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reeds and osiers and bright river-flowers. Water-lilies float among their broad green leaves, which are sometimes so large that the coot, coming from her nest in the bank, uses them for a bridge to the open water in mid-stream. There are islands, too, very different from the swampy strips of grass-grown mud which excursionists to Southend or Sheerness see. These islands are shaded by tall acacias and leafy elms, and the hungry pike hides in the holes of the deep but narrow channels between the islets. The river is very broad, even so many miles above London, and bridges are few and far between; so, wherever there is a village, or even a hamlet, there is also a ferry-boat.

Most of the ferry-boats are really punts-huge oblong tubs, with flat bottoms, and are worked to and fro across the stream by a long punt-pole. The ferryman steps nimbly from end to end of the punt, and with his pole pushes his unwieldy craft across the river-not very quickly, it must be owned, but much more quickly than you would suppose was possible.

Most of the punts are large enough to carry a horse, for many barges pass daily up and down the river; and wherever the towing-path changes sides there is a ferry, and you may often hear the bargee's call of "Over! O-ver!" sounding far along the river on quiet summer days.

I once spent two summers at a lonely farmhouse about a mile and a half from the river, and about the same distance from the pretty village of Mto reach which I was obliged to cross the ferry opposite the village. It was a very little village; the only street straggled up from the river towards the old church, whose low, grey tower, just peeping out from among the trees which surrounded it, I could see as I came down from the farm; and whose modest peal of bells used to ring very sweetly over the water on Sundays when the wind set towards my side of the river.

M—, though not fifty miles from London Bridge, is as retired and out-of-the-world a place as can easily be found in even much more distant provinces. There is no town

within six miles, either up or down the river, and the nearest inland town is a good ten miles off over the hills. About six miles up-stream there is a little town, with one of the broadest streets in England, and red houses on each side of it, and a noble bridge spanning the broad river. The boundaries of three counties meet at that bridge. A much larger place lies seven miles down the river; this town is famous for the beauty of its position, and for its white stone bridge, with the heads of the river-gods frowning above the key-stones on either side. To this town-the nearest and most available point whence to communicate with the outward world—I often had occasion to go, during the two peaceful summers which I spent at the Holt Farm. My kind hosts there had a story of their own worth telling, and which their death leaves me at liberty to repeat; but it is not of them that I chiefly think when I look at the little sketch of M- ferry which I took during one of those summers. To reach the last-mentioned town I was obliged to cross the ferry.

The only inn at M"The Old Ferry Inn." It was a small white house, standing almost close to the water-side, and where travellers frequently stopped to bait their horses. It is now, I believe, pulled down, and a large "hotel" built in its stead. The landlord, in my time, was a very quiet, respectable man; he held a small farm, as well as the village inn, which I must do him the justice to say he did his best to make what a country-inn ought to be a convenient and necessary place of rest and refreshment for travellers, instead of, as is so often the case, little else than a centre of disorder and idleness. It was known that Will Freeman would refuse to draw more beer for any man who had, in Will's opinion, "had enough;" and I believe, from several conversations which I had with him, that he acted from higher motives than the wish (however laudable) to "keep a respectable house." Indeed, Will Freeman was much more a small farmer than a mere landlord of a "public-house," and could there

when I knew it, was called

fore afford to carry out what he thought right. I used often to think, when in my rambles I passed other villages, and saw idle fellows hanging about the inn-door, or singing halfdrunken songs inside, and contrasted this with the quiet of the "Old Ferry," that perhaps it would be a good thing if all landlords were, like Will Freeman, half farmers too, and were thus not entirely dependent on such a dangerous trade as the sale of strong drink.

But it is the history of a much humbler person than the landlord of the "Old Ferry" which I wish to tell.

The first time that I used the ferry-boat I was pressed for time, and my mind was full of some pleasant and unhopedfor news which I had received by that day's post; so I paid little attention to the ferryman, except to notice that he was much stronger and more active than his appearance would have led me to expect. At first stepping into the boat, I remember I said to him, "Why, my good man, I look fitter to put you over than you do to put me !"

