The Cornerstone
a brief life of John Murray for young people, by Irene Carrow Rees
IV. Off the Trail
Early the next morning he left the green shores of old Ireland forever. He was too overcome to speak to the good friends who came to the vessel to see him off, but said good-by with eyes and hands. His high hopes of life in England were for the time completely overshadowed by the sorrow of parting, but, thanks to the buoyant disposition bequeathed him by his French ancestor, he landed in England after a three days' voyage "as if treading on air."
He left the ship at Pill that he might look up and thank the kind landlady who had once saved him from a whipping and was distressed to find her dead. Nothing could long quench his joy at being free in his native land. It was glorious weather and he decided to walk the five miles to Bristol; "five miles of rapture," he called it.
When the landlord of the inn at which he stopped for dinner learned that he was a Methodist from Ireland, he invited other Methodists to meet him. They received him with great enthusiasm, inviting him to preach at public meetings and in private houses. Mr. Murray had purposely taken no steps to announce his intended arrival to the leading Methodists of England that he might be free to unite with the followers of Whitefield rather than of Wesley. The stay in Bristol was made so pleasant that he remained much longer than he had planned. On the last evening he walked a short distance out of town to attend a meeting. He was charmed with the place and people and they were so pleased with his conduct of the service that he was urged to remain with them. He was sorely tempted to consent but the attraction of London was still irresistible.
The next afternoon he walked to Bath. The sight of the soft green carpet of old England, the blossoming hedgerows, the fertile fields, the song of the skylark, the gentle call of the cuckoo, all raised his spirits to the highest pitch and when he chanced to meet some haymakers, he burst out in rapturous praise of the country and gratitude to its creator. He ended by asking the name of the lovely river on whose banks they stood.
"The Avon," replied one of the men.
"The Avon?" repeated Mr. Murray; "why, then it flows through the native place of Shakespeare!"
"Shakespeare?" questioned the haymaker; "who is he?"
"Oh, a writer," replied Mr. Murray, evincing no surprise at the man's ignorance of his illustrious countryman. Nor was there reason for any, since the most ordinary learning was not common in those days. This was nearly a hundred years before the beginning of Queen Victoria's reign, at which time only about half the adult population of England could read and write.
"I fancy you are a Methodist," said one of the men.
"I cannot deny it," was the reply.
"Then my Bess will be glad to see thee, I warrant thee. Wool thee come along with me? Thee may go farther and fare worse, I can tell thee that."
"Aye, aye, best go with him," said the other.
Mr. Murray accepted the invitation, inwardly thanking God for having shown him an hospitable friend at the entrance to a strange city.
"Here, Bess, I have brought thee home a young Methodist; I know thee will be glad to see him" the haymaker called to his wife. "Thou must find out his name for thyself."Bess was a woman of excellent manners and a warm heart. She and Mr. Murray became friends at once and when the haymaker returned at the end of the afternoon he found them still busily talking and no sign of supper.
"What, Bess; no supper for our guest?" he exclaimed.
Bess jumped to her feet, amazed at the flight of time, and shortly had a substantial meal set out. After evening prayers Mr. Murray was shown to a comfortable room and awoke next morning in high spirits. The friendly couple would not hear of his leaving them. After breakfast and prayers, the haymaker went to the fields and Mr. Murray and the wife continued their conversation in the intervals between household duties.
Bess told him that the church at Bath had settled a Mr. Tucker as pastor. This was good news to Mr. Murray, who had known and dearly loved him in Ireland, but when she went on to say that Mr. Tucker had recently inherited thirty thousand pounds, he hesitated to make himself known, fearing that such a rise in fortune might have made him forget his former friend. Fortunately, he decided to call with his hostess and was warmly received.
Mr. Tucker introduced him to his wife, exclaiming, "This young man is the oldest son of the best man I ever knew. I love this young person as his son and for himself. When you know him you will love him as I do."
