By the Trent

Front matter

"A likerous thing is wine, aud drunkenness Is full of striving and of wretchedness. 0 drunken man ! disfigured is thy face, Sour i8 thy breath, foul art thou to embrace." "But hearkeneth, lordings, one word I you pray, That all the sovereign act£s, dare I say Of victories in the Olde Testament Through very God that is omnipotent Were done in abstinence, and in prayere, Looketh the Bible, and there ye may it lere." — Chaucek. •— " O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou bast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil !" "— 0 that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains ! that avc should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts ! " — Shakespeee. " 0 madness, to think use of strongest wines. And strongest drinks, our chief support of health, When God with these forbidden, made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare Whose drink was only from the liquid brook." — Milto^.

BY Mrs. E. S. OLDHAM. (Status: SCOTTISH TEMPERANCE LEAGUE, LONDON: HOULSTON & AVRIGHT, AND AV. TWEEDIE. 1864, Glasgow: w. c. blackie and co., printers VILLA-FIELD.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Chapter I. The Walk

The old elms by the river were putting out tender leaves, for the winds of March were past, and April had touched their heads with her magical sunshine. The morning was bright and warm, and thousands of varnished leaf-cases lay upon the ground, pushed off by impatient unfolding leaflets longing to be fully born. Upon the river the wind rode, and with playful hands turned back the ripples, and curved them curiously, and Avhipped their edges softly into foam. The willows by tho shore were white with palm — the grass was greening beneath lately fallen showers. In the air Avas a fresh scent of growing vegetation, and in the pale blue sky Avere the most delicate cirrous clouds — feathers dropped from the Avings of the great angel of spring. John Broadbent had this morning walked bare headed in his garden, and from under the apple-boughs had looked upon the swiftly-flowing river and the wide meadows with a longing eye, desiring to walk still further, and, like the wind that just now raised the masses of his dark hair, to move quickly and gladly over some small portion of the world.

He called to his sister, who was busy Avithin doors talking to her young A maid-servant about the dinner, " Clara, are you aware that the sun is shining?" There was no reply, and no sound but a murmur of voices in the kitchen. Again he raised his voice. " Clara, do you know that the sky is blue, and the wind soft and fresh?'' "And you ready for a walk? Is that what you mean?" asked a pleasant voice inside. " Yes, indeed ! Get your bonnet, and let us see what dreams the old earth had last night when she shut her eyes." In a few minutes the brother and sister had closed behind them the small garden-gate that opened on the river bank, and were walking underneath the broad spread arms of a long row of mighty elms that skirted the shore, a living piazza of grooved pillars and inter minable boughs.

It Avas a beautiful pictured world the tAvo gazed upon, and their eyes brightened, and their steps became more elastic, as they proceeded. They themselves Avere not unworthy to have a place in the picture — John, Avith his tall Avell-moulded form and broad shoulders, his full wide brow, dark deep-set eyes, and intelligent glance; and Clara, equally tall and well made, with the difference and added softness becominsr her sex; her pale, somewhat serious face and finely-cut features, expressive of a mind at once noble and refined, and her graceful motions, and the calmness of her out ward attitude to the world, speaking of a soul well balanced and serene. "The dreams have been good ones," said Clara, as her eye rested with quiet pleasure upon the sun-touched meadows and the gliding stream. THE WALK. 3 " You think so?

Then, of course, it must be so, for you are a wise" woman. I would put your judgment against fiVe hundred. Clara, I do not think there is a woman like you in the three counties \" "I hope not; it would be inconvenient. You would not know Avhich Clara to call sister." "Noav that is an absurd reply to my compliment. You ought to have said, 'John, where is there such a brother?' in a very tender and admiring tone." Clara smiled. " If I think it, it will be enough. You knoAv I'm no rapturist." " No, or else you would talk poetry by handfuls, or mouthfuls rather, to see this lovely April sky. What clouds those are! And that delicious wind! Every sweep of it sets my heart dancing." " As for me," said Clara, stooping to gather a daisy that with delicate pink-tipped leaves looked up into her face, "here is sufficient for my delight."

"You could have gathered one like that at home. Clara, your soul is hard and dead, a walk is nothing to you ! Even Avhen you get into Paradise you Avill not be astonished; you will take out your knitting quite calmly, and will say to the angels, 'Those stars are very fine, but allow me, I have just dropped a stitch!'" "Who is talking absurdity now? But tell me seriously, why should a few acres of vapour in the sky, more or less, make such a wonderful difference to you? On a cloudy morning you are generally .silent and grave; a rain-storm sends you to Herbert and Thomas a Kempis; but a lovely bright morning like this brings light to your eyes, colour to your cheeks, and nonsense to your tongue. Then away with your books and your meditations ! Your hat is put on, and I your walking stick of a sister am summoned out of my corner, my easy-chair, or my kitchen hearth, or wherever it may be, to accompany you."

