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.”