This was a pleasant welcome in a strange land and Mr. Murray was particularly glad to have his kind hostess who had taken him in from the roadside hear it. Mr. Tucker would not allow him to leave his house nor the city for some time. It was to his credit that young Murray did not forget his first friends, the haymaker and his wife, but faithfully called on them every day. They were exceedingly proud of having introduced so popular a minister. He preached for Mr. Tucker, who showed him every possible kindness, and sympathized with his embarrassment about continuing with the Wesleyites because of their growing opposition to Calvinism, as he was in much the same position himself.
In spite of the entreaties of these friends, Mr. Murray determined to continue his journey, though half vexed at his own persistence in leaving a place where everything was to his mind for the uncertainty of the London future. Mr. Tucker engaged his seat on the coach, paying all the expenses of the journey and making him a handsome present, beside.
The night before starting Mr. Murray left word at the coach house that he would walk ahead in the morning, letting the coach overtake him. He was up and off at dawn. The sunrise, the songs of the awakening birds, the scent of the new mown hay on the fresh morning air filled him with such exhilaration and hope that he had walked nineteen miles and had stopped for breakfast before the coach came up with him. They bowled along over the fine road at a rapid rate, reaching London at sunset.
Once more he was in a strange city without plans or friends. He had been given letters of introduction, but in the excitement of leaving they had been forgotten. Elated at being at last in London, he left his trunk at the coach house without mark of identification and wandered about the streets in ecstasy till nightfall. By that time he was tired and hungry and the high spirits of the morning had departed. He went to a tavern for the night, but even a warm supper and the friendliness of the landlord failed to check his growing homesickness. His remembrance of Mrs. Little's prediction that he would see his folly and return to find their door closed determined him not to go home whatever happened. It was the first sorrowful night he had passed since leaving his mother's.
In the morning he felt little better. He had forgotten where the coach house was but the landlord knew, and after some trouble, secured his trunk. That same day he called on people with whom he bad lived when visiting London with his father. They were delighted to see him and introduced him among their friends. These new acquaintances were gay, pleasure-loving people, vastly different from his usual solemn associates. Some few Methodist friends whom he had known in Ireland called, but soon dropped him in great displeasure at the frivolous companions with whom they found him. Often the example and precepts of his father stared him in the face and aroused remorse, but never for any length of time. Once he met a Methodist preacher, a former friend, who severely upbraided him. The bitterness of the attack aroused his wrath but not his repentance. He wondered himself that he could sufficiently forget his early lessons to lead a life of pleasure. On the other hand, with the many temptations about him, it was strange that once started he went no further. It was innocent frolic, all of it, though carried to great excess. He cared nothing for liquor and often threw the wine under the table that he might keep a clear intellect for keener social enjoyment.
It is a question how long this gay life would have lasted if his money had not given out. Matters were brought to a crisis when his tailor sent in an unexpectedly large bill. He had barely enough to meet it and was stunned to reflect that in a year the money which he had thought would never be exhausted was already gone. His sad reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a gay young friend with an invitation to a particularly lively party. Casting aside his cares, Murray was off with him, gay as a lark. He made no retrenchment, his debts increased and stories of unpaid bills began to be whispered about. Often he went as the guest of wealthy friends, who declared he was the life of their parties and could not be spared.
The Easter holiday was a time of special gayety in England and Murray's particular chums planned an excursion of some days to Richmond. Although he was invited as usual, he felt his friends were growing less insistent on his company, and declined. It was impossible for him to go except as a guest, for the condition of his pocketbook could no longer be ignored. He took a long solitary walk to reflect on his situation. One ha'penny was all he possessed in the world, and that he shortly gave to a passing beggar. For a long time he wandered aimlessly through the fields and at length hungry, exhausted, and in despair, sat down beneath a tree. He remembered that it was nearly the anniversary of his father's death and the scenes of his life in Ireland came rushing back and filled him with remorse. What would that father say to his present situation? The cheering thought that he could return to God like the prodigal of old was immediately put to flight by the gloomy reflection that undoubtedly forgiveness would be denied him. He even contemplated selfdestruction. Night came on and it was necessary to go somewhere. He felt an irresistible longing to return to Whitefield's tabernacle, which he had not visited in months. Reaching there just as service was beginning, he took a seat in a dark corner beneath the gallery, not daring to raise his eyes lest he should see some acquaintance. Mr. Whitefield himself was the preacher and his final appeal young Murray thought God meant especially for him. It was this: "There may be in some corner of this house a poor, despairing soul who is suffering the dreadful consequences of his wandering from the sources of true happiness. I have to inform him that God is still his true Father. Let him prostrate himself bef ore Him and He will shortly send every needful aid."
