Title: The Foundling; or, The Child of Providence
Author: J. Church
Release date: October 6, 2018 [eBook #58039]
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1823 R. Weston edition by David Price
Transcribed from the 1823 R. Weston edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
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.
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.
Juvenile Days—Apprenticeship—Marriage—Engagements—Call to the Ministry—Baptism—Checquered Scenes—Sore Trials—Removals—Trial—Building—Prosperity—Fresh Troubles—Imprisonment—Enlargements—Mercies.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“Let mine outcast dwell with thee, Moab, be thou a covert to him, from the face of the spoiler.”
TO THE SAME.
My dear Friend,—Having raised your curiosity, if no more than that, you no doubt feel anxious for the continuance of my tale; which, though not half so interesting as many, yet, the truth being known, will give you some satisfaction. After the affair of the trial I had, and gaining the day, it was not to be supposed my master was very kind, but took every opportunity of mortifying and grieving me. But I bore it with patience till God delivered me from him. In the year 1799 I was led to Tottenham-court Chapel, to hear the Rev. Mr. L. His preaching seemed to strike me so forcibly, that I thought I could have followed him until death—but, oh, I have since seen it is one thing to have the passions moved, and another to experience the power of the Holy Ghost. Having heard him a few times, as soon as he left London, I begged the Lord would grant me the pleasure to hear him often the year following, when he should return to London. God granted this, though by terrible things. At last the news was brought me, this gentleman would preach on such a Lord’s Day on his return to London. I could not keep secret what I had been praying for, and it being whispered in the family, the night previous to my hearing him, the master issued out a decree, that I was not to go out of the house all day on Sunday, except in the afternoon. Although I knew there was nothing to keep me at home, I fretted about this sadly; and when eleven o’clock came on Sunday morning, the house could no longer hold me; and, contrary to all orders, I fled like a lapwing to Tottenham-court Chapel, when with joy I beheld my favorite preacher, and with raptures heard him preach on his favorite theme, Phil. iii. 8. I returned to dinner. The old woman, of whom I have spoken before, observed, she had orders to go out that morning, and I was to stay at home—to which I replied, it was nothing but a plan to mortify me, as she made no preparation for going out, although it was past church-time. She gave me a hint I should be well horse-whipped for it; this made me desperate—and in the afternoon I went out again. In the evening I went to the Tabernacle, Moorfields, and heard a most glorious discourse on the first epistle of Jude, by my favorite preacher. My rapturous joys were so great, I did not care what I suffered. I thought it my duty to go where I did; although forbidden by man, it was better to obey God than man. These were my thoughts at that time; and, as to my joys, I believe they were scarcely any but the raptures of a way-side hearer. However, the Lord had a hand in this affair. Nothing was said to me that evening, and getting a little more native courage than I had before, the foreman of the shop, by my wish, let me practise a little in the business to which I was bound. This gave a fresh offence to my master, who, having got some drink, sought for a quarrel with me. From these two circumstances, I always made it a point to be civil to all, and especially to my superiors; but I had been too easy for many years; I was nearly 20 years of age, had served above nine years of my apprenticeship, and had never been permitted to learn the business to which I was bound, and by which alone I could get my bread. I was for the first time enabled to tell my master these things, in a very polite and becoming way, but he was so much exasperated at the moment, that he took up some heavy wood and beat me in the most cruel manner imaginable, and afterwards threw a large pan at my head, which hurt me, and of which I felt the effects for some time. I was now roused to open my mind freely, and I assured him, that as he had made me his slave for nine years, I should make my complaint to the Committee of the Foundling Hospital, and