WE

E were sitting on the piazza this morning after breakfast, in the lazy manner peculiar to that hour. My brother Ned had all his temporal wants fully supplied, in cigar and newspaper. The children were sprawled about in striking attitudes, engaged in the criticism of a paint-box that papa brought them up from town last night. I had my work on my lap, but was just in the first chapter of "Charles O'Malley," which I am trying to appreciate; for my brothers have been so much disgusted with my style of light reading, that I meekly assented, when Tom threw Charles O'Malley at me as he went out to fish with the Arthurs this morning, at the same time giving" John Halifax," which lay beside me, a brotherly kick. He hated to see girls sniffing over such trash as that-there was a book worth reading. I was trying to think so, but I don't know a great deal about booksgirls don't, generally, you know. So I was quite glad when Ned got up, shook himself, and told me to go put my bonnet on and I might take a drive with him. I ran up stairs and was very soon dressed -very soon for me, that is-I'm always a little behind the time. And I was rather longer than I meant to be even this morning; for I knew we should drive towards D, because of the Miss Chaffs being there, though Ned always says it is on account of its being such a good level road. I like very well driving that way; for we always meet the young Ratteltons-they're forever on the road-so of course I wanted to look nice, which was perfectly natural. The horses had been at the door four minutes when I came down, and Ned was looking black. I tried to look unconcerned, and smiled arduously, and had just put my foot upon the step, when the storm burst-"Go up stairs and take that thing off," said he, with a contemptuous motion of his whip, indicating my whalebone skirt; "I won't ride with such a machine as that in my wagon, I haven't even room for my own feet. And, upon my word, that hat of yours is too absurd. Go and put on a respectable sun-bonnet and look like a girl of sense!" I began to remonstrate; but I've noticed that, with these unselfish beings, remonstrance has the effect of strengthening them immovably in their

resolutions, as soap, which one naturally applies freely to rub out a stain, is said to fix it more deeply. I, therefore, silently revolved the question in my mindto give up the hat, and the hoops-or the drive? And not this drive only but many successive ones; for it's a point of honor with our manly protectors never to forget our faults. So I went sorrowfully back and resigned my graceful jupon and my ravishing little hat-a pretty straw with velvet and field-flowers, and such a sweet cap-it was just the thing for a country drive, and if I didn't mind my complexion, what business was it of his who is never tired of laughing at women's vanity?

I put on a wretched sun-bonnet that has hung in my wardrobe for two years, and went down stairs, looking so dowdy that I didn't know myself in the long glass in the parlor, when I ran in to take a look. Ned was pleased, however, drove towards D- of course, though I asked him not, and talked yachts the whole way, which he only does when he is in a good-humor.

Of course we met everybody; but I could have borne that, for I held my parasol close over my face, and nobody could recognize me. But when we came to the farm-house where the Chaffs are boarding, who should we see upon the piazza but those young ladies themselves and the Ratteltons! Yes; and I couldn't help remembering that Fred Rattelton once said to my friend Mrs. Minnows, that I was the most stylish girl he knew. Ah! what would he think now? Ned drew up at the gate. "Ned," I exclaimed, "drive on quick." "Let's go in a few minutes." "No, indeed, I'm not dressed." "Pshaw!" he ejaculated, as he sprang gracefully out. "Give me your hand." "Never!" I said, with decision. But alas! decision wasn't made for women. Ned gave me a dark look. "Edward," ," I began resolutely; but it was too late. They all saw us, and were coming to meet us. Fred, indeed, was already at the gate. There was no help-andoh! I can't talk about it; the misery of that morning; the walk down that long piazza, in my slinky muslin dress! and my hair all tumbled with the hateful bonnet! And those girls, with their cold eyes, looking at me so! in all the com

placency of their stiff skirts, stiffer than ever mine were in their best estate, and their smooth hair, pomaded and bandolined to the last degree. Do you suppose Ned would care a straw for them, if they weren't stylish? Because you don't know him if you do suppose so. I know that Fred Rattelton was wondering why I looked so forlornly: men never know anything but the effect, and the result was, he took Georgie Chaff to drive that afternoon.

