Christmas Stories

When the surgeon arrived, he found the bone of the arm so much injured, that immediate amputation was necessary. The operation was successfully performed, but was followed by a considerable degree of fever, during which the two sisters nursed him with unremitting assiduity.

The fourth day after the amputation Henry seemed much better, and both he and the Admiral begged them not to continue to keep themselves such close prisoners, but to resume their usual exercise. They were the more ready to comply, as they were very anxious to go themselves to Folkestone, to enquire after Mary Waldron. They found out the house; but upon approaching it, observed a degree of bustle, and saw several men in sailors' jackets – most of them with some symbol of mourning about their dress – issuing from the door. Presently the coffin was brought out; the men raised it on their shoulders; the black pall was thrown over it; and with measured steps they moved towards the church-yard, while the solemn toll of the bell, being heard at shorter intervals, announced the near approach of the corpse to its last mansion.

The sisters waited at some little distance, till the melancholy procession had passed on; and then going up to the door of one of the neighbouring cottages, enquired with feelings of deep interest after poor Mary.

She, they found, was perfectly insensible to all that was passing. The morning after her husband had been brought home, she for sometime appeared to retain no trace of what had happened. The circumstance of her being not in her own bed, and the manner of Hannah Reeves, who was unable to control her feelings, by degrees brought back to her recollection the dreadful calamity which had befallen her. She uttered one piercing cry of woe, and then a deadly stupor took possession of her whole frame. From this she had at last been roused, but it was succeeded by a wild delirium, and a burning fever, which no skill or attention had been able in the slightest degree to mitigate.

The sisters went to this house of mourning. The children had been removed to the cottage of a neighbour, but Hannah Reeves came down to them. She had hardly ever quitted the bedside of the sufferer, and attended her with that watchful kindness, which the poor so often shew to each other when in distress. The Miss Mowbrays begged Hannah to let nothing be omitted which might contribute to the recovery of poor Mary, at the same time mentioning their intention to take every expense upon themselves. They did not know Hannah, but there was something in her manner which told them that any hint of remuneration to her would be misplaced.

Upon their return to Sandgate they found sitting with the Admiral the captain of the troop of dragoons, which had come to the assistance of the seamen. From him they understood, that of the two smugglers who had been taken, one was a Folkestone man of the name of Spraggon, a man of notoriously bad character, and who had behaved in the engagement with the king's men with a boldness bordering on ferocity. The other prisoner was a labourer belonging to a village just above the marsh, who had long been in the practice of assisting in running smuggled goods. He received high pay – five, eight, ten shillings a night – sometimes even more. Money obtained by breaking the laws seldom does a man any good. And, in fact, when he came to deduct the sum which he might have earned by more creditable work – for a man who had been out all night could not work the day following – and also the money which went in drink and other expenses – it was generally found that little came home to his family. His earnings of all descriptions, however, were now put an end to. He and Spraggon were convicted at the next assizes of the murder of the seaman; and two days after were executed.

It was long before Mary Waldron shewed any signs of returning health. The fever, however, gradually gave way, but it left her in a state of the most deplorable weakness. Emily and Caroline called at the house very frequently during the whole progress of her illness, supplying abundantly whatever they thought likely to contribute to her recovery, or to her comfort in her present state of suffering. But from the time that her reason and recollection began to return, their walks to Folkestone became almost daily. In the gentlest and kindest manner they said and did all they could, to comfort her, and to assist in directing her thoughts to the only unfailing source of consolation – to that Being, who invites the widow to trust in him, and promises to protect and provide for the fatherless children.

From such considerations as these, and from that aid which was granted from above in answer to her humble and fervent supplication, Mary recovered a degree of calm composure almost sooner than the sisters had anticipated.

Once, when speaking of her future means of subsistence, they hinted the idea of making up, with the assistance of their friends, an annual sum, which would be sufficient to keep her from want. But Mary would not hear of this. "If it please God," said she, "to restore me to health, I have no doubt, but that by taking in washing and needle work, I shall be able to get bread for myself and my poor children; and as long as I am able to work for myself, I could not bear to be a burden to any one." "But it would be no burden to us at all," said Emily. "Of that," replied Mary, "I am well assured, from the kindness, which you have already shewn me; but I feel that I could not be so happy if I depended for my livelihood, under Providence, upon any one but myself."

In their walks to Folkestone they were often accompanied by their cousin Harry, who in consequence of his wound had been relieved from the painful service in which he had been employed, and appointed first lieutenant to a frigate, which was destined to the Mediterranean, but was not to sail for some months.

One day, as they were approaching Mary's house, the two little children came running out, with much glee and animation in their eyes, to thank them for their nice new frocks. The sisters knew not what they meant. Upon entering the house, Mary expressed her acknowledgments for what they had sent the children, as well as for the gown and other clothing which she had received herself. They looked surprised, and said that they had sent nothing. The colour of Henry's face soon told Mary who had been her benefactor.