know why I was not allowed to learn the business to which I was bound. I accordingly left him, but could not have any immediate access to them for a fortnight; during which time the master made application to the sitting magistrate at Bow-street for a hearing; when the magistrate considered it was high time I was taken from such slavery: my indentures were of course given up, and my master and I parted for ever. I was now, once more, cast on the wide world, without a home, without a trade, without a relation, without a friend, and but three bad halfpence in the world. What to do I knew not. Where to go, or how to act, I could not tell—but that Almighty angel who directed Hagar in the wilderness to a well of water, when ready to expire with want, put me in mind of a young man who was in very comfortable circumstances: to him I went, and requested him to take care of my books; for, strange to tell, I really thought more of my books than of a living at that time. The above person not only promised to take care of them, but of me also, till I could get something to do. I gladly accepted this offer, and had an opportunity of hearing my favorite preacher the same evening, and continued hearing him till I was fully engaged in public work myself. But my continuance in this situation was very short, as the person who had been a flaming professor, and just going into the ministry, had taken a singular turn, and joined himself to the petty players at a little theatre. He was constantly rehearsing speeches in plays, nor could I persuade him to attend the gospel any more. He squandered away vast sums of money, and soon became bankrupt. His parents had been pious people, and had lived very near, to save a fortune for this son, who presently sent it to the four winds, which is frequently the case. How foolish and mad are parents to labour; toil, grudge, and half starve themselves, and all about them, to hoard up money for some extravagant son to squander. “He heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them.” I wish some parents could read, under the influence of the Spirit of God, the book at Ecclesiastes. I was soon obliged to leave this place; but the hand of the Lord soon appeared again, and raised me up a most invaluable friend, who is now in glory; nor less friendly were her family, who are persons of good repute in the world, and above all, in the church, worthily so. One of them is pastor over a respectable congregation near London. This family, well knowing what usage I had experienced, and being lovers of those who were seeking the Lord, gave me great encouragement, kindly supplied many wants, and at last took me into their business, having had some acquaintance with it, during my apprenticeship. Here I continued, with low wages, a weak body, and hard work, but a contented mind, and an opportunity of hearing my favorite preacher, who was at this time in London, 1799. It was at this period I first had the pleasure of getting acquainted with the daughter of our good old friend, Mr. Elliott, who brought me to visit you; and how strange the dealings of God with you since; but hitherto hath the Lord helped you. My intimacy with this pious young woman was increased, and continued till she became my wife. Her father had been a most respectable opulent man, in Hampshire but, through family afflictions, became reduced; he was a most pious, God-fearing man, called to the knowledge of the truth under the ministry of that apostle of the British empire, George Whitfield, whose memory was so dear to the old gentleman, that nothing could please him better than relating how God had blest his preaching; and, as he lived an humble seeker, so he died in the triumph of precious faith, having been brought into the full liberty of the gospel only a little before his dissolution; and leaving behind him two affectionate daughters, who, with many tears, deposited his remains in the burial-ground of Bunhill Fields, in the full confidence of a joyful immortality and eternal life. You knew him well, and highly esteemed him. About a year after this, his dear daughter and myself were married—I am sure in much love, and in nothing but poverty in prospect; but we always found the Lord a God at hand when we most needed him. This you have been an eye and ear witness of many times; so that I can testify, that he is a prayer-hearing and prayer-answering God. To him he glory.
Yours, truly, J. C.
“He that hath mercy on them shall lead them.”
