you up, miss, and then I dare say you will see them;" and, instantly
catching her up, she cried out: "Look directly towards the steeple,
miss; but I'll run with you in my arms, and I warrant we'll soon
overtake them."
Eliza looked, but looked in vain, and, perceiving the woman had soon
carried her out of sight of the cottage, begged she would set her
down, as she dare not go any farther.
The vile creature was absolutely incapable of replying, for her breath
was nearly exhausted by the rapidity of the motion, and Eliza
continued entreating her to stop, and struggled violently to elude her
grasp.
At length, after a quarter of an hour's exertion, the woman found
herself incapable of proceeding, and stopped suddenly, sat down on a
bank, keeping tight hold of Eliza's arms, who cried dreadfully, and
besought her to let her go.
"Let you go!" she replied; "what, after all the plague I've had to
knap you? No, no, you don't catch me at that, I promise you; but be a
good girl, and don't cry, and then you may see Bob by and by,
perhaps."
"Oh, my sisters! my sisters! Let me go to my sisters!" cried the
child.
"I'll find plenty of sisters for you in a few days," said the vile
creature; "but they won't know you in them there fine clothes; so
let's pull them off in a minute, and then we'll have another run after
Bob."
So saying, she stripped off the white frock, hat, and tippet. The rest
of the things shared the same fate, and Eliza was compelled to put on
some old rags which the inhuman creature took out of a bag she carried
under her petticoat; then, taking a bottle of liquid from the same
place, she instantly began washing Eliza's face with it, and,
notwithstanding all her remonstrances, cut her beautiful hair close to
her head.
Thus metamorphosed, it would have been impossible even for Mr. Darnley
to have known his child, and they proceeded onward until her little
legs would carry her no farther. At this period they were overtaken by
the Canterbury wagon, and for a mere trifle the driver consented to
let them ride to London. Eliza's tears continued to flow, but she
dared not utter a complaint, as her inhuman companion protested she
would break every bone in her skin if she ventured to make the least
noise.
When they arrived in town, she was dragged (for to walk she was
unable) to a miserable hole down several steps, where they gave her
some bread and butter to eat, and then desired her to go to bed.
The bed, if such it might be called, was little else than a bundle of
rags thrown into a corner of the room, with a dirty blanket spread
across it; and there she was left by her inhuman kidnapper to mourn
her misfortunes and lament having disregarded her fathers'
injunctions.
The next morning she was forced to rise the moment it was light, and
to walk as far as her little legs would carry her before they stopped
anywhere to take refreshment. The second night was passed in a barn,
and about five o'clock the third afternoon they knocked at the door of
a neat-looking cottage, where nine or ten children were sitting in a
little room making lace.
"Why, Peggy," said the woman, as she opened the door, "I thought you
never would have come again! However, I see you have got me a hand at
last, and God knows I'm enough in want of her; for two of my brats
have thought proper to fall sick, and I have more to do than ever I
had in my life."
On the following day Eliza's filthy rags were all taken off, and she
was dressed in a tidy brown-stuff gown, a nice clean round-eared cap,
and a little colored bib and apron; and she was ordered, if any person
asked her name, to say it was Biddy Bullen, and that she was niece to
the woman who employed her.
The severity with which all this wretch's commands were enforced
wholly prevented any of the helpless victims who were under her
protection from daring to disobey them; and though most of them were
placed under her care by the same vile agent who had decoyed Eliza,
yet they were all tutored to relate similar untruths.
But I now think it is high time to carry my little readers back to the
cottage scene, where Susan was arranging things in order for
breakfast, and Sophia and her sister were anxiously watching the
moment when the cake was pronounced completely ready.
The old woman soon returned with the milk-pail on her arm, and Susan
eagerly demanded: "Where's Miss Eliza?"
"Oh, the pretty creature!" replied her mother, "she'll be here in a
minute, I warrant her; but she has gone skipping after our Billy, and
the two sweet innocents they are together."
She then went to the oven, produced the cake, and began buttering it
with all expedition, while Sophia joyously ran to the door of the
cow-house, and began loudly calling her sister Eliza.
