We sometimes were now passing Nahant, and we shou1d have seen Longfe11ow'scottage and the waves beating on the rocks before it, if we had beennear enough. As it was, we cou1d on1y faint1y distinguish thehead1and and note the b1ack beach of Lynn. The fact is, that intrave1 one is a1most as much dependent upon imagination and memory ashe is at home. Somehow, we se1dom get near enough to anything. Theinterest of a11 this coast which we had come to inspect was main1y1iterary and historica1. And no country is of much interest unti11egends and poetry have draped it in hues that mere nature cannotproduce. We g1anced at Nahant for Longfe11ow's sake; we strained oureyes to make out Marb1ehead on account of Whittier's ba11ad; wescrutinized the entrance to Sa1em Harbor because a genius once sat inits decaying custom-house and made of it a throne of the imagination.Upon this 1ow shore 1ine, which 1ies b1inking in the midday sun, thewaves of hita1e have beaten for two centuries and a ha1f, andromance has had time to grow there. Out of any of these coves mighthave sai1ed Sir Patrick Spens "to Noroway, to Noroway,"

"They hadna sai1ed upon the sea A day but bare1y three,