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FRANKLINS MISCELLANY.
which she did with a humble curtsey that spoke eloquently: As
she raised her head and turned her neck, she discovered beneath
the sun-burnt stripe above her’ collar a delicate white skin, an
entire contrast'to the exposed parts of her countenance: but that
its effect; its beauteous simplicity moved ' all hearts in her favor,
as her voice had done a few minutes before.
The merry soldier stooped to pick up some of the money. As
he presented it to her, he suddenly took off her broad hat, and
replaced it with his own cap. Astonishment appeared in every
face as well as herown. She threw the soldier’s cap on‘ the
ground ; a deep colour came into her cheeks as she arranged the
fine tresses of her light brown hair; that fell in profusion upon
her face and neck ; her flush gave’ a higher contrast to the ex-
cessive whiteness of her arched forehead and her temples, which
had been perfectly preserved from the action of the sun by her
large hat ; er fine blue eyes were filled with tears..
All were intent for an instant in looking at the beauteous in-
nocent ; the next, a party of the young countrymen seized the
ebriated,. frolicsome soldier, and took the girl’s hat from him.
One of them presented it to her. Never shall I forget the look
of thankfulness and benignity which she returned for the kind
act, as she wiped away the falling tear. The rest of the country
arty hurried the soldier to the pond a little beyord the market-
place, and stripping off his coat and waistcoat, gave him a series
ofimmersions that cooled his temperament, and I daresay made
him more careful of playing off his ill-timed practical jokes for
the remainder of his life:
The crowd had dispersed to enjoy the punishment the jesting
soldier had called upon himself. The wanderers moved up the
town towards the Red Lion inn. Some officers leaning for-
~-wards from an open window offered’her a shilling if she would
take off her hat and sing. The forlorn girl said not a word, but
turned round to walk’ in a contrary direction. I thought their
conduct inexcusable and unfeeling. .
The poor girl had carefully placed the old blind man’s arm in
hers, I stepped up to the party, and drawing the old woman
aside, I slipped a crown-piece into’ her hand, and said that I
should like to know something of their history ;- indeed my cu-
riosity to learn it was raised to: an intensity of feeling that was
perfectly painful. -
The old woman shook her head, and offered to return the
crown-piece, which she evidently considered as the price of her
acquiescence. - .
ood woman,” Isaid, in a tone which showed my strong
sensation, “I do not wish to obtain your story if it will hurt
our feelings to tell it; but I am much concerned at the un-
happy condition of that! poor everet-conntenanced girl—is she
your, daughter ?—how did she obtain such a knowledge of sing~
ine 2” a
8
“© Sir,” replied she, ‘ I see you have a kind heart; that dear
girl-is-our only support ; she loves us as much as we do her;
bat her poor wits”— . a
« Are more than-half gone,” I rejoined ; “ but if you”—
“<If, sir, you can let us be alone alittle while, and you will
promise not to ask ber any questions, as they would only dis-
turb her, I will tell you a tale that will make your heart bleed.”
The young girl, not finding the woman come to join her, had
stopped and looked back towards us... The old woman beckone
her to return. I went into the inn, and requested Mrs. Brydges
to oblige me by giving the three wanderers a plain breakfast, in
a small room quietly by themselves, as I wished to know their
Now, widow Brydges was the most kind-hearted and
~-- , Story. _ 1.
4 —._ ~ attentive of landladies. .
All shall be managed, sir, for you as you wish; but you
appear to have forgotten that you will want breakfast for the
ladies and yourself—the horses have been put. to this hour past.”
“True, madam, we must breakfast, and indeed accept your
attentions for another day, for I shall have to furnish my diary
with an intéresting souvenir.”
T left hostess Brydges, desiring the horses to be taken off, and
breakfast supplied. ‘The wanderer and her aged friends were
_quietly accommodated as I had requested. .
During breakfast I related to my family the curious and
exciting scenes of the morning ; they were as anxious as myself
to hear the interesting history of the ‘fair wanderer.” We
dispatched our repast with more haste than was due to the
abundant set-out of widow Bridges, and then sent word to the
other party that we would receive them in our parlour when
ey were ready to come.
The beautiful innocent girl carefully led in the old blind man
a few minutes after the summons; the eld woman followed.
J was much surprised at their improved appearance; the part
had made use of the intervening time to get rid of their travel-
ing encasement of dust, and the fair wanderer had been fur-
nished by the good widow Bridges with some female clothing,
that restored to her a feminine appearance, which highly con-
trasted with her late disguise. She still retained her large straw
hat, but not so drawn down over her face as to hide its fine
features,’or the artless expression of her open countenance ;
traces of long-indulged melancholy gave it an indescribable
interest. The fine erect stature, the elegant form, the cast of
physiognomy, and the graceful curtsey of the “ fair wanderer”
excited a strong emotion in us all; we rose as by instinct,
supplied them with seats near our table, and disposed our-
selves around to gratify our eager desire for their story.
