Transcribed from the 1823 R. Weston edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Public domain book cover]
THE
FOUNDLING;
OR, THE
CHILD OF PROVIDENCE.
In Two Parts.
* * * * *
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
“He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling
wilderness: he led him about; he instructed him; he kept
him as the apple of his eye.”
DEUTERONOMY xxxii. v. 10.
* * * * *
London:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, AND SOLD AT THE SURREY TABERNACLE.
1823.
* * * * *
R. WESTON, PRINTER, CROSBY ROW, BOROUGH.
* * * * *
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE.
_Investigator and Friendly_.
INVESTIGATOR.—Good morning, sir.
FRIENDLY.—Good morning.
INVESTIGATOR.—How is your health, and your mind?
FRIENDLY.—Why, sir, much as usual; God has blessed me with tolerable
health and spirits, which I consider great mercies, amidst so many
exercises of body and mind: I am, at times, weak in my nerves, but most
wonderfully upheld, and sometimes dejected in mind, through the variety
of inward and outward conflicts which God has given to me, to be
exercised with beneath the sun: both body and mind are affected with the
fretting leprosy, and though often healed by a look from the Great High
Priest, and by the application of his all-cleansing sacrifice, and the
oil of his comforting and sanctifying spirit; yet the plague frequently
breaks out again, and it will be the case, I suppose, till this leprous
house is pulled down, the stone, the timber and the mortar, and carried
to the grave.—_Leviticus_, xiv. But may I be permitted to ask the reason
of your calling this morning?
INVESTIGATOR.—Why, sir, I hope I am not intruding on your time, but I
have long desired an interview with you; for having occasion to travel
much, for many years, I have frequently heard your name mentioned, both
in public and private, sometimes with credit, honour, and pleasure with
pity and commiseration. I have also met with some persons who are, I
believe, very spiritual and consistent, God-fearing persons, who have
heard you preach, both in town and country, and read your publications
with profit and pleasure; but, alas! I have also heard your name treated
with the utmost scorn and contempt, stigmatized as the vilest miscreant,
the most abominable wretch, advancing the most dreadful antinomianism,
living the most dissolute life, and as industriously circulating the most
licentious doctrines, _totally subversive of all morality and common
honesty_.
FRIENDLY.—Well, sir, really these are awful charges, and as they have
been so many years propagating, I almost wonder these calumniators are
not tired of talking about one so unworthy of their notice; but I guess
who that ever-restless agent is, who them, _going about_; (1 _Peter_, v.
8.) this is the roving commission he has received; and he must fulfill
it.
INVESTIGATOR.—But is it not strange, sir, so many pretended advocates for
morality, holiness, and the moral law, should exert all their influence
to suppress the truths you preach; and employ so many hands to write,
print, publish, and circulate your history in the most degrading manner
possible?
FRIENDLY.—It is so, but there is no new thing under the sun; various
indeed, are the motives of such calumniators; some degrade me to cover
their own infamy; some from pharisaic principles; some to exalt
themselves upon my ruin; some to please those above them, and some to
gain money by it, which they have, and to which I have no objection, had
they not filled their pages with so many palpable falsehoods, which have
disgraced the writer, and shewn the malignity of their spirits. These
infamous squibs have been sent to the four winds of heaven, to Wales,
Ireland, Scotland, America, the East and West Indies, and to almost every
county and village in England, in twopenny, fourpenny, and sixpenny
pamphlets; each containing from one to two hundred well-known falsehoods.
INVESTIGATOR.—Yes, I believe that not less than twenty thousand such
scandalous pamphlets have been published, and circulated.
FRIENDLY.—But can you form any idea who were the ringleaders of so much
infamy?
INVESTIGATOR.—I have heard say they were persons who are perpetually
pleading for the moral law, as the rule of their lives, although that
holy law strictly forbids such conduct, because it is a violation of
these two prohibitions: “Thou shalt do no murder;” “Thou shalt not bear
false witness against thy neighbour;” and its language is, owe no man any
thing, but love for love is the fulfilling of the law. But I think I
could give you an intimation of some of the persons; one was the Rev. Dr.
Diotrephes. (2 _John_)—another was Alexander, the coppersmith, who is
always currying favour with the above doctor: these, I know, were very
industrious, in writing, publishing, and running about from house to
house, or rather, like hawking pedlars, with their bad ware, which
conduct is strictly forbidden. _Lev._ xix. 26.
FRIENDLY.—But as it was zeal for holiness, I pardon it; they were
mistaken men, and though they have done me much injury, I believe God has
resented their conduct, by mortifying their pride. All public characters
that God has blessed, must expect evil surmising, ill-grounded
jealousies, awful insinuations, vile aspersions, whisperings, and
back-bitings; and why should I escape? In whatever I have offended, I am
willing to acknowledge it: but surely, I have no just right to
acknowledge their lies.
