But even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste for the beautiful in nature, the charms of the banks of the Merrimac would not be disregarded. Can there be a more beautiful bend in a river, than that which it makes at Salisbury Point? It is one of the most picturesque scenes, at all events, which I have ever witnessed. Stand for a moment upon the drawbridge which spans with its single arch the spot where "the winding Powow" joins his sparkling waters with the broad tide of the receiving river. We will suppose it is a summer morning. The thin white mist from the Atlantic, which the night-spirit has thrown, like a bridal veil, over the vale and river, is gently lifted by Aurora, and the unshrouded waters blush "celestial rosy red" at the exposure of their own loveliness. But the bright flush is soon gone, and as the sun rides higher in the heavens, the millions of little wavelets don their diamond crowns, and rise, and sink, and leap, and dance rejoicingly together; and while their sparkling brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of delight are no less grateful to the ear. The grove upon the Newbury side is already vocal with the morning anthems of the feathered choir, and from the maple, oak, and pine is rising one glad peal of melody. The slight fragrance of the kalmia, or American laurel, which flourishes here in much profusion, is borne upon the morning breeze; and when their roseate umbels are opened to the sun, they "sing to the eye," as their less stationary companions have done to the ear.

The road which accompanies the river in its beauteous curve, is soon alive with the active laborers of "Salisbury sh.o.r.e;" and soon the loud "Heave-ho!" of the ship-builders is mingled with the more mellifluous tones which have preceded them. The other busy inhabitants are soon threading the winding street, and as they glance upon their bright and beauteous river, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s swell with emotions of pleasure, though in their constant and active bustle, they may seldom pause to a.n.a.lyze the cause. The single sail of the sloop which has lain so listless at the little wharf, and the double one of the schooner which is about to traverse its way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, and the loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the noisy echoes of his bustling men, are borne upon the dewy breeze, and echoed from the Newbury slopes. Soon they are riding upon the bright waters, and the little skiff or wherry is also seen darting about, amidst the rolling diamonds, while here and there a heavy laden "gundelow" moves slowly along, "with sure and steady aim," as though it disdained the pastime of its livelier neighbors.

Such is many a morning scene on the banks of the Merrimac; and not less delightful are those of the evening. Perhaps the sunset has pa.s.sed. The last golden tint has faded from the river, and its waveless surface reflects the deep blue of heaven, and sends back undimmed the first faint ray of the evening star. The rising tide creeps rippling up the narrow beach, sending along its foremost swell, which, in a sort of drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently back upon its successors. Now the tide is up--the trees upon the wooded banks of Newbury, and the sandy hills upon the Amesbury side, are pencilled with minutest accuracy in the clear waters. Farther down, the dwellings at the Ferry, and those of the Point, which stand upon the banks, are also mirrored in the deep stream. You might also fancy that beneath its lucid tide there was a duplicate village, so distinct is every shadow. As, one by one, the lights appear in the cottage windows, their reflected fires shoot up from the depths of the Merrimac.

But the waters shine with brighter radiance as evening lengthens; for Luna grows more lavish of her silvery beams as the crimson tints of her brighter rival die in the western sky. The sh.o.r.e is still and motionless, save where a pair of happy lovers steal slowly along the shadowed walk which leads to Pleasant Valley. The old weather-worn ship at the Point, which has all day long resounded with the clatter of mischievous boys, is now wrapped in silence. The new one in the ship-yard, which has also been dinning with the maul and hammer, is equally quiet. But from the broad surface of the stream there comes the song, the shout, and the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. They come from the boats which dot the water, and are filled with the young and gay. Some have just shot from the little wharf, and others have been for hours upon the river. What they have been doing, and where they have been, I do not precisely know; but, from the boughs which have been broken from _somebody's_ trees, and the large cl.u.s.ters of laurel which the ladies bear, I think I can "guess-o."

But it grows late. The lights which have glowed in the reflected buildings have one by one been quenched, and still those light barks remain upon the river. And that large "gundelow," which came down the Powow, from the mills, with its freight of "factory girls," sends forth "the sound of music and dancing." We will leave them--for it is possible that they will linger till after midnight, and we have staid quite long enough to obtain an evening's glimpse at the Merrimac.

Such are some of the scenes on the river, and many are also the pleasant spots upon its banks. Beautiful walks and snug little nooks are not unfrequent; and there are bright green sheltered coves, like Pleasant Valley, where "all save the spirit of man is divine."

