympathetically into my
distemper and gave me a plan whereby with but a single change of piers
I might at an expense of fourteen cents cross the river four times at
different angles.

It was at the end of day and a light fog rested on the water. Nothing was
entirely lost, yet a gray mystery wrapped the ships and buildings. If New
Jersey still existed it was dim and shadowy as though its real life had
gone and but a ghost remained. Ferry boats were lighted in defiance of the
murk, and darted here and there at reckless angles. An ocean liner was
putting out, and several tugs had rammed their noses against her sides.
There is something engaging about a tug. It snorts with eagerness. It kicks
and splashes. It bursts itself to lend a hand. And how it butts with its
nose! Surely its forward cartilages are of triple strength, else in its
zest it would jam its nasal passages.

Presently we came opposite lower New York. Although the fog concealed the
outlines of the buildings, their lights showed through. This first hour of
dark is best, before the day's work is done and while as yet all of the
windows are lighted. The Woolworth Tower was suffused in a soft and shadowy
light. The other buildings showed like mountains of magic pin-pricks. It
was as though all the constellations of heaven on a general bidding had met
for conference.

The man of Grub Street, having by this time somewhat dispelled the fumes of
dullness from his head, descends from his ferry boat and walks to his quiet
park. There is a dull roar from the elevated railway on Third Avenue where
the last of the day's crowd goes home. The sidewalks are becoming empty.
There is a sheen of