" That is partly true, I cannot deny it. But to your question, why? I cannot tell why, except by going into a long speech on the doctrine of correspondences, Avhich I daresay you would find very tiresome. So let it seize your unphilosophical mind that I have a philosophical reason for loving sunshine, and hating, or rather just enduring, acres of vapour." "My unphilosophical mind!" "Yes, certainly. No woman can be philosophical. That belongs to the other sex. It is one of their nobler attributes." "Which I deny." "Yes, I daresay. But, my sister, do not you see, poor benighted creature as you are, that being a woman, and only a woman, you are no judge? A man may say Avhat he pleases, and judge best what is noblest and highest; a woman never. Her very sex disables her." "In a man's eyes." "Yes; in whose else's?

No other eyes can see clearly. Man is both judge and jury in this case; Avhat chance have you poor women?" "We can appeal." "From our sentence? But to Avhat court Avould you bring it? Noav, don't come over me Avith your serious face. Don't I know what you are going to say? You and your daisy want to turn the tables upon me, but I won't have it. Man is not only the judge, but the ruler. To his sentence he brings the terrors of the law THE AVALK. 5 — his laAV, mind you — and it is a strong one. Aren't you very sorry you are a woman, Clara?" "No, not at all. My time Avill come." "Precisely. That grants my question. You'd like to have such times as avc men have, so you must be sorry in the meantime that you can't, that you're not a man, but only one of the poorer sex." " You don't understand me.

I do not wish to be less a woman than I am, but more." " That is because of your incapacity. An oyster would be always an oyster; to him a mollusc is the finest being in creation; — sea-slush is better to dwell in than pure air, and walking on two legs is a ridiculous operation." " So it is. I am of the oyster's opinion just now. What say you to a rest on this log? With our faces to your favourite river, and with the trees behind, you can't desire a better resting-place, even you, great man as you are." n "No laughter. It is truly provoking to see hoAV coolly you take it all. But I will grant you have good taste, and know a soft log Avhen you see one. You're a Arery tolerable creature for a Avoman." "That's rather humbler praise than you gave me just now. You spoke of my judgment as more excellent than that of fiATe hundred."

"'Women.' And I say it still. But I see I cannot bring you to an idea of the seriousness of your position, so I may as well drop the subject. And now, look at me, and tell me Avho I saw last night in Trentham." " Mary Plowden, perhaps." "No; a greater stranger than Mary Plowden. What should you say to Stephen Morris?" "Stephen Morris!" repeated Clara in a surprised tone. "I assure 3-011 it was no other. You may imagine my astonishment. He is settled here as minister of an Independent church, and as I have heard since is very popular, draws a large congregation, and is very highly thought of by a number of influential people in the town. He looked much as usual, rather paler and thinner I fancied; but accosted me with the old smile. A very pleasant smile he has, Clara, as you know. We had a little talk in the street, and then he invited me to his home; but I told him I was pressed for time, and so got off with a promise to call upon him before long.

I don't knoAv, however, but he may come here first. He seemed very glad to find we lived so near." Clara remained silent, so her brother proceeded. "He is a very good fellow, and so Avondrously clever! When we were at school together he carried away the prize in most things, and he and I had at one time quite a Damon and Pythias friendship of it. And do you remember going with me to hear his first sermon? In that queer little Welsh chapel ? Hoav he came to be invited into the pulpit there I don't know, but suppose it was because he was a Welshman. Do you remember, too, the old Avoman that cried, sitting in the corner close to us, and how she blessed him and pressed his hands when he came out of the pulpit? I shall never forget it, I think." "Yes, I remember." "That must be a long time ago, now.

Seven years at least, isn't it? I remember you Avere just seventeen. because of those verses he wrote for your birthday, and sent up to our lodgings, Avith that odd little note. Hoav shy he was then! But there's not much of that THE WALK. to be seen in him iioav. We met a bevy of fair ladies, Avho smiled very graciously upon him, and Avhose smiles he returned Avith the most courtly confidence. There was such a shaking of hands, or rather of primrose-coloured gloA'es, and such a rustling of silks and satins, and such a wafting of perfumes! I had to stand aside, and wonder at religion in her silver slippers." "John!" " Well, dear, was it not so ? But we'll walk on again now, if you're sufficiently rested. Hark ! Avas that the cuckoo?" They listened for another shout, and soon it came from the heights above them, across the trees trembling in the morning wind, the well-known, ever-welcome shout.

