« PredošláPokračovať »
We give only the first portion, down to Bunyan's own name, the remainder are of unknown worthies who faithfully served the Master" in their generation":
Ffowler in Kaishon.
for George Palmer's house in Cranfield. Tho: Kent for William Morris his house in
Cranfield. John Wright for the Lake house barn in Blunham. Nathanael Alcock for John Tingey's house at Fford End. John Bunyon for Josias Rougheads house in his
orchard in Bedford. It will be noted that Bunyan writes his name
after his father's spelling, and as undoubtedly was the family spelling. As I write this, I recall that the noble wife of a coequally noble recently departed prelate-Francis Thomas McDougali, Bishop of Labuan and Sarawak—was Hariette Bunyon, second daughter of Robert John Bunyon, both of whose consecrated lives have been finely written by Charles John Bunyon (Longmans, 1889).
The X placed against the several entries no doubt was intended to mark off the successive places as “licensed.” The Day alone will declare of how many souls these lowly “barns" and the like, were the birth-places spiritually. We need to humbly remember the supreme words of Isaiah lxvi. 1, 2—not the House, but the worshipper.
ALEXANDER B. GROSART, D.D., LL.D.
Prayer is the holy gate
Prayer is the breath of God in man,
Prayers are but the body of the bird : desires are its angel's wings.-Bishop Jeremy Taylor.
Prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recollection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares, and the calm of our tempest; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts; it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness.-Bishop Taylor.
Prayer is not eloquence por measured tone,
- Bishop of Derby (Luke xv. 18, 19, 21).
Prayer is the cable at whose end appears
My words go up, my thoughts remain below; Words without thoughts, never to heaven will go.
God hath none of His children born dumb; he cries unto God in prayer.-W. Bridge.
LL ready for night duty-helmet brushed, he returns home to the hearty welcome, the warm
buttons bright, belt polished, but he cannot breakfast, and the children's merry prattle.
go without a good-night kiss to the bonnie But change the scene. A few years later, one bairns.
morning the house, is darkened. The children So the “gude wife” brings the light and both grown older now, but yet too young to comprehend look fondly in pride and thankfulness on the rosy their loss, wonder why mother weeps with the cheeks and closed eye-lids, the curly locks and baby in her arms, and why father lies so still little dimpled hands straying about on the bed- -asleep in a slumber that knows no earthly clothes.
waking “God bless them !” and off he goes, out into It may have been the burglar's hand, or a runthe cold dark night, with a true loving heart away horse, or a sudden chill in a frosty winter's beating beneath his uniform.
night that acted as the Pilgrim's arrow (in Bunyan's Presently coming across a lonely ragged little dream) to call him home. one wandering, lost in the deserted streets-left But whatever was the messenger, the home is homeless and helpless through “father,” and, alas ! left desolate, the bread-winner is gone, and who perhaps "mother," having spent their last for shall now care for the little ones? drink — the constable's heart burns as he thinks of the comfort and peace in his home which his It is with thoughts of this kind in our mind and own little ones enjoy, and be speaks a gentle word memory that we ask our readers to accompany us to the frightened child, and breathes a prayer that to the Provincial Police Orphanage at Gatton God may stay the plague of intemperance.
Point, Redhill. This, as its name indicates, is a Shielded and kept through the long night hours, home for the benefit of the orphan children of the
police of all the provincial forces (county, city and borough) in England and Wales.
Perhaps few of our readers have more than a vague idea of the size and importance to the general well-being of our great Peace Army, the police forces of the United Kingdom. Some may, perchance, be surprised to hear that there are no less than 252 separate police forces in Great Britain and Ireland, with a total “strength” (to use a technical term) of 61,320. The numbers are, roughly speaking, distributed as follows. The Metropolitan force (including Middlesex, and parts of Surrey, Kent, and Herts, and H.M. dockyards, Government works, etc.) has a strength of 15,213. The City of London has 928, the docks and markets, 343; Scotland, 5043 ; Ireland, 14,461 ; and the counties, cities, and boroughs, of England and Wales (outside London) give occupation to the remaining 25,332.
For many years there has existed near Twickenham a well-known and excellent Orphanage for the benefit of the Metropolitan and City police forces; but until the Christian Police Association took up the cause of the provincial police orphans, no institution of the kind was to be found for those outside the Metropolitan area. In 1889, through its instrumentality, a small Orphan Home was established at Manchester for the benefit of the Manchester and Salford police forces only, and in 1890 a little Home for children was opened at Hove, Brighton, simultaneously with the Police Convalescent Home, which has since proved such a benefit to thousands of sick and injured policemen. The first means for this joint undertaking were supplied by a generous friend, who privately furnished sufficient to pay the rent and taxes for three years. Before the end of that time the little orphanage had developed into separate institution requiring establishment of its own.
Sad, indeed, were some of the cases brought before the committee. Here is a boy whose father had been called away through injuries received on duty ; here are two little brothers left fatherless suddenly one bitterly cold Christmas Eve, the mother in her lonely cottage with eight children under thirteen years of age and a little infant born three weeks after the father had been laid to rest in the village churchyard. Here are two other little brothers whose widowed mother had worked for them till health and strength completely failed, and she was found lying in one room with the last remains of her furniturepenniless and dying of consumption. Glad indeed she was to see her little sons well housed and clothed before she “feli asleep in Christ.” A
sergeant dying from the effects of injuries received on duty, commended his little son and daughter to the Hon. Secretary, begging that they might be kept together and brought up in a Christian home. Some of the latest arrivals are two little ones of six and eight years of age, whose father, after twenty-two years' good service in the Force, was attacked one Saturday night by a crowd of roughs determined on the rescue of a prisoner, and so terribly kicked by them, within sight of his own home, that he was at last brought in to lie for a week in agony and then die. Many of the children are both fatherless and motherless. Among those received last year were three from one family whose parents died within a few weeks of each other.