Ned was cross going home; and I couldn't talk without letting him see I could hardly keep from crying. And, during the drive in the hot sun, my temper, which even my brothers allow is tolerably good, was roused. I began to wonder whether the dress of my companion offered no temptation to the same style of pleasant banter to which I was so unhesitatingly subjected? Whether, in fact, these rakish ganders might not be served up with the same sauce that had rendered the weaker geese so spicy and enjoyable a dish? Whether that time-honored institution, the beaver, might not, in sacrilegious hands, be found to bear some proportion of absurdity to our derided hats? Whether those instruments of torture, the boots of the modern gentleman, are beyond criticism? Whether death by choking is the most meritorious of deaths; and whether the youth of the nineteenth century are justified in seeking it so madly as they do? And whether-oh! whether the neglected Latin of old days at Columbia does much more actual service, in " after-life," than the smattering of bad French which we acquire at those wretched-wretched fashionable schools? Whether, in point of fact, the education, which we are supposed to receive at these institutions, does not do infinite credit to the tact of the French nation, and their perception of the general fitness of things? Whether an education, more refined, more thorough, would render us altogether suitable companions for the elevated partners awaiting us? Whether, if we knew any more, we should not know too much, and the balance of power be destroyed? Whether it is not, on the whole, a fortunate thing that society is our career, and that we don't look too deep into things? Whether greater knowledge would be greater bliss? Whether, if dress and vanity did not fill our hearts, anything

better would? Whether, to be held

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Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse," would satisfy a true woman's whole, whole heart? Whether, to look for anything in the future but an establishment, is not to prepare for one's self a weary disappointment? Whether, with this in view, it pays to cultivate one's mind and sentiment? Whether it is not better for us to ignore the existence of anything deeper than vanity-anything more lasting than pleasure?

What is left for a woman in this enlightened nineteenth century; what can she attain to, higher than admiration in society, and, from thence, on towards the dizzy pinnacle of a great match? It is her only road to power, her only hope of gain; if she have ambition, so only can she gratify it. It is contemptible for a man to exert himself to secure admiration in society—that is one of the fine things that follow in the train of his other successes. His talents and his fame give him this without an effort on his part. But, for poor woman, it is her only chance of temporal advancement and glory--a glory as brief as it is brilliant, that will fade with her fading cheeks-that will die with her short youth. It is the slippery little by-path on which she may scramble up to influence; her delicate feet pierced with numberless vexatious thorns; her white hands soiled with her eager grasps at whatever may help her on. And what does she gain when she has reached this eminence-this coveted height-from which she sees below her the fair scenes of youth and innocence, with the blue mist of memory and distance around them, as far from her as if she had never passed through themas impossible to regain? For the descent is upon the other side of this eminence, where lies the dark valley of the shadow of death. The troubled face, in many a splendid carriage, has told me the story often. Ah, no! Pretty woman, put ambition out of your heart, if there's any there; it does not pay. There's no arrangement made for it in a woman's existence-it's only meant for men, with whom it may become a virtue-whom it may lead to splendid things. But for us, women, we must say our prayers, and tell the children stories, sew buttons on our brothers' shirts, and be patient.

THERE is always a second summer in the American year. When the September gales have swept over the woods, and shaken the first leaves of autumn to the ground; when from the gardens the more delicate buds and fragrant blossoms have passed away; when the earlier fruits have ripened and been gathered; when evening begins sooner to draw the curtains of the day, and the sun's horses start later on their morning courses; when the pleasure parties of the season are breaking up, and words of farewell are being said, and over the most buoyant mind a certain pensiveness steals, and regrets fall upon it as from out the autumnal air, then the year, which had begun to withdraw its face, turns again with a parting smile, and kisses its hand to us. Then comes a succession of golden days, when the air is still, and the heavens, slightly veiled with purple haze, are without a cloud. The autumnal flowers are arrayed in all their glory. The orchards yield up their red-sided, gold-colored apples for the winter's store. The grapes are turned to purple. The latest pears melt upon the devouring lips, and the last drops of sweetness are being distilled into the yet unplucked peaches. Now the diligent housewife gathers from out the leaves, still green, the yellow, shining quince, and, correcting its tart juices with melted sugar, lays it by for winter teadrinkings. The farmer husks his corn, making the green sward shine with the long, broad line of glittering cars. piles up, also, the yellow pumpkins, or hangs the squashes against the wall, by their necks. His boys bring home at night the cows from still green and thickly-matted meadows, with udders wide distended. The poultry-yards are full of cackling, and youthful attempts at chanticleering. Fleets of geese and ducks float down the brooks, or lie moored on the ponds, and the half-grown turkey-cocks gabble and spread their tails over vast spaces of yard and pasture. This season is the mellowing of the year. In sunny European lands, and beneath sacred oriental skies, the grapes are now trodden in the winepress, and even in our own prosaic New Jersey, the bounty of nature runs to sweet cider. The earth has put forth

He

her great productive power, and rejoices as a woman after child-bearing; the sun has done his year's work, and ripened all seeds and grains; there is food garnered up for man and beast; and the great God seems to look down out of heaven upon what He hath wrought, and pronounce it good.