As they listened, they turned to each other and smiled — with a smile that said, 'Yes, it is really spring-time ! " And John repeated in a clear, ringing voice, "Brave cuckoo, call again, Loud and louder still, From the hedge-partitioned plain, And the wood-topped hill ; "With thine unmistaken shout Make the valley ring !" He Avaited for response. But the cuckoo, not perhaps liking to be thus invoked, was silent. They Avere at the entrance to the Grove, a piece of high ground by the river, planted with well -grown trees, that climbed from the water's edge to high land; where a broad grassy avenue, originally perhaps a carriage drive from the old Hall beyond, gave a beautiful Avalk of a mile or more in length beneath the shade of elms, and near to the river's everlasting floAV. With quick steps they addressed themselves to climb the broad gravelled path leading to this grassy avenue, and before long were at the top.

"I like this old Grove," said John, as they paused to take breath. "This broad grassy glade, with these fine trees on either hand, how beautiful, how quiet it is ! And when the sun glints across those distant elms, as now it does, and lights up our patliAvay in advance, it gladdens me like a prophecy for good. Here, too, the river is hidden for a while; but, if we wish to see it, we have but to go to yonder firs, whose dark tops I can noAv just discern, and below us we shall see its white sheeny face clear and smiling. There is no river so beautiful as this, to my thinking! Every day I stay near it I gather healthful and loving thoughts." "I,, too, love the Trent," said Clara, "and have a double joy in being near it, because it is so dear to you." "You good sister! And you do not then repent coming Avith me?"

"Repent!" repeated Clara, "I rejoice in it every day! Every day our cottage-home gets dearer to me, and every day I feel this calm peaceful life by the river to be the one best suited for me." " Then Ave will thank God together. I did not think this time last year ever to have felt so strong ao-ain as now I do. And, perhaps, this feeling of fresh health intoxicates me at times, and makes me say, what some would call, foolish things. Yet there is a wisdom in such folly." Here a smile curved his lips again. He Avas silent a moment, and then said quickly, as touched by some sudden thought — THE WALK. "Clara, what shall we say to Stephen when he comes?" "What about, John?" "About our way of life here. For it will seem strange to him to find me stranded in this way. With my prospects, such as he once knew them, come to nought, my talents rusting, and I, just thrown aside like that old boat we saw lower down among, the rushes.

I am speaking, mind, as it will appear to him. When he and I were at school I was the rich son of a rich father, with grand expectations, and certainly with no little ambition. I Avas a boaster, and let him know a hundred times what a happy fellow I was, what a great man I must perforce be. He, with all his talent, was a good deal pitied by us in private, for it was well known he was poor, and quite dependent upon strangers, with no father living, no rich relative in the wide world; his mother, it was even whispered in the school, was only a poor washerwoman; and to talk of his rela tions to him brought up the ready blush, poor lad! And now, see how the Avorld goes! I am just seven and twenty, and he twenty-six, and our positions are almost reversed. A hundred a year is all I can call my own, I live in a small cottage, and am a very small unimportant individual, quite unfitted for public life.

He is pastor of a large chapel, with no doubt a good income. Every Sunday hundreds of intelligent, educated people listen to what he may please to tell them, hang upon his words, idolize his face and figure no doubt, and through his teachings may learn the way to the divine life. The newspapers report his speeches and praise his sermons. The young ladies of his congregation are vieing with one another for his preference, he may choose from the fairest, and richest, and best. Every year his path promises to become brighter and brighter, his influence and popularity to increase. Think what opportunities for usefulness he has, what untold good his smallest Avords may produce. Every pebble he drops in the still waters of social life forms circles ever increasing, almost boundless. If he looks but at the outside of things he will see all this, and the contrast will strike him much as I say, much as it would the rest of the world; and of course he Avill be more than a man if he does not feel a certain pleasure in the contrast, and less than a friend, if no pain for me."

" But you Avill not be grieved at that ! " " No, certainly not. A year ago I sliould have been, it is true. I should have shrunk from such words as he may use to express his sorrow, when he comes to know my position, and proudly scorned to take his pity, to whom I once gave so liberally to drink out of the same cup. But uoav, dear, I have so much other happiness that I can well afford this to be lost, and I can smile from as full a heart as he. I belieA'e it is best for me to be here at the present, quiet and poor. There is full compensation in all things; and it is not good to long after honey when God sends chamomile. Not that my lot is a bitter one. It is only a different sweet to that which I had auticipated. "But you, Clara, shall you not feel a little the change of your position? Last time Stephen Morris saAv you you Avere a sort of high-born lady, far from the reach of so humble a squire as he — at least, I am sure he THE AVALK. 11 thought so — travelling about a la princesse, with many attendants and braA^e attire.

