Records of the Life of the Rev. John Murray/Chapter II.
CHAPTER II.
Record continued, until the Author's Departure from Ireland.
Launch'd from the shore, on life's rough ocean tost,
To my swol'n eye my star of guidance lost;
Torn, from my grasp, my path-directing helm,
While waves, succeeding waves, my prospects whelm.
BY the malpractices of the second husband of my maternal grandmother, a large share of my mother's patrimony passed into other hands. I accidentally obtained intelligence of some fraudulent proceedings of the great personage, by whom it was then holden. We did not possess ability to support a prosecution for the recovery of our rights. Some time after the demise of my father, the person, who resided upon the estate, was sued for rent; to this person I communicated in confidence, what I knew to be fact. I assured him, the great man, who retained the estate, had no legal claim to it; and I advised him not to pay the rent. He followed my advice, and the business came before a court of judicature. The gentleman, who sued the tenant, summoned me, as a witness, to prove, that the tenant had occupied the house the specified number of years; thus I was unexpectedly present at the trial, and the interference of providence produced a result, far beyond our most sanguine expectations. The tenant denied the right of the landlord to demand the rent, alleging, that if he paid it to him, he might hereafter be compelled to pay it to another. "To whom?" interrogated the court. "To Mrs. Murray and her children, to whom the estate in question properly belongs." I was then called upon for an explanation, and I boldly pledged myself to prove the truth of the testimony delivered by the tenant; adding that I could make such a statement, as would render the affair abundantly clear to their Honours. I was immediately silenced, by the lawyers upon the opposite side, who produced a deed of the contested property, signed, sealed, and delivered; I then requested the indulgence of the honourable court, while I observed, that, as I was not sufficiently opulent to procure council, I presumed to solicit permission to plead my own cause. Full consent was unhesitatingly granted; when I proved, to the satisfaction of the court, and jury, that this deed was signed, after the death of the husband of my grandmother; and further, that, had the man been living, the right of disposal was not vested in him. I consumed a full hour and a half, in unfolding a scene of wickedness, not to be defended; and I closed, by grateful acknowledgments to their honours, for the patience they had exercised. The jury retired, and speedily returned with a verdict in favour of the tenant. I immediately entered my claim, and a trial commenced, which terminated in my favour; and I not only obtained the house in question, but two others, in like circumstances, to the no small satisfaction of the public, and the mortification of the great man, and his lawyers. We immediately took possession of the house; and our utmost gratitude to that God, who had interposed for us, was most powerfully excited. Here I had a very large, and, in no long time, a very well improved garden; abounding with every thing useful, and beautiful; herbs, fruits, and flowers, in great abundance; and my situation was fully adequate to my wishes. Harmony presided in our family; but, alas! gradually, as by common consent, we grew more careless of our domestic duties, and more attentive to public affairs: deriving a kind of amusement from what was passing abroad, which we could not obtain at home. We had many visitors, and consequently we frequently visited; yet no individuals were so dear to us, as were Mr. Little, and his amiable family. I have repeatedly observed, that both Mr. Little, and his lady, had, from the death of their sons, regarded me even with parental affection; I was only not an inmate in their dwelling; and but for the charge, which the demise of my father had devolved upon me, they would not so long have delayed proposals, which, in a most serious manner, they ultimately made to my mother. Mr. Little was rather advanced in years; he commenced his career without property, but he was prudent, and industrious; his lady was equally so: she brought her husband no more than one hundred pounds sterling, but she was a portion in herself. Although uncommonly economical, and careful, her charities were yet very extensive; she could assist, she observed, the children of penury, without loss; for her resource was her own augmented industry. When this amiable couple became known to us, they possessed immense wealth; and they had now but two surviving children—daughters. We were passing a pleasant evening in their hospitable dwelling, throwing the eye of retrospection over past scenes, until our hearts were greatly softened. The departed sons, the deceased husband, and father, passed in review; and were alternately the subjects of conversation, and regret. At length, Mr. Little thus addressed us: "I have lost my sons, and I have long viewed you, my young friend, in the stead of my buried children: It is true, I have many nephews, and I am urgently solicited, to receive one of them under my roof; but I do not feel a freedom so to do, although I must absolutely have some one to assist me in the arrangement of my affairs: and I now tender to you, my dear young man, to you, who have so long been beloved by every individual of my family; I offer to you, the place of a son in my house, in my heart. And if you, madam, will consent; and your son, thus sanctioned, will accept my proposal, he shall immediately take possession of the apartment of his deceased friend (my lamented son,) and I shall bless God for thus making up my loss." Mrs. Little, who sat by bathed in tears, most cordially united her solicitations; the offer was too great to be rejected, we accepted it with becoming gratitude, and, what rendered a proposal so liberal abundantly more pleasing, was an appearance, on the part of our benefactors, of having received, instead of conferred an obligation. I attended my mother home, with mingled sensations of pain, and pleasure; pain from the consideration, that I was leaving a family, which I had been accustomed to view as, in a very tender sense, my own; and with which I should never perhaps in like manner again associate; pleasure, from the reflection, that I was entering upon a new scene of life, from which I had a prospect, not only of independence, but affluence. It is true, upon my departure, which took place upon the succeeding morning, I wept bitterly, so did my widowed mother, and her children; and my tears again flowed, upon entering the apartments of my dear young friend, with whom I had passed so many pleasing hours. But, received by my new parents, and sisters, as the dearest of sons, and as the brother of their affection. Joy soon exhilirated my spirits, and brightened upon my countenance; I had the warm congratulations of all my friends, for it was noised abroad, that this very opulent gentleman had adopted me as his son, and they went so far as to add, his son, and heir. All this was very pleasing to me, but the kindred of Mr. Little, were of course, highly irritated, and I became so much the object of their envy, and their hatred, that, whenever they visited their uncle, without deigning to speak to me, they studiously sought opportunities of insulting me. This gave me pain, but it did me no real injury; for, upon every instance of invidious conduct toward me, my parental friends, and their family, especially their daughters, studiously augmented their testimonies of esteem and affection.
