Dickens' "The Seven Poor Travellers" is a poignant short story that happens to a traveler during Christmastime but is indeed truly about Christian principles and the need to look at things in a different light. The short story of the soldier is my favorite.
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RICHARD WATTS, Esq. by his Will, dated 22 Aug. 1579, founded this Charity
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for Six poor Travellers, who not being ROGUES, or PROCTORS, May receive gratis for one Night, Lodging, Entertainment, and Fourpence each. It was in the ancient little city of Rochester in Kent, of all the good days in the year upon a Christmas-eve, that I stood reading this inscription over the quaint old door in question. I had been wandering about the neighbouring Cathedral, and had seen the tomb of Richard Watts, with the effigy of worthy
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Master Richard starting out of it like a ship’s figure-head; and I had felt that I could do no less, as I gave the Verger his fee, than inquire the way to Watts’s Charity.
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“This,” returned the presence, “is the Board Room. Where the gentlemen meet when they come here.” Let me see. I had counted from the street six upper windows besides these on the ground-story. Making a perplexed calculation in my mind, I rejoined, “Then the six Poor Travellers sleep upstairs?” My new friend shook her head. “They sleep,” she answered, “in two
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little outer galleries at the back, where their beds has always been, ever since the Charity was founded. It being so very ill-conwenient to me as things is at present, the gentlemen are going to take off a bit of the back-yard, and make a slip of a room for ’em there, to sit in before they go to bed.” “And then the six Poor Travellers,” said I, “will be entirely out of the house?” “Entirely out of the house,” assented the presence, comfortably smoothing her hands. “Which is
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parties, and much more conwenient.” I had been a little startled, in the Cathedral, by the emphasis with which the effigy of Master Richard Watts was bursting out of his tomb; but I began to think, now, that it might be expected to come across the High Street some stormy night, and make a disturbance here. Howbeit, I kept my thoughts to myself, and accompanied the presence to the little galleries at the back. I found them on a tiny scale,
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like the galleries in old inn-yards; and they were very clean. While I was looking at them, the matron gave me to understand that the prescribed number of Poor Travellers were forthcoming every night from year’s end to year’s end; and that the beds were always occupied. My questions upon this, and her replies, brought us back to the Board Room so essential to the dignity of “the gentlemen,” where she showed me the printed accounts of the Charity hanging up by the window. From them I gathered that
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the greater part of the property bequeathed by the Worshipful Master Richard Watts for the maintenance of this foundation was, at the period of his death, mere marsh-land; but that, in course of time, it had been reclaimed and built upon, and was very considerably increased in value. I found, too, that about a thirtieth part of the annual revenue was now expended on the purposes commemorated in the inscription over the door; the rest being handsomely laid out in Chancery, law expenses, collectorship, receivership,
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***The place of refuge for travelers set beds for those in need provided by the charity. I really liked the story told by the narrator about the soldier who was a no account and his officer friend who made him into a good soldier and man. The officer was killed at Waterloo by a French soldier that the English soldier never forgot and planned to get even in time. The English soldier is wounded later on and remembered how the officer talked about his good mother. This kind mother was adopted by the English soldier and while ill was nursed by her and an old girlfriend of the soldier who married him during his illness. After the soldier recovers, the couple adopt the officer's mother as their own and staying in France, the soldier sees a kind French man that was the soldier who killed the officer at Waterloo but from Providence, the mother not knowing that but talking about the kind Frenchman, the English soldier saw the need to forget and forgive, for it was then a time of war.
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poundage, and other appendages of management, highly complimentary to the importance of the six Poor Travellers.
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“And pray, ma’am,” said I, sensible that the blankness of my face began to brighten as the thought occurred to me, “could one see these Travellers?”
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“Well!” she returned dubiously, “no!” “Not to-night, for instance!” said I. “Well!” she returned more positively, “no. Nobody ever asked to see them, and nobody ever did see them.” As I am not easily balked in a design when I am set upon it, I urged to the good lady that this was Christmas-eve; that Christmas comes but once a year, — which is unhappily too true, for when it begins to stay with us the whole
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year round we shall make this earth a very different place; that I was possessed by the desire to treat the Travellers to a supper and a temperate glass of hot Wassail; that the voice of Fame had been heard in that land, declaring my ability to make hot Wassail; that if I were permitted to hold the feast, I should be found conformable to reason, sobriety, and good hours; in a word, that I could be merry and wise myself, and had been even known at a pinch to keep others so, although I was decorated with no badge or
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medal, and was not a Brother, Orator, Apostle, Saint, or Prophet of any denomination whatever. In the end I prevailed, to my great joy. It was settled that at nine o’clock that night a Turkey and a piece of Roast Beef should smoke upon the board; and that I, faint and unworthy minister for once of Master Richard Watts, should preside as the Christmas-supper host of the six Poor Travellers. I went back to my inn to give the necessary directions for the Turkey and Roast Beef, and, during the
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remainder of the day, could settle to nothing for thinking of the Poor Travellers. When the wind blew hard against the windows, — it was a cold day, with dark gusts of sleet alternating with periods of wild brightness, as if the year were dying fitfully, — I pictured them advancing towards their resting-place along various cold roads, and felt delighted to think how little they foresaw the supper that awaited them. I painted their portraits in my mind, and indulged in little heightening touches. I made
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them footsore; I made them weary; I made them carry packs and bundles; I made them stop by finger-posts and milestones, leaning on their bent sticks, and looking wistfully at what was written there; I made them lose their way; and filled their five wits with apprehensions of lying out all night, and being frozen to death.