And iioav, what are you, my poor sister? — the housekeeper of a very poor man, the sole brewer, and baker, and ginger-bread maker, and with but one pair of hands betAveen you and the hard fate of being scrubber and scourer, washer and wringer, cook and scullery -maid beside? Shall you not be abashed?" A merry light that rose up in Clara's eyes Avas her only answer. " I see you are insensible to your degradation, and that is so much the worse! A modern refined young lady would be shocked immensely at your position. But, my dear girl, only think !" "I do think, and find I am just the same Clara Broadbent as of old. I have lost nothing in reality." "And you will be as stately with him as ever, I have no doubt. Yes, Clara, I know you. He will infallibly think there is some mine of wealth hidden somewhere, of which you have the key; and that in spite of your present apparent low estate, you will come out some day glistering with diamonds.

He will never believe you poor." " If poverty and wealth are to him what they are to the greater part of the world, he Avill soon believe me poor enough. But a minister should of all men put money in its true place." " Should, dear; but Iioav great are the temptations ! However, I have no right to doubt Stephen Morris. He may be the purest, truest-sighted of men. I only looked at the natural result of being courted by, and popular with, the rich and influential. Even a minister may insensibly be drawn in this way into the snare of thinking much of, and trusting in riches. But am I bringing you too far? Are you wanted at home? If so, speak the word, and we will return." Clara spoke the word, and the two returned home, this time by the banks of the river the whole way. A natural Avatercourse formed an uninterrupted though steep descent.

It was dry, and with some compulsory running and some laughter, the brother and sister gained a narrow pathway formed among weeds and tree roots at the foot of the Grove — a pleasant shelf of land, delightful to active feet from the excitement of knoAving that there Avas but a step be tween it and deep water. At their other side, and almost drooping on to their shoulders, were ranks of blue-bells, of the deepest tint and the freshest bloom, swinging their cool deAvy bells OATer head, with here and there pink campion gloAving among the green spathes of the arum. While Clara gathered a large nosegay, John's gaze was chiefly upon the open face of the shining riA-er. And when they reached the entrance of the Grove, and left the shadow of the trees, his step quickened ; and taking Clara's arm in his, he said, "Now Ave are walking with the stream seawards.

Don't you feel the impetus? And to what ocean, dear one, are Ave going? Ah, if we could always go as gladly as does this river! Hoav its ripples leap and dance! Do you not see? By the shore it reflects the greens and browns of earth, it cannot forget its present home, its bed. But in the centre it takes the colour of the great overhanging sky. What sky do Ave reflect and what breadth of surface does its image cover?

Chapter II. Stephen Morris

A feav days afterwards, in the afternoon, a young man was making his way across the meadows that lie between the large manufacturing town of Trentham, and the river from which it derives its name. In the days of which we write, no factories or rows of streets were built on these low-lying meadows, but when an ancient wooden bridge was crossed, stretching over the dusky waters of the canal, Avhose steep ascent was reached on either side by steps much worn and slippery, there remained only the green expanse of the meadows, Avith a few well -beaten paths across them, leading to the ferry and the village of St. Wil frid's on the other side of the river. Our traveller was upon the broadest of these paths, a well-beaten level way, but he did not make rapid progress. Now and then, while proceeding slowly and thoughtfully, he raised his eyes from the ground to watch the ascent of the lark, and to listen to his far-off chant as he hung quivering beneath a cloud — or to gaze at the glossy backs of a family of rooks settled upon a near willow, talking solemn talk of the weather and the crops — or to address the little children that passed him with hands, and pinafores, and baskets full of pale blue crocuses, joyously burdened or bewilderingly overladen Avith their spring treasures, not knowing which to keep or which to throw away, and ever gathering more, till hands, and pinafores, and baskets ran over, and the ground received the superabundance.

He spoke in pleasant accents to some of these, and the wondering children replied to the kind gentleman in black with bows and curtsies and shy smiles. One little girl presented him with a full-blown bouquet of the enchanting blue flowers, that had been kept in her warm hand till he felt the heat strike through his glove on receiving them; and a little boy pulled off his cap and politely offered him the contents, a Avhole heap of crocuses, whose outer ones fell about his shoulders, or lay upon his wind-bloAvn broAvn hair, but the traveller declined this last present, with thanks. As he passed on, treading the flowers under foot that the children had strewed so prodigally on the path, the loveliness of the budding April after noon struck him suddenly Avith a great delight; all the more perhaps that he seldom allowed himself to be alone with nature.

