In the town of —— (no matter where) there circulated two local
newspapers (no matter when). Now the _Flying Post_ was long established
and respectable—alias bigoted and Tory; the _Examiner_ was spirited
and intelligent—alias new-fangled and democratic. Every week these
newspapers contained articles abusing each other; as cross and peppery
as articles could be, and evidently the production of irritated minds,
although they seemed to have one stereotyped commencement,—“Though
the article appearing in last week’s _Post_ (or _Examiner_) is below
contempt, yet we have been induced,” &c., &c., and every Saturday the
Radical shopkeepers shook hands together, and agreed that the _Post_
was done for, by the slashing, clever _Examiner_; while the more
dignified Tories began by regretting that Johnson should think that low
paper, only read by a few of the vulgar, worth wasting his wit upon;
however the _Examiner_ was at its last gasp.
It was not though. It lived and flourished; at least it paid its way,
as one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was chief compositor,
or whatever title may be given to the head-man of the mechanical
part of a newspaper. He hardly confined himself to that department.
Once or twice, unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen
short, he had filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own;
announcements of a forthcoming crop of green peas in December; a
grey thrush having been seen, or a white hare, or such interesting
phenomena; invented for the occasion, I must confess; but what of that?
His wife always knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband’s
literary talent by a peculiar cough, which served as prelude; and,
judging from this encouraging sign, and the high-pitched and emphatic
voice in which he read them, she was inclined to think, that an “Ode
to an early Rose-bud,” in the corner devoted to original poetry, and
a letter in the correspondence department, signed “Pro Bono Publico,”
were her husband’s writing, and to hold up her head accordingly.
I never could find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgsons to
lodge in the same house as the Jenkinses. Jenkins held the same office
in the Tory paper as Hodgson did in the _Examiner_, and, as I said
before, I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper sense
of his position, and a proper reverence for all in authority, from the
king down to the editor and sub-editor. He would as soon have thought
of borrowing the king’s crown for a nightcap, or the king’s sceptre
for a walking-stick, as he would have thought of filling up any spare
corner with any production of his own; and I think it would have even
added to his contempt of Hodgson (if that were possible), had he known
of the “productions of his brain,” as the latter fondly alluded to the
paragraphs he inserted, when speaking to his wife.
Jenkins had his wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness
of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen
years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with
wives, it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel. To make the
opposing parties still more equal, still more well-matched, if the
Hodgsons had a baby (“such a baby!—a poor, puny little thing”), Mrs.
Jenkins had a cat (“such a cat! a great, nasty, miowling tom-cat, that
was always stealing the milk put by for little Angel’s supper”). And
now, having matched Greek with Greek, I must proceed to the tug of war.
It was the day before Christmas; such a cold east wind! such an inky
sky! such a blue-black look in people’s faces, as they were driven
out more than usual, to complete their purchases for the next day’s
festival.
Before leaving home that morning, Jenkins had given some money to his
wife to buy the next day’s dinner.
“My dear, I wish for turkey and sausages. It may be a weakness, but
I own I am partial to sausages. My deceased mother was. Such tastes
are hereditary. As to the sweets—whether plum-pudding or mince-pies—I
leave such considerations to you; I only beg you not to mind expense.
Christmas comes but once a year.”
And again he had called out from the bottom of the first flight of
stairs, just close to the Hodgsons’ door (“such ostentatiousness,” as
Mrs. Hodgson observed), “You will not forget the sausages, my dear?”
“I should have liked to have had something above common, Mary,” said
Hodgson, as they too made their plans for the next day, “but I think
roast beef must do for us. You see, love, we’ve a family.”
“Only one, Jem! I don’t want more than roast beef, though, I’m sure.
Before I went to service, mother and me would have thought roast beef a
very fine dinner.”
“Well, let’s settle it then, roast beef and a plum-pudding; and now,
good-by. Mind and take care of little Tom. I thought he was a bit
hoarse this morning.”
And off he went to his work.
Now, it was a good while since Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Hodgson had spoken
to each other, although they were quite as much in possession of the
knowledge of events and opinions as though they did. Mary knew that
Mrs. Jenkins despised her for not having a real lace cap, which Mrs.
