Boston for the first time, and whispers to his wife that Jones stands much better, or vice versa, than he did three seasons before. Table talk, piquant anecdotes, and curt critiques on made dishes, fly every-which-way, until the diners seek the spacious drawing-rooms, where coffee will be served.

Now the pianos come in for a sad share of flagrant musical abuse. Tall Vastabellas of imposing stature, and pretty little Parvulas, as piquant as those fancy little figures one sees on French bon bon papers, sit down and agitate the ivory keys. Tip-top boarding-school bravuras, and love-lorn ballads of the violent sentimental cast, form the main stock. Tinkling tortures, with now and then an étude as a relief, assail us on all sides. Bits of operas, fragments of Stabat Maters, bars of popular tunes, and slices of dance music, follow one another in confused succession.

What a distinction in good and bad music. One soothes the heart, and fills it with pleasure: the other confuses the nerves and agitates the soul. One is the invention of the gods, the other of fiends. Commend us to melody: remove us from dissonance!

The gentlemen, or that portion of them who prefer what are called manly pastimes, withdraw from the salle-à-manger to the bowling and billiard-rooms, to tempt fortune at "tenstrikes," and learn how often they can "pocket the red." When wearied here, they drop in late at the "hops" in the drawing-room, with a fresh curl in their whiskers, and a pair of kids that have not for a long time seen daylight. Midnight finds its way along, as usual, after interminable dances, polkas, tête-à-têtes, flirtations, vows, promises, and engagements; and so ends the day at the Second Class Watering Place.

III.

Coney Island is the Napoleon of the third-class watering places, from its approximation to the great metropolis. It is a

"convenient distance," and, like all convenient distances, is overrun the moment June denotes that we must prepare for the heat of July. It is the goal of a delightful drive from NewYork, whither every tradesman who can brush up three-minute horse-flesh repairs at least once a week, to indulge in an hour's sport.

Well-to-do people, therefore, go to Coney Island for a bit of fun, while “the million" affect the surf from combined hopes of health and pleasure. The beach affords a grotesque medley in the season. Loungers, idlers, fastmen, rowdies, swellmobsmen, police officers, fireboys, and butchers, all cheek by jowl, and callously indifferent of each other. They are watching the bathers plunging and curvetting in the tide-and most extraordinary antics are to be witnessed.

We need not tell the reader that but few of the softer sex are seen at this locale. The silver-slippers long since gave way to the unpolished Wellingtons; though now and then may be seen the portly dame of a butcher, from home for a day, in yellow satin, with a bouquet of hollyhocks, or a group of slipshod daughters of Erin without any defined notions of propriety.

Coney Island's firmest habitué is the New-York fireboy. He is usually a thick-set, full-necked person, with a predisposition for tobacco, and the usual indulgences that that popular weed engenders. He wears crape on his hat, though he may not have had a family bereavement for many years; a red flannel shirt, blue coat, with large brass buttons, no-colored trowsers, turned up three inches over the boot, and a neckcloth thrown jauntily over his shoulders, terminating in a convulsive, careless bow, which no other class of person could hope to accomplish. He wears his hat-a broad-brimmer-over his forehead at a rakish angle, uses strong anathemas, excited or not, it does not make much matter, and talks in a loud, unrestrained, reckless tone, from mere habit. His expressions are peculiar to himself. When a wager happens to be the subject of conversation, he

freely offers to "bet his pile" on whatever he may fancy. He calls a fight a "muss;" confesses if he did not enjoy the luxury of a street row once in a while, "he would spile;" terms, in very un-Lothario-like phrase, his lady-love his "Old Lizee," and remarks (meaning that he will one of these days get married) that "he's agoin' to be slung afore long." The object of his adoration is the engine company to which he belongs, or favors with his commendation. It is perilous to say a word in his presence that would challenge his opinion, as there is no point on which he is so irritable as the merits of "de machine." It is one of his boasts that he has been at all the great fires within the past ten years of his life, and his warmest hope seems to be that he may not miss those to come in the future ten. He goes to all "de company's balls" with his Dulcinea, it being the only annual occasion in which he will consent to appear in white gloves. He appetizes "pork and beans," regarding that oldfashioned dish a great luxury, and bitterly objects to dining "in courses." Maraschino and curaçoa are out of his latitude. He drinks brandy-and-water, and believes it worth all "de fancy fluids" ever invented.

The drinking saloons at Coney Island reap an abundant harvest during the season. The admonitions of Father Mathew are exchanged for the examples of Father Bacchus, and a man is not considered in "prime order" until he has made several excursions to Decanter-dom. "Come and take something" is the popular phrase of invitation, and "something taken" is undoubtedly the universal result.

The water revels here exceed in wildness any that can be found in the union. Thousands rush and plunge into the surf with the ardour of war-horses. The fireboys turn summersaults, duck each other, acrobatise, play leap-frog, and flounce about like a school of mad porpoises. Some, with no fear of pulmonary distresses, and awed by no recollection of "rheumatics," dash in with their clothes on, and come out dripping like

fountains. Wicked wagers and ridiculous taunts incite absurd feats of aquatics which one would think mermaids and tritons could only accomplish. Bottles of spirits are carried into the sea and drunk while cach bather is covered, like Tantalus, just to the lips. Showers of pebbles are thrown into the air to induce one grand and simultaneous dive to the bottom; and in short, a thousand wild capers are committed at this wassail at the water.

There is very little done in the way of drawing-room gossip or evening parties. The gist of the visitors "come like shadows, so depart:" here this morning, and gone with the sun. Perhaps those that remain may whirl through a polka-quadrille, or indulge in a shambling hoe down à la quadroon. Moonlight walks on the beach are by many per cent. too placid for the Coney Islanders. Skimming pebbles through the white foam may do for a change, but it grows wearisome after a few attempts. To see these third-classers in their glory, they must be viewed before Hesper kisses the strand. Night seems to add an alloy to the general hilarity-the waves subside and the boisterousness cools down. If you should ever take a notion to see life in this quarter of the world, "go early," as the playbills say, and get a front seat.

COLONEL CRICKLEY'S HORSE.

I HAVE never been able to ascertain the origin of the quarrel between the Crickleys and the Drakes. They had lived within a mile of each other in Illinois for five years, and from their first acquaintance there had been a mutual feeling of dislike between the two families. Then some misunderstanding about the boundary of their respective farms revealed the latent flame; and Col. Crickley, having followed a fat buck all one afternoon and wounded him, came up to him, and found old Drake and his sons cutting him up. This incident added fuel to the fire, and from that time there was nothing the two families did not do to annoy each other. They shot each other's ducks in the river, purposely mistaking them for wild ones; and then, by way of retaliation, commenced killing off each other's pigs and calves.

One evening, Mr. Drake the elder was returning home with his pockets well supplied, from Chicago, whither he had been to dispose of a load of grain. Sam Barston was with him on the wagon, and as they approached the grove which intervened between them and Mr. Drake's house, he observed to his companion

"What a beautiful mark Colonel Crickley's old Roan is over yonder!"

"Hang it !" muttered old Drake;

so it is."

The horse was standing under some trees, about twelve rods from the road.