With streaming eyes young Murray left the tabernacle, firmly resolving to abandon his life of pleasure. Many of his former friends ceased to call when they found him given up to gloomy meditations. Others who really loved him lingered to off er financial aid, thinking the lack of money the sole cause of his depression and change of heart. A few, affected by his words, attempted to follow his example, but one by one they dropped away and soon he was leading a solitary life. Scorning the frivolous himself he, in turn, was distrusted and scorned by the religious who had no faith in his change of heart.
He boarded in the house of a lively, goodnatured man; indeed, the whole family he called "the sons and daughters of mirth." Formerly this had been their principal recommendation; now it offended him. He would have liked to move, but was too far behind with his board. Others whom he owed began to press him for money and his anxieties increased hourly. These were dark days and the dreadful doctrines he cherished, while they made him wretched, at least kept him from suicide. Nothing but the dread of eternal perdition restrained him.
He was always to be found at the Tabernacle at night in some inconspicuous corner, his eyes streaming with tears. One evening a young man spoke to him.
"Cheer up, thou weeping, sorrowing soul; be of good cheer, thy God will save thee," he said.
"God bless you, whoever you are," exclaimed Murray, grasping his hand with gratitude.
The young man tried to give him consolation and made an appointment to meet him at the Tabernacle next night. On his way there Murray passed a large open air meeting of Methodists and waited a moment to watch; but when he saw, ascending the rude pulpit, the preacher with whom he had so often traveled in Ireland, the very man who had led him to the pulpit for his first sermon, he hastened away, dreading recognition.
His new acquaintance of the Tabernacle often called at his rooms and finally invited him to his own home. There John made a complete confession of the troubles which beset him. The young man was all sympathy, promised to pacify his landlord, find him a new boarding place and procure him employment.
At the request of his friend Mr. Murray asked his landlord how much he owed him, and the response was "Not one penny," nor could the man be persuaded to take anything. When he learned that John intended to leave the house he exclaimed, "Oh, dear, oh, dear! These abominable Methodists have spoiled as clever a fellow as ever broke bread. I am sorry you are going, upon my soul I am."
The following week Murray secured a position as assistant to a broad-cloth inspector. He was thankful for any chance to support himself, but business was irksome to him and he did not enjoy his associates. He lived frugally, cutting off every luxury till he was free from debt.
He now went through the same alternations of hope and fear as to his spiritual condition that he had in his father's house. When happiest about himself he was tormented with the injustice of his salvation when so many unfortunates were left to perish but was comforted by the thought that "such was the sovereign will and power of God."
Young Murray's Sundays and his life generally were now patterned as closely as possible after those in his old home. He arose at four in the morning, winter and summer, in order to get time for his devotions. His evenings were spent at the Tabernacle. He lived some miles off, but no storm of snow or rain was sufficiently severe to keep him away and the greater the difficulty the more he rejoiced that he was thus paving his way to heaven. In company with several others who lived at a distance, be took breakfast after early morning service at the house of one of the members. The meal usually resolved itself into an additional prayer meeting.
One Sunday, in passing over Moorfields, he noticed a large crowd about a tree and asked what was going on. He was told that a follower of James Relly, who taught the restoration of all mankind, was to preach.
"Merciful God," he exclaimed; "how wilt Thou suffer this demon to proceed?" At this time be would have considered the death of Relly as a great boon to the world.