Jenkins had; and for having been a servant, which Mrs. Jenkins had not;
and the little occasional pinchings which the Hodgsons were obliged
to resort to, to make both ends meet, would have been very patiently
endured by Mary, if she had not winced under Mrs. Jenkins’s knowledge
of such economy. But she had her revenge. She had a child, and Mrs.
Jenkins had none. To have had a child, even such a puny baby as little
Tom, Mrs. Jenkins would have worn commonest caps, and cleaned grates,
and drudged her fingers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment
of her life soured her temper, and turned her thoughts inward, and made
her morbid and selfish.
“Hang that cat! he’s been stealing again! he’s gnawed the cold mutton
in his nasty mouth till it’s not fit to set before a Christian; and
I’ve nothing else for Jem’s dinner. But I’ll give it him now I’ve
caught him, that I will!”
So saying, Mary Hodgson caught up her husband’s Sunday cane, and
despite pussy’s cries and scratches, she gave him such a beating as she
hoped might cure him of his thievish propensities; when lo! and behold,
Mrs. Jenkins stood at the door with a face of bitter wrath.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, ma’am, to abuse a poor dumb animal,
ma’am, as knows no better than to take food when he sees it, ma’am? He
only follows the nature which God has given, ma’am; and it’s a pity
your nature, ma’am, which I’ve heard, is of the stingy saving species,
does not make you shut your cupboard-door a little closer. There is
such a thing as law for brute animals. I’ll ask Mr. Jenkins, but I
don’t think them Radicals has done away with that law yet, for all
their Reform Bill, ma’am. My poor precious love of a Tommy, is he hurt?
and is his leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps, as most people
would give away to a beggar,—if he’d take ’em?” wound up Mrs. Jenkins,
casting a contemptuous look on the remnant of a scrag end of mutton.
Mary felt very angry and very guilty. For she really pitied the poor
limping animal as he crept up to his mistress, and there lay down to
bemoan himself; she wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it
certainly was her own careless way of never shutting the cupboard-door
that had tempted him to his fault. But the sneer at her little bit of
mutton turned her penitence to fresh wrath, and she shut the door in
Mrs. Jenkins’s face, as she stood caressing her cat in the lobby, with
such a bang, that it wakened little Tom, and he began to cry.
Everything was to go wrong with Mary to-day. Now baby was awake, who
was to take her husband’s dinner to the office? She took the child in
her arms, and tried to hush him off to sleep again, and as she sung she
cried, she could hardly tell why,—a sort of reaction from her violent
angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten the poor cat; she
wondered if his leg was really broken. What would her mother say if she
knew how cross and cruel her little Mary was getting? If she should
live to beat her child in one of her angry fits?
It was of no use lullabying while she sobbed so; it must be given up,
and she must just carry her baby in her arms, and take him with her
to the office, for it was long past dinner-time. So she pared the
mutton carefully, although by so doing she reduced the meat to an
infinitesimal quantity, and taking the baked potatoes out of the oven,
she popped them piping hot into her basket with the et-cæteras of
plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork.
It was, indeed, a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran, and the
flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice. Baby cried all the way,
though she cuddled him up in her shawl. Then her husband had made his
appetite up for a potato pie, and (literary man as he was) his body got
so much the better of his mind, that he looked rather black at the cold
mutton. Mary had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived at
home again. So, after she had tried to feed baby, and he had fretfully
refused to take his bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on his
quilt, surrounded by playthings, while she sided away, and chopped
suet for the next day’s pudding. Early in the afternoon a parcel came,
done up first in brown paper, then in such a white, grass-bleached,
sweet-smelling towel, and a note from her dear, dear mother; in which
quaint writing she endeavoured to tell her daughter that she was not
forgotten at Christmas time; but that learning that Farmer Burton was
killing his pig, she had made interest for some of his famous pork, out
of which she had manufactured some sausages, and flavoured them just as
Mary used to like when she lived at home.
“Dear, dear mother!” said Mary to herself. “There never was any one
like her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used to
make! Home things have a smack with ’em, no bought things can ever
have. Set them up with their sausages! I’ve a notion if Mrs. Jenkins
had ever tasted mother’s she’d have no fancy for them town-made things
Fanny took in just now.”