After I had passed some months with Mr. Little, he was visited by a young preacher, just entering the sacerdotal character, to whom I was much attached, and our friendship was mutual; I was prevailed upon by this preacher, to accompany him upon a little journey; I departed with the sanction of my patron. I had, in the societies with which I had been connected, occasionally exhorted; and I had been frequently urged by several of their preachers to aid them in their labours. Upon this journey I was, if I may so express myself, absolutely ensnared; accompanying my friend to the assembled congregation, with an expectation of hearing him, he put his arm under mine, and helping me to ascend the temporary pulpit, erected for the occasion, he suddenly quitted me, and I was in a manner constrained to speak to the multitude. Thus, for the first time, I preached to a large concourse of serious and attentive hearers, in publick; and, although at the appointed time I returned to my much-loved home, I continued, as opportunity offered, from that time forward, preaching whenever I journeyed, and even at home, when necessitated by the absence of the preacher. This made some noise in our little world; but, as it was not displeasing to my honoured friends, I was not dissatisfied. My inveterate enemies, however, being the nearest relations of the family in which I resided, were constantly endeavouring to undermine my interest in the heart of their kinsman. I was to pass some time in a neighbouring city, and to render my visit more pleasing, my patron, at my departure, furnished me with a sum of money; this sum I carelessly put into my pocket, without examination, until calling in my way, upon my mother, I discovered, that my patron had, as I supposed, made a capital mistake; that he had given me gold, instead of silver. I mentioned this circumstance to my mother, in presence of one of her neighbours; and without announcing my design, I immediately returned home, for the purpose of rectifying the error. Upon my unexpected appearance before Mr. Little, with information of his mistake, he smiled, and said, that he never kept his gold and silver together. "It was my design," said he, "to give you gold, but I advise you not to throw it away." I pursued my journey, and passed my time agreeably; but whether I threw away the bounty of my benefactor, I do not, at this period, recollect, I only know that I brought not a shilling home with me: In fact, I was never sufficiently sensible of the value of money, to retain it in my possession. I was received, on my return from this visit, with uncommon pleasure; and some time after, my kind patron, taking me into his private apartment, thus addressed me: "I need not, my dear, inform you, that you have many enemies, and I regret to say, that those enemies are among my nearest relatives; but, continuing in the paths of rectitude, you will be beyond the reach of their most malignant calumnies. Soon after you left home the other day, the clergyman, who has recently become the husband of my niece, called upon me, requesting a private audience; and when retired into this room, he observed, that he conceived himself in duty bound to apprize me, that I was not sufficiently acquainted with the character of the person I had adopted; that he was not honest; that he had obtained money from me, to which he had no right. "You gave him, sir, as you believed, some pieces of silver, but upon examination they proved to be guineas; this fact I can prove; and if he could thus act, what may he not do?" I told this officious gentleman, that I had really intended to give you gold; but that you, conceiving I had made a mistake, forbore to appropriate the money, and speedily returned home, for the purpose of making the communication. Our clergyman departed, and you will easily conceive, not a little humbled. I mention this circumstance to you, my son, to put you upon your guard. It is my wish, that, in future, you should not be so communicative." This little anecdote was exultingly repeated to me by the good lady, and her daughters, who never failed triumphantly to report every little occurrence, which they believed would contribute, either to my pleasure, or my reputation.
