She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side, Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, The ride to Annisquam, five miles of the already described tour round the Cape, reversed, on any fair day, is delightful. Beside the pleasure on the road from Pigeon Cove to the resting-place for the horses at Squam Point, there may be the additional pleasure of crossing Squam River in a dory, and then of a stroll on Coffin's Beach and among the clumps of barberry bushes and savins on the ascending adjoining grounds. On the beach, the roving may extend more than a mile to Two Penny Loaf, a white hillock of rock and sand near the mouth of Chebacco River. Across the Chebacco glisten the sands and shells of Ipswich Beach. In this river, not far from the Loaf, is the island where Rufus Choate was born. At the head of the marsh, through which the river flows with many turns, the village of Essex rises to view, with a front of half-built fishing-schooners on the stocks, and others launched and afloat, being equipped with masts, spars, rigging, and sails. Off from the beach, the ramble may continue into an 'old, shady, uneven road, seldom travelled, which follows the northern base of Meeting-house Hill toward a highway leading to Essex. In this out-ofthe-way locality, in an ancient farm-house, once lived Master Tappan. In his early manhood he was Daniel Webster's school-master. In the summer of 1841, though advanced in years, his tall form was erect, and his strength equal to walking up the hill to worship on Sunday. On a warm day of that season, he sat in his door facing the road and the hill, enjoying the cool shade of the overhanging trees and the breath of brine wafted from the sea. He responded with dignity and urbanity to the salutation of a rambler passing, and then pressed him to stop for rest and refreshment. His discourse was chiefly of the past; but he was not unmindful of current events, nor was he unaffected by the picturesque surroundings of his secluded bode. An hour with this gentleman of the old school, in retirement deepened and shadowed by ill, cliff, rock, tree, shrub, and vine, and sweetened by the mingling odors of marsh and upland, was a pleasant episode of an afternoon's excursion. The meeting-house on the hill-now, alas! mong the things that were was a substantiai edifice of oaken frame, without steeple or any >ther ornament outside; with plain galleries, square, high-partitioned pews, and a high pulpit, fronted by the deacons' seat, and overtopped by a sounding-board within. On the sounding-board was the date "1713." Formerly the now grassgrown road over the spot where this ancient house of worship stood was much travelled, and the people of the West Parish ascended it from both the east and west sides of the hill. In the past time, which has been recalled, there being no dwelling-house near, the worshippers from the scattered abodes and the little neighborhoods around the hill seemed, to one sitting on the door step of the church waiting for them, to rise out of the ground, or singly and in groups to come forth as if rocks, shrubs, and thickets had suddenly turned into human beings in every form and guise from blooming childhood to hoary age. Literally the swallow, as a swallow, unchanged, had found a place in God's house where she might rear her young; for in service-time the twitterings of the swallows, flying through the broken windows to and from their nests on the lofty plates, mingled with the prayers and hymns of the gathered assembly. Even the shy golden-winged woodpeckers had cut holes from the outside into the gables above the cross-beams; and so was heard through the ceiling, as an accompaniment of the sounds of devotion, the clamor of their young for food. In 1846 F. A. Durivage thus wrote of this venerable fane: "The old church stands in a clearing on a small plateau of considerable elevation, commanding an extensive prospect in every direction. It was formerly surrounded, we were told, by a clump of beautiful oak-trees; but every vestige of these has disappeared, and it is now guarded only by one tall Lombardy poplar, that stands like a sentinel near a corner of the edifice. The building is almost square, with a single pitch roof, unpainted and somewhat decayed, but built throughout with strong oak timbers. The windows, with one exception, are square, and distributed rather irregularly. The glass is more than half gone, many panes having been dashed in by the pebbles of profane, vagrant boys, who ramble hither on sunshiny afternoons, with small thought of the sanctity which should hedge about the place. There stood, for it was incapable of change, the horse-block, a natural step of granite, whence in . olden time many a goodly dame stepped lightly into her seat on the pillion strapped behind the saddle of the sturdy horseman, who escorted her to |