The amusements of the summer colony I have already hinted at.  Besides suppers, there are also teas, of larger scope, both afternoon and evening.  There are hops every week at the two largest hotels, which are practically free to all; and the bathing-beach is, of course, a supreme attraction.  The bath-houses, which are very clean and well equipped, are not very cheap, either for the season or for a single bath, and there is a pretty pavilion at the edge of the sands.  This is always full of gossiping spectators of the hardy adventurers who brave tides too remote from the Gulf Stream to be ever much warmer than sixty or sixty-five degrees.  The bathers are mostly young people, who have the courage of their pretty bathing-costumes or the inextinguishable ardor of their years.  If it is not rather serious business with them all, still I admire the fortitude with which some of them remain in fifteen minutes.  Beyond our colony, which calls itself the Port, there is a far more populous watering-place, east of the Point, known as the Beach, which is the resort of people several grades of gentility lower than ours:  so many, in fact, that we never can speak of the Beach without averting our faces, or, at the best, with a tolerant smile.  It is really a succession of beaches, all much longer and, I am bound to say, more beautiful than ours, lined with rows of the humbler sort of summer cottages known as shells, and with many hotels of corresponding degree.  The cottages may be hired by the week or month at about two dollars a day, and they are supposed to be taken by inland people of little social importance.  Very likely this is true; but they seemed to be very nice, quiet people, and I commonly saw the ladies reading, on their verandas, books and magazines, while the gentlemen sprayed the dusty road before them with the garden hose.  The place had also for me an agreeable alien suggestion, and in passing the long row of cottages I was slightly reminded of Scheveningen.  Beyond the cottage settlements is a struggling little park, dedicated to the only Indian saint I ever heard of, though there may be others.  His statue, colossal in sheet-lead, and painted the copper color of his race, offers any heathen comer the choice between a Bible in one of his hands and a tomahawk in the other, at the entrance of the park; and there are other sheet-lead groups and figures in the white of allegory at different points.  It promises to be a pretty enough little place in future years, but as yet it is not much resorted to by the excursions which largely form the prosperity of the Beach.  The concerts and the “high-class vaudeville” promised have not flourished in the pavilion provided for them, and one of two monkeys in the zoological department has perished of the public inattention.  This has not fatally affected the captive bear, who rises to his hind legs, and eats peanuts and doughnuts in that position like a fellow-citizen.  With the cockatoos and parrots, and the dozen deer in an