To —
My dear Friend.—Many years have elapsed since you first knew me in the Borough; and it was no doubt the hand of God which brought me there. In my last letter to Mrs. W. I intimated I worked for a very worthy family in Tottenham-court Road, but my frame of body was too weak to endure it. I sought out another situation on the Surrey side of the bridge. Myself and fellow apprentice had lived together amicably for some years, and endured many conflicts daring our captivity. I heard he was in business, and made application to him; he treated me with every mark of civility, and took me into the business with him. This was a great pleasure to me, as it gave me an opportunity of acquiring a greater knowledge of that branch of the business I ought to have learnt before; but, although I had an easier situation, and every kindness which circumstances would admit of, I had another unpleasantly to cope with. I was daily exposed to temptation, had frequent pressing invitations to places of amusement—and, although I resisted them all, through grace, yet I feared daily I should be overcome and led back into the world again. One day I accidentally (as we call it) met with an old acquaintance who had been brought up in the Hospital with me, who recited to me the various changes he had experienced in his different situations; amongst the rest he had lived with Mr. C. a most respectable tallow chandler, in the Borough. He told me he was a most pious man, and a good master, but he had given him some offence, and was justly dismissed. He believed that he was then in want of a person in the shop, and to act as a porter. On this situation I set my mind, and immediately made application for it; in fact, I begged of the Lord to let me have it. I remember one evening I attempted to go and speak to him (Mr. C.) about it, but I was struck almost speechless in the attempt. This I took to be an omen that God did not approve of the place for me. I felt rebellious, and being naturally self-willed, I was determined to persevere. My mind frequently said in prayer, “Lord, if it be thy will.” But my heart wickedly thought and said too, “whether it is or not, I will have it.” O, the hypocrisy of the human heart! How often is the Almighty mocked by thousands who use this expression in prayer, “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” and at the same time are daily acting against the revealed will of God. How great is the forbearance of God with guilty man. I was however indulged with this situation, though I was no more fit for it than a child; it was to carry heavy loads chiefly, yet my master was kind and patient with me, he saw my weakness and accommodated me as well as circumstances would admit. It was in this situation you first knew me, 20 years ago. My master, Mr. C. was an excellent one, a godly, conscientious man, and happy should I have been, had I been capacitated to have made myself useful to him. I was much dejected and troubled in mind, low and thoughtful; and, in my business, though all saw I was willing to do what I could, yet I was much confused. Being a pious man, he kept up family prayer in his house, and on several occasions he asked me to go to prayer, perceiving the Lord had blest me with some gifts, and he hoped grace also, and that I acted in all things unblamably. He once mentioned something to me respecting a public ministry. He also employed a fellow-servant, who is a God-fearing man, and who belonged to a prayer-meeting, to know my mind upon the subject. I believe I gave him some distant hint, that my mind led a little that way, but I did not consider that I had any suitable talent, nor had I any connection that could introduce me to any means, nor could I possibly see any opening in Providence; of course I could not see I was called to such a work; for I did not believe any one was called to the public ministry of the gospel, without the Lord had given him talents suited to the work for which he intended him. I am now speaking of his external call: the work of God on his soul, I intend to speak of elsewhere. My master, however, recommended me to the manager of the London Itinerant Society, who, after some conversation with me, requested me to accompany a young man into one of the villages near London, to teach children in a Sunday-school. Not knowing the nature of that work till I had embarked in it, I went for some time to Norwood, and several other places, but I was soon tired of this work. The long journies and weak body, hard labour all the week, and an empty pocket, deprived of seeing my lover for weeks together; these externals soon made me relinquish that work: and above all the loss of that ministry I so much esteemed, and those ordinances I so much enjoyed, made my chariot-wheels drag heavily on a Sunday, so many miles to hear some dull country children say their alphabet. Though this loss and trouble was sometimes made up by the godly converse of the teachers between the several services, and on the road home at night: this was a little reviving in my bondage. After continuing some months with Mr. C. in the Borough, I had still an inclination to return to my own business. Accordingly, I communicated to my invaluable master, that I had a house to work at. We parted, by mutual agreement; he gave me an excellent character, and has ever spoken most respectfully of me, amidst all the clamour, bitterness, lies, malice, and evil-speaking I have met with; and, I believe, would have done me much good in restoring me to repute, and warding off the blow of calumny, had it been possible. However, he spoke of me as he found me, and it would be well if every one did the same. I now returned to my old business of gilding, at a house in the Strand where, after I had been a little while, I was married, at the New Church in the Strand, the 22d of March, 1801, two years after I left my apprenticeship. I had now an opportunity of hearing the Word again, of going into villages when I was able, and of meeting the Itinerant Society, who met on Thursday evenings in Shoe Lane, for mutual improvement, the exercise of gifts, and the arrangements for the Lord’s Day. I did not continue long in the Strand. The worthy family I have spoken of before in Tottenham-court Road, had been misinformed that I was out of a situation; they kindly sent for me, and gave me as good wages as the nature of their business would admit, though they were but low. I went on very comfortably for some years, and as I improved in my business, so I was advanced in wages. My wife also took in work, and did all she could to render me happy; and what was very remarkable, every child which we had, the Lord graciously added some little advance to my wages. This often stopped the mouth of unbelief, and made me contented. Never did, perhaps, a happier pair exist for some years, than we were, till popularity and calumny spoiled all. During my continuance with the above worthy family of the Jacksons, I had three children born. We often had opportunities of watching the hand of God, in his kind providence; we were frequently deeply affected in reading good Mr. H’s. Bank of Faith, and we daily grew acquainted with the Lord’s goodness, which He caused to pass before us. I look back on this time as the happiest of my days; though I had but 16 shillings a week for a time, yet this grew to 25 shillings; and, through industry and regularity, we lived—without much care of the world—much happier than those who are daily burdened with riches, or the toil of great business. But the Lord saw fit to call me out to greater scenes; and, having but little natural wisdom or prudence, depth or foresight, in proportion to my growing popularity, I was made the dupe of intrigue, artifice, hypocrisy, cruelty, and sorrow. Yet the Lord never withheld his mercy and his grace, nor gave me up fully to the wishes of my enemies, but by every thing he has instructed me. For all thy people shall be taught of God.