In their walk they had passed by Mrs. Hawker's shop, and found the windows shut up. They asked Mary the meaning of this. She told them, that some time before, the officers had made a large seizure of smuggled goods in her house, and had sued her for the penalties, which amounted to so large a sum, that she was utterly ruined.

It is hardly necessary to say, that the Miss Mowbrays had never visited her house since their purchase of the silks. The many crimes and calamities which a single day had witnessed, had given them a sufficient lesson upon the evils of engaging in illicit traffic; and neither the stump of Henry Stanwick's arm, nor the sight of the widowed Mary and her fatherless children, were needed to make them resolve, that they would never again be guilty of smuggling.

GOOD-NATURE, OR PARISH MATTERS

Mr. Stanley had just reached the last stile in the footpath leading to Inglewood parsonage, when his progress was for a moment interrupted by two persons, who were talking so earnestly, that they did not see him.

One of them was a short fat man, in the dress of a farmer. His round and rosy face seemed to be full of good cheer and good humour; but bore no great signs of intelligence. He was speaking to an untidy looking woman, whose manner was expressive of a sort of low familiarity, not however unmixed with symptoms of servility and cringing.

"Never mind, Nanny," said the farmer, "never mind – neighbour Oldacre is, I must needs say, a little hard upon the poor – but never mind; I shall take to the books in a fortnight's time, and then things will be better." "But you know, master," said the woman, "if you could but manage that little job for us, we should hardly trouble the parish at all." "Well, I'll do what I can," answered the farmer; "my being a parish-officer, will help." The woman was going to reply, but happening to see Mr. Stanley, she drew back from the stile, and allowed him to pass on.

Trifling as the occurrence was, Mr. Stanley happened to mention it to his friend at the parsonage, as they were sitting together after dinner. Upon his describing the figure and face of the farmer, "Yes," said Mr. Hooker, with a smile, "that must have been my parishioner, Farmer Barton. He is, as you describe him, a good-humoured looking fellow, and it has always been the height of his ambition to be reckoned a good-natured man."

"I cannot much blame him for that," replied Stanley; "good-nature is a most amiable quality, and I heartily wish there was more of it in the world than there is."

"In that wish I cordially agree with you," said Mr. Hooker; "if by good-nature you mean a genuine spirit of kindness or Christian benevolence, which prompts a man to do whatever good he can to the bodies and souls of all within his reach. The good-nature, however, of Farmer Barton is not exactly of this description. It springs from a love of low popularity, from a wish to gain by whatever means the good will and good word of all descriptions of people. This wish leads him to assent to whatever is said, and to accede to almost every request, unless it immediately touches his pocket. To that indeed his good-nature does not always extend. In his fear of being thought ill-natured, he very often loses sight of duty, and his dread of offending or of contradicting those who happen to be present, makes him not unfrequently forget what is due to those who are absent."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who came to tell his master that Farmer Barton wished to speak with him. "Pray shew him in," said Mr. Hooker; "but I am unable to guess what his business can be."

The farmer came in, and, upon Mr. Hooker's asking him what he wanted, replied, "Why, it is only to get you to put your hand to this bit of paper." "Let us look at it," said Mr. Hooker; and then casting his eye over it, added, "This I see is an application to the magistrates, to set up a new public house in the village, and a recommendation of Robert Fowler as a fit man to keep it." "Yes, Sir," replied the farmer; "poor Bob since he got the hurt in his arm has never been able to do the work of another man, and he and Nanny have begged me and some of the neighbours to help him to set up a public house, as a means of keeping him off the parish."

"And do you, Farmer Barton, honestly think," said Mr. Hooker, "that we want a public house here? You know that there is hardly any thoroughfare through the village; and even if there was, we are but two miles from a market town, where there are inns and ale-houses in abundance."

"Why I can't say there is any particular want of it," said Barton. "But Fowler's family is likely to be a heavy burden to the parish."

"The parish, I am satisfied," rejoined Mr. Hooker, "would be no gainer in the end. Don't you suppose that many of the labouring men would often, after their day's work, go to the ale-house, instead of going home; and spend there, some part of the money which ought to find food and clothes for their wives and families? A country ale-house is too often found to be attended with raggedness and hunger in the women and children; and I know that this is the opinion of the poor women themselves. Besides, don't you remember, what drunkenness and quarrelling we used to have before Tomkins's house was put down?"

"Why, I must say, that the men have been more quiet and sober of late."

"As clergyman of this parish," said Mr. Hooker, "I shall never assist in setting forward a measure, which I think would be hurtful to my parishioners: and I must own, that I am surprised to see that so many sensible and respectable men have signed their names to this recommendation."

"Why a man don't like to seem ill-natured," said the farmer.