INVESTIGATOR.—My heart has been grieved to read the vile publications
which have been circulated under the title of, the life of J. C. I have
thought, at times, none could know so much of his history as himself; and
have frequently wished to know something, in reality, of your eventful
story.—In this wish, I believe, many hundreds concur; therefore, to
oblige your friends, and to confound your foes on _that_ subject, it
would be gratifying their desires to make your life public.
FRIENDLY.—Why, it might, in some sense, be so to them; and especially, as
I trust it would be magnifying the grace of that great God, who has done
so much for me, which I hope will be my principal motive; but it will
expose me to the contempt of fools, and perhaps add additional
persecution to my friends.
INVESTIGATOR.—Suppose it does; your enemies cannot say worse of you than
they have said; they have gone to the very utmost in scandal, and no
further than the infamous name given to your Master, who was holy,
harmless, and undefiled. They said he had a devil; yea, that he was the
prince of devils. There is another advantage in your compliance with the
request of your friends; it will confute the falsehoods which have been
fabricated about your history, and prevent your enemies from adding sin
to sin, by any further false statements of the matter: therefore, like
the memoirs of most gospel preachers, it must expect all sorts of
mis-statement. Some will rejoice in what God has done for you; others
will say it is lies; some, more candid, will wish you had omitted many
parts, and others will wish you had not mentioned many circumstances; but
write TRUTH, and leave the consequences.
FRIENDLY.—Well, I promise, through mercy, so to do. I will write the bad
as well as the good, as far as prudence dictates.
INVESTIGATOR.—The Lord be thy helper, and kind remembrancer, and give his
approbation to the work, by blessing it to his own people.—Farewell.
And though pretended friends have aim’d to wound thy heart,
And household friends in that have borne a part;
Yet, each appointment came to thee for good,
To make thee joyful in thy Saviour God.
FRIENDLY.—I thank you; I will send a few particulars of my history in
letters to my friends.—
FAREWELL.
PART I.
_Juvenile Days_—_Apprenticeship_—_Marriage_—_Engagements_—_Call to the
Ministry_—_Baptism_—_Checquered Scenes_—_Sore
Trials_—_Removals_—_Trial_—_Building_—_Prosperity_—_Fresh
Troubles_—_Imprisonment_—_Enlargements_—_Mercies_.
LETTER I.
“Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should _not_ have
compassion on the son of her womb? Yea, she may forget, yet will not
I forget thee, saith the Lord.”
To —
YOUR Christian affection and maternal concern for me, so many years,
entitle you to this acknowledgment. The holy apostle, in his directions
to his son Timothy, advises to entreat the elder brethren in the church
as fathers; the younger men as brethren; the elder women as mothers, and
the younger women as sisters, with all purity.—1st Epist. _Tim._ 1, 2. I
am most sensibly alive to every feeling of gratitude, for your long and
unwearied kindness—your many prayers for my present and my eternal
good—your tears on account of my troubles, and your best wishes for the
sanctification of them, that I may be delivered from sin, the worst of
evils, from error, as derogatory to the glory of the Lord Jesus Christ,
and from all the traps, snares, and temptations which may be laid for my
feet, and which might bring me into bondage; the Lord reward thy
kindness, and may a full reward be given thee of the Lord God of Israel,
under whose wings thou hast been enabled to trust. It has been the
desire of many to be acquainted with the earlier part of my life, my
birth, parentage, education, and how the Lord has manifested his good
hand to me in a way of providence, and his Spirit’s operations in away of
grace.
With respect to my birth and parentage, I know nothing; nor did I ever
hear of any _one_ that _ever_ did. I never could gain the least
information of my parents, from any quarter, nor ever hear of a relative
of any description. I never knew a mother’s care, nor a father’s
fostering hand. Many times, when a boy of only eight years of age, have
I reflected my case was hard. I have sat under the trees at the
Foundling Hospital, and wept that I had no mother; and when the nurses
from the country came to see other boys, and given them little presents,
there was none for me; and when the kiss went round, there was no kiss
for me. I said nothing; but tears might have told what I felt, and what
they meant. Sometimes I heard that some boys had found their mothers,
but that was never my lot. No kind mother owned me. This would make me
weep again. Often have I observed, when in the chapel of the hospital,
some persons would sit and look at the children in the gallery with
seeming anxiety; as if they were their own, though they dared not
acknowledge them, and singling out one and another, they used to send
them presents. Perhaps, thought I, my dear mother may be among them, but
dare not own me. But who can tell her feelings? I used often to repeat
the 10th verse of the 27th Psalm, though I knew not its real
excellencies: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord
will take me up.” This was true in my case, in more senses than one. I
have often reflected, and do to this day, how it is possible for a mother
to forsake her child. Divine truth has declared it possible. Yea, she
may forget the son of her womb, a sucking child. One would think it
almost impossible; but, _mothers_, _yes_, _even mothers_, _may monsters
prove_.
I refer you, my dear friend, to a remark of good Mr. Hervey, on the text,
_Isaiah_, xlix. 15, in his Contemplations on the Starry Heavens, towards
the close of the chapter. Let me beg you to read it. I must observe to
you, it has been questioned, whether a person, who is left an orphan, can
ever glance a thought, or feel any attachment to his unknown parents?