Yours, in Him, J. C.
What thanks I owe thee, and what love;
A boundless endless store
Shall echo through the world above,
Till time shall be no more.
“What man is he that feareth the Lord? Him shall he teach in the way that he shall choose.”
To —
My dear Friend,—You well remember me, when an attendant on the society in Tottenham-court Chapel. The Lord has called you out at times to be a public witness to his truth in several schools and villages, in the Itinerant Societies. This is an arduous but most delightful work; and if it was the will of God, I would devote myself entirely to that sacred employment—for though you return on Sunday evening with a tired body, yet your mind is happy: not encumbered with the cares of a church, the tempers, whims, and vexations of your hearers, nor the envy of your brethren, which abounds, if you prosper—but every minister will see it needful to abide in that work in which the Lord has called him; and, like the stars, some are fixed, and some constantly moving round the sun—so it is with us; but this pleasing thought cheers us—they that turn many to righteousness, shall shine as the sun and the stars for ever and ever.—Dan. xii. 9. What an honor conferred on such as us, to be instrumental in turning any to the righteousness of Christ, and to walk in his righteous ways! But to return to my tale. I had not the pleasure of going out for the London Itinerant Society many months, or for the Baptist Society—through weakness of body, the journies were too long for me—and being returned to the family of the worthies, for so I must ever denominate the Jacksons, by whom you know I was recommended to the prayer-meeting, and Expounding Society at Tottenham-court Chapel, I attended the early prayer-meeting on Sundays and Fridays. During this time I only travelled occasionally for the Itinerant Society; but being approved of among them, and engaging in prayer with them, I was appointed to expound the Scriptures amongst them, one Thursday evening. As I had never attempted to speak in public before, only in prayer, and some sort of addresses to children in the school, this appointment laid very heavy on my mind; a sense of unfitness, the fears of presumption, the dread of rushing into the work uncalled, and the horrors of falling into sin, and publicly exposing the cause, drove me at times to my wits ends. Yet, a love for souls, a love of truth, and a most inveterate hatred of error; the starving state of many pious souls of villages where I had been, and the shyness of the preachers declaring the great truths of God. These things weighed deeply on my mind, and impelled me to go forward; in the mean time, I was enabled to be looking constantly to the Lord for his approbation, his direction and blessing. The night arrived, the society met; my name was called: I went with trembling knees, and once more offering up a petition to the Lord for help, I opened the Bible, and expounded the 1st chapter of the Revelations. The Lord opened my mouth, and filled my lips with important matter: those who were present were astonished, though some thought the doctrine was too high. This was the first time I ever attempted to speak from the Holy Scriptures: I was requested to speak again and again, but I only expounded the Word, as I felt my mind most at liberty upon that subject. During this time it was also proposed that I should speak from the Word of God, at Tottenham Chapel Society, which I did several times; but there were a few of the leaders of that society who disapproved of it, urging, the manner and spirit of my exhortations were too much like Huntington’s. I accordingly declined speaking, but was requested to continue among them in the prayer-meeting, which I did till I was called elsewhere. I now began to fear I had presumed, in attempting to take an office upon me so high and so holy; begged the Lord to pardon me, and promised to offend no more. I gave up the work for a season. During this time of silence, my mind ran much upon the education of ignorant children; and I well remember, that, on one May-day, I had occasion to call on a friend in Brook-street, New Road: I saw a great crowd of children, of both sexes, around the dancing sweeps; it then occurred to my mind how useful would be a Sunday-school in this neighbourhood: I enquired if such an institution had ever been in that place, or thereabouts, and, to my astonishment, I found none; and even many old professors at Tottenham Chapel did not know