It is an insignificant act, this turning up one's nose-very insignificant in itself-and yet, how potent. Objects that we look upon with admiration lose half their charm before the point of an upturned nose, almost as quickly as a Chinaman loses his head at the point of the executioner's sword.

Certain views, once entertained with pride and satisfaction, when passed through this furnace of scorn, are suddenly taken down from their high position and anxiously, indignantly, and almost shamefully examined.

In some cases an elevated nose arouses determined opposition, obstinate pride, and supreme and extreme indignation. Some people are proof against scorn, however; "be sure you're right and then go straight ahead," is their motto. The mere fact of other people's opinions differing from their own is to them no reason why they should give up their own and accept those ideas more universally recognized.

But with the generality of people complete independence of character is a rarity. Every one cannot keep quite cool when finding himself or his opinions objects of scorn to others.

We have often heard dissertations on the importance of little things; the safety of a nation sometimes depends on one man's acuteness. The "upward glancing of an eye" has expressed the exalted faith of a man's soul; and so, also the upward lifting of a nose has effected the upsetting of a man's temper, the controlling of which is a greater act than the taking of a city.

EMILIUS.

LETTER FROM BRIDGE HAMPTON.

BRIDGE HAMPTON, L. I., Aug. 26, 1870. Dear Scyld: I am blue to-night. I have been sitting for some time at my open window, listening to the sobbing sea, the sighing night wind, and the melancholy song of the cricket; but the stars looked at me with such cold indifference that I began to think that perhaps after all nothing was the matter with me. So I've struck a light with the determinatfon of shaking off my azure propensities, for the present at least, by answering your long neglected letter.

You labored in that delightful document to impress upon me that it was my duty to write something for the first number of

our COLLEGE MONTHLY. I thought you were one of the editors. You need not expect me to do your work. Without being aware of it, you showed your own laziness under that transparent gloss of telling me my duty. If you, the studious, of the welltrained mind, are too lazy to write for a magazine of which you are editor, what must be my present condition, with not an earthly thing to do, while my normal state, with piles of work ahead and behind, is abject indolence? I leave it to your candor and knowledge of the rule of three to decide.

Our little circle of pleasure-seekers down here at the sea-side is broken. Some went home the first of the week, four or five more to-day. I intend to stay until the last day of summer, and then make a bee line for the portal of Lafayette. I wish the last day of summer was at an infinite distance; this is such a delightful place to rusticate in. If you want to get an idea of Bridge Hampton make a large plus sign, having the horizontal line rather longer than the vertical. The village, or "Bull Head," named from the sign of an extinct tavern, is at the intersection of these lines. It consists of three blacksmith-shops, one machineshop, two churches, one hotel, two school-houses, three stores (the post-office is in one of them), quite a number of dwellinghouses, an ice-cream saloon, and a wind-mill.

Sag Harbor is four miles from the village, at the upper extremity of the vertical line. The ocean is at the other extremity, two miles distant. East Hampton is six miles to the right, South Hampton the same distance to the left. Now draw lines in every possible direction from the plus sign to represent the various roads, and at every intersection either put a blacksmith-shop, a school-house, or a wind-mill. The farm-houses are to be put in promiscuously. Be sure you have them rather thick in spots; the reason of this is to account for such names as Hay Ground, Scuttle Hole, Poxabogue, Sagabonuck, Wainscutt, and Mecox.

You have now a fair idea of Bridge Hampton topographically. As to the men, they average above the medium height, are brawny, muscular, and well proportioned. Their minds are well mated to their bodies; with strong common sense, intellectuality, and quick wit, is coupled education in the true sense of the term. They are grand, noble men. The wives, mothers, and sisters, are everything that such men as these could wish for.

The salt air and cool breezes give one an appetite that must be fearful in the eyes of a dyspeptic. I am certain that the physiology-men are not in the habit of spending their summer at the sea-shore, or they would never give such small figures as to the dimensions of the stomach.

My day's programme is, first, to eat until "a decent respect for the opinions of mankind" makes me stop; then loaf around for an hour or so (mighty easy work for me, although rather hungry), then ride down to the ocean for a bath. O, what a distressed set the bathers are! Mutual introductions are often necessary after removing the distinguishing marks of our high (?) civilization. One generally recognizes his male friends; it is true that the immaculate collar and carefully tied cravat, the faultlessly fitting coat, the tight boot, and other such minor considerations, are lacking, yet the man is there in all his rigid muscularity, that is, if he has any; if he hasn't, and regards his reputation for figure, I would advise him to start a little private sea and cease laving himself in public.

