inner vision that mingles the light of the day that is with historic gleams from the day that is past. The steamér, plying its daily course, bids adieu with fluttering pennant to the motley throng upon the river bridge by its wharf, and leaving almost at once the crowded city behind it, takes its guests past the survivors, few and straggling and broken, of that famous avenue of sycamores which Hugh Tallant, the first Irish resident of Haverhill, set out in the early part of the eighteenth century, - Hugh Tallant, the village fiddler,

"With his eyes brimful of laughter,
And his mouth as full of song."

A short distance below, past the old Chain Ferry, replaced now by a modern, prosaic bridge, the river broadens and makes a sudden turn, only, it seems, that it may delight the eye with an expanse of waters

"Over the wooded northern ridge

Between the houses brown,

To the dark tunnel of the bridge

The street comes straggling down.
You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine,
Of gable, roof, and porch,
The tavern with its swinging sign,

The sharp horn of the church." Here is one of the garrison houses which were places of refuge when the Indians made their forays. Its narrow port-holes, its dark cellar with winding ways leading to little rooms, the brick-lined walls, and the thick oaken door speak of a time when the wood and the darkness harbored the dread savage. In the churchyard of this hamlet lies the "Countess" of Whittier's poem, the lovely village bride of Count François de Vipart, whose bridal dress of white lace was her shroud within a year. Here in our river voyage we leave the borders of Haverhill. Just below are the

Sailing back in the late afternoon, the voyager comes at the end of the day, almost as suddenly as he went therefrom, to a bustling city and "traffic's busy streets." From the thick-lying houses upon the sloping hills, the lights shine out like evening stars; along the upper Merrimack long lines of stores and manufactories are all aglow; while in the west, whence the river comes, its waters double the thousand glowing tints the sunset clouds reveal. One should come thus to Haverhill, from the peace of the lowland valleys. So came hither to an unbroken wilderness, two hundred and fifty years ago, William White and his eleven associates. Here mooring their canoes, they felled the first trees of the virgin forest, and just above where Hugh Tallant later planted his sycamores, made the beginnings of a new settlement "in a place called by ye Indians Pentucket."

Haverhill," the child of destiny," as some one aptly calls her, not upspringing where man has bound the leaping waters of the Merrimack to the task of the wheel and the loom, like the more inland cities of Lowell, Lawrence, and Manchester, nor exulting in the traffic of ships, like the harbor city of Newburyport, has been a place of many industries, whereof one has become pre-eminent. At times in the past, the leading industries were the manufacture of potash and salt and duck-cloth, brewing, distilling, and tanning. Once four ship-yards along her river-banks launched sloops and brigs, to carry on commerce with the West Indies, or to sell directly to London. Now none of these industries survive, but from her many workshops mil

If Cobbler Keezar in his magic lapstone, which had the gift of the Mormon goggles, saw an age of larger charity and wider lib

erty and greater material prosperity,

"the mighty forest broken

By many a steepled town;"

"White sails on the winding river,

White sails on the

far-off sea,"

the vision was his alone.

Looking backward from the present,

"when the flags are floating gay,

And shines on a thousand faces

The light of a holiday,"

to that earliest time, the dim, imperfect picture which rises from the past, <a canvas where a few silent, enshadowed figures are faintly seen,-is of a little band pushing out from the somewhat crowded settlements at Newbury and Ipswich, in the summer of 1640, into the unbroken wilderness, "where the trees are not felled, and the wild Indian is at the doors." A year later there came to the settlement the Rev. John Ward, a figure of striking interest in those early days. "Learned, ingenious, and religious, an exact grammarian, and an expert physician," a Master of Arts of the University of Cambridge, England, he was deeply revered by the men associated with him in founding this settlement. They lovingly called him Teacher, and out of love for him they transferred the name of his birthplace, Haverhill in England, to this settlement on the Merrimack. In 1845 the settlers bes f the Indians a strip of land four

teen miles along the river and eight miles wide for three pounds and ten shillings, and in this deed the adjacent river and the islands therein are included.

The years of beginnings differ little from those of other Massachusetts settlements. Sober and devout, they gathered at first for Sunday worship beneath the outspreading branches of a large tree, called together by the beating of a drum. The birds sang their anthems; the river close by mingled its rippling music with their prayers. The same drum that summoned them to the consideration of things spiritual, constrained their attendance at the discussion of things temporal. A quaint by-law of the town in 1650 compels the attendance of every freeholder at the town meetings: "He is to come within half an hour after the meeting is begun, and continue until sunset if the meeting hold so long, under the penalty of half a bushel of Indian corn, or the value of it." In 1642, the drum as a summons to meeting was discontinued, and Abraham Tyler was ordered to blow his

beating of the drum displaced it. The town meetings of those days were indeed deliberative assemblies, and although the town numbered scarce thirty families, they began their discussion of public interests at seven o'clock in the morning and rarely adjourned before eight in the evening.

But far less peaceful sounds fell on the ears of those early settlers, - the fierce bark of the preying wolves, the Indians' terrorizing whoop and shrill war cry. For seventy years Haverhill was a frontier town; between it and Canada the smoke ascended from no white man's home, and only the Indian's trail threaded the dense forests. Numerous attacks were made upon it, and many a.victim fell beneath the murderous tomahawk, or followed northward, as a captive, these human beasts of the wood. During these times of terror the gun accompanied the hoe and axe into the field; the settler bore to church the psalm-book in one hand, the loaded musket in the other. In 1690 so portentous were these evils that a wholesale abandonment of the