My establishment in this family rendered me an object of envy, even among some of my religious connexions. Objections were raised against my supposed erroneous sentiments; I was more than suspected of retaining my father's Calvinistic doctrines. Mr. Wesley received information against me. He set a watch over me; thus fixing upon me the evil eye of suspicion. A maiden sister, considerably advanced in years, became a dependent resident in the family of her brother. Her character was marked by duplicity, and she delighted in mischief. The tales she propagated were as various, as the parties which listened to her narrations; and all her communications were made under the strict seal of secrecy. Young, and unsuspecting, I found it difficult to encounter enemies of such opposite descriptions. I had some friends, of whose affection I doubted not; with these friends I passed much time, and I communicated to them every thing, and they, in their turn, communicated every thing to me; while many circumstances, thus confided, were, to my great astonishment, in circulation! My situation became uneasy to me; I was fond of being in company abroad, this was very disagreeable to my friends at home; they expected in me a friend and companion, who would, by reading and conversation, give to their fireside new charms; and both parents, and daughters, were mortified and disappointed. Mr. Little expressed his disapprobation of my frequent absences. I was hurt, Mrs. Little shed tears, and entreated me to change my conduct. "You have," said she, "in this wide world no such friends, as we are disposed to prove ourselves; you will be abundantly more happy at home, than you can be abroad. You should supply to us the place of our deceased children: we expect consolation from your society. You are greatly beloved in this house; your enemies are not under this roof. For God's sake, if you have any regard for us, if you have any regard for any of your friends, if you would secure your own happiness, or the happiness of your mother, do not thus conduct." Thus, with many entreaties, did this dear, affectionate lady, endeavour to arrest my wanderings; and, while attending to her friendly lectures, my best resolutions were in full force; and I determined never to offend again. But going out to meeting, one, and another, of my religious connexions would take me by the arm; I could not avoid engagements; and when I returned home, every individual of the family, Miss Little excepted, had frequently retired to rest. The good girl waited to apprize me of her father's displeasure. Much did she expostulate; and her expostulations were not always unmingled with tears. My mother was rendered extremely wretched; I saw the gathering storm, but I had not sufficient fortitude to abide its ravages. My enemies derived consolation from my indiscretion, and my infelicities daily augmented. Whenever I was censured, I was rendered more abundantly unhappy; and I formed a serious resolution to quit both the family of Mr. Little, and the country, and to seek an asylum in my native place—England. For many days I continued obdurate, no remonstrances could influence me; I must absolutely commence a traveller—I must go to England. I had no object, yet I must depart for England—I could not tell why, indeed. It was believed, I was distracted. What, relinquish fortune, and such connexions, and such a prospect? for it was generally believed, that I was to be united in marriage with Miss Little. Nay, her father was informed, by his kindred, that I was absolutely clandestinely seeking to gain the affection of the young lady; and that they believed I was already in possession of her heart. But Mr. Little gave no credit to this report; he knew, that my evenings were passed abroad, and that this was the only source of dissatisfaction. It happened, however, one evening, when I had been out late, and he, according to custom, retired to rest, I found, on my return home, Miss Little waiting in the parlour, for the purpose of making a communication, which she conceived would be of consequence to me. We sat some time in a conversation, by which we were mutually interested; she made known to me the invidious remarks of her uncles, and aunts, and their displeasure at her, for not uniting with them in their sentiments; she dwelt upon the grief, which my inattention to the wishes of her parents occasioned them; and, upon this part of her subject, she became affected even to tears. I also was greatly affected, and for the first time in my life, taking her hand, I impressed upon it a kiss of fraternal affection; when to our great astonishment, her father entered the apartment. Had we seen a spectre, we could not have been more appalled. He stood for some moments speechless, until fixing his eyes indignantly on my face, which was certainly covered with confusion, in a very pointed and significant manner, he said, "So, sir;" and, taking his daughter by the hand, he conducted her from the parlour, leaving me to my own reflections. Words are inadequate to a description of my agonies, during the residue of that night. An idea of Miss Little, in any other character than that of a very dear sister, had never crossed my mind; yet suspicion was now furnished with a weapon against me, which would abundantly enforce the reports retailed to Mr. Little, by his kindred. I have often wondered, that, at an age so susceptible of impression, I did not become more warmly attached to Miss Little; she was a most lovely, and amiable young woman; and she certainly gave me every reason, which a modest, delicate, and sensible female could give, to believe she was not absolutely disinclined to listen to a tale of love. My apathy can only be accounted for, by a recurrence to an unquestionable fact; my heart was wholly engrossed by my religious connexions. I passed this memorable night in my chamber, without entering my bed. I descended the stairs in the morning, with the feelings of a malefactor; I dreaded the sight of every one in the house. Mr. Little saw me, but spake not to me; Mrs. Little addressed me in the language of kindness; their daughter was not present, and I am persuaded she was not reduced to the necessity of feigning indisposition, as a pretence for absence. After breakfast Mrs. Little, in a whisper, directed me to retire into the back parlour, where she would speedily join me. With trembling dread I obeyed; she soon appeared, the shutters were closed, just light enough to see her, and be seen by her; I saw she had been in tears; she was a most kind-hearted lady. I could not speak, she commanded me to be seated: I drew a chair for her, and another for myself; she sat down, and I seated myself by her. After a pause, she began: "Tell me, I conjure you, tell me, what I ought to understand by the appearances of this morning? answer honestly the questions I shall put to you; but I know your answers will be literally true. My poor girl is very much distressed; her father is very reserved, and very sad, he will make no reply to my inquiries, and my child is also silent. Tell me, I repeat, what is the matter?" I came home late last night, madam; no one was up but Miss