Perhaps _not_, in general; but mankind differ as widely in their feelings
as in their gestures. It was not my case, but the contrary; as many
reasons might be assigned for my situation in the Foundling. Perhaps I
had an affectionate mother, but the cruel hand of death deprived me of
her maternal care; and interest being made for me, I was admitted into
that kind asylum—or, for some unknown cause, she might have been driven
to a foreign clime, no more to return—_or_, I might have been stolen away
from her by some proud being to hide a mother’s disgrace, after falling a
victim to the accursed seducer, I might have been forced from her by some
relentless hand, to obtain property, and placed where she was never to
see me more—or, perhaps, her affectionate husband might have been called
to fight the battles of his country, on sea or land, in the year 1780, in
which I was born. An affectionate wife, left pregnant, the news of the
death of a husband might have hurried _me_ into the world, and taken
_her_ out. So that, amidst the many calamities to which the female sex
are liable, it is hard to judge the cause why I was forsaken. This is
true, that I have two particular marks, with which I was found; _marks_
evidently given with some intention of finding me by, another day—one on
my back, and another apparently made by a red hot wire on the back of my
hand, which is still visible. This method of marking has frequently been
the case. Thus I was an orphan—
Left on the world’s bleak waste, forlorn,
In sin conceiv’d, to sorrow born;
No guide, the dreary maze to tread,
Above, no friendly shelter spread.
Alone, amidst surrounding strife,
And naked to the storms of life;
Despair look’d round with aching eyes,
And sinking nature groans and sighs.
I must conclude this, by reminding you of that very precious expression
of Jude, the apostle, in his address to the whole church of God,
sanctified by God the Father, and presented in Christ Jesus, and called
the whole election of grace—were chosen in Christ Jesus, by an act of
eternal love; and it is in _Him_ they are preserved, as a jewel in a
rock, till called by grace to the knowledge of God in Christ: and who can
possibly conceive what they are preserved from, till that period arrives?
The dangers, perils, risks, and exposures to death, many are in, yet, O
wonderful Almighty power, that keeps them till the Lord takes possession
of the heart! Surely, if there should be any recollection of these
things in heaven, we shall be filled with wonder, praise and joy.
Yours, J. C.
Thy Providence my life sustain’d
And all my wants redrest;
When in the silent womb I lay,
Or hung upon the breast.
LETTER II.
“For in thee the fatherless findeth mercy.”
TO THE SAME.
WITH pleasure I renew the pleasing task of calling my infantine days to
your notice. I have already observed, I can know but very little of that
subject, and can only go by mere conjecture. I mean the cause of being
left an orphan. I know it not, but I must confess, I really believe it
was contrary to the wish of my parent, that I should be separated from
her. I sometimes think she never knew where I was, or what became of me.
It has been reported that I was found in a church, perhaps St. John’s,
Clerkenwell, or some other church of the name, which is the reason of my
being thus named; as it has often occurred that orphans have been named
from the place where they were found. While an infant, thus exposed, it
is very evident that I was admitted into that best of institutions, the
Foundling Hospital; from thence I was sent to a village called Hadlow,
near Tunbridge, in Kent: here I was carefully nursed, by a very kind
woman; where I continued till I was five or six years of age. I do not
recollect any person coming to see me at that period, to shew me any
particular favours. I was again brought back to the Foundling, though
not without many tears, which the nurse shed at parting with me; she
would fain have kept me as her own, but she was obliged, though with much
reluctance, to give me up. I continued at the hospital till I was ten
years and a half old, but was never visited by any one. Yet,
notwithstanding this seeming neglect, I could not divest mind of the idea
that my mother was then alive, and often experienced an aching heart, and
the most anxious solicitude for me. Perhaps this was not the case; but I
still think that she did intend, at some future period, to search for,
and own me. This I gather, only from the trivial circumstance of the
marks found on me, which perhaps she put, when she was apprehensive I
should be taken from her. I cannot pass by one little circumstance,
which I must relate: we well know that the relation of it will be turned
into mere ridicule; I have no objection to that, nor do I wish to impose
upon the weak and credulous. I will only relate a matter of fact, which
occurred to me some years ago. I had been to a late lecture, one Monday
night, in the month of February, 1807. After supper, Mrs. C. being very
busy at the time, and not being tired, I sat down to write to a most
intimate friend, who is now in glory. Mrs. C. ever anxious for my
comfort, reminded me I had to rise early in the morning, and advised me
to go to rest; I was very cheerful, and we were both lively and chatty.
