Freedom's Journal/1827/03/16/Kidnapping

On the evening of August 25, 1812, a poor, yet interesting young woman, with an infant, about six weeks old, in her arms, came with a pass-billet, to remain all night at the Greyhound inn, at Folkingham, in Lincolnshire.—Apparently sinking with hunger and fatigue, she unobtrusively seated herself by the kitchen fire, to give that sustenance to her baby of which she appeared in equal want herself. Silently shrinking from observation, she neither solicited nor obtained the notice of any one. The sons of intemperate mirth never ceased their riotous tumult, nor relaxed their hilarity to sooth her sorrows. The bustling servants brushed past without regarding her, and the rustic politician continued to spell over again the thrice conned paper, without casting his eyes upon her.

There is, however, an eye that never slumbers, there is an ear that is ever open to the supplication of the afflicted, and there is a band which is ever ready to be stretched out to succor and support them in their necessi-1 ties.

That eye now beheld her unobtruded sorrows, that ear was listening to her silent prayers, and that hand was supporting her apparently sinking frame, and preparing for her the cup of consolation. Hers was indeed a tale of many sorrows!—This, the following slight sketch of her story, previous to her arrival at Folkingham will serve to evince:—Her name was Mary Davis; she resided with her husband and one child, a boy about seven years of age, in the city of Westminster. Her husband, who is a private in the 2d regiment of foot guards, was compelled to leave her in the beginning of the above year, to accompany the regiment to fight the battles of his country, under the gallant and victorious Wellington. Impelled by poverty and maternal affection, poor Mary was under the necessity of leaving her darling boy, now her only remaining comfort, to the care of strangers, whilst she went out to wash for his maintenance and her own.

She, however, repined not; her toil was lessened, and her cares were enlivened by the reflection that she could, after the labours of the day, return to her beloved boy, gaze on the reflected features of his father, give him smile for smile, press him to her maternal bosom, join him in his sports, enlighten his understanding, and teach him to know, to fear, and to love his God. With these delightful enjoyments, even the poor, laboring, widowed Mary could not be termed unhappy; but these were the only sweet ingredients in her cup of bitter sorrows. Let those, then, who have feeling hearts, and know the force of parental affection when confined to one object, judge, if they can, what must be the agonies of poor Mary, when, on returning from her daily task, only eight days after the departure of her husband, she learned that the woman (if she deserves that name) in whose care she left her darling boy, had absconded with her son nobody knew whither. Now then she might be termed unhappy for hope itself could scarcely find admittance to her bosom, so entirely was it occupied by affliction and despondency.

Soon after the event, she was informed that it was discovered that the wretch who ha stolen her child was a native of Leeds. This truly to those who bask in sunshine, would appear a feeble ray, yet this on Mary's midnight gloom, shed a glimmering cheering light. This, faint as it was, aroused and animated her soul; it seemed to her as sent in mercy to direct her to her son, and she lost no time in taking the path to which it pointed. Five weeks after the birth of her child, did she set out in her weak state, without money, on foot, to carry her infant nearly 400 miles, (thither and back again,) on a road and to a place with which she was totally unacquainted.

And yet, with all these aggravating circumstances, poor Mary was, in reality, perhaps less miserable than many, even of the son and daughters of affluence. So little does happiness depend upon external circumstances; so comparatively impartially has God distributed good and evil among his creatures, even in this life, that the most miserable are not without their consolations, nor the most prosperous without their sorrows. Labor and sorrow are the lot of humanity, and they must be unhappy indeed who, from a mixed company, cannot select those with whom they would be unwilling to exchange situations. So, perhaps thought poor Mary, as she sat by the side of the kitchen fire of the inn at Folkingham, regarding with looks of attention and pity two poor chimney-sweeper's boys, who were eating their frugal supper before the same fire. They had been sent for from, a distance, to sweep some chimneys early in the morning, and were how taking their scanty meal, before they retired to obtain, by a few hours sleep, a short respite from their sufferings. Mary long viewed them attentively; perhaps the sufferings of her lost boy night be connected with the commiseration which she felt for these poor oppressed children. However, that might be, she continued to gaze upon them, till the younger, who sat with his back towards to her, turned his sooty face, and fixing his eyes upon her; regarded her for a few seconds with attention, then springing up, he exclaimed, "My mother! that's my mother!" and in an instant was in her arms. The affectionate and astonished Mary, on hearing his voice, in a moment recognised her boy, and clasped him to her bosom; but she could not speak, till a flood of tears having relieved her almost bursting heart, she gave utterance to her feelings.

After the confusion and the agitating sensation, which this unexpected rencontre had occasioned amongst both actors and spectators were in some degree subsided, the master of the boy, who was present, was particularly questioned how he came by him. His account was as follows—He was walking on his business, in the neighbourhood of Sleaford, where he resides, when he met a ragged woman with a little boy whom she was beating most unmercifully. On inquiry, she told him that she "was in great distress, that she had a long way to go, and that she did not know how to get along with him. This led to further conversation, which ended in her offering to sell the boy to him as an apprentice; for two guineas. The bargain was soon struck, and the lad was regularly bound, the woman making oath to his being her own son. There did not appear to be any reason for questioning the account of the master, especially as it was corroborated by the boy, with this addition, that the woman was beating him so unmercifully, as she had frequently done before, because he would not call her mother.

The story soon became generally known in the place and through the exertions of Mr. Wellbourne and others, a subscription was raised for poor Mary and the little chimney sweeper, who was soon cleaned, clothed, and transformed into a very different looking little being:—

After they had stopped for some time to rest and refresh themselves, the mother and son had places taken for them in the coach to proceed to London. Thither they departed, with hearts overflowing with gratitude both to their heavenly and earthly benefactors.