The old. woman turned to her young companion, “ Kmmy,
my heart! do not grieve whilst I tell your sad story to the
Jadies and gentleman; he has promised not to ask you ques-
tions, and you find Providence always sends friends after he
sends troubles, so cheer up my love !” .
e. feeling tone in which the old woman endeavoured to
console the poor girl, was quite a contrast to that in which sbe
announced the part of the “ mother,” and shewed a susceptibi-
lity that I could not have given her credit for an hour before. ©
--*€ Yes, mother!” replied she in silver tones, “ Providence
still befrieads us—this gentleman will not pull off my hat ?’””
Her eye then seemed vacantly to wander, whilst something
occupied her mind.
“No, indeed! my dear girl, we are all your friends, and
would make you happy if we could.”
“ Ab, sir! Iam always happy when I lay me down by my
poor mother ; she lies so still when I talk to her!”
woman whispered to me that she would become
composed, if I did not speak to her. I was at once sensible that
my conversing with her produced excitement, and made signs
of acquiescence in the old woman’s restriction.
» She then commenced the history, which I endeavored after-
wards to write in nearly her own words, omitting the digres-
sions, provincialisms, and repetitions with which her discourse
aliounded. The old man occasionally set her right in regard to
dates: and places; the hapless young maiden seemed at times
absorbed during the narration in her own contemplations ; at
others she listened with as deep an attention as if she had never
heard any part of her history.
The old woman adjusted her chair, and began—
. * [tis now four years last old Michaelmas day, that we—but I
‘was'so sweet, innocent, and melancholy; that I can never forget’
must first tell you about my old man here, or you will not so well
understand Emmy’s story. ie was about twenty: years ago a
jeweller and wholesale hardwareman at' Liverpool, whem he
failed in his business ;. and,.as he has told me, was afterwards
assisted. by his friends ia:opening a.small shop in the retail
line, which did not answer, because the expences ate up the
profits; so, after a few years struggling with misfortune, an
execution in his house sent him almost pennyless into the
world. His friends now forsook him entirely—you know, sir,
some men do that when their aid is most wanted. He fell sick
from want of necessary help and. from grief; he at that time
occupied a little room in my small house in Birmingham ;. and I
nursed him, and did all I could for him during his illness, but I
was very poor. He recovered after two months, and. I scraped
what little money together I could, and lent it to him to buy
waiters and snuff-boxes and such ware; and so he went about
the country, and traded in a’ small way, and brought me home
always a little towards our living, and so we liked each other,
and married:. This was fourteen years ago.”
‘No, no!” said the old man, “it was’ fifteen, mother, , last
spring.” .
« True,” responded the woman, “fifteen. Well, my husband
went about the country. all the summer, and we contrived to
lay by something for the winter, as he was getting too infirm to
go out in bad weather. We should have gone on very comfort-
ably, for he was always kind to me, because, as he said, I saved
his life when no one cared about him ; but six years ago he
was struck blind by lightning, as he was travelling over -the
Malvern hills in a dreadful storm. Ah! sir, it made my heart
shake when they brought. him home to me,.and he could not
see, and could hardly speak, and was besides rendered a crip-
ple; but he said we must bear what is allotted to us with
patience; and that it'was all for our good. So I had again to
nurse him, and then to sell my little furniture to pay the
doctor, and bny the wares ;' and i had to go about.the country
with him, for we could not pay any one to attend-him.
« Now, sir, as I was telling: you, old Michaelmay-day last,
four years ago, we were travelling between Upton and Worces-
ter among the hills, and night drew on, when our attention
was taken by a sweet voice singing so softly and gently.”
We had let the old woman proceed without interruption, we
now eagerly caught every syllable she uttered.
“We approached gently, and J. saw the loveliest young crea-
tare that eyes ever beheld; she appeared about twelve years
old ;, her complexion was so fair, but pale ; and when she saw
us she stopped singing, and seemed afraid. I wondered to see
the poor child: sitting against’an old elm at: that time of day,
and far from any house ; and’ Her dress was like a real lady’s,
but so torn ana dasty, and her shoes seemed nearly worn off her
little feet. So I went up-to her, and said; ‘ My pretty child,
you are far from any house, have you lost your way, my dear?
nd the poor. thing. looked up at me, and began singing~ so
sadly, it would have made you cry, ladies, to have heard her, as
it'did me. Her song was all about a child that was not loved
by her father and her new mother, and they shut her out of the
house whenever she went to cry and say her prayers at her
own mother’s‘ tomb in the church-yard ; and when the ser-
vants let her in, she sued her new mamma to forgive her ; but
she beat her, and sometimes shut her in the cellar all night.