Little, who, like an affectionate sister, informed me she had something to communicate to me, with which I ought to be acquainted: I listened to her, till I became greatly affected with what I heard, and deeply sensible of her goodness; we were mingling our tears, when thus thrown off my guard, I regret to say, that I am apprehensive I committed an unpardonable offence; I am mortified, while I confess to you, my dear madam, that I had the boldness to press to my lips the dear hand, which seemed extended to rescue me from indiscretion; but indeed, my dear lady, it was the first time I ever dared to take so great a liberty, and I would give the world I had not then been guilty of so much temerity. At the moment Mr. Little entered, I felt as if I should have sunk under his indignant glance; Miss Little was greatly discomposed, while her father, with a voice rendered tremulous by anger, significantly said—"So, sir"—and conducted his daughter out of the room. This, my dear lady, is the whole I know of the matter; I fear, Miss Little will never forgive me, for creating her so much distress: I had infinitely rather be dead, than alive; I dread the eye of Mr. Little, and, it is my opinion, I ought immediately to quit your hospitable mansion. "Alas! my dear child, I know not what to say; you believe you ought to quit us! Would to God you had never thus thought. This persuasion is the source of all our unhappiness: How often have I told you, that no enemy could ever injure you, if your own conduct was uniformly correct. You have deeply wounded a heart that loves you. I promised myself, that you would become a large addition to our domestic felicity. But you are apprehensive you have offended beyond forgiveness! Alas! my daughter is more distressed for you, than for herself; you know not how much she has suffered on your account; you know not how much we all suffer! Why, my dear child, will you thus afflict your best friends?" I am, my dear madam, grieved to have been the source of so much distress to persons so dear to me; but I shall shortly be out of the way of offending any one. "What do you mean?" To quit this house, to quit this country. The dear lady threw her maternal arms around me, and with flowing tears interrogated: "Is it thus you will avoid offending us? Ah, my dear child, how little do you know of us, or of yourself: For God's sake, let me persuade you not to take so rash a step! Where would you go, what would you do? Would you leave a home, an envied home, and thus, while you afflicted your dearest friends, gratify your malignant foes?" But, my dear madam, it is impossible I can continue under this roof. Mr. Little will not restore me his confidence, my felicity in this family is fled, forever fled. "You are mistaken, your happiness rests entirely with yourself; be but uniformly discreet, be but the companion we expected, when we adopted you, and all will yet be well." But, madam, the eye and ear of Mr. Little will now be open against me, suspicion will be on the alert, and he will accept the tales of my enemies, as testimonies of sacred writ. "Believe it not; think no more of this untoward business; you have but one enemy who can essentially injure you, and that enemy is yourself. I will be responsible for my family; you shall not be molested in this house, only convince us, that you love us; do but prove, that you are more attached to us, than to any other individuals, and we are satisfied: Do but reflect, how delightfully we might pass our time together. The business of the day closed, and we assembled in the parlour; you with your book, we your admiring audience, until we are summoned to supper; then, after you have closed our serene day by an appropriate, and affecting address to the God who created, and who has hitherto preserved us, we retire to an early pillow, soothed, and gratified, our sleep cannot but be refreshing. Why, what a paradise would our abode become. But, my child, when you pass every evening abroad, you know not what a melancholy group you render us. We are dumb, our countenances are sad; our silence is sometimes broken by Mr. Little, who questions in anger, "Where is our young gentleman to-night? any society but ours!" Then follows a heavy sigh: "Well, let us go to bed, it will be late before he returns; but this will never do." We dare not open our lips, but my girls mingle their tears with mine. Greatly moved by these observations, I sincerely repented of my past conduct; and I determined I would, in all things, conform myself to the wishes of my parental friends. I beheld the family picture presented before me, by the dear lady; I beheld it with rapture, and I decisively said: yes, indeed, my future evenings shall all be devoted to a family so charming, and thus will my days be passed in peace. I promised the dear lady, solemnly I promised, that I would be all she wished; and I communicated to her bosom inexpressible delight. I left her in tears, but they were tears of rapture: I retired to my chamber; I threw myself upon my knees, I supplicated pardon of my heavenly Father, and, with a devout heart, I implored his supporting aid. A petition to my Creator always possessed the potent power of refreshing my soul; I was greatly refreshed, and I looked forward with renewed complacency. In a few hours, I was summoned to dinner; at the door of the dining-room, I was met by Mr. Little, no cloud rested upon his countenance; I entered the dining-room, where were seated my charming, my faithful friends; the mother, and her daughters; their countenances were animated, but their eyes bore testimony to their previous agitation; our interview, and hour of dining, were highly gratifying. It is true, many words were not uttered, but there is, in the expressive eye, and other intelligent features of a fine countenance, a fascination which dwelleth not in words. Soon after dinner my little friend, the youngest daughter of my patron, visited me in my chamber, and bestowed upon me many caresses.
Halcyon days and months now revolved; I fondly fancied I had surmounted every difficulty, and I anticipated a succession of delightful enjoyments; yet again I experienced the satiety, consequent upon one unvaried routine. He, who had appointed me for a life of wandering, gave me a disposition which relucted at the constant recurrence of the same scene; I ventured to pass one evening abroad: another, and another succeeded. I was severely reflected upon, and I felt it keenly; conscious of meriting reproach, I was the more deeply wounded. I had been recently conversant with a young preacher from England; my imagination was fired; the world could not have longer detained me; I condemned myself for wasting so much time; my heart, my soul was in England, in London. Let the world bestow its censures, London was the place, it contained every thing delightful; I was on tiptoe to be gone; if I was not approved by the family, so much the better, there would be less ingratitude in quitting it. My dear maternal friend once more sought, and obtained a private interview; this I wished to avoid; she saw my reluctance, and was convinced she should not succeed. She reproached me: this, though