Two minutes' walk is sufficient to cross from the steamboat-pier over
the narrow ridge of land to the beach. The difference between one side
and the other is very striking. On the one is the still, dark water of
Weir river; on the other, the open sea and the rolling surf. The beach
at once impresses the visitor as being remarkably fine, and, indeed, it
is equalled by none on the coast, unless, possibly, by Old Orchard. The
sands are hard and firm, and at low tide form a spacious boulevard for
driving or walking. Before the eye is the open sea, dotted here and
there with glistening sails. The long, dark vessel which appears in the
distance, about four o'clock on Saturday afternoon, is a Cunard steamer,
which has just left East Boston for its voyage to Liverpool. For two or
three hours it is in sight, slowly and majestically moving toward the
horizon.
The scene on the beach is in marked contrast to what might have been
witnessed a generation ago. Then one would have found here and there
a family group just driven down in the old-fashioned carryall, and
enjoying a feast of clam-chowder cooked over a fire of drift-wood. Now
the beach is thronged by crowds of many thousands; immense hotels vie
with those of the metropolis in grandeur; there are avenues and parks,
flying horses, tennis-grounds, shops for the sale of everything that the
city affords, and some that it does not, dog-carts and goat-wagons,
fruit and peanut-stands, bowling-alleys, shooting-targets, and, in fact,
as many devices to empty the pocket-book as are usually found at a
cattle-show and a church-fair together.
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