But how different with woman! Only the most careful facial observer is able to recognize a female friend in her bathing-dress. It may be true that beauty unadorned is most adorned, but every rule has exceptions, and I am sure I saw many exceptions. A very young and diffident man, seeing a party of female bathers for the first time, would feel inclined to vow eternal celibacy. He will get over that very soon if he engages in the sport and assists Eve's gentle daughters in wetting themselves. I like to stroll around on the beach, it is so interesting to see their timid, cunning little toes hiding away in the sand at every step..

After my return from the beach I spend about half an hour in scraping the sand off my carcass, and draping it for the rest of the day. I then "go for " my dinner. My hunger has by this time grown great and spread itself, so that platters and table linen are in imminent danger, but the good people of this region, guarding against this, always put a loaf of bread near everyone's plate, and with cruel kindness provide clams. It is such an aggravation to eat clams. The more one stows away the hungrier he becomes. At length the stomach cries. out stop, and the poor Tantalus is obliged to endure the pangs of hunger again until the evening meal.

During the afternoon I generally sit under a shade tree and look at the outside of a very light novel for an hour or so. N. B. This is called reading by most vacationists, especially those of the gentler sex. While engaged in "reading," I am apt to burn much of the fragrant weed.

Digestion having taken place and hunger being on the increase, I make a charge on the evening repast. By this time I lose all sense of shame, and knowing it is the last chance for the day, I eat until too full for utterance. Passing a quiet evening (unless there is something going on, which is frequently the case), at an early hour I resign myself to Morpheus, who guards me until the flies attack me in the morning. He then skedaddles.

This daily routine is varied with picnics, clam-bakes, fishing, hunting and sailing. Of course you know what a picnic is. A clam-bake is an amphibious picnic. We go in wagons and carriages to Shinecock bay, about ten miles, carrying the usual provisions. The shores of this bay are still held in fee-simple by a small tribe of Africano-Indians, who earn a livelihood by a species of farming, and by selling fish and clams, the products of the bay. They also pick up a great many dollars at these clam-bakes. The Indians arrange the clams, backs up, in a circle, similar to a cobble-stone pavement. A fire of brush-wood is then kindled over them; the clams cook in their own juice and then burst open. Our dinner is spread out on rough tables, prepared for the purpose in a very pleasant grove. The roasted clams, I assure you, are very good eating. After this sylvan feast, we generally go sailing in parties of a dozen or twenty. About five or six o'clock we turn our horses homeward, feeling better satisfied with ourselves and everybody else than when we started in the morning.

I made arrangements to go fishing several times, but did not carry the plans into effect as "there were no fish along." The fishermen here can always tell whether it is worth while to go out or not. Thus much disappointment and profanity is prevented.

I went hunting several times. But, I regret to say, generally there was more hunting than game. Once I came very near seeing some snipe, but saw a great many humility birds. On another occasion I succeeded, after numerous shots, in obtaining the tail feathers of a meadow lark. During my entire stay I have seen but one woodcock. I hope, some autumn, to go on Montauk

Point to shoot at geese. I don't like to say hit until I am able to show you a dead goose.

And now, dear Seyld, I find I am growing sleepy, but as I write your Anglo-Sazon nick-name, I am reminded of OLD MAC, and BEOWULF, and the POPE, and all the dear associations of our literary wet-nurse.

How we shall enjoy recounting to each other, when wearied with study, the scenes of this vacation! I know that well known faces and pictures of the past will thrust themselves between me and my book. And when enveloped in tobacco smoke in my little sanctum, of a winter evening, bright eyes will peer at me in the twilight. Often during a droning lecture will I hear the merry voices of absent friends, and again hear the moaning, sobbing sea. Ah, Scyld, good night. E.

MAN AND WIFE.

A great English novelist says that writers of popular books and contributors to magazines and newspapers, read but little. This, he tells us, is especially true of reviewers, many of them never reading a work on which they venture to make long and seemingly learned criticisms. Writers for English magazines of very superficial education and little versed in even the lighter kinds of literature, we are informed by him, do not hesitate to write criticisms on the profoundest works of men who have made science the special study of an industrious life-time. With unhesitating confidence they attack the works of erudite scientific men, poets of acknowledged genius, and gifted novelists. We do not remember that any American writer has ever seriously said this of American newspaper and magazine critics. And indeed, when we find that many of our criticisms and reviews are from those who are themselves distinguished in the field of letters, such a statement would gain little credit.

Both the English and American press are, at the present time saying a good deal about Mr. WILKIE COLLINS' latest novel. He is blamed by some of his critics because he has an object in writing this novel-the correction of national abuses. A novel, they say, should be written for its own sake, because the genius of the writer has prompted it, and not to effect a re