painful, I could bear better, than her tenderness. "Then you will leave us," said the dear lady. I am determined. "You will repent it, sir; you will return with sorrow, and with shame; when, possibly, you may not find these hospitable doors open to receive you." Never, never, I will die first. She paused, she raised her hands to heaven, she looked: merciful God, I see her now before me: the impression of her varying countenance was unutterable; tears coursed each other down her pallid cheeks. Pausing for a few moments, she said: "Poor, unhappy youth, you know not what you are about, where you are going, and what you are doomed to suffer. Here, then, ends all my pleasing prospects; now indeed I have lost my sons; poor Anna, she has now, in truth, no brother. Go, unhappy youth, go, the sooner you depart, the better; I do not wish to see you again." She left me, nor will I attempt a description of my sensations. I retired to my chamber, my chamber now no more; I wept, I audibly sobbed. In imagination I beheld the beloved friend, by whom it was once occupied; he seemed to upbraid me for my conduct; how torturing were the pangs I suffered. Upon the evening of this sad day, my cherub friend entered the chamber, and for the last time, during my abode therein; pretty soul, she threw her arms around my neck, my face was wet with her tears; she told me, that her sister was very, very sad! On what occasion, my love? "Why, papa is very, very angry with you: and she says, you are going away to-morrow, she knows not where, and that she shall never see you again; and she walks about her chamber, and wrings her hands, O! dear, O! dear, I never saw her so much distressed before!" This was a truly affecting night, but it was the last I passed under that roof; I was not summoned to breakfast: a servant came to ask, if I would breakfast in my chamber, there could be no doubt of my negative. I saw by the countenance of this domestic, that I was fallen. About twelve o'clock, I received a message from Mr. Little, he was alone; I must attend him. My sufferings were great. To meet his eye was abundantly worse than death; I endeavoured to avoid it. Some time elapsed before he spoke; he repeatedly attempted to speak, but mingling grief and rage arrested his utterance. At last he said: "Well, sir, you are going to commence your travels?" This, with the manner in which it was spoken, relieved me. It was at that moment my choice to cherish resentment, rather than regret. I am going to England, sir. "You are; well, and what are you going to do there? But this is no business of mine; yet I suppose it must be my business to know, how you are to get there; have you any money, sir?" No, sir. "Hold your hat, sir." I did so, and he threw into it as much gold as he pleased, and, as I then believed, as much as would support me, if I should reach the extreme age allotted to man. "Have you enough, sir?" Yes, sir, quite enough, and God forever bless you. "Do you hear, sir, leave behind you my son's fowling-piece, and here ends my air-built castle;" and with a flushed countenance, and a tearful eye, he left me, nor did I ever more cross the threshold of his door. I turned my back upon this once delightful home, with mingling emotions of sorrow, mortification, regret, and anger; all combining to produce unutterable anguish. My frame trembled, as I turned from the door; a chillness pervaded my heart; sickness seized my stomach, and I had just sufficient presence of mind to turn the contents of my hat into my pocket-handkerchief, when I sunk down upon the steps of the first door in my way. I was seen, and noticed by the people of the house, who conveyed me into their dwelling, and, when they had recovered me, questioned me respecting the cause of my indisposition. I related, with my usual frankness, every particular, and in a short time, the story circulated, and with all the variations commonly attached to interesting articles of intelligence. I was soon sufficiently restored to reach the residence of my mother; where a new scene of sorrow awaited me. The poor sufferer was beyond measure astonished at the step I had so rashly taken, and her distress was unutterable: she had promised herself a long series of enjoyments, from the happy arrangements made for me; and I suspect she contemplated, at no very distant period, a union between Miss Little, and myself; and her consequent agony, when she learned, that I had not only abandoned my home, and those flattering prospects, but that, in consequence of my fixed determination to repair to England, she was to lose me, perhaps for ever; the torture of her mind was, as I said, beyond the reach of language: but neither her tears nor entreaties, strongly enforced by those of my brothers, and sisters, could for a single moment shake my resolution. Whatever barriers might oppose my wandering steps, to England I must depart; I saw, or seemed to see, the sacred shade of my father, first reproaching me, and then soothing me to a compliance with the wishes of his mourning family; and, by the anguish of my feelings, my soul was harrowed up: yet still, obdurate as I was, I continued inflexible. I could not endure to see, or be seen, in the vicinity of the abode which I had quitted; and I made immediate preparations for my departure. I tendered, to my disconsolate mother, the money I had received from Mr. Little, not a penny of which she would accept: "No, my beloved child, if you must launch out upon the wide ocean, into a world of which you know but little, you will find this sum, large as it is, far short of your exigencies. Through your filial exertions, I am established in a dwelling, far beyond my most sanguine expectations, or even wishes; and, from your well-timed efforts, I derive many other advantages; and if my God is about to deprive me of my son, I doubt not, His goodness and mercy, which have hitherto followed me, will still be manifest, both in my provision, and preservation; and in that of my helpless children." My heart seemed ready to burst; conscience whispered, I was acting wrong, very wrong; yet even this conviction could not induce a relinquishment of my plan; an irresistible impulse seemed hurrying me on. Many instances, striking instances, in my long and wearisome life, combine to prove, that the way of man is not in himself; I, at least, have experienced the truth of this sacred testimony. As the time of my departure drew near, my feelings were still more keen. My mother, my brothers, my sisters, my friends, renewed their tears, and entreaties; I could not stem a torrent so mighty, and I determined I would abide with them. But it was the determination of the moment, extorted by the mournful supplications of all who were dear to me; and when they ceased to urge, I resumed my former resolution; and my mother, from early life devoutly religious, mildly resigned herself to an event, which she considered inevitable. "I see," said she, "supplications are ineffectual; now I am indeed a widow!" Starting at the desolate term (widow), so mournfully uttered, I hastened to my chamber, and prostrating myself before the throne of Almighty God, I seemed as if I were struggling