I remember the first steamboat which ever came hissing and puffing and groaning and sputtering up the calm surface of the Merrimac. I remember also the lovely moonlight evening when I watched her return from Haverhill, and when every wave and rock and tree were lying bathed in a flood of silver radiance. I shall not soon forget her noisy approach, so strongly contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long loud ringing cheers which hailed her arrival and accompanied her departure. I noted every movement, as she hissed and splashed among the bright waters, until she reached the curve in the river, and then was lost to view, excepting the thick sparks which rose above the glistening foilage of the wooded banks.

I remember also the first time I ever saw the aborigines of our country.

They were Pen.o.bscots, and then, I believe, upon their way to this city.

They encamped among the woods of the Newbury sh.o.r.e, and crossed the river (there about a mile in width) in their little canoes, whenever they wished to beg or trade.--They sadly refuted the romantic ideas which I had formed from the descriptions of Cooper and others; nevertheless, they were to me an interesting people. They appeared so strange, with their birch-bark canoes and wooden paddles, their women with men's hats and such _outre_ dresses, their little boys with their unfailing bows and arrows, and the little feet which they all had. Their curious, bright-stained baskets, too, which they sold or gave away. I have one of them now, but it has lost its bright tints. It was given me in return for a slight favor.--I remember also one dreadful stormy night while they were amongst us. The rain poured in torrents. The thick darkness was unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the hoa.r.s.e murmur of the seething river was the only noise which could be distinguished from the pitiless storm. I thought of my new acquaintance, and looked out in the direction of their camp. I could see at one time the lights flickering among the thick trees, and darting rapidly to and fro behind them, and then all would be unbroken gloom. Sometimes I fancied I could distinguish a whoop or yell, and then I heard nought but the pelting of the rain. As I gazed on the wild scene, I was strongly reminded of scenes which are described in old border tales, of wild banditti, and night revels of lawless hordes of barbarians.

These are summer scenes; and in winter there is nothing particularly beautiful in the icy robe with which the Merrimac often enrobes its chilled waters. But the breaking up of the ice is an event of much interest.

As spring approaches, and the weather becomes milder, the river, which has been a thoroughfare for loaded teams and lighter sleighs, is gradually shunned, even by the daring skater. Little pools of bluish water, which the sun has melted, stand in slight hollows, distinctly contrasted with the clear dark ice in the middle of the stream, or the flaky snow-crust near the sh.o.r.e. At length a loud crack is heard, like the report of a cannon--then another, and another--and finally the loosened ma.s.s begins to move towards the ocean. The motion at first is almost imperceptible, but it gradually increases in velocity, as the impetus of the descending ice above propels it along; and soon the dark blue waters are seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. By and bye, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, crashing, and whirling along, with the foaming waves boiling up wherever they can find a crevice; and trunks of trees, fragments of buildings, and ruins of bridges, are driven along with the tumultuous ma.s.s.--A single night will sometimes clear the river of the main portion of the ice, and then the darkly-tinted waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly rejoicing at their deliverance from bondage. But for some time the white cakes, or rather ice-islands, will be seen floating along, though hourly diminishing in size, and becoming more "like angel's visits."

But there is another glad scene occasionally upon the Merrimac--and that is, when there is a launching. I have already alluded to the ship-builders, and they form quite a proportion of the inhabitants of the sh.o.r.e. And now, by the way, I cannot omit a pa.s.sing compliment to the inhabitants of this same sh.o.r.e. It is seldom that so correct, intelligent, contented, and truly comfortable a cla.s.s of people is to be found, as in this pretty hamlet. Pretty it most certainly is--for nearly all the houses are neatly painted, and some of them indicate much taste in the owners. And then the people are so kind, good, and industrious. A Newburyport editor once said of them, "They are nice folks there on Salisbury sh.o.r.e; they always pay for their newspapers"--a trait of excellence which printers can usually appreciate.

But now to the ships, whose building I have often watched with interest, from the day when the long keel was laid till it was launched into the river. This is a scene which is likewise calculated to inspire salutary reflections, from the comparison which is often inst.i.tuted between ourselves and a wave-tossed bark. How often is the commencement of active life compared to the launching of a ship; and even the unimaginative Puritans could sing,

"Life's like a ship in constant motion, Sometimes high and sometimes low, Where every man must plough the ocean, Whatsoever winds may blow."

