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lage homes to the Bath. Here the granite shore is as clean as the pure water of the ocean can wash it; and there are hollows and basins in the rocks, and, over a barrier of stones outside of them, a smooth granite floor across which are stretched strong ropes made fast at each end to iron bolts driven into holes drilled deep into a ledge or boulder. Every incoming tide brings to the granite floor and to the hollows and basins a new supply of cool, pure brine for the bathers. Every outgoing tide takes away the last water dashed over them by the waves, leaving them clean and to be wholly supplied again, on the return of the untainted, wholesome sea. Ascending from the bathing floor and basins to the clothing rooms of the bath-house, at the brink of the high ground above them, there is no need of a second bath to be rid of clinging sea-weed and sand. And as to the safety of still-bathing or surf-bathing here: the first case of drowning has not yet occurred. After fair trials on the beaches, as well as here on the rocks, the majority of bathers prefer the clear, pure water, and the clean, firm footing of the Bath at Pigeon Cove.
The Gentlemen's Bath is at Hoop Pole Cove, near the cove-end of Dawn Avenue. The descent from the avenue to the water is easy. The slightly sloping granite under water being thickly carpeted with Iceland moss, the footing for bathers who cannot swim is soft and agreeable. The boulders out in deep water, shaggy and maned with sea-weed, are admirable seats for tired swimmers, and immovable piers for the use of divers. Here, so near the outermost point of the Cape, may be enjoyed the full benefit of bathing and swimming. There is no spot on the globe more apart from unpleasant aspects or from disagreeable odors. Fanned by sea-breezes, inhaling pure air, catching the healing perfumes which steal from the pastures to the shore and become one with the breath of the sea, bathers and swimmers here attain the utmost enjoyment, the very ecstasy of their recreation. It is surprising how many living within sight of the sea know nothing of this rapture. How few of the millions of men on the earth could sing from their own hearts these lines! —
"And I have loved thee, Ocean 1 and my joy
Writing of the Bath at Pigeon Cove, Mrs. N. T. Munroe says: "One of the principal businesses as -well as pleasures of the sea-shore is bathing. To come to the sea-shore and not bathe would be the play of Hamlet, with Hamlet left out. And here they come tripping down with bathing-dresses on arm and bathing-hats on head. A few moments suffice for change of dress, and then they come forth from the bathing-houses a merry company.
"Some bathe from a sense of duty, others for pleasure and excitement. You can tell the different motives of the bathers at a glance. The former go into the water as they would into a dentist's chair. They nerve themselves up to it. They stoop down, take off the hat, which they fill with water and pour over head and shoulders, then catching the rope they venture three or four plunges, and the thing is done, the duty is performed: they come out, and go dripping back to the bathing-house,' a damp, moist body.' Now none are left but those who bathe for the love of it. It is pleasant to watch them. After the first plunge and its accompanying screeching and catching of breath and shivering, then comes the pleasure of the thing. Sit down on the wet rock, and let that great wave come tumbling in over you, and the fine spray sprinkle you. It is exhilarating. How cold the water when it first dashed over you! What a glow now pervades your whole system! How strong are the waves, and yet they are comparatively nothing on this fine summer day. Think of their power in storm and tempest. Think of yourself, a poor, shipwrecked mortal, clinging to this cold, hard rock while the great waves are thundering in upon you, and the surf smothering you, — no foot-hold, your hands torn and bleeding, and not able to clutch the cruel rock ; — don't you feel a pity for j-ourself? Or what if you were on one of these rocks, surprised by the tide, and seeing no way to get off? You see the water rising slowly and surely; you calculate how long before it reach your waist, your arms, your neck, your mouth ; — and you are smothered — dead! Ah! a fearful grave is this of the cold, cold sea. Prometheus chained to his rock, 'the vulture at his vitals;' Andromeda, ' bound on the sea-girt rock which is washed by the surges for ever,' waiting for 'the mystical fish of the seas' to come and devour her; Simeon Stylites standing on his pillar, 'a sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, that he might have the meed of the saint's " white robe and the palm," '—might, to be sure, beseech the cold, surging waves to cover them, and end their horror and their agony. But all this bounding, beating life of ours cries out against being thus swallowed up by the waters. It was a most distressful cry, that of David: 'All thy waves and thy billows are gone over me!'
"But here the water is pleasant and agreeable: we stretch out our arms and embrace it; we catch the crystal drops as they come showering down, and we have breath enough to say with Byron,
'And I do love thee, Ocean!'
"But even bathing must have an end, and at last we come forth from the surf, 'dripping and very wet;' and this business — pleasure — of the day is
The trees and flowers of our Cape attract the especial notice of visitors. Coming to a region of ledges and boulders swept by ocean winds from almost every quarter, expecting to roam over a gray waste and to survey from every point of view only barrenness hemmed in by the blue sea, they marvel on beholding extensive tracts of woodland, making so beautiful a contrast both with the gray, mossy stones, and the blue or the i