"No, sir," said the old man, cheerfully, "I be stronger nor I look, I be. I can take 'ee over, sir, never fear." Neither of us spoke again during the short voyage; and I thought no more of the old ferryman till I again needed his services.

The duties of my life have led me much among the poor, though I am neither a doctor nor a clergyman, and I soon began to observe more carefully the people around me in my temporary home. My dear mother, among many other sayings which I treasure in my heart, and which I hope have in some measure influenced my life, said to me a little before she died, "My boy, try to do good to some one wherever you may go. There are many ways of doing good. A single word-even a look-has sometimes changed a man's whole life. Try to carry a blessing with you every

where."

I never go into any new place without thinking of these words; and here it seemed to me that I had better begin with poor old Fred, the ferryman, and try to cheer

his life a little. I felt an intense pity for him; so far as I had seen, he was utterly alone in the world. He must have been nearly seventy years old, and he looked much older. Always a small man, he was shrunk with age, and a little bent with rheumatism. His hair was nearly white, and contrasted strongly with his sunburnt face. Hard work and hard living were as plainly written on his face and figure as age. But I think it was the prevailing expression of his face which chiefly moved my compassion-more, even, than the discovery that he had no better lodging than a little loft over the stable.

There was a dull stupidity in poor old Fred's expression, mingled with a peculiar child-like simplicity, which made me feel almost the kind of pity which one feels for a dumb animal; and Fred spoke so rarely, that "he seemed to count for nobody," as Will Freeman once said to me of him.

Fred always touched a very ragged cap (or hat-it was so old, it had almost lost its identity) when he saw me, but he never volunteered any remark, not even the usual "Fine day, sir," unless I spoke to him. When he was not plying the ferry-boat, or chopping wood, or carrying water from the river, or rubbing down the horses, he generally sat on the stump of an old tree near the little platform where the punt was moored, and stared vacantly down-stream. When I first knew him, I fancied his mind must be as vacant and dreary as his face. He did not appear to be unhappy; but he seldom noticed anything, and always wore the same dull expressionless look.

The second or third time old Fred put me over the ferry, I asked him if he could read.

“Noa, maister, I ben't no scholard," said he, with the only indication of surprise, or any other emotion, I had seen him show.

A little conversation I had with him, about this time, brought me to the conclusion that poor old Fred was the most stupid sane person I had ever seen, if indeed he was "full-witted," which I almost doubted. Still, I longed to

pierce the crust of ignorance and dullness which hid poor Fred's real self from me. "He wants doing good to more than all the other people here,” I thought to myself, “and I will try to bring a brighter light into his poor dim old eyes. There must be a key to his heart—I will find it, and use it, with God's help."

I found from the landlord of the “ Old Ferry” (for Fred rarely said more than "yes, maister,” and “noa, maister”) that the ferry-man had lived in the little village all his life, and had probably never been ten miles from it, except on one occasion. Will Freeman had been several years at the "Old Ferry," but was not a native of the village. He had never heard old Fred called by any other name, but knew that he had been ferry-man under his predecessor. Fred's name was Wilson, he believed.

"This was a disorderly place then, sir," said Will, perhaps a little complacently. "It used to be very bad o' Saturdaynights, I've been told."

When Will took the ferry-house, Fred's wife was living; "a decent old body," said the landlord; "and they inhabited one half of a four-roomed cottage at the end of the village. She died the same year, however, leaving one son, a lad of nineteen.

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"He was never no good, sir," said Freeman to me; but he could do a good stroke of work when he liked. The drink got the better of him, sir. Many's the time I've refused him more drink in this very house; but drink he would have, and when he couldn't get it here, he'd go to the 'Blue Boy' over the river for it. He ran up a score there, and he couldn't pay it for ploughman's wages won't pay for food and clothes, and drink besides; and the landlord o' the 'Blue Boy' wouldn't give him any more drink till he'd paid up. And then, sir, he took to poaching. There were a gang about just then, and folks did say the landlord o' the Blue Boy' sold the game for 'em, if he didn't poach it himself. Howsoever, I don't know how that was; but one night there was a fight with the keepers, and one o' the

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