The Cornerstone

a brief life of John Murray for young people, by Irene Carrow Rees

III. The Parting of the Ways

The intimacy with the Littles continued and when the proper interval after Mr. Murray's death had passed, Mr. Little, who was now an old man, again asked John to live with him. It was distinctly to the advantage of all concerned, and Mrs. Murray, to whom John left the decision, readily consented.

This step of Mr. Little's aroused the jealousy of certain of his relatives, particularly of some nephews, who had hoped that one of them would be chosen as his heir. They strove without success to prejudice him against John, and every act and word which could be construed into wrong was reported and lost nothing in the telling.

As the months went by, John met many traveling preachers and often went on short missionary journeys with them. Mr.
Little approved of these trips and abunantly supplied him with money. On one occasion when he stopped at his mother's to say good-by, he discovered that his purse had been filled with gold instead of the usual silver. Without mentioning his intention, he returned at once to tell Mr. Little, who smilingly said, "I meant to give you gold; use it well."

It so happened that a nephew of Mr. Little was calling on Mrs. Murray when John opened the purse. He lost no time in reporting to his uncle, with many sighs and uprollings of the eyes, that John had just made off hurriedly with gold which had undoubtedly been given him by mistake. Mr. Little hugely enjoyed his nephew's discomfiture when he learned the truth. John confessed that he brought not a shilling of that money home. "I was never sufficiently sensible of the value of money to retain it in my possession," he said.

It was during one of these journeys that he preached his first real sermon. The minister he accompanied took his arm and without warning led him into the temporary pulpit which had been erected. There he left him, taking a seat himself in the congregation. John made the best of a difficult situation, and preached a good sermon. After this his services were in demand both at home and abroad, and he became quite famous in his small world, to the infinite delight of his mother and Mr. Little. His success increased the envy of his old enemies and added to them certain religious rivals. These made themselves busy in carrying to John Wesley tales of John's Calvinistic beliefs. Mr. Wesley's old fears with regard to the doctrinal principles of the Murrays revived. A watch was set over John that his speeches and sermons might be reported at headquarters. Young and unsuspecting, he was no match for his crafty enemies. The matter was not improved by his habit of confiding everything that happened to his trusted friends. They in turn brought to him every story afloat. Shortly he was distressed and astonished to find that his own confidences were town talk. These troubles, however, were only passing clouds.

John's absences from home began to increase, not only because of his religious duties, but from his fondness for society. He had great charm of manner and his flow of spirits, when he was not thrown into melancholy by his dismal doctrines, made him much sought after. Mr. Little objected to these diversions and John felt hurt. Mrs. Little and her daughter Anna acted as peacemakers, but be continued to grow restive under the restraints placed upon him. One evening when he returned, he found that all the family but Anna had retired. She wept bitterly as she told him of Mr. Little's anger at his absence that evening. She begged him to yield to her father's wishes and remain at home with them. John comforted her as best he could and was in the act of kissing her hand when the door opened and Mr. Little came in.

"So, Sir," he exclaimed, his face flushing with anger, and without another word he led Anna f rom. the room. There was no sleep for John during the rest of the night.

The next morning he had a long and affecting talk with Mrs. Little. She had been a second mother to him, and rather than give further pain, he promised that in future his evenings should be devoted to the family.

For some months he firmly held to this resolve but Mr. Little was exacting in his demands, and a great longing to get away to England where he might enjoy personal liberty began to grow in him. He again began to make outside engagements till gradually most of his evenings were spent abroad. Mr. Little, his wife, and daughters sat silent around the evening lamp, till Mr. Little would say with anger, "Where is our young gentleman to-night? Any society but ours!" Then heavily sighing, "Well, let us go to bed. It will be late before he returns." On his part, John felt that Mr. Little's fault finding was unreasonable and selfish, since his time was employed either in religious work or in the most innocent relaxations, he saw no reason for censure.

It was now that he began to refer to some higher Power than his own will which directed his steps, leading him in paths he would never have voluntarily chosen. No man ever bad greater belief in the direction of a Divine Providence, and no man ever bad greater justification for such belief, in the events of a strange life.

There was every reason to induce him to yield to the will of his patron and remain quietly in Ireland leading the life of a prosperous gentleman — or preacher — should he choose. He was the chosen heir of a man of wealth and position. As the dispenser of Mr. Little's fortune, he would be a power in the community and church, a decided help to his brothers and sisters, and the crowning glory of his mother's not too happy life. To cast all this aside was to cause her bitter disappointment and grief. In addition, he loved and respected his adopted father and felt keenly that in failing to yield to his wishes, he was acting an ungracious part towards one who had loaded him with benefits. He longed unmistakably to do this thing — it was best and right — but stronger than his prudent reasoning was the urgent command of the Spirit, "Go forth."

The desire for England became irresistible. Soon there was an open rupture with Mr. Little and one night John firmly announced his intention of leaving Ireland. He suffered sharply in resisting the appeal of Mrs. Little and her daughters for whom be had a sincere regard. Why it was not more than a brotherly affection for Anna, he wondered himself. She was attractive, of a sweet disposition, and devoted to his interests. He knew that a marriage with her would delight both families and could explain his indifference only on the ground that his mind was occupied with religious matters.

