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.