ILLUSTRATIONS

  Atlantic city from the lighthouse. 
  Up the Inlet. 
  Landing-place on the Inlet. 
  Congress hall. 
  Mr. Richard WRIGHT’S cottage. 
  The Senate house. 
  On the shining sands. 
  Mr. Thomas C. HAND’S cottage. 
  The Thoroughfare. 
  The excursion house. 
  A scene in front of Schaufler’s hotel. 
  Abd-el-Kader in Kabylia. 
  An agha of Kabylia hunting with the falcon. 
  The disciples of Tofail. 
  A koubba, or marabout’s tomb. 
  Kabyle men. 
  Kabyle women. 
  Defile of Thifilkoult. 
  An Arab Market. 
  Poverty and jewels. 
  George Christy in Africa.

A NEW ATLANTIS.

[Illustration:  Atlantic city from the lighthouse.]

The New Year’s debts are paid, the May-day moving is over and settled, and still a remnant of money is found sticking to the bottom of the old marmalade pot.  Where shall we go?

There is nothing like the sea.  Shall it be Newport?

But Newport is no longer the ocean pure and deep, in the rich severity of its sangre azul.  We want to admire the waves, and they drag us off to inspect the last new villa:  we like the beach, and they bid us enjoy the gardens, brought every spring in lace-paper out of the florist’s shop.  We like to stroll on the shore, barefooted if we choose, and Newport is become an affair of toilette and gold-mounted harness, a bathing-place where people do everything but bathe.

[Illustration:  Up the Inlet.]

Well, Nahant, then, or Long Branch?

Too slow and too fast.  Besides, we have seen them.

Suppose we try the Isles of Shoals?  Appledore and Duck Island and
White Island, now?  Or Nantucket, or Marblehead?

Too stony, and nothing in particular to eat.  You ask for fish, and they give you a rock.

In truth, under that moral and physical dyspepsia to which we bring ourselves regularly every summer, the fine crags of the north become just the least bit of a bore.  They necessitate an amount of heroic climbing under the command of a sort of romantic and do-nothing Girls of the Period, who sit about on soft shawls in the lee of the rocks, and gather their shells and anemones vicariously at the expense of your tendon achilles.  We know it, for we have suffered.  We calculate, and are prepared to prove, that the successful collection of a single ribbon of ruffled seaweed, procured in a slimy haystack of red dulse at the beck of one inconsiderate girl, who is keeping her brass heels dry on a safe and sunny ledge of the Purgatory at Newport, may require more mental calculation, involve more anguish of equilibrium, and encourage more heartfelt secret profanity than the making of a steam-engine or the writing of a proposal.