But a century since, the march of improvement had nowhere begun; and
there were few larger, and no prettier, seaside villages on the coast
than Sidmouth.
It was an afternoon in August. The sun was blazing down hotly, scarce a
breath of wind was stirring, and the tiny waves broke along the shore
with a low rustle like that of falling leaves. Some fishermen were at
work, recaulking a boat hauled up on the shore. Others were laying out
some nets to dry in the sun. Some fisher boys were lying asleep, like
dogs basking in the heat; and a knot of lads, sitting under the shade
of a boat, were discussing with some warmth the question of smuggling.
"What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said, looking up
at a boy some twelve years old, who was leaning against a boat, but who
had hitherto taken no part in the discussion.
"There is no doubt that it's wrong," the boy said. "Not wrong like
stealing, and lying, and that sort of thing; still it's wrong, because
it's against the law; and the revenue men, if they come upon a gang
landing the tubs, fight with them, and if any are killed they are not
blamed for it, so there is no doubt about its being wrong. Then, on the
other hand, no one thinks any the worse of the men that do it, and
there is scarce a one, gentle or simple, as won't buy some of the stuff
if he gets a chance, so it can't be so very wrong.
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