In nearly all these cases the police forces have given donations to help with the first expenses of the children, and it is pleasant to see the interest taken by the men in the children of their late comrades. Many are the little gifts gladly sent by members of the Forces, showing their kind remembrance of the children. A bag of potatoes or a parcel of cabbage plants from a policeman's garden; a shilling “to buy something for the youngest child ”; some pinafores for the little girls or knitted stockings for the boys; or, as in one instance, a gift which brought tears to the eyes of the receiver-a complete little sailor suit, neatly folded by the mother whose boy had been transplanted to the “sunny shore, over there."
(It may be mentioned here that all the boys wear sailor uniform. This custom was first started by the gift of a young lady with six little brothers, whose Indian luggage had gone astray, and when recovered, after eighteen months' wandering, it was found that the twelve sailor suits were all
or at the London Office, la Adelphi Terrace, Strand.
The provision for the Orphanage is entirely a matter of faith, as there is no endowment. The promoters trust our Heavenly Father to supply their needs from day to day, and both they and the children bring their wants, small and great, in prayer before His throne, and never fail to get the answer from Him who has taught us to say, “My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (Phil. iv. 19).
The Pleasant Land. SCORN thought they of that pleasant land,
Its spacious plains by breezes fann'd,
Its glades well watered everywhere.
The gold of that rich land is good,
Bdellium is there and onyx stone; Birds carol in the leafy wood,
And white doves coo and make no moan.
Application on behalf of children is made through the recommendation of the chief constable of the Force to which the father belonged, the cases being considered-each on its own merits—by the
14 committee, without canvassing or voting. They are admitted between the ages of five and twelve years, boys leaving at fourteen and the girls at fifteen, when they will be placed in service or apprenticed to some trade.
To return to our history : circumstances having necessitated the removal of the Orphanage from the house at Brighton, it found a temporary home in a farmhouse at Sutton. Here the same generous friend came to the help of the orphans, and bought the freehold of the house near Redhill, to which we now wish to introduce our readers.
Situated on the brow of a hill between Redhill and Merstham, and close to the fine old manorial park of Gatton, with a good-sized garden, and
room to expand,” with the fresh country air all around, the shady trees, and the songs of the birds, this home is indeed a gift from God. Entering the front door, we find on the right the dining-room, and beyond it the girls' play and work-room, and staircase to their dormitories; and on the left the sitting-room, which is dining, drawing, and writing-room for the lady in charge, and where the children come for their “goodnight” talk and their Sunday singing. This opens
" into a pretty conservatory, and beyond this is the boys' spacious play and drill-room. At the back, looking out on the garden is the matron's sitting-room, and above are the two floors of dormitories—each little bed with its white or red quilt, and its text above the head. The garden affords a good training-ground for the boys, who take an interest in the growth of the vegetables and fruit for use or sale, as well as in their own little patches. The children have a busy and happy life-happy because busy. They attend the good school of the parish, marching to and fro quite in “policemen style, and all, both boys and girls, receive excellent instruction in housework from the matron and her husband (an ex-policeman). All take their turns in laying the table, sweeping and scrubbing, etc., thus learning habits of cleanliness and selfdependence. As they leave school, each boy receives a training in gardening, and each girl in cooking, laundry, housework, and needlework. The farmyard, with its chickens, ducks, and pigeons, also supplies a means of training for future life.
It is a pleasant sight to see the large family assembled morning and evening for prayers. Right heartily do they sing their hymns, and they answer the Bible questions in a way that assures you that for the most part they not only understand their Scripture-lessons, but enjoy them.
We heartily invite friends of the police and children to visit us here, and see for themselves the home which God, in His love and pity for the fatherless, has provided for these little ones
On any day but Sunday visitors are welcomed, and any information will be gladly given, or gifts received, by the Hon. Sec., Miss C. Gurney, either at the Orphanage, Gatton Point, Redhill,
O foolish men, that will not see
The beauties of that country sweet, The stately palm, the cedar tree,
Lilies that spring beneath the feet.
Lift up your eyes unto the light,
Beyond the veiling shadows here. See how they shine—those gates of light,
Those streets that are as crystal clear!
Poor world, so empty and so vain,
Or crown'd with cypress or with bay. Whate'er thy pleasures and thy pain,
Passing away-passing away.
Men, set your faces to the sun!
March ever on from morn till even! Pause not until the goal be won,
And you have stormed the gates of heaven.
What are the joys that seem so fair,
The luscious sweetness of the vine, The roses red to wreathe the hair,
The laurel round thy brow to twine ?
What is there to detain you here,
Or bind you to this barren earth ? This hour the birth; the next the bier,
Plenty to-day-to-morrow, dearth.
The world fleets as the fileeting hour,
Its beauty and its joy are brief. It fades as fades the fragile flower,
It falls as falls the withered leaf.
CHARLES D. BELL, D.D.