His breakfast was brought to his room next morning but he could not eat. About twelve o'clock Mr. Little sent for him. The interview was short and unsatisfactory. At its close Mr. Little asked if John had money and when he admitted that he had none, said curtly, "Hold your hat, sir. " He obeyed and the gold was poured in till John thought he had sufficient to last a lifetime.

"Have you enough?" demanded Mr. Little.

"Yes, sir; God forever bless you," cried John fervently.

"Leave behind my son's fowling piece, and here ends my air-built castle, " said Mr. Little, and turning on his heel, left the room.

John was so distressed and dazed by the abrupt breaking of this tie that he left the house at once, carrying in his hands the hat filled with gold pieces. He never again crossed the threshold nor saw any of the family. A few doors from the house he was seized with faintness and was just able to secure the gold in his knotted handkerchief before he sank unconscious upon a doorstep. The people of the house took him in and cared for him until he was enough restored to go on.

At his mother's home his story caused grief and consternation, but all the entreaties in the world could not shake his purpose. He offered his mother the money he had received from Mr. Little. She would not touch a penny. The interview with her was so harrowing that he went to his chamber in despair and flung himself on his knees to ask God's guidance. As he prayed, peace came to him and he seemed to hear a voice say, "Go, and lo, I am with you alway." He went to bed and to sleep and woke the next morning thoroughly refreshed.

His grief returned when for the last time he conducted family prayers. He said good-by to his brothers and sisters and received his mother's blessing. She, good soul, during a sleepless night, had come to see the hand of God in John's determination. Then he hurried away, hoping to get off without the sorrow of parting from his youngest and best loved brother, but the little fellow jumped out of the hedge to the path before him and, clasping his knees, asked where be was going. When John could not control himself enough to answer, he added, "Take me with you, brother!" John caught him in his arms and, after passionately kissing him, put him hastily down and turned away, his eyes blinded with tears. The bitterness of death was in that good-by, and no one could have censured him more than he censured himself for the step he was taking, but there was no thought of turning back.

He was to make the journey on foot to Cork, his box having been sent the day before by wagon. He walked steadily along, his staff in his band, too sad in heart to lift his eyes from the ground, and at the top of a long hill he sat down on the stile for a farewell look at the beautiful valley spread below him. There was his mother's home with the garden and fruit trees be had planted. Farther on stood Mr. Little's stately house. Not a spot in the lovely scene but held some dear memory which called him back. And he was leaving all this for what? The inward call to some higher destiny of which he had no knowledge. Twice he started on only to come back for another look. At last, with a murmured prayer for the protection of those left behind and of guidance for himself, he resolutely turned away and stopped no more till he saw the distant spires of Cork. Across the sunset meadows floated the vesper bells of Shannon on the river Lee. The melody brought him a message of cheer and he finished his journey with rising hopes.

At twilight he reached his grandmother's house and was warmly welcomed till he had told his story and announced that he was to sail for England. Then both his grandmother and his aunts were vigorous in their condemnation. John had received all the blame he could bear with meekness. He arose at once, saying he had not come for aid, and left the room. His pretty cousin followed him downstairs, begging him to remain with them, but he was too hurt and angry to listen to her. He had frequently preached at Cork and had many friends who were eager for the chance to entertain him. He did not see his grandmother again till one afternoon, after he had preached at the Methodist church, she came forward and took his hand. She had been deeply moved by his sermon and asked him to go home with her. They passed a pleasant evening together.

When they parted for the night, his grandmother said, in a voice shaken with emotion, "You are under the guidance of a higher Power and are ordained to call many from darkness to light. The God of your father will bless you and make your way prosperous. Look no more on what you have left behind, but look forward in faith. I did wrong to condemn you. God is the potter who will do with you as seemeth good."

The words were an immense comfort and John treasured them in his sore heart.

The Methodists of Cork liked young Murray's preaching and urged him to remain in Ireland to take charge of a church in Limerick, but his stay in the city had not been altogether agreeable. Bitter religious disputes were running high. Election and other of his cherished doctrines were particularly unpopular and had been sharply attacked by the Wesleyites. He was anxious to get away before being involved in discussions which would surely make for him religious enemies, the most relentless of all foes, as he had already learned. Always craving companionship, and even from childhood disliking to do anything alone, it was not to be wondered that just now his longing for friendship was particularly keen. He wished to leave at once, but there were no daily voyages of swift steamers in those times, and he was obliged to wait two weeks till a vessel was ready to sail. During these last days he lived as quietly as possible, expressing himself with caution, and devoting his leisure to his grandmother and her friends.

The delay which he regarded as a misfortune proved an opportunity, for it brought him the friendship of the famous preacher, George Whitefield, who came to Cork in the interval. Whitefield's wonderfully magnetic preaching and genial personality at once won Murray's admiration. The latter was delighted to find the preacher a Calvinistic Methodist, the first he bad met.

Whitefield was criticised by the Wesleyites for his joyous living. He never thought it a crime to be happy and often displayed what was considered "an unbecoming levity." The close watching of the Wesleyites bothered him not a whit; he went his own way rejoicing, friendly to all. His cheery spirit roused young Murray from his melancholy.

The last night in Cork Mr. Murray spent delightfully with Mr. Whitefield and other friends at the home of a Methodist minister named Trinbath. The host was a man of wealth, with an accompished wife and lovely children. Mr. Murray regretted he had not met so charming a family before, yet this evening, one of the happiest of his life, was the cause years afterward in faraway America of placing him in a most trying situation.