And so she went on thinking about home, till the smiles and the dimples
came out again at the remembrance of that pretty cottage, which would
look green even now in the depth of winter, with its pyracanthus, and
its holly-bushes, and the great Portugal laurel that was her mother’s
pride. And the back path through the orchard to Farmer Burton’s; how
well she remembered it. The bushels of unripe apples she had picked
up there, and distributed among his pigs, till he had scolded her for
giving them so much green trash.
She was interrupted—her baby (I call him a baby, because his father and
mother did, and because he was so little of his age, but I rather think
he was eighteen months old,) had fallen asleep some time before among
his playthings; an uneasy, restless sleep; but of which Mary had been
thankful, as his morning’s nap had been too short, and as she was so
busy. But now he began to make such a strange crowing noise, just like
a chair drawn heavily and gratingly along a kitchen-floor! His eyes was
open, but expressive of nothing but pain.
“Mother’s darling!” said Mary, in terror, lifting him up. “Baby, try
not to make that noise. Hush, hush, darling; what hurts him?” But the
noise came worse and worse.
“Fanny! Fanny!” Mary called in mortal fright, for her baby was almost
black with his gasping breath, and she had no one to ask for aid or
sympathy but her landlady’s daughter, a little girl of twelve or
thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother’s absence, as daily
cook in gentlemen’s families. Fanny was more especially considered the
attendant of the upstairs lodgers (who paid for the use of the kitchin,
“for Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat cooking”), but just
now she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon’s work of darning
stockings, and hearing Mrs. Hodgson’s cry of terror, she ran to her
sitting-room, and understood the case at a glance.
“He’s got the croup! Oh, Mrs. Hodgson, he’ll die as sure as fate.
Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he
could do nothing for him—it had gone too far. He said if we’d put him
in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him; but, bless you! he
was never half so bad as your baby.” Unconsciously there mingled in
her statement some of a child’s love of producing an effect; but the
increasing danger was clear enough.
“Oh, my baby! my baby! Oh, love, love! don’t look so ill; I cannot bear
it. And my fire so low! There, I was thinking of home, and picking
currants, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny! what is the fire like
in the kitchen? Speak.”
“Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on as soon as Mrs.
Jenkins had done with it, and so I did. It’s very low and black. But,
oh, Mrs. Hodgson! let me run for the doctor—I cannot abear to hear him,
it’s so like little brother.”
Through her streaming tears Mary motioned her to go; and trembling,
sinking, sick at heart, she laid her boy in his cradle, and ran to fill
her kettle.
Mrs. Jenkins, having cooked her husband’s snug little dinner, to which
he came home; having told him her story of pussy’s beating, at which
he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a piece
with that abusive _Examiner_; having received the sausages, and turkey,
and mince pies, which her husband had ordered; and cleaned up the room,
and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat
(who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the
petting), having done all these and many other things, Mrs. Jenkins
sate down to get up the real lace cap. Every thread was pulled out
separately, and carefully stretched: when, what was that? Outside, in
the street, a chorus of piping children’s voices sang the old carol she
had heard a hundred times in the days of her youth:—
“As Joseph was a walking he heard an angel sing,
‘This night shall be born our heavenly King.
He neither shall be born in housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise, but in an ox’s stall.
He neither shall be clothed in purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen, as were babies all:
He neither shall be rocked in silver nor in gold,
But in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould,’” &c.
She got up and went to the window. There, below, stood the group
of grey black little figures, relieved against the snow, which now
enveloped everything. “For old sake’s sake,” as she phrased it, she
counted out a halfpenny apiece for the singers, out of the copper bag,
and threw them down below.
The room had become chilly while she had been counting out and throwing
down her money, so she stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down
right before it—but not to stretch her lace; like Mary Hodgson, she
began to think over long-past days, on softening remembrances of the
dead and gone, on words long forgotten, on holy stories heard at her
mother’s knee.
“I cannot think what’s come over me to-night,” said she, half aloud,
recovering herself by the sound of her own voice from her train of
thought—“My head goes wandering on them old times. I’m sure more texts
have come into my head with thinking on my mother within this last half
hour, than I’ve thought on for years and years. I hope I’m not going to
die. Folks say, thinking too much on the dead betokens we’re going to
join ’em; I should be loth to go just yet—such a fine turkey as we’ve
got for dinner to-morrow, too!”