"We must not," replied Mr. Hooker, "for the sake of assisting one man or one family, do that which would be prejudicial to the whole parish. And besides, I thought that Fowler was one of the most drunken, idle fellows in the village."

"Why to be sure," said the farmer, "he does like drink better than work."

"And yet you and your brother farmers are here ready to certify that he is of good fame, sober life and conversation, and a fit and proper person to be intrusted with a licence! Do you not see that you have all set your hands to a direct falsehood?"

Barton looked foolish, but added, "Why one don't like to refuse such a thing – and when others do it, it would look so ill-natured."

"And so, for fear of being thought ill-natured, you can not only set your name to a lie, but give a helping hand to a measure, which by your own acknowledgment would be likely to increase the poverty as well as the immorality of many of your poor neighbours. Indeed, indeed, Mr. Barton, an English farmer ought to have had more manliness of character than this comes to."

"But then poor Bob is such a good-tempered fellow; and besides, you know, he is half disabled for work!"

"Yes, he received his hurt in the very act of breaking the laws of the land by poaching, and I do not think that a reason for putting him in a situation in some respects above that of the generality of cottagers."

Farmer Barton found that he was not likely to succeed in the object of his visit; and saying with a smile, "Well, Sir, I did not think you had been so hard-hearted," quitted the room.

"There! Stanley," said Mr. Hooker, "that's the way of the world. Most of the men who have signed that certificate are, as times go, decent and respectable men, and would, I doubt not, pretty much agree with me as to the probability that both poverty and immorality would be increased by the establishment of an ale-house in the village; but yet for the sake of being good-natured to an individual, they set forward a measure, which they think will be generally pernicious; and set their hands to a lie, rather than refuse an unreasonable request. Their good-nature, to be sure, is not confined to Fowler as its only object. Some of them, probably, wish to be good-natured to a brother farmer, who is the owner of the house; and some think that they shall do a kindness to the brewer, who will supply it with beer."

"But what," replied Stanley, "shall you do in this business?"

"Why, I don't very well know," said Mr. Hooker. "You have been acquainted with me long enough to be assured, that I would suffer my hand to be cut off, rather than set it to a palpable falsehood; – and that I would never take any active step in assisting a measure which in my opinion will be hurtful to my parishioners. – But perhaps something of the same sort of weakness which I blame in others, may prevent me from taking any active measures against it. I am not fond of going into public, or of encountering the bustle of the justice-room. – Perhaps I shall be passive, and try to quiet my own conscience by saying, that things must take their course: that it is not for me to come forward in opposition to the declared wish of most of the respectable part of my parishioners."

"But surely the magistrates will not set up a new public house without the signature of the clergyman to the certificate?"

"The new Act requires the signature either of the clergyman, or that of the majority of the parish officers, together with four reputable and substantial householders; – or that of eight respectable and substantial householders. Fowler's certificate has all the parish officers but one, and other names in abundance, and good-nature will prevent any one from saying that some of those names are neither respectable nor substantial. The magistrates will see that the requirements of the Act are complied with, and they will perhaps feel like me; – they will be unwilling to incur the odium of opposing the wishes of all those respectable and substantial personages, and thus good-nature may induce them to sign the licence."

"At all events," said Stanley, "you will be able to keep Fowler in order by the penalties of the new Act. The old system of absolutely forfeiting the recognizance was too severe to be acted on."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Hooker, "now and then, in some flagrant case, by which some individual is personally injured, these provisions may be called into play. But how seldom do you hear – in the country at least – of penalties being enforced from a sense of public duty? Good-nature is always against it; and the man who from the purest motives endeavoured to enforce them, would be sure to have all the host of the good-natured arrayed against him."

Two days after was the licensing day: the good-natured Barton having undertaken the patronage of Fowler's application, set out in good time to advocate it at the justice-meeting. He had got about three quarters of a mile from the village, in his way to Chippingden the market town, when he was overtaken by Mr. Bentley, one of the magistrates.

"You have a dreadful road here, Farmer Barton," said Mr. Bentley. "Who is your surveyor?"

"Why, I am at present," replied Barton, "and as we are a little behind hand with the duty, I am afraid that I shall have to go on for another year."

"Then why do you suffer the road to continue in this state? The ruts are so deep, that it really is hardly safe."

"It is all occasioned by that high hedge," answered the farmer, "which keeps off both sun and wind. – And besides, from there being no trunk or tunnel in that gate-way, the water of the ditch is thrown into the road. To be sure it was pretty dirty in the winter, for all we buried so many stones in it." "Then why was not the hedge cut, and a tunnel made in the gateway to carry off the water?" said Mr. Bentley.

"I did once give Farmer Dobson a hint about it," answered Barton, "but he says, that the hedge is not above nine years' growth, and that he shall have better poles by leaving it a few years longer."

"But you know very well," replied the magistrate, "that your warrant empowers you to require him to cut it, and if he refuses, to do it yourself at his expence."