We sometimes were now passing Nahant, and we should have seen Longfellow'scottage and the waves beating on the rocks before it, if we had beennear enough. As it was, we could only faintly distinguish theheadland and note the black beach of Lynn. The fact is, that intravel one is almost as much dependent upon imagination and memory ashe is at home. Somehow, we seldom get near enough to anything. Theinterest of all this coast which we had come to inspect was mainlyliterary and historical. And no country is of much interest untillegends and poetry have draped it in hues that mere nature cannotproduce. We glanced at Nahant for Longfellow's sake; we strained oureyes to make out Marblehead on account of Whittier's ballad; wescrutinized the entrance to Salem Harbor because a genius once sat inits decaying custom-house and made of it a throne of the imagination.Upon this low shore line, which lies blinking in the midday sun, thewaves of hitale have beaten for two centuries and a half, andromance has had time to grow there. 0ut of any of these coves mighthave sailed Sir Patrick Spens "to Noroway, to Noroway,"

"They hadna sailed upon the sea A day but barely three,