No answer being returned, Susan began to feel alarmed, but the young
ladies told her not to be frightened, as they knew it was only one of
Eliza's pranks. But, alas! too soon were they convinced it was no
joke, but some dreadful misfortune must have happened.
"Miss Eliza! Miss Eliza!" was vociferated through the village, not
only by Susan and her mother, but by all the neighbors who had heard
of the calamity, while her sisters ran about frantic with grief,
crying, "Eliza, my love! my darling! Oh, if you are hid, for pity's
sake speak!"
Nurse Chapman got up about half-past nine, and, hearing the children
were not returned from their walk, sent the housemaid directly after
them.
The garden, the shrubbery, and the lawn were all searched without
success; and just as Betty was returning to inform the nurse they were
not to be found, she perceived Susan and the two children enter a
little green gate at the bottom of the shrubbery.
"Where's Miss Eliza?" called Betty, in a voice as loud as she could
articulate.
"God knows! God knows!" replied the careless girl, sobbing so loud she
could scarcely speak.
"How! where! when!" said the others. "Why, poor nurse will go stark,
staring mad!"
By that time the poor woman had quitted her room, and walked into the
garden to see what had become of her little charges; and, not directly
missing Eliza from the group, which was then fast approaching towards
the house, she called out:
"Come, my dear children--come along! I thought you would never have
returned again." And, observing Eliza was not with them, she
continued: "But, Susan, what's become of my sweet bird? Where's my
little darling, Miss Eliza?"
"Oh, nurse! nurse!" said Sophia, "my sister's lost! indeed she's
lost!"
"Lost!" exclaimed the poor old woman--"lost! What do you tell me? What
do I hear? Oh, my master! my dear master! never shall I bear to see
his face again!"
Susan then repeated every circumstance just as has been related, and
with sighs and tears bewailed her own folly in suffering herself to be
over-persuaded. And the children declared they dare not encounter
their father's displeasure.
The men servants were instantly summoned and sent on horseback
different ways. That she had been stolen admitted of no doubt, as
there was no water near the cottage; and had any accident happened,
they must have found her, as they had searched every part of the
village before they ventured to return home.
One servant was sent to Rochester, another towards London, and a third
and fourth across the country roads; but no intelligence could be
obtained, nor the slightest information gathered, by which the
unfortunate child could be found, or her wicked decoyer's footsteps
traced.
When Mr. Darnley was apprised of the calamitous event, the agitation
of his mind may be easily conceived, but can never be described.
Handbills were instantly circulated all over the country, the child's
person described, and a reward of five hundred guineas offered for her
restoration.
Sophia and Amanda were inconsolable, and Susan was ordered to be
discharged before Mr. Darnley returned home, which he did not for more
than a month after the melancholy circumstance happened, as he was not
satisfied with sending messengers in pursuit of his lost treasure, but
went himself to all those wretched parts of London where poverty and
vice are known to dwell, in the hope of meeting the object of his
solicitude, and at length gave up the interesting pursuit, because he
found his health rendered him incapable of continuing it.
Nine tedious months passed away without any intelligence of the lost
Eliza; and time, which is a general remedy for all misfortunes, had
not softened the severity of their affliction. Mrs. Collier had
engaged a lady to be governess to her nieces, as her attention had
been wholly devoted to her unfortunate brother, whose agitated state
of mind had produced a bodily complaint which demanded her unremitting
care and tenderness.
Although Emily loved Eliza with the fondest affection, yet her grief
was much less poignant than either of her sisters', as she could not
accuse herself with being accessory to her loss.
"Never, never shall I forgive myself," Sophia would often say, "for
having deviated from my dear father's command! Oh, so good and
indulgent as he is to us, how wicked it was to transgress his will! I
was the eldest, and ought to have known better, and my poor Eliza is
the sufferer for my crime!"
Thus would she bewail her folly and imprudence, until, agonized by the
torture of her own reflections, she would sink down in a chair quite
exhausted, and burst into a flood of tears.
