CAPTAIN CORAM'S CHARITY Of Mr. SEWARD : "Seward is hypochondriacal. We must sterilize him, or he will infect us." TO EDWARD CAVE: "Sir, the book is fundamentally bad. The whole impression should be scrapped." TO JAMES BOSWELL, Esq. (who has posted himself behind Johnson's chair to take notes): "What is all this, Sir? Go back at once to your dug out—at the bottom of the table.” TO OLIVER GOLDSMITH: 44 You and I, Doctor, must contrive to think clearly. We must standardize our ideas." To a MIXED AUDIENCE (after talking by himself for a quarter of an hour) : "This discussion has submerged us. We must get to the periscope, and find out where we are !" To Mrs. THRALE (at Streatham) : "Do you know how Farmer Catchcrop has named his twins?" (With a rhinoceros laugh.) He has called them Zeppelina and Submarina.” (Later Essays, 1917–1920.) 44 CAPTAIN CORAM'S CHARITY HIS [Captain Coram's] crowning enterprise was the obtaining of a charter for the establishment of the Foundling Hospital. Going to and fro at Rotherhithe, where in his latter days he lived, he was constantly coming upon half-clad infants, "sometimes alive, sometimes dead, and sometimes dying," who had been abandoned by their parents to the CAPTAIN CORAM'S CHARITY noblest benefactors. mercy of the streets; and he determined to devote his energies to the procuring of a public institution in which they might find an asylum. For seventeen years, with an unconquerable tenacity, and in the face of the most obstinate obstruction, apathy, and even contempt, he continued to urge his suit upon the public, being at last rewarded by a Royal charter and the subscription of sufficient funds to commence operations. An estate of fifty-six acres was bought in Lamb's Conduit Fields for £3,500; and the building of the Hospital was begun from the plans of Theodore Jacobsen. Among its early Governors were many contemporary artists who contributed freely to its adornment, thereby, according to the received tradition, sowing the seed of the existing Royal Academy. Handel, too, was one of its For several years he regularly superintended an annual performance of the "Messiah" in the Chapel (an act which produced no less than £7,000 to the institution), and he also presented it with an organ. Having opened informally in 1741 at a house in Hatton Garden, the Governors moved into the new building at the completion of the west wing in 1745. But already their good offices had begun to be abused. Consigning children to the Foundling was too convenient a way of disposing of them; and, even in the Hatton Garden period, the supply had been drawn, not from London alone, but from all parts of the Kingdom. It became a lucrative trade to convey infants from remote country places to the undiscriminating care of the Charity. Once a waggoner brought eight to town, seven of whom were dead when they reached THE SUNDIAL their destination. On another occasion a man with five in baskets got drunk on the road, and three of his charges were suffocated. The inevitable outcome of this was that the Governors speedily discovered they were admitting far more inmates than they could possibly afford to maintain. They accordingly applied to Parliament, who voted them £10,000, but at the same time crippled them with the obligation to receive all comers. A basket was forthwith hung at the gate, with the result that, on the first day of its appearance, no less than 117 infants were successively deposited in it. That this extraordinary development of the intentions of the projectors could continue to work satisfactorily was of course impossible, and great mortality ensued. As time went on, however, a wise restriction prevailed; and the Hospital now exists solely for those unmarried mothers whose previous character has been good, and whose desire to reform is believed to be sincere. (Eighteenth Century Vignettes. First Series.) THE SUNDIAL 'Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb; And round about its gray, time-eaten brow I am a Shade: a Shadowe too arte thou: I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe? THE SUNDIAL Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,- O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail ; Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love, Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true,— Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, THE SUNDIAL She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note; held it as one who feared Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot-the record of a tear. |