with the agonies of dissolving nature. I would infinitely have preferred death, to a separation so exquisitely torturing: I besought the God of my father to have compassion upon me, never to leave nor forsake me; and while thus humbly, and faithfully soliciting the Father of my spirit, renewed affiance grew in my bosom, and a voice seemed to say, "Go, and lo I am with you always." Calmly reposing upon this assurance, I retired to rest; I quitted my pillow on the succeeding morning, wonderfully refreshed. It was on that morning, that I met, for the last time, in the place of my dear, confiding father, his disconsolate family: It was indeed a time of prayer. My heart addressed the Father of mercies; I confessed, with great sincerity, my manifold errors; and I petitioned for a continuance of unmerited kindness; I beseeched God to look with pity on a poor, destitute, helpless being, commencing a journey through a world, with which he was unacquainted. I entreated our God, in behalf of my suffering mother, and her helpless orphans, that He would constantly abide with them; and that he would vouchsafe an answer of peace to the many prayers, offered up in their behalf, by the husband and parent, now in glory. My mother was dumb; she saw the hand of God in this business, and she believed, that, as a sparrow falleth not to the ground without our heavenly Father, I could not thus leave my pleasant home, and wander I knew not whither, except the Lord directed. And, embracing me, when on the eve of my departure, she affectingly said; "Go, my first-born, my ever beloved son; go, and may the God of your father be with you: Go, my darling son, on whom, while coming up from this wilderness, I fondly meant to lean; but God will not allow me to lean on any but himself: Go thou, ever dear to my heart, and may our God be still near you, to preserve you from the evil, which is in the world. The prayers of your afflicted mother shall be continually offered up in your behalf; and oh! my son, although we part, never perhaps to meet again in this world, yet let us meet every day before that throne, whence we may expect grace to help in every time of need; let us be present in spirit, thus waiting upon the Lord. She then threw her fond, maternal arms around me, once more pressing me to that dear, that faithful bosom, whence I drew my early nourishment. With tears of fond affection she bedewed my face, and again dropping upon her knees, she once more lifted her streaming eyes to heaven in my behalf, when starting up, she hastened to the retirement of her chamber, and instantly closed the door. I stood like a statue; I could not move; I was almost petrified by sorrow. But from this state of stupefaction I was roused by the burst of sorrow, and loud lamentations of my sisters; I turned to the dear girls, I wept with them, and endeavoured to give them that consolation which I did not myself possess. But, hastening from this scene of sorrow, there was one pang, which I calculated to escape. The youngest child, a beautiful little boy, who bore the name of my father—sweet cherub—I dreaded seeing him, and determined to spare myself this torture; but, as I slowly, and pensively passed from the house, believing that what was worse than the bitterness of death had passed, this lovely little fellow crossed my path. Sweet innocent, thou wert playful as the frisking lamb of the pasture, totally ignorant of the agonies, which wrung the heart of thy brother. He ran to me, clung around my knees, and looking wishfully in my face, affectingly questioned; "Where are you going?" I could not reply, I attempted to move on, he took hold of my garment; "Let me go with you? shall not I go with you, brother?" He uttered these questions, in a voice so plaintive, that he pierced my very soul. Surely, had it been possible, I should even then have relinquished my purpose. It was with difficulty that I extricated myself from this supplicating infant. I would have hastened forward, but my trembling limbs refused their office; I caught him in my arms, I pressed him to my aching bosom, and but for a burst of tears, which came seasonably to my relief, the struggles of my heart must have choaked me. I left him—yes, I left this youngest of my father's children; this dear object of my soul's affection, this infant charge, committed to my care, by an expiring father: I left him in the act of innocent supplication. I left him when I should, with a thousand times less of suffering, have quitted the clay-built tabernacle of my spirit; nor had I ought in prospect, to compensate the sorrows to which I voluntarily submitted!! Surely, there is a hand unseen, which governs the human being, and all his actions; I repeat, truly the way of man is not in himself. Few sufferings could surpass those which, upon this occasion, I endured: My bitterest enemy could not have censured me with more severity, than I censured myself, yet I passed on; no friend could urge my return with more energy, than did the emotions of my own afflicted heart, yet I passed on. True, I passed on slowly; a frame, enfeebled by mental agonies, is not moved without difficulty. I had sent my trunk on, in the wagon, to the city of Cork, where I purposed to take passage for England; and with my staff in my hand, I passed on, my eyes fixed on the ground, not wishing to encounter any human eye: It was with much difficulty, I attained the summit of a steep acclivity, where, spent and weary, I sat me down. From this lofty eminence, in full perspective, outspread before me, was the place from which I had departed; my eye eagerly ran over the whole scene. Upon a gentle ascent, directly opposite, embosomed in a thick grove of ash, sycamore, and fruit trees, appeared the loved dwelling of my mother. Behind this eminence, still ascending, was outstretched that garden, in which, with great delight, I had so often laboured; where I had planted herbs, fruits, and flowers, in great variety; and where, as my departure was in the month of June, they all flourished in high perfection. It was only during the preceding year, that I had added to my stock a large number of the best fruit trees, in the full expectation of reaping the reward of my labours, through many successive seasons. In those tall trees, the cuckoo, the thrush, and the blackbird, built their nests; and at early dawn, and at closing eve, I have hung enraptured upon their melodious notes. My swimming eye passed from the garden to the house; there sat my weeping, my supplicating mother, at that moment, probably, uniting with her deserted children in sending up to heaven petitions for my safety. I turned to the right; there towered the stately mansion, I was bid to consider as my own; there dwelt the matron, who hoped I should have been unto her as a son, and who had cherished me as such; there dwelt the charming young lady, whose virtuous attachment might have constituted the solace of my existence. The tear of sorrow, the sigh of disappointment, no doubt, bedewed their cheeks, and swelled their faithful bosoms: And, oh! I exclaimed, may the balm of peace, may the consolations of the holy spirit, be abundantly shed abroad in your hearts.
