The sand-beach and the sea!

Who can divine

Their mystic intercourse, that day and night

Surceaseth not? On comes the thundering surge,
Lifting its mountain-head, with menace stern,
To whelm the unresisting; but impelled

In all the plenitude of kingly power
To change its purpose of authority,

Breaking its wand of might, doth hurry back;
And then, repenting, with new wrath return.
Yet still that single, silvery line abides,
Lowly, and fearless, and immutable

God gives it strength.

So may He deign to grant

The sand-line of our virtues, power to cope

With all temptation. When some secret snare
Doth weave its meshes round our trembling souls,
That in their frailty turn to Him alone,
So may He give us strength.

Nahant is a rocky peninsula, stretching boldly into the ocean, and connected by beaches with the main land. Some of its cliffs have an elevation of a hundred feet, and wonderfully excavated rocks are the boundary of its shores.

Tradition reports that its name was derived from Nahanta, an Indian princess, or the consort of a chieftain. It was purchased with that sense of equity which often marked similar transactions with the natives, first in 1630, for a suit of clothes, then for two old coats, and lastly, for "two pestle stones."

It is said to have been originally devoted to pasturage and to forest-ground uses, which its present aspect contradicts to a remarkable degree. "It is well wooded with oaks, pines and cedars," wrote a historian of 1638, "also it hath good store of walnuts, ashes and elms." He who now traverses it would be fain to wonder where they could have taken root, or how resisted the deleterious influence of the oceanspray. Yet it seems that it was of old the scene of wolf-bunting on a grand scale, as there is a record that, in 1634, the militia of Lynn and Salem were drafted for this belligerent expedition; and as such animals are not prone to choose the sterile open rock for their habitation, the manes of those same hunted wolves corro. borate the words of the historian.

Yet, however vague may be the earlier legends of Nahant, there is no doubt of its being now the favourite resort of the beauty and fashion of the vicinity, as well as from distant parts. Its pure air is invigorating, even to exhilaration, and there is deep delight in watching the rolling of its magnificent surf, wandering amid the romantic and sublime formation of its rocky coast, now scooped into caverns, and long subterranean channels for the resounding wave, or towering into lofty columns, that mock the fury of the tempest.

A desolate islet, with the name of Egg-Rock, rears its precipitous head about two miles nort-east of Nahant. Notwithstanding its rugged aspect, it has on its summit nearly three acres of arable land. It is the paradise of sea-birds, to whose jurisdiction it is yielded on account of the difficulty and danger of approaching it. Hardy rovers have, however, occasionally surmounted these perils, and robbed the treasures of the

poor nestless gulls, with the true piratical spirit of the old Danish sea-kings.

The principal beach of Nahant, connecting it with Lynn, is nearly two miles in length. It is a slightly curved line of sand, on whose eastern shore the surges of the unbroken Atlantic beat with great force and reverberation. It forms a delightful drive, or equestrian excursion, on whose smoothly polished surface the wheel or the horses' hoof leave no trace. Shells and fragments of coral are the frequent gifts of the receding wave, which, approaching with a show of vengeful wrath, retires like an appeased lover.

The great hotel for the entertainment of visitants is near the south-eastern point of the promontory. It was built in 1820, of the native stone by which it is surrounded, and contains a sufficient number of apartments for a multitude of guests. From the double piazza that engirdles it, is a succession of grand and extensive prospects, and a bracing ocean atmosphere. When long rains prevail the mist enwraps it in a curtain, like a great ship in the midst of the sea.

The village has several pleasant residences and boarding-houses, which have the agreeable appendages of verdure and trees. Beautiful cottages, the abodes of wealth and taste, are sprinkled here and there, the chief ornaments of the peninsula.

In one of these, on the verge of the waters, the accomplished author of "Ferdinand and Isabella," and the "Conquest of Mexico," passes the summer months with his parents and family. None who have partaken the hospitalities of that delightful retreat will forget its rare combinations of age and wisdom still retaining the vivacity of youth, high intellect without pride

and the sweet developments of the most sacred affections.

The fine cottage of Mr. Tudor, though occupying a site unfavourable to vegetable life, both from the bleak winds and saline atmosphere, is still, by perseverance and munificent expenditure, surrounded by the charms of a more congenial clime. Within its enclosures flowers blossom, clustering vines climb the trellises, and trees perfect their fruits, furnishing another proof that the energy of man may overcome the resistance of nature and of the elements.

ROSE-MOUNT.

A NEIGHBOURLY EPISTLE.

Hartford, April, 1843.

To the lady of Rose-Mount, I've long wished to pay
Such thanks as were due for her musical lay,
But many a care, with importunate mien,
Would thrust itself me and my lyre between ;
And lastly, the hydra of house-cleaning came,
With dripping fingers and cheeks of flame;
Pictures, and vases, and flower-pots fled,

At her flashing eye, and her frown of dread,
While tubs and brushes, with Vandal haste,
Like a mob of Chartists, their betters displaced,
And she at the head of that motley crowd,
A brandished broom for her sceptre proud,
Held all in an uproar, from sun to sun,

Then went off in a rage ere her work was done.
Keep clear of her, dearest, as long as you can,
She's a terror, in sooth, both to woman and man,
And husbands, especially, quake when they see
Their sanctums exposed to her ministry.
Books and papers, they learn to their cost,
If "put in order," are fain to be lost,

And though wax-like neatness may reign around,
Yet the things that are wanted can never be found,