I mention this that you might not suppose I was dreaming. I obeyed her,
and sat at the side of the bed, and began to undress myself. She had
occasion to go to the cupboard for medicine for one of the children,
which was indisposed. She suddenly turned round, and exclaimed to me,
“my dear, look! who is that?” I turned to the wall to which she pointed,
and, to my astonishment, saw the figure of a woman against the wall; but
not being so much alarmed as you might suppose, and though chilled at the
sight, I was willing to prevent Mrs. C. from being too much alarmed, and
endeavoured to persuade her it was only the shadow of something which lay
on the table, by the looking glass, which, if removed, it would
disappear. We removed them, but the figure remained. We also carried
the candle from one end of the room to the other. All shadows occasioned
by the candle, would of course remove also, but this appearance still
continued. Mrs. C. felt extremely agitated, but I bore it with uncommon
fortitude, though I have no native courage. We both sat down to see the
issue. I proposed to speak to it, but Mrs. C. begged I would not; I sat
with my head upon my hand, and, in that position, smiling at it. In a
minute or two after we had sat down, to watch it, it began to disappear:
I observed to Mrs. C. it is going away, it is gone: as soon as I said
this it appeared as visible as ever, just like a candle sinking in the
socket, apparently out, when it blazes up again, till it expires; it then
gradually died away: this was about half-past eleven at night. The
appearance was the shadow of a woman, about the common height, longish
vissage, and apparently genteel, though in a night dress. This was not
worked up by conversation about visions; our converse was very different,
nor was it the effect of disordered nerves, as we were both uncommonly
cheerful. I did not hear of the death of any acquaintance after this, as
I expected I should; so that I was led to conjecture (and it was but
conjecture) that perhaps my dear mother, at that period, breathed her
last, and the Lord might have indulged her with a sight of her long lost
son. Permit me just to observe, this sight of the appearance was not a
passing shadow, but actually continued for nearly ten minutes. Judge my
feelings afterwards, if you can. {17} Here I close my remarks on my
mother.—_Who_ she was, and _why_ we were separated, _the day will declare
it_—when every dark and mysterious providence will be unfolded, and
mortality swallowed up of life. With respect to my treatment at the
Foundling Hospital—I speak it to the honour of the Governors of that
excellent place,—the treatment of the children is admirable, the food is
good, the master, mistresses, and nurses, are kind—and were I dying, and
leaving orphan children behind me, with the promise they should be nursed
there, I should die happy on that subject. I will give you a particular
account of the place in as few words as I can comprise it in the compass
of my next letter. Many mothers are indeed the objects of pity. Perhaps
allured by promises of marriage, till the villain, her seducer, has
effected his purpose, when she is left an object of sorrow, contempt and
woe. The seducer is a robber and a murderer; he robs parents of their
daughters, he murders the daughter’s reputation, and perhaps becomes
accessary to the murder of the fruit of his villainy; and when he has
triumphed over the fond maid to whom he has sworn eternal love, and a
speedy marriage. He leaves the aged father to exclaim, in the words of
the Beggars’s Petition:—
“My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur’d by a villain from her native home;
Is cast, abandon’d on the world’s wide stage,
And doom’d in scanty poverty to roam.”
Perhaps there is not a greater display of villainy than seduction.
Nothing more common in this country, nor any thing so vile in the sight
of a Holy God. Next to the contempt of the gospel, many indeed have been
raised up from that fall by the kind hand of God, and have become
excellent characters: and not a few have been called by divine grace to
the knowledge of Christ. And as a proof the Lord Jesus does not disdain
any one poor sinner, who is by the Spirit turned from the error of his
ways, the Lord has particularly marked down his special love. This is
evident in the history of Tamar, the daughter of Judah; Rahab, the
harlot; Mary Magdalen; nor can I forget the poor woman taken in adultery.
(_John_, viii.) It is very remarkable, there was not one word said of
the man who was guilty of the act, (perhaps one of the doctors
themselves) who brought the trembling woman to Christ. All the sin and
shame is thrown upon the poor woman, while the seducer and more
relentless is passed by; and, perhaps, to the shame of our nature,
applauded. But not so in the eyes of a sin-avenging God. Many fallen
women have been restored by grace, while many seducers are plunged into
the howlings of the damned.
Wishing my Dear Friend the triumph of grace,
I remain, yours, J. C.
Though friends or kindred near and dear,
Leave me to want or die;
My God has made my life his care,
And all my needs supply.
LETTER III.
“When thou wast under the fig tree I saw thee.”