As thus, from scene to scene, my eager eye with tearful haste had wandered, my heart reiterated its unutterable agonies; and, as I considered my situation as resembling that of the father of mankind, when driven from the paradise, to which state of blessedness it was decreed he never was to return, I would gladly have laid me down and died: I would have given the world, had it been at my disposal, to have reinstated myself in the situation, and circumstances, I had so inconsiderately relinquished; but this was impossible, and this conviction—how terrible! I wept, I sobbed. Despair seemed taking up its residence in my bosom. I fled from the scene; again I turned; one more look; I wrung my hands in agony, and my heart spontaneously exclaimed: Dear, ever dear parent, once more farewell; dear, much loved sisters, brothers, and thou, sweet innocent, thou smiling, thoughtless, and therefore happy babe, once more farewell; and you, dear second parents, and thou sister of the friend of my soul, with the beauteous cherub, whose infantile caresses, while pouring into my ear the interesting tale, were as balm to my wounded spirit—farewell, Oh! farewell forever! and you, ye many kind, religious connexions, with whom I have often wept, and prayed, and joyed, and sorrowed, once more I bid you adieu; adieu ye flowery walks, where I have spent so many happy hours; ye thick embowering shades, reared by these hands, ye health-restoring herbs, ye sweet delicious fruits, ye fragrant flowers, receive my last farewell. Still I lingered—still I gazed around, and yet again, another look—'tis past, and I am gone forever. I turned from the view, and have never since beheld those charming scenes. I wonder much my agitated spirits had not insured a fever; but God preserved me, and leading my mind to the consideration of scenes beyond the present state, I was enabled to proceed, until I beheld, in perspective, the spires of the opulent city, which I was approaching. The opening prospect, with the additional sound of a fine ring of bells from Shannon steeple (a church standing on an eminence upon the river Lee, the bells of which are heard at an immense distance), gave a new tone to my mind. I had many friends in the city of Cork, and I endeavoured to derive consolation from their unquestioned attachment. I had frequently preached in this city, and I had reason to suppose my labours had been acceptable. In the city of Cork, my paternal grandmother, with her daughter, my aunt Champion, and her children, still lived. My society would be sought, and I should again be engaged in preaching; these considerations lessened the weight of affliction, by which I had been sorely pressed. I arrived at the mansion of my grandmother, some time before sunset, and I was very joyfully received; but when I had communicated my plan, the countenances both of my grandmother, and my aunt, decidedly evinced their displeasure; they censured me with severity, and I keenly felt their rebukes. I assured them, I came not to solicit aid; and rising from my chair, I bade them formally adieu, quitting their presence, and their house. The eldest daughter of my aunt, a very beautiful young lady, and as good as beautiful, whose heart was formed for pity and for tenderness, followed me down stairs, and entreated me to continue with them, but her well-designed interference was ineffectual. I had been severely censured, and I could not bear it; I could have borne it better, if it had been unmerited. I left my lovely cousin in tears, nor did I again see, or hear from any individual of the family, until, one evening after I had preached in the Methodist Church, my grandmother advanced, took my hand, and requested I would attend her home: I confess I was delighted with her condescension; for my mind had greatly suffered from the reflection, that I had given pain to the dear, and respectable mother of my deceased father. I accompanied her home, and we passed a happy evening together; both my grandmother, and my aunt, addressed me in strains the most soothing; they poured into my lacerated mind the oil and wine of consolation; they confessed themselves convinced, that the good hand of God was in my removal. "You are," said the pious lady, "you are, my dear child, under the guidance of an omnipotent Power; God has designed you for himself; you are a chosen instrument to give light to your fellow men; you are, I perceive, ordained to turn many from darkness unto light, from the power of satan, unto God, and the Lord will be with you. The God of your father will bless you, and make your way prosperous before you; look no more, then, to what you have left behind, but look forward in faith, always remembering, that God's works of providence are his most holy, wise, and powerful; preserving and governing all his creatures, and all their actions. Do not, I say, reflect upon yourself; I confess, I was wrong in censuring you; God's way is in the great deep, we ought to acquiesce in all the dispensations of our Creator. You, my dear son, are as clay in his hand; God is as the potter, who will do with you as seemeth good in his sight. Who can resist his will?" Thus did this dear lady speak peace to a mind, that had not, for a long season, received such strong consolation.