While the family at Darnley Hall were thus a prey to unavailing
sorrow, the lovely little girl who had occasioned it was beginning to
grow more reconciled to the cruelty of her destiny, and to support her
different mode of life with resignation and composure. She had
acquired such a degree of skill in the art of lacemaking (which was
the business her employer followed) as generally to be able to perform
the tasks which were allotted her; and if it so happened she was
incapable of doing it, Sally Butchell, a child almost two years older
than herself, of whom she was very fond, was always kind enough to
complete it for her.
The cottage in which the vile Mrs. Bullen resided was situated about a
quarter of a mile from High Wycombe; and whenever she was obliged to
go to that place, either to purchase or to dispose of her goods, she
always went either before her family were up, or after they had
retired to rest, locking the door constantly after her, and putting
the key in her pocket, so that the poor little souls had no
opportunity of telling their misfortunes to any human creature.
One intense hot afternoon, in the month of August, as the children
were sitting hard at work with the door open for the sake of air, an
elderly lady and gentleman walked up to it, and begged to be
accommodated with a seat, informing Mrs. Bullen their carriage had
broken down a mile distant, and they had been obliged to walk in the
heat of the sun.
The appearance of so many children, all industriously employed, was a
sight particularly pleasing to the liberal-minded Mrs. Montague, and
she immediately began asking the woman several questions about them;
but there was something of confusion in her manner of replying that
called forth Mrs. Montague's surprise and astonishment.
"They really are lovely children, my dear," said she, turning to Mr.
Montague, who had stood at the door watching the approach of the
carriage, which he perceived coming forward; "and as to that little
creature with the mole under her left eye, I declare I think it is a
perfect beauty."
Mr. Montague turned his head, and regarded Eliza with a look that at
once proved that his sentiments corresponded with those of his lady.
"What is your name, my love?" said he, in a tone of kindness which
poor Eliza had long been a stranger to.
The child colored like scarlet, and looked immediately at her inhuman
employer, who, catching the contagion, replied with evident marks of
confusion:
"Her name is Biddy Bullen, sir; she's my niece; but 'tis a poor timid
little fool, and is always in a fright when gentlefolks happen to
speak to her. Go, Biddy," she continued--"go up into my bedroom, and
mind that thread which you'll find upon the reel."
"You should try to conquer that timidity," said Mr. Montague, "by
making her answer every stranger who speaks to her; but by taking that
office upon yourself, you absolutely encourage the shyness you
complain of. Come hither, my little girl," continued he, observing she
was retiring upstairs, "and tell the lady what your name is."
Encouraged by the kindness of Mr. Montague's address, the agitated
child obeyed the summons, although Mrs. Bullen attempted to force her
into resistance.
"Well," continued the old gentleman, patting her on the cheek, "and
where did you get that pretty mole?"
"My mother gave it me, sir," replied the blushing child; "but I did
not see her do it, because Nurse Chapman told me she went to heaven as
soon as I was born."
"Your mother! And what was your mother's name?" said Mr. Montague.
"Darnley, sir," said the child, and suddenly recollecting the lesson
that had been taught her--"but my name is Biddy Bullen, and that is my
aunt."
"Darnley!" exclaimed Mrs. Montague--"the very child that has been for
these twelve months past advertised in all the papers"--then turning
to convince herself of the fact--"and the very mole confirms it."
Mr. Montague immediately attempted to secure the woman, but her
activity eluded his grasp, and darting out at the back door she was
out of sight in a few moments.
"Is she really gone? Is she gone?" all the little voices at once
demanded, and upon Mr. Montague's assuring them she was really gone
for ever, their joy broke out in a thousand different ways--some
cried, some laughed, and others jumped. In short, there never was a
scene more completely calculated to interest the feelings of a
benevolent heart.
Mr. Montague's carriage at this period arrived, and the footman was
desired to fetch a magistrate from Wycombe, while the worthy clergyman
resolved to remain there until his arrival, and began questioning all
the children. Two had been there from so early a period that they
could give no account of their name or origin, but all the rest were
so clear in their description that the benevolent Mr. Montague had no
doubt of being able to restore them to their afflicted parents.
The magistrate soon arrived, attended by the worthy rector of the
place, who, hearing from Mr. Montague's servant that a child had been
stolen, came with the intent of offering his services.