It is a season to be enjoyed as one does old wine. As we bring this out of the cellar on high festal occasions, to celebrate the rite matrimonial, or to honor the anniversary of a birth-day, to greet the coming of long absent friends, and freshen the memories which run far back to days of auld lang syne; so this brief second summer of the year should be filled up with unusual joys. Then make a holiday. Then telegraph to your best friend to come with wife and child. Let boys and girls be let loose from school that they may go a-nutting. Let there be picnics in the glens, and on the hillsides. Climb the mountains. Coast the shores. 'Tis the hunter's moon, and you may follow the path of the buck and the doe, or hie on pointer or setter. You see the breaking of day as you go on your way to lie for wild fowl, which, when it is yet dark, fly overhead with whistling wings; while far off is heard the scream of the coming wild-geese. Now let the reel hiss, as the line is cast from the rocks, for tautog. It is the season, also, for bass fishing. Now let the lover of nature and mushrooms prevent the sun, and gather his breakfast with the dew on it. Let all men-all Yankees-cat pumpkin-pie. The full moon favors husking by night; and he who finds brindled ears may kiss his partner, though he may no longer drink milk punch, for it is contrary to law. Now is "training" time; and there will be cakes at the muster for old and young-and, surely, pop-beer. Now pack into countrywagons, three on a seat. At morning, wind the horn, and let the hounds bay. At night, draw the bow, dance, sing, and make merry, giving God thanks; for this glorious second summer, called Indian, is given us but for seven days, or it may be ten. Then get quickly out of doors-be off-away-and caps in the air

Happy harvest days! and happily did we spend them, ankle-deep in thy golden sands, Cape Cod !

Perhaps we should have done better still to have gone in rough weather. The scene here, doubtless, is more characteristic when nature frowns, than when she smiles. For the Cape is decidedly tragic. Its great mood is when nature is angry, and all her elements are at war. When the east wind is rising out of the sea, and the pine-woods begin to sigh for pain; when the ocean, fretted to madness by the gale, lashes the long sandy beaches, and breaks high over the rocks on the shore; when the drift-sand flies like snow-flakes, and the whirlwinds, in their rough play, bear it aloft in the air; when the rain, bursting the clouds, contends in its turn with both winds and waves, and beats them down; when in winter the sharp sleet cuts the air, and the snow-blast shuts out the light of heaven, and night, setting in, adds the terrors of utter darkness to those of the storm, and the signal gun of the East Indiaman, drifting upon the lee-shore-a few hours before so near the wished-for haven-is heard faintly booming through the uproar of the elements, and vainly calling upon the wrecker who sits idle by his blazing fireside, pitying the poor souls whose imaginary cries ring in his ears, but whom he cannot save from the jaws of the devouring waves. For no mortal arm can stay the implacable wrath of the Almighty, when He bids the sea roar, and engulf in its depths the impious mariner and his ship. Then the traveler, on this long arm of sand vainly stretched out to embrace the unwilling, untamable ocean, and marry it in loving wedlock to the land, sees and feels what Cape Cod is. With awe he hears the sublime moaning of the long, flat beaches, and the more angry resounding of the coast where it is bolder and rocky. The north shore answers with its uproar, to the uproar of the south. As, at sea, the wind whistles and sings in the cordage of the scudding ship, to the deep bass of the roaring waves, so, here, the howling of the winds among the branches of the oaks and the loud lament of the pine-woods are added to the bellowing of the strands. How weak does man appear when tossed on these waves! Yot, how strong, when, in his snug cot on the shore, he sits reading by the unflickering candle, and heeds

not either the outcries of nature or the wrath of God!

But, at the period of our visit, the stormy Cape was lying as calm and placid, in the midst of the sea, as in midsummer rise the round tops of the Alleghanies in the untroubled southern heavens. The sun looked with warm, enamored beams upon the bosom of the earth; the winds lay reposing in the depths of the pine-woods, scarcely breathing audibly; and the tired waves slept on the shore. At evening, as the full, round moon rose from the Atlantic, it spread out a level, silvery carpet to the horizon, almost tempting the beholder to walk forth on the high sea, as, on solemn festal occasions, the gold-spangled tapestry invites the feet of the guests who go up into the lighted palaces of kings. And all night long, when at intervals we awoke out of our dreams, we heard, at the distance of a stone's throw, the innumerable ripples breaking on the sand, as if the uxorious old ocean were kissing, even in his sleep, the softly breathing lips of the shore. At midnight we arose from our bed, and walked out into the air, feeling an irrepressible curiosity to listen to the whispering of the night-winds, and overhear the telling of their secret loves. We beheld, also, the dance of the waves, which were keeping up their revelry beneath the light of the moon, tripping it as gracefully as fairies on the green-sward, and quickly dissolving in mutual embraces, like hearts in the joined breasts of lovers. How refreshing and wholesome was the salt in the air from the ocean. "There can no malignant spirit or goblin walk this strip of earth," said we, returning to our couch, "the air is too pure." And, indeed, it can scarcely be credited that a real, bona fide ghost was ever seen on Cape Cod. There are Quakers here, but no witches. It is not possible.