«© When the poor child stopped singing, we asked her if that
was all about herself, but she only looked at us as if she did
not understand us, and so thinking she was lost, I asked her if
she would go with us to Worcester, and seek her friends ; but
the sweet thing only shook her head; and began crying so pite..
ously, it’ made my poor heart ache! |, sir, we did not
know what' to do—you know it would have been a sin to have
left the child there alone, and’ a bad night coming on,—so we
walked on a little way to think what to do, and we stood
awhile’ talking. The poor child then ceased her crying, and
walked towards us, which very much pleased us; and she said
she’ would’ go on with us. Then I offered her sontething to
eat, which she took eagerly, telling me, that she had not eaten
anything all day. As we walked on, she told us she had been
a month from home, and would go anywhere rather than re-
turn to her cruel step-mother, © As far as we could make out
her tale, she had left a large house somewhere in Cumberland ;
but we could not understand her at times, for she would stop
in her talk, and seem not to know what she had said ; and then
she would begin singing her melancholy song without noticing
us at all, and then would talk strangely ; so we began to think
the poor thing had lost her wits. .
«As we went on we came to a neat cottage on the road-side,
and they let us stay there for the night, and the poor child was
taken eare of. The next day we went on to Worcester with her,
and let her talk or sing, as she chose without disturbing her;
and we hoped somebody in the town might take care of her,
and find out her home. ' But the child had become fond of me,
and would not leave us when we talked. to her of placing her
in some one’s charge. So we did not’ know what to do, but to
take care of her ourselves; and as our little trading paid us
well, we supported her, arid, in a short time, loved her as our
own ; she was so gentle and good.
* So we travelled about for three years, and Emmy grew, and
her sweet voice always charmed’ us, although she made such
melancholy: stories about her motber and her grave ; but we
found that singing relieved her broken heart, and that she
could talk very rational when she had sung her story out, but
the words seemed so fine, that as we were not very learned, we
could not quite understand her songs. _ And what is so strange,
sir, she seems always pleased when we listen to her stories
about her mother, and so we have learned to soothe her troubled
mind, by asking her to repeat her sad songs and tales to us;
and, although we have heard them all a hundred times, yet,
somehow, they seem to have always something new in them,
which we had not noticed before. I think, ladies, she alters
them, and makes them’ more moving each time she tells them.
You shall hear the beautiful one she sang this morning, which
made all the women, aye, and the men too, wipe their eyes.
Come, Emmy, my dear heart, tell the ladies the song you call
«My Mother’s Tomb;’ the ladies will like to hear it, or may-
hap you will sing it to them.” .
‘oor Emmy, who had been very attentive to her history,
seemed pleased with the request. “ er.”
ye, she has called me mother for three years past, and I
am sure I love her as much.as her own mother could,” said the
old woman,
“Twill sing it to the ladies, but you will not take off my
hat, sir?” continued the afflicted Emmy.
It was evident her delicate mind had deeply felt the affront
offered to her in the morning by the jesting soldier.
grieved that her lacerated heart should have had another pain
inflicted.
“No! no! my poor child, I already feel too much for you
to do anything that would not please you.” -
“ Thank you, sir, you speak kindly, as my father used to do
before he brought my new mother home; but I will sing to
you about my own, own mother’s tomb, You shall be my
mother this time, whilst I'sing,” continued poor Emmy ;. and
she turned her blue eye half vacantly upon my wife.
Yes, my dear girl,” replied she, ‘I would’ indeed act’ the
mother for you in earnest if I could hope to restore your wan~
dering reason.”
The sweet’ smile which played’ upon’ Emmy’s'lips, as’ she
said, ‘ Thank you, ma’am,” showed that she understood and
felt the kind intention of my wife's soothing:
The afMlicted girl then’ poured forth the same beautiful me-
lody with which she had touched every heart in the morning’.
this repetition enabled me to transfer the words correctly to papers
We were all powerfully moved by it. My wife and. Mary,
my eldest daughter, were affected to tears. Julia,, my second
girl, about seven years old, had, before its conclusion, placed
her stool by Emily, and laid her head in her lap, whilst she
took the’ poor singer’s hand; and held it in hers. Emmy had
scarcely finished her pathetic cadence of, “ I long to join thee,
mother,” when my little girl’sprang up, and’clasping wer inno-
cent arms around. Emmy’s neck sobbed aloud, and repeatedly
kissed her. Emmy took her upon her lap, and clasped her close.
“Ah!” said she, kissing Julia with fervour, ‘you sweet
angel! you are so like my little‘sister before she was ill ; and
they took ber away, and I never saw her again, but she used to
put her arms around my neck just as you do, and I did so love
er.
