preferred; but some fine and delightful things have been given up. On fair days in June, July, or August, or in September or October, the memory goes back to the stage-times of Addison Center, Jacob B. Winchester and Edward H. Shaw. They had strong, well-upholstered stages, and good horses; and they were careful, skilful drivers. Mr. Center and Mr. Winchester drove between Salem and Gloucester; Mr. Shaw, between Gloucester and the end of the Cape. It was a favor to have a seat on the box with either of these gentlemen of the whip. Going to Gloucester from Salem, the stage started from the Essex Coffee House. Leaving the staid and quiet city by the way of Washington Square and Beverly Bridge, such names came to mind as Derby, Higginson, Saltonstall, Bowditch, Peabody, and Hawthorne. Derby Wharf, ships from Sumatra and Canton, the East India Marine Hall, the Custom House, the "Scarlet Letter," followed, in recollection, a reverie of the olden times, of the witches and Gallows Hill. Passing through the sombre, quiet old street of Beverly, a thought was given to Dane, and another to the younger Rantoul. Onward through Beverly Farms and Manchester, the eye wandered in every direction, while Jacob B. Winchester related quaint stories in a quaint way. Islands and lighthouses; some of the steeples and roofs of Marblehead; new summer residences here and there, peeping through the loop-holes of woody hill-tops, or the

avenues of trees connecting them with the highway; brooks and little inlets spanned by stone bridges; small, half-moon beaches; coves, bordered with rocks and kelp; a pond within a few rods of the salt waves, its whole surface starred with water-lilies; grove after grove of oaks and pines, barberry and bayberry bushes, on the roadsides and in the pastures, these were some of the objects of the route which made it pleasant and even enchanting. Proceeding from Manchester with a steady trot, the enchantment became almost bewildering, because of the wildness and variety at every turn. Besides, in the very heart of the most picturesque section of the route, where sea and shore vie with each other to produce marvellous and charming effects, it was known that through the tangle of woodbine and wild roses on the roadside, and then over the thickly wooded ridge, hidden in the swamps among the hills on hills toward the north, the magnolias were wasting their "sweetness on the desert air." Approaching Gloucester by Fresh Water Cove, and over the great elevation at Steep Bank, at once came to view Stage Rocks, Squam River, the town, the harbor, and Beacon Pole or Governor's Hill, behind the west end of the town; and then Eastern Point, across the harbor, stretching southward into Massachusetts Bay. If the Cut was crossed at sunset, some of the gleams which Epes Sargent's vision caught in the gloaming at the close of a summer's

day came to the traveller's eye.

Thus this son of

Cape Ann ṣings: —

"Look! All the lighthouses

Flash greeting to the night. There, Eastern Point
Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead
Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!
Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!"

From Gloucester to Rockport and Pigeon Cove in the twilight or early evening, fanned by the sea-breeze, and smiled on by the stars, was a natural and agreeable ending of the journey. The waves advancing and retreating on Little Good Harbor Beach broke the stillness with laughter. The great rocks, looming in the darkness, grew to awful proportions; the hollow of Beaver Dam rang with peepings of countless frogs. On the summit of Great Hill the lights of Straitsmouth Island and Thatcher's Island welled out their liquid rays upon the sea. At the base of the hill the village lights were a sign of welcome; lanterns, swung in the rigging of vessels on the ocean,

rose and sank with the rising and sinking billows. Around the base of Pigeon Hill, the straggling houses were torch-bearers showing the way; and the restless waves, at hand, whispered now softly and now harshly, and anon lifted their voices angrily, as if in dispute with the crags and the pebbles confronting them along the shore. Pigeon Cove Harbor was smooth and silent, reflecting the stars and holding a fleet of vessels and dories within its thick and lofty wall. The stage ascended the hill, passing the few dwellings with lighted halls and parlors, and stopped at the gate of the Pigeon Cove House. From the door of the inn came forth the earlier comers to welcome the later. From the inside and from the outside of the stage, these latter alighted and exchanged greetings with the former. So ended fittingly the rare ride of a late afternoon and an early evening in the stages, on the old stage road from Salem to Pigeon Cove.

The walks and rambles near Pigeon Cove are as charming for variety and for answering the ends of out-door exercise as the clearest seeing and most wisely discriminating pedestrian would desire. Naturally the nearest are the first to try. These are made easy to those who are not accustomed to the rough paths of pasture and wood. Since the purchase of Andrews' Pasture and the extensive adjacent grounds, by Eben B. Phillips and George Babson, these proprietors have improved their tract by laying it out with broad avenues and winding walks. These avenues and walks are nicely graded and gravelled. From the hotels into the principal avenue, that is, Phillips Avenue, -it is but a step. The mile's walk of this wide and smooth road is circuitous, partly through groves of oaks and pines, and partly over open