At the Inlet, which penetrates the beach alongside the lighthouse, is draught for light vessels, and the various kinds of society which focus at Atlantic City may be seen concentrated there on the wharf any of these bright warm days.  A gay party of beauties and aristocrats, with a champagne-basket and hamper of lunch, are starting thence for a sail over to Brigantine Beach.  Two gentlemen in flannel, with guns, are urging a little row-boat up toward the interior country.  They will return at night laden with rail or reed-birds, with the additional burden perhaps of a great loon, shot as a curiosity.  Others, provided with fishing-tackle, are going out for flounder.  Laughing farewells, waving handkerchiefs and the other telegraphic signs of departure, are all very gay, but the tune may be changed when the great sailing-party comes back, wet and wretched, and with three of the principal beauties limp as bolsters on the gentlemen’s hands with sea-sickness.

Another spirited scene takes place at five in the morning—­an hour when the city beauties are abed with all that tenacity of somnolence which characterizes Kathleen Mavourneen in the song.  The husbands and brothers, who are due in the city before business hours, are out for a good, royal, irresponsible tumble in the surf.  There is the great yeasty bath-tub, full of merry dashing figures, dipping the sleek shoulder to the combing wave.  On the shore, active humanities hastily undressing.  Then the heavens are filled with a new glory, and the dazzling sun leaves his bath at the same time with all these merry roisterers who have shared it with him.  He takes up his line of business for the day, and so do the good husbands and brothers, first going through a little ceremony of toilet from which he is exempt.

Thus does the New Atlantis provide for her republic, holding health to her children with one hand, and shaking from the other an infinity of toys and diversions; while for those of more thoughtful bent the sea turns without ceasing its ancient pages, written all over with inexhaustible romance.

The great architect of the city was the Power who graded those streets of immaculate sand, and who laid out that park of mellow, foam-flowered ocean.  Its human founders have done what seemed suitable in providing shelter for a throng of fitful sojourners, not forgetting to put up six neat and modest churches, where suitable praise and adoration may be chanted against the chanting of the sea.  In several respects the place grows somewhat curiously.  For instance, a lawn of turf is made by the simple expedient of fencing off the cattle:  the grass then grows, but if the cows get in they pull up the sod by the roots, and the wind in a single season excavates a mighty hollow where the grassy slope was before.  So much for building our hopes on sand.  An avenue of trees is prepared by the easy plan of thrusting willow-stems into the ground:  they sprout directly, and alternate with the fine native cedars and hollies