The scene was most interesting.. I at once perceived. that
Emmy’s mind was not so far destroyed .as to: prevent all hopes
of restoring it. I drew my wife aside, and consulted a few
moments with her. I then motioned the old woman to join us,
and represented to her the necessity of restoring the poor girl
to the care of her friends, and I told her that I would under+
take all matters, if Emmy could be induced to put herself under
our care,. 7
* Your. honor is: very kind,” replied the woman, “ but it
would break my heart, and my old man’s too, to lose her ;. and,
besides, Emmy would not be separated from us.”
“© You shall not be parted from her,” I replied; “ you shall
be her nurse till she is quite well, and can, be restored to her
family, and we will take care to provide for you all; and when
her friends receive her, they will be sure to make you comfort=
able for your lives.”
T id woman went to talk: with her husband, and my wife
approached Emily, who had all the time been caressing and
comforting my little girl.
“Emmy,” said my wife, patting her cheek, ‘ should you
like to have my little Julia with you? She seems. so fond of
you, that I must have'you'with us, and I would love you and
take care of you.”
“ But-you would take me from! mother,” rejoined the poor
wanderer, whilst she looked towards the old couple.
© No, my love, you shall go with them; and we are all
going the same way, so we shall keep together.” .
seemed perfectly lucid at the time, she understood the
nature of my proposal. .
* If you please, ma’am, and will let me nurse this little angel,
she is so like poor Amelia !
“ Yes, my dear; Julia loves you, and you shall be always
together.” »
The old woman had finished. the consultation with her hus~
band ; they agreed to put themselves under our direction. I
asked her to shorten the rest of her story, and merely tel
why they appeared in the town in such a destitute, deplorable
condition.
“Why, sir,” said the blind man, “ I' will tell. you that
sooner than my dame can. I had gone about the country, sell-
ing my wares and supporting ourselves pretty well,and Emmy
was always provided for, till one night, about four months ago,
aman who was travelling the same road joined us, and we put
up at a cottage, for we always liked to provide a bed for poor
Emmy, and we managed as well as we could; but on that
night the man in the barn with us stole my little money,
and my parcel of wares, for I found inthe morning they were
all gone; it was a sad day for us, sir, and some of Emmy’s
clothes were stolen, for my wife had taken them to mend in the
morning. So we did not know what to do, and Emmy said she
would sing her songs for us.to get some money, and the people
gave us some old clothing, which she was obliged to use till we
could save a little to buy her some. So we came to Honiton,
where you saw us.” .
«Well, my: friend, we shall manage something. Emmy
will-be with us,.and your dame shall attend you. Our house
is a few miles from here, and we will all set off to-morrow.”
e. man assented, and my wife, with the assistance of good
widow Brydges, and little Julia, who was not to be left out,
soon made Emmy very comfortable in her appearance, but she
seemed go inclined to continue the shelter of her broad straw
hat, that we did not press her to dispense with it.
The artless caresses and attentions of my little girl to the
poor wanderer seemed to shorten the periods of her absence of
mind, and by night time they had become so acquainted, that
they would not be parted ; so my wife and widow Brydges
made the arrangements accordingly. Our hearts were gladdened
in seeing the growing attachment, which promised much to the
progress of Emmy’s amendment.
On the morrow all matters were prepared for our early de-
parture. We took Emmy in the carriage with us, and the old
people were provided for in a country chaise-cart ; and having
romised our kind hostess to let her know from time to time
iow we proceeded with our new charge, we started for B—t—e
Lodge, and a: few hours: placed the old couple under the care
of my gardener’s wife in her cottage, and Emmy under little
Julia's in her own room. 1
I shall now hasten to a conclusion of the ‘fair wanderer’s
adventures. Mr. Moreton, our family medical man, a gentle-
man who had great experience in cases of mental excitement,
assured us that poor Emmy's disorder would soon yield to the
solace and kind treatment she received from us. She spent at
first much of her time with her old friends at the cottage, but
gradually devoted herself almost entirely to Julia, to whom she
taught several of her songs, and my eldest girl accompanied
them on the piano, which always relieved Emmy's Pp!
spirits, Emmy and Julia became more attached every day, a
the consequence was, that in a few months the poor gitl’s mind
was evidently better. >
Immediately upon my arrival at home I wrote tomy solicitor
an account of the singular affair in which we had engaged our
selves, and desired him to take the rnost effectual steps for the dis-
covery of the friends of the lost “ wanderer.” . My solicitor put
repeated advertisements in the Cumberland and Lancashire
provincial papers, and also in the London journals, without
effect for several months, At last a gentleman of Lincoln s-inne
fields called upon him, and informed him that a gentleman 0!
the name of Amherst had employed him some years before to
sell an estate for him near Keswick, and from some circum~
stances he was induced to think the gentleman was the person
sought, He had sold, in consequence of family losses having
made the residence uncomfortable to him ; he had buried a se~
I
SIGN ee eee ee ce