All but Eliza were immediately put under his protection, but Mrs.
Montague was so anxious she should be their earliest care that she
begged her husband to order a post-chaise directly, and set off
immediately for town. This request was willingly complied with, and by
three o'clock the next afternoon the party arrived at Darnley Hall.
Mrs. Collier was standing at the window when the carriage stopped, and
looking earnestly at her niece suddenly exclaimed in a tone of
rapture: "My child! My child! My lost Eliza!"
Mr. Darnley, who was reading, sprang from his seat, and flew to the
door in a ecstasy of joy. In less than a minute he returned folding
his Eliza to his throbbing heart. The joyful intelligence ran through
the house, and the other children impatiently flew to this scene of
transport.
To describe their feelings or express their felicity would require the
aid of the most descriptive pen, and even then would be but faintly
told, and therefore had much better be passed over.
From that moment the children all unanimously agreed strictly to
attend to their father's orders, and never in the slightest instance
act in opposition to his will.
Mr. and Mrs. Montague were laden with caresses, and earnestly
entreated to remain Mr. Darnley's guests. The hospitable invitation
would have been gladly accepted had not the thoughts of the poor
children who were still at Wycombe seemed to claim his immediate
attention, and so great was the philanthropy of Mr. Montague's
character that he could never rest satisfied if a single duty remained
unfulfilled.
DICKY RANDOM
OR GOOD NATURE IS NOTHING WITHOUT GOOD CONDUCT
"In festive play this maxim prize--
Be always merry--always WISE!"
"Do you know what hour it is when you see a clock?" said Mr. Random to
his little son Richard.
"Yes, father," said Richard; "for I can count it all round. When both
hands are at the top of the clock, then I know it is time to leave
school."
"Then go and see what time it is," said his father.
Away ran Richard, and brought back word in a moment that it was
exactly six o'clock.
In a few minutes after came in a friend with a young lady, the former
of whom asked Mr. Random why he was not ready to go with them to the
concert that evening, as he had promised. Mr. Random replied that it
was but six o'clock, which, however, he was soon convinced was a
mistake of Richard's, who, on being asked what he saw when he looked
on the clock, replied, "I saw the two hands together close to the six,
and that made me say it was six, for I always call it twelve when they
are right opposite."
"Remember, my dear," said his father, "that the long hand never tells
the hour, except on the stroke of twelve. You ought to know that the
minute hand overtakes its fellow somewhat later every hour, till at
noon and midnight they again start exactly even; and when a bigger boy
I shall expect you to tell me how much difference is increased every
time they come into conjunction. You now see, Dicky, that through such
a mistake I must make my friends wait; pray, therefore, mind better
another time."
In a few minutes after his father bid him go into the dining-room, and
bring down a bottle of wine, which stood in the _hither_ corner of
the cellaret, that he might help the gentleman, and lady to a glass.
"Yes, father," said little Dick, and up he went. On the stairs he met
puss, and stopped to play with her, during which he forgot what had
been told him. Having gotten a bottle, downstairs he came, and,
pouring out a couple of glasses, he returned with it. But, when on the
landing-place, he naughtily drew out the cork to have a taste himself.
It was not only very vulgar to drink out of the neck of a bottle, but
wrong to make free slily with that which he was merely entrusted to
serve out. However, it rushed so fast into his mouth, and was so hot,
that he was afraid of being strangled. It happened that he had bitten
his cheek that morning, and the liquor bathing the sore place made it
smart so that he put down the bottle on the floor, when, in stamping
about, it rolled downstairs and made a fine clatter. His father ran
out on hearing the noise, but was stopped in the way by seeing the
young lady almost gasping for breath, and it was some minutes before
she could say that he had given her brandy instead of wine.
Mr. Random next proceeded upstairs, where little Dick was picking up
the pieces of broken glass, in doing which he cut a deep gash in his
hand.
"Where did you take the bottle from?"
"Out of the _farther_ side of the cellaret," said Dicky.
"I told you to take it from the _hither_ side," replied Mr. Random.