To —
My Dear Friend.—What does this motto remind you of? I dare say you will
never forget the happy moment in which you enjoyed the love of God to
your soul; while I, the most unworthy, was discoursing on this text; it
is very blessed to look back, at times, at such Bethel visits; thine ears
shall hear a voice behind thee; this voice of past experience must be
attended to; thou shalt remember all the way the Lord thy God has led
thee; and, permit me to assure you, every such gracious visit as you
experienced at that time, is nothing less than a manifestation of
electing, redeeming, and pardoning love; the assurance, yes, the very
full assurance of God’s eternal choice of you in Christ, and the full
forgiveness of all sins; may you be thus often favored, while travelling
through the wilderness; but, how deep have you drunk of the cup of
affliction, since that period? the eating the little book is truly sweet
to the mouth; but there is often bitterness of soul felt after. I have
been forcibly struck with the above motto, as it related to the truly
excellent apostle of our blessed Lord, Saint Bartholomew, who is called
Nathaniel, in the 1st of _John_; it is supposed his mother hid him under
a tree, when the sanguinary Herod issued out his bloody edict, to murder
all the babes in Bethlehem, in order to massacre the ever-blessed
Redeemer; under this tree the Lord saw him, and in due time brought him
to an intimate acquaintance with himself; no doubt much more is intended
by his being under the fig tree, which I pretend not to treat of now; but
only to remind you, my dear friend, of that gracious hand, that
constantly preserves the objects of his love, through the various dangers
and perils in infancy, and the giddy scenes of youth, till called to the
knowledge of Christ. This leads me to the continuation of the subject, I
have already begun to our mutual friend, Mrs. R. who, you know, is ever
solicitous for my good. I promised, in my last, to give her some account
of that, which I have the highest respect for; and never see but with
sacred pleasure—I mean the Foundling Hospital. I cannot, however,
proceed, till I have quoted a very important text, which is adapted, in
some measure, to my case. “Let mine outcasts dwell with thee, Moab; be
thou a covert to him from the spoiler:” they are outcasts, but divine Law
claims them as his own: this is the privilege of God’s own people. This
place has been, perhaps, the asylum of many a chosen vessel: and I can
testify, it is a far better situation than many a boarding school; for
which, parents may pay a considerable sum of money for the care of their
children. This Hospital was built by Captain THOMAS CORAM, who devoted
his fortune to the purposes of benevolence: a fortune dearly earned, by
many fatigues, and hazardous adventures, at sea: this will be to his
eternal honor, with those who assisted in this laudable work. I can
scarcely ever think of this amiable man, but the words of an hymn, we
used to sing at the Foundling Hospital, occur to my mind.
“For those, whose goodness founded this,
A better house prepare,
Receive them to thy heavenly bliss,
And nay we meet them there.”
This gentleman spent seventeen years, in endeavouring to obtain a
charter, for building and establishing the Hospital, which was, at last,
granted, in the year 1762; and in the first fourteen years, 14,400
helpless infants were received: in the year 1756, Parliament voted the
sum of £10,000 for the support of the Charity: the next year £30,000 more
was granted to it; this was encreased to £50,000, in two years more. On
its first establishment, it admitted all children, without any
restrictions; but this bad plan gave much scope to the vices of the age;
seductions became more prevalent; and numberless infants were torn from
the affectionate embrace of their mothers, by the cruel hand of unnatural
fathers: thus tender mothers were left, like Rachael, “weeping for her
children, and refused to be comforted because they were not.” Fathers
became the sacrificers of their children. Worse characters, in a certain
sense, than Herod:—it is an awful thing to charge a father with such
heinous intents; but it is the prevailing opinion, that if there were no
Foundling Hospital in the country, or any similar institution, for the
purpose of receiving the unfortunate offspring of seduction, many wicked
parents would contrive some means or other of getting rid of them.
Doubtless many mothers are culpable; but it is more easy to prove, that
the father is the greater murderer, who first seduced perhaps a lovely
woman, and afterwards most basely, cruelly, and inhumanly deserted both
mother and child. I think the father will be found the most culpable in
the last great day. This excellent institution, speaking after the
manner of men, has saved its thousands of lives, and must be reckoned
amongst the rest of those excellent charities, which are the glory of
British humanity, notwithstanding all the depravities of our fallen
nature. The children are under the care of the Hospital, until 21 years
of age; better treatment the children cannot have; though I have
sometimes thought it rather hard, that the rules of the Charily forbid,
that any mother should have a personal knowledge of her child; but the
governors will, at any time, inform her respecting its life and health,
while under their guardianship. Every child, I believe, is
re-christened, when taken in, and consequently has a different name to
that of the parents. All hopes of seeing them again, on the mother’s
part, is effectually prevented; they can never expect it, nor can it be
attained, but by the knowledge and consent of the governors, unless they
have it in their power to provide comfortably for them; on this
condition, I have been informed, they may have them back; or they are
bound apprentices. I am sorry to say, some mothers have brutality enough
scarcely ever to drop a tear over the little deserted stranger; and but
few, I believe, ever make enquiry after it; but the God of mercy protects
and supplies the helpless and lost,
“When parents, deaf to nature’s voice,
Their helpless charge forsakes,
Then nature’s God, who heard our cries,
Compassion on us takes.”
