The Seven Poor Travellers | Page 7

round
the fire, closed up the centre with myself and my chair, and preserved the order we had
kept at table. He had already, in a tranquil manner, boxed the ears of the inattentive boys
until they had been by imperceptible degrees boxed out of the room; and he now rapidly
skirmished the sauce-female into the High Street, disappeared, and softly closed the door.
This was the time for bringing the poker to bear on the billet of wood. I tapped it three
times, like an enchanted talisman, and a brilliant host of merry-makers burst out of it, and
sported off by the chimney,--rushing up the middle in a fiery country dance, and never
coming down again. Meanwhile, by their sparkling light, which threw our lamp into the
shade, I filled the glasses, and gave my Travellers, CHRISTMAS!--CHRISTMAS-EVE,
my friends, when the shepherds, who were Poor Travellers, too, in their way, heard the

Angels sing, "On earth, peace. Good-will towards men!"
I don't know who was the first among us to think that we ought to take hands as we sat, in
deference to the toast, or whether any one of us anticipated the others, but at any rate we
all did it. We then drank to the memory of the good Master Richard Watts. And I wish his
Ghost may never have had worse usage under that roof than it had from us.
It was the witching time for Story-telling. "Our whole life, Travellers," said I, "is a story
more or less intelligible,-- generally less; but we shall read it by a clearer light when it is
ended. I, for one, am so divided this night between fact and fiction, that I scarce know
which is which. Shall I beguile the time by telling you a story as we sit here?"
They all answered, yes. I had little to tell them, but I was bound by my own proposal.
Therefore, after looking for awhile at the spiral column of smoke wreathing up from my
brown beauty, through which I could have almost sworn I saw the effigy of Master
Richard Watts less startled than usual, I fired away.



CHAPTER II
--THE STORY OF RICHARD DOUBLEDICK

In the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, a relative of mine came limping
down, on foot, to this town of Chatham. I call it this town, because if anybody present
knows to a nicety where Rochester ends and Chatham begins, it is more than I do. He
was a poor traveller, with not a farthing in his pocket. He sat by the fire in this very room,
and he slept one night in a bed that will be occupied tonight by some one here.
My relative came down to Chatham to enlist in a cavalry regiment, if a cavalry regiment
would have him; if not, to take King George's shilling from any corporal or sergeant who
would put a bunch of ribbons in his hat. His object was to get shot; but he thought he
might as well ride to death as be at the trouble of walking.
My relative's Christian name was Richard, but he was better known as Dick. He dropped
his own surname on the road down, and took up that of Doubledick. He was passed as
Richard Doubledick; age, twenty- two; height, five foot ten; native place, Exmouth,
which he had never been near in his life. There was no cavalry in Chatham when he
limped over the bridge here with half a shoe to his dusty feet, so he enlisted into a
regiment of the line, and was glad to get drunk and forget all about it.
You are to know that this relative of mine had gone wrong, and run wild. His heart was in
the right place, but it was sealed up. He had been betrothed to a good and beautiful girl,
whom he had loved better than she--or perhaps even he--believed; but in an evil hour he
had given her cause to say to him solemnly, "Richard, I will never marry another man. I
will live single for your sake, but Mary Marshall's lips"--her name was Mary
Marshall--"never address another word to you on earth. Go, Richard! Heaven forgive
you!" This finished him. This brought him down to Chatham. This made him Private
Richard Doubledick, with a determination to be shot.
There was not a more dissipated and reckless soldier in Chatham barracks, in the year one

thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, than Private Richard Doubledick. He associated
with the dregs of every regiment; he was as seldom sober as he could be, and was
constantly under punishment. It became clear to the whole barracks that Private Richard
Doubledick would very soon be flogged.
Now the Captain of Richard Doubledick's company was