The striking a.n.a.logy has been more beautifully expressed by better poets, though hardly with more force. And if we are like wind-tossed vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds may be compared to the building of a ship. And it was this thought which often attracted my notice to the labors of the shipwright.

First, the long keel is laid--then the huge ribs go up the sides; then the rail-way runs around the top. Then commences the boarding or timbering of the sides; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is heard, as he pounds in the huge _trunnels_ which fasten all together.

Then there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and, after all, the launching.

The first that I ever saw was a large and n.o.ble ship. It had been long in building, and I had watched its progress with much interest. The morning it was to be launched I played truant to witness the scene. It was a fine sunshiny day, Sept. 21, 1832; and I almost wished I was a boy, that I might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined upon a ride. The blocks which supported the ship were severally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. When that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased planks, which descended to the water. It must have been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the huge vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. But it was done, and swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an impetus which sunk her almost to her deck, and carried her nearly to the middle of the river. Then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and finally righted herself, and stood motionless. But while the dashing foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new element, and the loud cheers from the deck were ringing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and she was named the WALTER SCOTT. It will be remembered that this was the very day on which the Great Magician died--a fact noticed in the Sat.u.r.day Courier about that time.

Several years after this, I was attending school in a neighboring town.

I happened one evening to take up a newspaper. I think it was a Portsmouth paper; and I saw the statement that a fine new ship had been burnt at sea, called the WALTER SCOTT. The particulars were so minutely given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful vessel which I had seen launched, upon the banks of the Merrimac.

ANNETTE.

THE FIRST BELLS.

CHAPTER I.

There are times when I am melancholy, when the sun seems to shine with a shadowy light, and the woods are filled with notes of sadness; when the up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every streamlet chants a requiem. Have we not all our trials? And though we may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses of our own hearts, yet Memory and Sensibility must both be dead, if we can always be light and mirthful.

Once it was not so. There was a time when I gaily viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which now appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous.

These thoughts have been suggested by the recollection of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless girlhood I gave the name of "the first bells." And now, I doubt not, you are wondering what strange a.s.sociation of ideas could have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old man and woman. My answer must be the narration of a few facts.

When I was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house, which now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the brow of Church Hill. It is never used but upon town-meeting days--for those who once went up to the house of G.o.d in company, now worship in three separate buildings. There is discord between them--that worst of all hatred, the animosity which arises from difference of religious opinions. I am sorry for it; not that I regret that they cannot all think alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ." Because the heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith may be expressed in kindly words. I have my friends among them all, and they are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal points our opinions cannot be the same. A creed which I do not now believe is hallowed by recollections of the Sabbath worship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings--in short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my earlier days.

I remember now how still and beautiful our Sunday mornings used to seem, after the toil and play of the busy week. I would take my catechism in my hand, and go and sit upon a large flat stone, under the shade of the chestnut tree; and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing which did not feel that it was the Sabbath. The sun was as bright and warm as upon other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung as loudly and joyfully as ever, I thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred strain. I heard a Sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and the hum of the bees around me, and even the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the kine seemed pitched upon some softer key. Thus it is that the heart fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow, or holy peace.

We had then no bell; and when the hour approached for the commencement of religious services, each nook and dale sent forth its worshippers in silence. But precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors started, the old man and woman, who lived upon Pine Hill, could be seen wending their way to the meeting-house. They walked side by side, with a slow even step, such as was befitting the errand which had brought them forth. Their appearance was always the signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to follow them to the house of G.o.d. And it was because they were so unvarying in their early attendance, because I was never disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the pine trees upon the hill, that I gave them the name of "the first bells."

Why they went thus regularly early I know not, but think it probable they wished for time to rest after their long walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in exercises which were evidently more valued by them than by most of those around them. Yet it must have been a deep interest which brought so large a congregation from the scattered houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled country town.

And every face was then familiar to me. I knew each white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the door of his pew, and every aged woman who seated herself in the low chair in the middle of it; and the countenances of the middle-aged and the young were rendered familiar by the exchange of Sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that humble temple.

But upon none did I look with more interest than upon "the first bells."