Much as I have wished, at times, to have known a mother, strange to tell,
I seldom felt that desire to know my father. Should both or either be
now alive, I should be glad to have it in my power to relieve or comfort
them, in their declining years, if they need it: but may we meet above;
when I shall be fully satisfied with all the Lord’s dealings with me,
from infancy to death. I wish it had in my power to send you a longer
and more interesting account of this place; but you may read much more of
it in a little work, entitled, “An Historical Sketch of the Foundling
Hospital; by a Foundling.” Printed by M. Allen, 15, Paternoster Row. My
simple history may remind my dear friend of the gracious care of God over
his servant, Moses, after the bloody decree of Pharoah, to destroy all
the male of the Israelites. Who can tell the feelings of his
affectionate mother, when she laid him in the flags? and, above all, who
can describe her gratitude, when the Lord directed the servant of
Pharoah’s daughter to _her_, as the appointed nurse? The apostle
declares, his parents hid him by faith, for three months, because they
saw that he was a proper child, and they were not afraid of the king’s
commandment. Many others of God’s family have been as singularly
preserved: some of whom Scripture gives an account, and others it will be
fully known by the general assembly of God’s saints, when Jesus shall
appear in his glory, to make up his jewels. I would, above all things,
be ever in mind of that Almighty power, which preserved the human nature
of the Lord Jesus in his infancy, when his parents were warned of God, to
flee into Egypt, till the death of that blood-hound, Herod. May you be
often enabled to look back on that kind hand, which has thus far led you
on, and has engaged never to forsake you. To him I commit you, and
remain,
Yours, J. C.
P.S. It would swell this letter to a volume, to relate some singular
circumstances of my brother foundlings, which might very much amuse you;
but that would hinder this humble attempt to record the gracious dealings
of God with myself. One circumstance, I must relate in my next, which
may serve to shew something of maternal affection.
“Unnumber’d comforts to my soul,
Thy tender care bestow’d
Before my infant heart conceived,
From whom those comforts flow’d.”
LETTER IV.
“When my father and my mother foresaketh me, the Lord taketh me up.”
TO THE SAME.
My Dear Friend,—I know not what were your sentiments, in reading my
simple tale; which, by the bye, you have only to thank yourself for your
trouble, as it is by your’s, and the desires of many, that I thus make
public my origin, as far as I can trace it. Your care for me, and
anxiety, long manifested for my best interest, I hope I shall never lose
sight of: although I am a stranger to the affection of a mother, I know
not what affection she had for me. I have heard of some, who have sought
after, and dealt motherly with some of my deserted little fellows; I knew
one of them, who is now living, who had been taken from his mother for
reasons unknown to me; but, I have been informed, she kept her eye upon
him, while an infant at nurse, and during his abode at the hospital; and
when he was apprenticed, she frequently came of errands to the shop, and
dealt with him for years, but did not make herself known to him. (I
judge how you would have acted; I do not think _you_ would have kept that
secret so long.) His time was expired, and he was to seek a lodging:
strange to tell, he sought, and found one at the very house his mother
lived in. After some time she invited a few friends, by the consent of
her husband, to sup with her, and she, of course, invited her son. After
the supper was over, she related a very affecting story to the company,
concerning her former husband, and the reasons why she was obliged to
part with her child; when, to the astonishment of the young man, she made
herself known to him; and, no doubt she exclaimed to him, calling him by
his name, “I am your mother.” Judge the feelings of all present. This
is the story, as related to me. I remember the young man, when a boy
with me. This is a privilege I never had; but, blessed be God, my
heavenly father has owned me, and the Church of God has also received me:
she is called the mother, for, “who so doeth the will of my father, the
same is my mother, my sister, and my brother.”
Nothing, of any importance, occurred to me, while in the Foundling; I was
free from care, and a stranger to sorrow. A good table provided daily; a
kind master, who was a God-fearing man, and studied the welfare of the
children; the schoolmistresses and nurses were all as affectionate as
mothers, and the worthy governors took every care of the comfort of the
Establishment. Many poor children have their worst times in infancy, and
their juvenile days; but mine were the best: I was particularly marked,
by all, as a favorite, and allowed little privileges, which others had
not; and when the master bought playthings for the boys, he generally
gave me a book, knowing that my heart was set upon that alone; but this
little Paradise must be exchanged for a wilderness of sorrow, sin, and
woe. It was customary, in those days, that any respectable person might
chose an apprentice out of the hospital, at any age, as no premium was
given with them. Formerly, I believe, there was a premium, till the days
of the execrable and infamous Mrs. Brownrigge, who was executed for her
cruelty to some poor girls, she had out of this place, and from the
parish. I suppose the hospital being crowded, the governors were the
more willing to let children go out at a very early period, to persons
who engaged to take care of them. I was chose out of the rest, as we
stood in a row; the master recommended me for temper and conduct,
believing the person who came to choose an apprentice was very
respectable, and in about three weeks after, my new master came tor me.
