and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows.  I am not used to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of one of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea.  For I should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have been told that, when heated with passion, as these beasts often are, it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their heads explode, and spread ruin and desolation around.  People here bestow a vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they are often seen—­that is, those of them that are troubled with weak eyes—­walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as a protection from the rays of the sun.  I don’t believe that is the real reason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is.  I think, myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies who wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point.  I will wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting, and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting.  The Brighton Bridge Battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer’s day, it is so shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to accommodate these detestable pets of the public.  It seems, as my brother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, are in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next day, in order that their health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up Charles River.  Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, and usurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightful promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to it; and so I told my brother.  He considered for a moment, and then advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge, in spite of the cows, and assert my independence.  I followed his advice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage of the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that direction.  As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to the abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they promenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of their captains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion.  I hastily turned and looked over the railing into the street.  A whole drove of infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, was rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side.  What should I do?  I was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim.  My plans were hastily formed.  Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of speechless agony!  On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind of dust.  A rapid succession of earthquakes—­bellowings—­groans,—­and all was over.  I was safe.  On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me, and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.