ed away prejudices and
upset conventionalities; and the ruddy glow of our sunburnt cheeks was
the external token of the healthy natural tone of the feelings within.
No; this passion for comfort and gentility in the wilderness, is a bad
sign of the generation: it bespeaks effeminacy of character, and a
vanity which, however graceful it may be thought in the town, shews
mean and ridiculous among the hills, and woods, and waters of the
country.

Among our neighbours on the continent, the summer move is not so
universal as with us. In Paris, for instance, everything is considered
the country that is outside the barriers; and in the fine season,
every bourgeois family is outside the barriers at least once a
week--eating, drinking, dancing, and singing. Then there are the walks
in the Bois de Boulogne, and the picnics at St Cloud, and the
excursions to Versailles: wherever there is green turf and shady
trees, you hear the sounds of mirth and music rising in the clearest,
brightest atmosphere in the world. Thus a sojourn out of town is not a
necessity. They take change of air by instalments, and pass the summer
in a state of chronic excitement.

In other parts of the world, the move is as entire as with us; and in
at least one instance, all classes of the population desert the cities
at the same time, and flock to the same sea-side. To be sure, this
sea-side is somewhat extensive, and there need be no more crowding
than is social and comfortable. An amusing account of the migration,
and of the summer lodgings of Central America is given in Mr Squier's
_Nicaragua_, recently published. The state of Nicaragua occupies that
part of the Isthmus lying between the lake of the same name and the
Pacific, the distance between being in some places only about fifteen
miles. In this narrow tract there are several large towns, such as
Grenada and Leon, which, in spite of the breath of the two oceans, get
smoke-dried by the time the dry season advances into March. Then comes
on the 'Paseo al mar,' or bathing-season, when a great portion of the
population, taken not merely from the upper classes, but from the
bourgeoisie and Indian peasantry, rush down to the shores of the
Pacific. 'At that time,' says Mr Squier, 'a general movement of carts
and servants takes place in the direction of the sea, and the
government despatches an officer and a guard, to superintend the
pitching of the annual camp upon the beach, or rather upon the
forest-cove