There they always were when I took my accustomed seat at the right hand of the pulpit. Their heads were always bowed in meditation till they arose to join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth their strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and looked upon the same book, as they silently sent forth the spirit's song to their Father in heaven. There was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect faith, and of subdued sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won my reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of them.

They were poor. I knew it by the coa.r.s.e and much-worn garments which they always wore; but I could not conjecture why they avoided the society and sympathy of all around them. They always waited for our pastor's greeting when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed to all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with others extended not. It appeared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit their own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them their faith and its religious observances, had also rendered them unusually sensitive to the careless remarks and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood.

One Sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. His text was that affecting e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of David, "O Absalom, my son, my son!" He spoke of the depth and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart will remain unchanged and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and rebellion. He spoke of that reckless insubordination which often sends pang after pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds which sometimes bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. I heard stifled sobs; and looking up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand of the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. They were trembling with agitation, and I saw that a fount of deep and painful remembrances had now been opened. They soon regained their usual calmness, but I thought their steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful that day, when after our morning service had closed, they went to the grave in the corner of the churchyard. There was no stone to mark it, but their feet had been wearing, for many a Sabbath noon, the little path which led to it.

I went that night to my mother, and asked her if she could not tell me something about "the first bells." She chid me for the phrase by which I was wont to designate them, but said that her knowledge of their former life was very limited. Several years before, she added, a man was murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named John L. The murderer was tried and hung; and not long after, this old man and woman came and hired the little cottage upon Pine Hill. Their names were the same that the murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and retiring manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents.

No one knew, certainly, that it was so--for they shrunk from all inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a gentle and sad looking girl, who had accompanied them to their new place of abode, had pined away, and died within the first year of their arrival. She was their daughter, and was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her brother who had been hung. She was buried in the corner of the churchyard, and every pleasant Sabbath noon her aged parents had mourned together over her lowly grave.

"And now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion "respect their years, their sorrows, and, above all, the deep fervent piety which cheers and sustains them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and watered by tears, such as I hope my child will never know."

My mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly; and I resolved that never again would I in a spirit of levity call Mr. and Mrs. L. "the first bells."

CHAPTER II.

Years pa.s.sed on; and through summer's sunshine and its showers, and through winter's cold and frost, and storms, that old couple still went upon their never-failing Sabbath pilgrimage. I can see them even now, as they looked in days long gone by. The old man, with his loose, black, Quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his heavy cowhide boots, and coa.r.s.e blue mittens; and his partner walking slowly by his side, wearing a scanty brown cloak with four little capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking bonnet. In summer the cloak was exchanged for a cotton shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print. The Sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress. Their features were very different, but they had the same mild, mournful look, the same touching glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other; and it was one which spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety.

At length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little house upon the hill; and after that the widow went alone each Sabbath noon to the two graves in the corner of the churchyard. I felt sad when I thought how lonely and sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day I ventured an unbidden guest into her lowly cot. As I approached her door, I heard her singing in a low, tremulous tone,

"How are thy servants blessed, O Lord."

I was touched to the heart; for I could see that her blessings were those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world could neither give nor take away.

She was evidently dest.i.tute of what the world calls comforts, and I feared she might also want its necessaries. But her look was almost cheerful as she a.s.sured me that her knitting (at which I perceived she was quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now wanted.

I looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and thought it radiant with moral beauty. She wore no cap, and her thin grey hair was combed back from her furrowed brow. Her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a short loose gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much unfeminine labor. Yet she was contented, and even happy, and singing praise to G.o.d for his blessings.

The next winter I thought I could perceive a faltering in her gait whenever she ascended Church Hill; and one Sabbath she was not in her accustomed seat. The next, she was also absent; and when I looked upon Pine Hill, I could perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney. I felt anxious, and requested liberty to make, what was then in our neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a Sabbath visit. My mother granted me permission to go, and remain as long as my services might be necessary; and at the close of the afternoon worship, I went to the little house upon the hill. I listened eagerly for some sound as I entered the cold apartment; but hearing none, I tremblingly approached the low hard bed. She was lying there with the same calm look of resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as I took her hand.

"You are sick and alone," said I to her; "tell me what I can do for you."

"I am sick," was her reply, "but not _alone_. He who is every where, and at all times present, has been with me, in the day and in the night. I have prayed to him, and received answers of mercy, love, and peace. He has sent His angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do but to watch the spirit's departure."