But by day our eyes feasted, through all the hours, on the richly-colored autumnal landscape. Here stretch, for miles beyond miles, the salt meadows of Barnstable, watered not by rains and dews only, but by the monthly flowing of the tides, and these level tracts are now as tawny as the lion's skin. This, . likewise, being the season when the pine-trees shed their needles, the earth beneath them is no less tawny than the open marshes. And everywhere the sand of the shore is as yellow as the

Still,

broast of a robin. In the warm rays of the sun it even shines like beaten gold, making the whole cape gilt-edged. But, on the uplands, the yellow runs into a russet, a richly-tinted brown, and forms a background which is covered with a glory of autumnal tints, the purple of oaks and whortleberry bushes, the orange and scarlet of maples, the green of pines and cedars. There is color everywhere on the fields and trees, on the meadows and the shores, in the hollows and around the edges of pools. Not a bush but glows-not a stone but shines. The very particles of sand, if closely inspected, flash like diamonds by candlelight; and though held in your hand, seem both as far off and as glittering as the stars in the blue twilight of the night. And these colors aro all dashed together-a beautiful variety in unity-making a kaleidoscope in the eyes of every man. it must be acknowledged that, as one proceeds further upon the Cape, he notices a gradual falling off in the tone of nature's coloring, as old pictures, in traveling down the course of time, lose, during each century, more and more of their first blush and gorgeousness. The brilliancy of the reds and purples fades, and the browns grow duller. Even the fine gold of the pumpkins becomes tarnished; the color of animals runs to sorrel; and the habitations of man, partaking of the tendency of nature, show only the unpainted gray, or the stains of the original red and green, or the blank white of modern fashion, which makes the pupils of the eye instinctively contract to look at. There is evidently a deficiency of coloring materials on the great painter's easel, and, at last, whether the power of nature be diminished, or this part of her work be yet raw and unfinished, there remain only the green of the pines and the yellow of the sands, wherein is no harmony.

And yet there is a notable exception to this law of gradual fading. There is more red in the face of the Cape Codders, all the way down to Provincetown, than of any other people in the States. It is the old English redblood-red. Though the skin be generally pretty thoroughly sun-burnt, bronzed often by the glare from the salt-water, yet the vermilion shines through, giving evidence of good blood and vigorous arteries. The race is,

indeed, purely British. For the inhabitants are all direct descendants of the Puritans, or, at least, of early emigrants from Great Britain. There has been no mixture of races here. While the Cape has always been a fruitful womb of men, sending her sons out into all the broad American earth, there has, on the contrary, been no reflex tide of immigration. The Cape, therefore, is all of one blood, of one face, of one speech, of one homogeneous heart. True, there are Indians still in Marshpee; but are they not also red men? Their faces are, indeed, not a little smutted by a dash of negro blood in them, but some, fortunately, still show the reddish glitter of the original copper. At least, they are not pale-faced, but high-colored, and come even not without a degree of grace into the autumnal landscape.

And this red-facedness of the people is a great point in the description of Cape Cod. For, while the earth gradually loses its color and all its signs of vigor, as we travel towards the end of this path in the sands, we see that the lord of nature, on the contrary, remains ruddy and strong-featured. Neither the weakness of the land, nor the extraordinary strength of the circumambient waters and winds has been able to produce degeneracy of the race of man. He has buffeted the waves, and overmastered them. He has sailed in the very eyes and teeth of the winds. He has fixed the floating sands, by planting them with beachgrass; has sown the pine-trees in furrows; has set oaks on the hill-tops, that, when the winds, rising in their might, threaten to tear him from the land, he may have something to hold on to; has planted the barren shore with Indian corn, putting a dead horsefoot" in every hill; has grown potatoes from sea-weed down to the very line of high-water-mark; has turned the mud. of flats to oysters; has dried the cod from the great deep into codfish; and has manufactured the sea itself into salt. Thus has man made himself master; and though, in struggling with the earth, to till it, he has sometimes come upon his hip, like Jacob wrestling with the angel, and though he has often been pinched by the wind, and jammed against the leeward shore, yet, after all, he has fought the life-long battle with the natural elements triumphantly, and