gether here as children and brethren of one family. The remembrance of them is undimmed, and their names are repeated without recourse to leaves of record. A list of shining names: Drs. E. S. Gannett, Cyrus Bartol, J. F. Clarke, T. B. Thayer, Kirk and Stone, of Boston; Drs. Chapin and Bellows, of New York; President Wayland and Bishop Clark, of Providence; Dr. Hill, of Worcester; Dr. Allen, of Northampton; and Revs. Thomas Starr King, Charles H. Leonard, J. G. Adams, C. H. Fay, and A. D. Mayo. Of the literary men, are readily recalled Richard Frothingham, Jr., Edwin P. Whipple, James T. Fields, T. W. Higginson, and the brothers Durivage. Also come to mind, with these, a host of bankers, merchants, lawyers, school-teachers, inventors, and others of every occupation from many of the principal cities and villages in the nation: from Boston and vicinity, Salem, Lowell, Worcester, Springfield, Cincinnati, Dayton, Chicago, St. Louis, Peoria, Alton, New Orleans, Augusta, Ga., Castleton, St. Albans, Troy, Nashua, Manchester, Portland, Hallowell, and Calais.

THE NEW PIGEON COVE HOUSE.

In 1866 Mrs. Norwood retired from the Pigeon Cove House. Mrs. E. S. Robinson took her place

as owner and hostess. In the spring of '71 Mrs. Robinson moved from its site the many-gabled edifice, and built on the same spot a larger and more attractive house. This new house was finished and opened for visitors the next July. It is a spacious and convenient building, and handsome withal, wearing proudly the old, familiar name, Pigeon Cove House.

THE OCEAN VIEW HOUSE.

In the same spring, too, the Ocean View House was erected, and immediately opened for visitors. It is but three hundred yards from the Pigeon Cove House; a comely building, commanding a broad view of the ocean. Its proprietors are Frank B.

Babson and Co.

Including with these hotels Mr. Swett's cosey and comfortable home, with accommodation for twentyfive or thirty persons, and several other dwellings, with room for four, or six, or ten, or twelve, and keeping in mind the fact that all these homes, large and small, are filled in midsummer with sojourners, and the reader will judge that the little parties of thirty years ago have grown to be a great and goodly company.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH AND JAMES EDMUNDS'S HOUSE.

Being in Boston, the tourist takes the Gloucester and Rockport train at the station of the Eastern Railway. In the brief time of an hour and thirty minutes, he is drawn by the locomotive away from the heat, dust, and noisomeness of the city, to the pure, cool air of the ocean; to the breezy points jutting into the sea from the end of Cape Ann; to the grateful repose and uncorrupting fascinations of Pigeon Cove. Though the train rolls on the track at a rapid rate, the journey is enjoyable for fine landscapes and bright glimpses of the sea; for interchange of town and field, tilth and orchard, marsh and upland, hill and valley, pasture and forest. Charlestown, Somerville, Everett, Chelsea, Winthrop and Revere, one after another, are recognized by a glance. The hills of Saugus, bordering the marsh which is traversed, and one of the villages of Saugus look

ing down from its elevated site, on the left; Chelsea Beach flanking the marsh, and like a parapet defending it against the assaults of the sea, on the right; serpentine creeks, bright as silver, dividing the marsh into many sections, and, with the grass and reeds swept and shaken by the wind, presenting pleasing contrasts of light and shade; islandlike acres covered with wood, dotting the sea of grass; isolated but memorable Nahant, across the water from Chelsea Beach; Lynn, with outspread wings broad and white, and sparkling as if sprinkled with crystals; Swampscott on the heights toward Massachusetts Bay, and, nearer, presenting Mr. Stetson's place with its beautiful elm; the rugged pastures, wearing, with the common robe of grass and clover, shreds of heather, and plumed with slender, dark-green savins, and holding stubbornly against innovation the space between their southern bounds at Lynn and Swampscott, and their northern at Peabody and Salem; and the ancient towns of Salem and Beverly, connected by bridges across the mouth of a river, all, as the cars rush along on the iron way, come to the vision with the silence and rapidity of thought, but with distinct outlines, and unconfused objects within the outlines, touched by gleam and shadow under the sky of sun and cloud.

At Beverly the train is switched off from the Eastern Road upon the Gloucester and Rockport

Branch. From this point to the terminus of the Branch, the diversity of point, crag, beach, bay, and islands, offset by hill, valley, rock, and forest, is sufficiently interesting to please the most discerning observer. Nowhere is there a ride of sixteen miles by rail more picturesque than this from Beverly to Rockport and Pigeon Cove.

The railway ride is only excelled by that of the old-fashioned stage, or of the private vehicle, on the old common road stretching along the same scalloped shore. Unlike the railway, this road conforms to the indentations of the shore, and winds over little elevations and through the valleys separating them. For room, comfort, and expedition, whatever the weather, the cars are