For a town life was his from choice. He loved wide streets and close-set houses, and congre gations of human life, better than all the grandeurs or sweetnesses of the open sky and the green spread of fields and woods, and he seldom left the atmosphere of smoke for the purer breathings of the counriy. His pale face and slight figure spoke of the late riser and the sedentary student, and his slow weak gait of one who wears out the easy chair rather than the shoe, and were in striking contrast to the free movements and ruddy cheek of the man who loves to battle with wind and storm, and to greet the sun in the east. Still this calm, mild spring day, this great peace of earth and sky, filled his soul with joy. He lifted his head, and his gray eyes sparkled with pleasure. Above, he saw a vast sea of the loveliest blue, broken here and there by cloud-islands, with rivers and peaked hills glistening in the sun, and beneath and around him a second sea of pale blue floAvers, the children's crocuses, a reflection as it seemed of the blue aboA^e, Avhile waves of the rich springing meadow-grass rolled their green glistening heads between him and the horizon.

Before him the river was yet hidden between its high banks; but the first cottage at St. Wilfrid's, on its further side, stood wondrously white in the sunshine, and like the face of a friend, invited him on. His steps quickened, for he had still long spaces of grass to pass OA-er, and unused as he Avas to much walking, by the time he reached the river and the broad-bottomed ferry-boat, he was weary enough to find the bench near the rudder an agreeable resting-place. There were but feAv passengers with him, fine as the day had been, for Avork was abundant at Trentham, and to-day was no holiday. Two women, two young men with cigars, a black dog Avith which they amused themselves by throwing it into the water, and a dark-looking, middle-aged man, with his hat pulled over his eyes, were all. While the red-faced ferryman pushed the boat leisurely from the shore, and applied his hook to the iron cable, propelling his freight across the stream, our traveller had time to pursue a favourite amusement and observe his companions.

One of the women beside him on the bench had a baby in her arms, and the other a bundle, which by its size and shape he imagined to be work she was carrying home, probably lace. The young men were ordinary specimens enough — the tailor had done his duty by them, and the jewel ler, perhaps rather more than was judicious; they had plenty of whisker, and at first plenty of talk betAveen themselves, and when that failed they "chaffed" the boatman. The dark middle-aged man was a more attractive study. With folded arms he gazed gloomily upon the face of the water; no one spoke to him or seemed to notice him, and he did not once lift his eyes from their contemplation of the river — or apparent con templation of it — for it was more than possible that Avhat the retina reflected, the mind did not see, till the ferryman, touching him on the shoulder, demanded his fare.

He dived his hand hastily into his pocket with a peculiar smile, and as he gave the man the halfpenny, a gold ring with a large brilliant shone on his finger. He Avas dressed in a shabby green surtout, and a Avhite hat of an unusual, perhaps a foreign si ape. A dark shadow lay upon him, or to speak more truly, came out from him, and enveloped him so completely, that the warm spring sunshine seemed to fall impotent near him. It was not easy to get a glimpse of his face ; but for one moment it was revealed to our wayfarer, and he discovered upon its salloAV features the traces of an ill spent and disappointed life. Cruel marks they were, deep, and not to be concealed, though cross-hatched with the lines of sarcasm and contempt, and varnished over with the thick varnish of pride. It was no pleasant face— repellant, and haughty, and gloomy; it asked for no sympathy, and utterly scorned pity, though suffer ing must have been long its near companion, and any joy it might be capable, of expressing would be the joy of the avenger and the destroyer.

Had it ever knoAvn true sorrow? Could it weep? It seemed not — for the eye had no latent softness, the mouth no gentle curves. The only weak feature in the face was the lower lip, that had once been inclined to fulness, but was now dried by an inAvard fever, and bitten out of shape by teeth that refused to open the doors for the voice of pain and complaint. There is a toAver, we are told, in the wastes of As.syria, still to be seen, a landmark amid many deso lations. The fire that burned it the sun saAv blaze thousands of years ago. What it once was we can only conjecture; whether built story above story, a wondrous whole of terraces and pillars, or one vast temple, with one vast roof, springing upward like a mighty palm. Now it is but a huge slag from the furnace — a shapeless, vitrified, unyielding mass, Avith out symmetry or design — a perpetual enigma, insoluble by man for evermore.