what I meant. The first thing necessary was a room, which I soon obtained, at the low rent of 1s. 6d. per week; but, how I was to get even that, and some needful books, I knew not; and, another obstacle was, whether the parents in the low neighbourhood about there, would be willing to let their children attend. I communicated my plan to one or two others, young men who had travelled for the Itinerant Society; some of whom went abroad, and became, I hope, useful missionaries, whom I have heard, are since dead; two brothers, the Gordons, and Mr. Loveless, whose names often occurred in the Evangelical Magazine: these assisted in the work, and one young man, Mr. Dowling, who was the most active of all, and who made it his study, day and night, to be useful to the rising generation—he is now one of the most choice preachers of the age, settled at C. in Essex. We opened the school one Sunday morning, and about seventeen children attended; in the afternoon there came double that number; the following Sunday came many more, so that we were soon obliged to seek a larger place, which was obtained in Tottenham-Court Road, near the chapel: this was also desirable, as it gave the children an opportunity of attending the Word, and making the school known. This last place was also too small. A large building was taken in Cleveland-street, and no school I ever heard of, sprung up so quick, was attended so well, or became so useful; this, by the blessing of God, was owing to the wise plan, and great exertions of Mr. D. It still continues, I hear, in a very flourishing state, and though the name of its founder is buried in oblivion, yet many have cause to be thankful for the hint given me by the Lord, on a May-day. It is now, I believe, called the Fitzroy Sabbath School. [51] The Lord would not, however, let me be hid, and although I ceased expounding Scripture for some time, yet the Lord called me out again elsewhere. I became a subject of some conversation, and began to be known. There was a little society, held at a Mr. Foxwell’s, in the parish of St. Ann’s, Soho, denominated The Westminster Itinerant Society; this was but new, and so little known, that they could scarcely send to but one village. I went one evening, in company with a friend, to this society, and found them much more lively, spiritual, and loving-hearted than any other I had ever been in. Some one in the room hinted to the manager, that I had been used to go out teaching in villages, and he requested I would go out for them, if they were needy, to which I consented, but had no immediate appointment at that time. This was on a Tuesday; on the following Friday, two striking portions of Scripture came into my mind very forcibly, and was opened in their meaning and connexion; nor did I lose them all the day, though I could not tell why they were thus sent. Late at night, before I went to rest, a person (a preacher) called on me, and begged I would go, on the following Sunday, into a village called the Hyde, near Edgeware, to preach, afternoon and evening; this struck me so powerfully, I knew not how to answer him; and before I could begin my long string of objections; these words came with power: “As thy day is, so shall thy strength be.” I did not like to give my consent, in the presence of my wife and her sister, as she was a conscientious, woman, and dreaded my rushing into the ministry, without a Divine call, as much as I did; but, after much conversation, I consented to go. When I arose on (Saturday morning) the words, which came with power, still abode with me, and the two texts, which had dwelt on my mind, still opened to me. On the Lord’s day I went, lifting up my heart to God, that He would be with me. I ascended the desk, and, after reading and prayer, I took one of the two texts, which had been on my mind the two days previous—one of which was, “For ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ, in God;” and the other was 1 Peter, i. 3, 7, which I preached on in the evening. I told no one, till the close of the evening service, that it was the first time I ever attempted to preach; and they, with me, gave God the glory, that I had found him true to his word, in giving me light, comfort, utterance and consistency, just as I needed it. It was at this time I became acquainted with our mutual friend, good Mr. Roth and family. This was the beginning of my public ministry. Oh, that I had adorned it better, and brought forth more fruit to the glory of Christ.