I was but ten years and a half old; of course, I was bound an apprentice
for nearly eleven years; this was a long time to look for. All that knew
me in the hospital, were sorry at my departure. I trudged through the
streets, and chattered with my new master, till I arrived at his house,
in Great Portland Street, Mary-le-bone. I know not how to express what a
singular sensation came over me when I entered his house; a dizzines, or
rather a darkness overwhelmed me, that all appeared dark about me; no
doubt, this was but the native weakness of the nerves; or, if it was, as
I am at times induced to think, a supernatural sensation surely it was an
indication of the dark days I should now begin to feel. Never shall I
forget the grief that overcame me, the few first nights I wept aloud, I
had left all that was dear to me; I was among strangers; I felt, indeed,
like a deserted, a banished child: but the hand of time wiped away my
grief, and a variety of new scenes began to open to my view. I am sure,
my dear friend will smile, when she can picture to herself how strange
the streets appeared to me, the shops, pictures, books, and names of
persons over the doors; these I used to gaze at, and rehearse when I came
home, which afforded much mirth to the family. There was one great evil
attended my early departure from the Foundling; I had not attained to the
use of my pen; I could read well, for being only taught my letters, and a
little spelling, I was so extravagantly fond of a book, that I seized
every bit of paper with any printing on it, to read it, that many were
astonished to hear me read, at a very early period, with such propriety.
But, alas! just as I was put to writing, I was chose an apprentice; the
person to whom I was bound, promised faithfully to put me forward in
writing and arithmetic; but he broke his word, and rather objected to my
reading at all, than attempted to improve, or give an opportunity for it;
this has been a great grief to me, and an incalculable loss. The
business of my master, as a carver and gilder, increased so much that it
was impossible for me to be spared to attend an evening academy; but I
still loved reading, and generally had a book of some kind in my
pocket.—After I had been apprenticed for some time, I went to see my old
friends, at the Foundling, who were all rejoiced to see me; particularly
the master, who bore the same respect for me till his death, which was
recent; but was often sensibly touched at my train of afflictions. There
was a branch of the business in which I soon became very useful to my
master, though it proved of very little use to me, at the end of my
apprenticeship; and finding this, I was not taught any other branch of
the trade: this was violating his agreement. I was also the perfect
slave in the house; set to every part of the vilest drudgery, and
debarred that knowledge of the trade, to which I was bound an apprentice.
I believe my master had formerly been a professor; but, as his money
increased, he neither professed, nor followed the religion of the Son of
God; but he joined himself to a sect called the Swedenbourgians, who
talked much of wisdom and charity, as a divine influence; but, this I
know, my master had but little charity for me, his slave. I often think
of an expression I am told Mr. Whitfield sometimes used—“golden
apprentices, silver journeymen, and iron masters; but he that endureth to
the end, the same shall be saved.” The Lord led me on from stage to
stage, nor ever left me, till he had given me some blessed acquaintance
with himself. Hence the promise, “I will give them an heart to know me.”
The Lord bless you.
Yours, J. C.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Before my feeble thoughts had learn’d
To form themselves in prayer.
LETTER V.
“Who hath remembered me in my low days, for his mercy endureth for
ever.”
To —
As you had some knowledge of me, during a part of my juvenile days, and
have been many years an eye and an ear witness of the Lord’s dealings
with me, since that period; I conceive it my duty to give you some little
information of the earlier part of my life, till that time, in which we
became acquainted. Our most blessed Lord never loses sight of his dear
children, although they are hid in the sand of sin, the world, or
obscurity; nor should I ever have attempted to make this information
public, had not my enemies invented so many awful falsehoods concerning
me, and my friends entreat for my memoirs, for their own information,
that they might glorify God, on my behalf, who remembered me in my low
estate. I cannot relate any thing marvelous in my case, as many can, who
have been exposed to imminent peril, by sea or land. I recollect once
being out with a family, on a Sunday party, and having a glass coach for
the day; I was appointed to ride behind it; this was a treat for me,
though conscience, even in my state of ignorance, convinced me it was
wrong, thus to violate the Lord’s day. I am astonished at the parties of
pleasure that are formed on that sacred day, in this professing country;
nor do the awful judgments that have, and do constantly befal hundreds,
deter from this shameful practice. I recollect once, hearing a solemn
expression from the pulpit, “O could you listen to the shrieks of the
damned in hell, you would hear their exclaim ‘Sunday visiting, and Sunday
pleasure taking, are my damnation.’”—But to return to the event of our
coming home in the evening, I let go my hold of the coach strings, and
fell backwards on the ground; here I lay for a time, almost insensible,
and had it been dark, and many carriages passing at the time, I must
inevitably have lost my life. Speaking after the manner of men. Another
time, I met with an accident, in ascending a ladder, which broke under
me; but, through mercy, I was thrown, I am sure, by an invisible hand, to
a wall, which I was enabled to lay hold of, and was saved from broken
limbs, and perhaps death. Being employed in melting brimstone, of which
our moulds, in my trade were made, I believe, through carelessness, I let
it boil over, and in endeavouring to save the rest, and prevent the house
from being burnt down, my hands were covered with the burning brimstone,
and no further accident happened. I might mention a variety of similar