Knock, knock, knock, at the door, as fast as knuckles could go. And
then, as if the comer could not wait, the door was opened, and Mary
Hodgson stood there as white as death.
“Mrs. Jenkins!—oh, your kettle is boiling, thank God! Let me have the
water for my baby, for the love of God! He’s got croup, and is dying!”
Mrs. Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden inflexible look on her
face, that (between ourselves) her husband knew and dreaded for all his
pompous dignity.
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, ma’am; my kettle is wanted for my
husband’s tea. Don’t be afeared, Tommy, Mrs. Hodgson won’t venture to
intrude herself where she’s not desired. You’d better send for the
doctor, ma’am, instead of wasting your time in wringing your hands,
ma’am—my kettle is engaged.”
Mary clasped her hands together with passionate force, but spoke no
word of entreaty to that wooden face—that sharp, determined voice; but,
as she turned away, she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial,
and strength to forgive Mrs. Jenkins.
Mrs. Jenkins watched her go away meekly, as one who has no hope, and
then she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did on any one else.
“What a brute I am, Lord forgive me! What’s my husband’s tea to a
baby’s life? In croup, too, where time is everything. You crabbed old
vixen, you!—any one may know you never had a child!”
She was down stairs (kettle in hand) before she had finished her
self-upbraiding; and when in Mrs. Hodgson’s room, she rejected all
thanks (Mary had not the voice for many words), saying, stiffly, “I do
it for the poor babby’s sake, ma’am, hoping he may live to have mercy
to poor dumb beasts, if he does forget to lock his cupboards.”
But she did everything, and more than Mary, with her young
inexperience, could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath,
and tried it with her husband’s own thermometer (Mr. Jenkins was as
punctual as clockwork in noting down the temperature of every day).
She let his mother place her baby in the tub, still preserving the
same rigid, affronted aspect, and then she went upstairs without a
word. Mary longed to ask her to stay, but dared not; though, when she
left the room, the tears chased each other down her cheeks faster than
ever. Poor young mother! how she counted the minutes till the doctor
should come. But, before he came, down again stalked Mrs. Jenkins, with
something in her hand.
“I’ve seen many of these croup-fits, which, I take it, you’ve not,
ma’am. Mustard plaisters is very sovereign, put on the throat; I’ve
been up and made one, ma’am, and, by your leave, I’ll put it on the
poor little fellow.”
Mary could not speak, but she signed her grateful assent.
It began to smart while they still kept silence; and he looked up to
his mother as if seeking courage from her looks to bear the stinging
pain; but she was softly crying, to see him suffer, and her want of
courage reacted upon him, and he began to sob aloud. Instantly Mrs.
Jenkins’s apron was up, hiding her face: “Peep-bo, baby,” said she, as
merrily as she could. His little face brightened, and his mother having
once got the cue, the two women kept the little fellow amused, until
his plaister had taken effect.
“He’s better,—oh, Mrs. Jenkins, look at his eyes! how different! And he
breathes quite softly——”
As Mary spoke thus, the doctor entered. He examined his patient. Baby
was really better.
“It has been a sharp attack, but the remedies you have applied have
been worth all the Pharmacopoeia an hour later.—I shall send a powder,”
&c. &c.
Mrs. Jenkins stayed to hear this opinion; and (her heart wonderfully
more easy) was going to leave the room, when Mary seized her hand and
kissed it; she could not speak her gratitude.
Mrs. Jenkins looked affronted and awkward, and as if she must go
upstairs and wash her hand directly.
But, in spite of these sour looks, she came softly down an hour or so
afterwards to see how baby was.
The little gentleman slept well after the fright he had given his
friends; and on Christmas morning, when Mary awoke and looked at the
sweet little pale face lying on her arm, she could hardly realize the
danger he had been in.
When she came down (later than usual), she found the household in
a commotion. What do you think had happened? Why, pussy had been a
traitor to his best friend, and eaten up some of Mr. Jenkins’s own
especial sausages; and gnawed and tumbled the rest so, that they were
not fit to be eaten! There were no bounds to that cat’s appetite! he
would have eaten his own father if he had been tender enough. And now
Mrs. Jenkins stormed and cried—“Hang the cat!”