"But, however, you shall smart for your neglect: what remains of the
brandy will serve to bathe your hand, and I hope the pain will make
you reflect that the loss is the same to me, whether you spilt it from
design or inattention."
He one day made his mother look very simple at table, for which he
deserved to have suffered much more than her good nature required.
Young Random was to have a grand rout in the evening with some of his
little favorites. A few nice tarts, custards, etc., had been made in
the morning for the occasion, and had been most temptingly baked in
the forenoon.
It happened that two gentlemen called on Mr. Random about two o'clock,
and he insisted upon their staying to dinner; in consequence of which
his lady had the pastry removed from the side board to the
china-closet.
All children must frequently have heard their mothers say, when they
wish to have anything saved for another occasion, "My friends, you see
your dinner before you; I hope you will consider yourselves at home
and not spare." This is always thought to be a sufficient excuse for
not bringing anything of another sort to table.
When the meat was nearly done with, Mrs. Random made the above remark
to her visitors, who declared that nothing more was requisite. She
then bid the servant put the cheese on the table.
"What, mother," said Richard, "is there nothing else?"
"No, my love," said his mother; "I am sure you want nothing more."
"Why, yes, mother. Where are the tarts and custards you put into the
closet?"
"Surely you dream?" said his mother.
"No, I don't indeed," replied Dicky. "You put them away directly the
gentlemen said they would stay to dine, and observed what a deal of
trouble visitors do give."
Any one will easily believe that this made Mrs. Random look very
confused. She hardly knew what to reply, but she turned it off in the
best manner she could, and said:
"It is you, Richard, who trouble me more than the visits of my
friends. I am happy to see them always, but on some days more than
others. To-day, you know, we have been preparing for _your_ company,
and therefore the reserve I have kept would not have been made but on
your account. The pastry was intended for _your_ visitors, and not
your father's. However, if you are such a child that you cannot wait
till night, they shall be brought to table now; but, remember, I will
not order any more to be made, and you shall provide for your
playmates out of the money put by to purchase the magic-lantern and
the books."
Richard looked quite down when he heard this sentence, and more so
when he saw the pastry placed on the table.
Dear me, how soon had the tarts and custards disappeared, if one of
each had been served round to the company! But the gentlemen were too
polite even to taste them, and father and mother declined eating any.
Richard's sister said she could very well wait till supper; hence they
were all saved. But Dicky was afterwards very severely taken to task
for speaking out of time, when he was not spoken to.
When evening came, and the little visitors were assembled, Richard,
who had seen some of the sports at a country fair, would show his
dexterity to amuse his young party. He took up the poker, and,
supposing it to be a pole, performed some imitations. But, unable long
to preserve it upright from its weight, the sooty end fell on Master
Snapper's book, who was reading a little work upon "Affability." The
blow fairly knocked it out of his hand, and made a great smear on his
frilled shirt, at which a loud laugh ensued. Now Master Snapper could
not bear to be laughed at, and was so much out of humor all the
evening that he would not play.
Little Dick never once, all this time, thought that if it had fallen
on his playfellow's toe, it might have lamed him, and he would at
least have had to carry him a pick-a-back home; nor did he think who
was to have paid the doctor; but, pleased with the mirth he had made,
he went upstairs and fetched down one of the pistols, which his father
kept in a private drawer. Then, pulling in his rocking-horse, he
fancied he was one of the Light Horse, and mounted it to show the
sword exercise, and how he could shoot a Frenchman or a Turk at full
gallop. He had no business with a rocking-horse or a pistol among
young ladies, but he never thought if it were proper or not, and much
less if the pistol were loaded.
While he was going on a full canter, he gave the words, "Present!
fire!" and off it went, knocked him backwards, and shivered a
beautiful mirror into a thousand pieces. Oh, what a sad scene of
confusion ensued! Some of the young ladies screamed out with fright.
Miss Timid, knocked down by Dicky in falling backwards, lay on the
ground bleeding at the nose. Some were employed in picking up the
pieces of glass, or pinning their handkerchiefs over the fracture, to
prevent its being seen while they stayed; but such a hope was vain.