occurrences which plainly shew, to the honor of Almighty grace, that I
was preserved by his hand, through the instrumentality of his holy
angels, till called: “for he shall give his angels charge over thee, to
keep thee in all thy ways.” What belongs to the covenant head, is most
blessedly fulfilled in the covenant body. During my apprenticeship, I
waded through many toils, hardships, and much ill usage, the effects of
which, I still feel in my constitution. Such ill treatment, perhaps, I
might not have received, had I been blest with the fostering hand of a
parent. Confined, at all times, at home, except when sent on errands, or
to church—debarred from the society of every one, either male or
female—kept to hard labour, seldom allowed a penny, often hungry and
badly clothed—a slave, a drudge, and, worst of all, denied the knowledge
of that business to which I was bound; these things often made me fret,
and shed thousands of tears. What will some masters have to answer for,
in the day of God? The latter part of my time, I endeavoured to form an
intimacy with some females; which is very natural; but it being
discovered, I was forbid to speak to them. One of whom I promised
marriage if providence should permit. But long before my apprenticeship
expired, she was married to another. She is still alive, and she has
visited me within these two years. After I had lost her, another came to
live in the house; but we were forbid all intimacy: and an old woman, a
relation of the master, was appointed to watch us; so that we could not
speak to each other, only when the family was gone to bed; this was
running a risk: and this old plague of a woman (I suppose, having been in
the oven herself) knew _where_, _when_, and _how_ to look after us. One
trifling circumstance proved this—I am sure you will smile at the
relation, and if it gives offence, I would ask pardon of my reader for
the story. The family having retired, myself and fellow-apprentice
supposed to be in bed, I slipped down stairs to converse with my darling;
but, alas! I was soon detected, as I heard a footstep on the stairs, when
I was obliged to hide myself in the cupboard. As soon as the person was
gone, I came out of my secrecy, and we renewed our converse—but we were
presently disturbed by the old woman, who was roving about the house on
pretence of looking for something: hearing this, my companion shut me up
in the coal cellar, but in her haste she unfortunately had not shut the
door close, though she had turned the key, and taken it with her,
intending to return in a few minutes—here the old woman came and found
me, like Guy Fawkes, in a corner of the cellar. This was the occasion of
a sad uproar. The young woman left her situation, and was soon
afterwards married; and I was threatened with being sent to sea; the
horrid thoughts of which almost broke my heart. {33} But amidst all the
hardships I endured, I never lost my bookish fit, although I had scarcely
a moment’s time to read. Every penny I got, I saved till it amounted to
sixpence or a shilling, when I soon hied to the bookseller. Many books
were given me by the men who worked for my master; and when I arrived at
the age of eighteen, I had a tolerable library. It excited the jealousy
of my master, to see that I was the favorite of some people, by whose
means I had gained such a collection of books, and he determined to take
them from me, under the pretence that I had not got them honestly:—he
therefore sent for my old master at the Foundling, who advised him, if he
had any complaints against me, to make them known to the Committee, at
the Hospital; he did so—and I appeared before the gentlemen, to answer
for myself. This agitated me very much the night previous, but I was
enabled at that time to pour out my soul in prayer, that God would be
with me when I should be brought before the Governors, knowing my natural
timidity. A person also advised me to set down in writing, as far as I
could remember, who gave me money at various times for the different
errands I had gone upon. The day arrived, I appeared, and the Lord
opened my mouth boldly to answer all the charges. The principal were,
that I had changed my religion, and that I was in possession of a great
many books which he could not account for. To the first I fully
demonstrated that I was most firmly attached to the articles, doctrines,
and prayers of the Church of England, and that I went to that church
where those truths were preached, the nearest of which was St. Giles in
the Fields, on Sunday afternoons, where the pious and faithful Rev. Mr.
Shephard preached. This admission gave universal satisfaction; and as to
my books, I presented to the Committee a sort of diary, in which I had
minuted the particular persons who had given me a few pence, how I had
saved them, and what books I had bought with them. They were all
perfectly satisfied with my conduct, and requested my master to restore
them to me, which he did. The following remark was of course made by all
who knew it, that many had been brought before the Committee for being
too bad, but never till now was any one brought for being too good. My
master lost the day, as he could lay nothing to my charge; for, indeed,
it was well known I was strictly moral; I scarcely ever took the name of
God in vain, and hated to hear an oath; I detested drink, excepting the
weakest beverage, such as water, milk, or tea. I never saw a play,
neither in my youth, _nor since_: though some persons have had the
impudence to assert, they have seen me at them. I was guilty of no
external enormity whatever, nor did I ever play at games, as boys do;
and, sinful as I feel to this day I bless God for his keeping me by his
power in youth—I do consider it a mercy to know the Lord and serve him in
the days of our youth, before the heart gets hardened in folly, or wrapt
up in pharisaic pride: yet I had sin enough within me, as all others
have, to damn a world—which I trust has been pardoned through the
ever-blessed Saviour. May he be ever dear to your soul.
Yours, truly, J. C.
Oh, how shall words with equal warmth,
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my grateful heart,
But thou can’st read it there.
LETTER VI.
“Let mine outcast dwell with thee, Moab, be thou a covert to him,
from the face of the spoiler.”
TO THE SAME.