Christmas Day, too! and all the shops shut! “What was turkey without
sausages?” gruffly asked Mr. Jenkins.
“Oh, Jem!” whispered Mary, “hearken what a piece of work he’s making
about sausages,—I should like to take Mrs. Jenkins up some of mother’s;
they’re twice as good as bought sausages.”
“I see no objection, my dear. Sausages do not involve intimacies, else
his politics are what I can no ways respect.”
“But, oh, Jem, if you had seen her last night about baby! I’m sure
she may scold me for ever, and I’ll not answer. I’d even make her cat
welcome to the sausages.” The tears gathered to Mary’s eyes as she
kissed her boy.
“Better take ’em upstairs, my dear, and give them to the cat’s
mistress.” And Jem chuckled at his saying.
Mary put them on a plate, but still she loitered.
“What must I say, Jem? I never know.”
“Say—I hope you’ll accept of these sausages, as my mother—no, that’s
not grammar;—say what comes uppermost, Mary, it will be sure to be
right.”
So Mary carried them upstairs and knocked at the door; and when told to
“come in,” she looked very red, but went up to Mrs. Jenkins, saying,
“Please take these. Mother made them.” And was away before an answer
could be given.
Just as Hodgson was ready to go to church, Mrs. Jenkins came
downstairs, and called Fanny. In a minute, the latter entered the
Hodgsons’ room, and delivered Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’s compliments, and
they would be particular glad if Mr. and Mrs. Hodgson would eat their
dinner with them.
“And carry baby upstairs in a shawl, be sure,” added Mrs. Jenkins’s
voice in the passage, close to the door, whither she had followed her
messenger. There was no discussing the matter, with the certainty of
every word being overheard.
Mary looked anxiously at her husband. She remembered his saying he did
not approve of Mr. Jenkins’s politics.
“Do you think it would do for baby?” asked he.
“Oh, yes,” answered she, eagerly; “I would wrap him up so warm.”
“And I’ve got our room up to sixty-five already, for all it’s so
frosty,” added the voice outside.
Now, how do you think they settled the matter? The very best way in
the world. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins came down into the Hodgsons’ room, and
dined there. Turkey at the top, roast beef at the bottom, sausages at
one side, potatoes at the other. Second course, plum-pudding at the
top, and mince pies at the bottom.
And after dinner, Mrs. Jenkins would have baby on her knee; and he
seemed quite to take to her; she declared he was admiring the real lace
on her cap, but Mary thought (though she did not say so) that he was
pleased by her kind looks and coaxing words. Then he was wrapped up and
carried carefully upstairs to tea, in Mrs. Jenkins’s room. And after
tea, Mrs. Jenkins, and Mary, and her husband, found out each other’s
mutual liking for music, and sat singing old glees and catches, till I
don’t know what o’clock, without one word of politics or newspapers.
Before they parted, Mary had coaxed pussy on to her knee; for Mrs.
Jenkins would not part with baby, who was sleeping on her lap.
“When you’re busy, bring him to me. Do, now, it will be a real favour.
I know you must have a deal to do, with another coming; let him come
up to me. I’ll take the greatest of cares of him; pretty darling, how
sweet he looks when he’s asleep!”
When the couples were once more alone, the husbands unburdened their
minds to their wives.
Mr. Jenkins said to his—“Do you know, Burgess tried to make me believe
Hodgson was such a fool as to put paragraphs into the _Examiner_ now
and then; but I see he knows his place, and has got too much sense to
do any such thing.”
Hodgson said—“Mary, love, I almost fancy from Jenkins’s way of speaking
(so much civiler than I expected), he guesses I wrote that ‘Pro Bono’
and the ‘Rose-bud,’—at any rate, I’ve no objection to your naming it,
if the subject should come uppermost; I should like him to know I’m a
literary man.”
Well! I’ve ended my tale; I hope you don’t think it too long; but,
before I go, just let me say one thing.
If any of you have any quarrels, or misunderstandings, or coolnesses,
or cold shoulders, or shynesses, or tiffs, or miffs, or huffs, with
any one else, just make friends before Christmas,—you will be so much
merrier if you do.
I ask it of you for the sake of that old angelic song, heard so many
years ago by the shepherds, keeping watch by night, on Bethlehem
Heights.