I was urged, while in the city of Cork, to relinquish my purpose of going to England. The Methodists solicited me to repair to Limerick, where a preacher was much wanted; but nothing could seduce my thoughts from my native island. I frequently mixed in company, where religious disputes ran very high. The doctrine of election, and final perseverance, were severely reprobated: But election, and final perseverance, were fundamentals in my creed, and were received by me, as the doctrines of God. Yet I was aware, that an attempt to defend principles, so obnoxious, would subject me to the censure, and ill treatment of religious enemies, and I had experienced, that religious enemies were the most to be dreaded: Yet, as I could not be silent, and as I dared not dissemble, I contented myself with observing, that I had been accustomed to hear my respectable father speak in favour of those doctrines. But although, in my public labours, I never asserted ought, that could expose me to censure, yet I was more than suspected of Calvinism, and consequent resentments were enforced against me. My residence in the city of Cork was thus rendered unpleasant, and my impatience to embark for England was augmented. I was, however, obliged to continue two weeks longer, during which period, I endeavoured to live as retired as possible, avoiding controversy, and devoting my time to my grandmother and a few select friends. It was during my protracted residence in this city, that the celebrated Mr. George Whitefield arrived there, upon a visit. Of Mr. Whitefield I had heard much, and I was delighted with an opportunity of seeing, hearing, and conversing with so great a man. He was the first Calvinistic Methodist I had ever heard, and he became very dear to me; I listened with transport. The principles early inculcated upon my mind were in full force, and for Mr. Whitefield I conceived a very strong passion. He appeared to me something more than human; I blushed, at the view of myself, as a preacher, after I had attended upon him; yet I had the temerity to preach in pulpits, which he had so well filled! and I secretly resolved to enter into connexion with him, if I should be so happy as to meet him, after my arrival in London. I had many delightful opportunities in private circles with this gentleman; he was a most entertaining companion. But, as Mr. Wesley marked him with a jealous eye, he dispatched, by way of escort, two of his preachers, in whom he particularly confided, who diligently followed the great man, from place to place: he was of course, upon every occasion, closely watched; and his facetious observations, and frequent gaiety, were, by these spies, severely censured, as descriptive of unbecoming levity. In fact, every art was called into action, to prevent the affections of the people wandering, from one reformer to another; yet, while gentlemen, in connexion with Mr. Wesley, were continually upon the alert against Mr. Whitefield, he himself evinced not the smallest inclination for opposition, or even defence; he appeared perfectly content with the enjoyments of the day, rather preferring a state of independence, to an intimate connexion with any sect, or party. His choice, at that time, was decidedly the life of an itinerant, and he then evidently shrunk from the cares, and embarrassments, attached to the collecting, building, and repairing churches. And never, I believe, did any man in public life enjoy more: he was the admiration of the many, and an object of the warmest affection in those social circles, in which it was his felicity to mingle. The pleasures of the table were highly zested by Mr. Whitefield, and it was the pride of his friends to procure for him every possible luxury. The pleasure I derived from this gentleman's preaching, from his society, and from the society of his friends, contributed to lessen the weight of melancholy, which depressed my spirits on my departure from home. I recollect an evening, passed with him at the house of one of Mr. Wesley's preachers, who had wedded a beautiful young lady of family and fortune, only daughter of a Mrs. ———, who possessed a very large estate, kept her chariot, her city, and her country house, and entertained much company; many persons were collected upon this evening; I was charmed with every thing I saw, with every thing I heard. I had long admired the master of the house, his lady I had never before seen; she was the object of general adulation; her person was uncommonly elegant, and her face dazzlingly beautiful; she had received a useful, as well as a fashionable education, and she was mistress of all the polite accomplishments. She had three lovely children, with minds as well cultivated, as their time of life would permit; I threw my eyes upon the happy, the highly favoured husband, the amiable wife, the fascinating children, the venerable lady, who gave being to this charming wife, mother, friend. I beheld the group with rapture; for envy, as I have elsewhere observed, was never an ingredient in my composition, and I hung with a sort of chastened pleasure, upon the anecdotes furnished by Mr. Whitefield; the whole scene was captivatingly entertaining, and highly interesting; I was ready to wish the night might endure forever. Alas! it was but one night; I never after entered that house: Happy would it have been for me, if I had never seen it. How mysterious are the ways of heaven! this evening, upon which I was so highly gratified, was the remote cause of my suffering, many years afterwards, great and very serious inquietude. I left the house of my friend, Mr. Trinbath, expecting to have seen him again and again; I left him an object of envy to many; but I never saw him more, nor did he, poor gentleman, long continue the object of envy to any one.
This was the last night I spent in this city, in this country. The vessel, in which I had engaged a passage to Bristol, was now ready for sailing; I had only time, upon the morning of the ensuing day, to bid a hasty adieu to my grandmother, and her family, with a few other friends; to receive their blessings, and to depart. I took my place in the vessel at the wharf, some of my friends accompanying me thither; I spoke to them with my eyes, with my hands, my tongue refused utterance.
The beauty of the surrounding scenes, in passing from the city to the cove of Cork, cannot perhaps be surpassed. A few miles from the city stands a fortress, then governed by a half brother of my father. I beheld it with a humid eye, but the vessel had a fair wind, and we passed it rapidly. I retired to the cabin; my too retentive memory retraced the scenes I had witnessed, since first I reached Hibernia's hospitable shore; they were many, and to me interesting: reflection became extremely painful, yet it was impossible to avoid it; and while I was thus retrospecting, the vessel cut her way through the harbour; we had reached the cove, we were on the point of leaving the land. I jumped upon the deck, I threw my eyes over the country I was leaving, which contained all that was near and dear to me, either by the ties of blood or friendship; all, all were drawn up in order before me, it was another parting scene. Yet I cherished hope, I might again return. Alas! alas! this hope was delusive; it was an everlasting adieu. Dear country of guileless, and courteous manners, of integrity, and generous hospitality, I bid you adieu; adieu ye verdant hills, ye fertile vallies, ye gurgling rills, which every where cross the path of the traveller; ye delicious fruits, ye fragrant flowers, ye sylvan scenes, for contemplation made—adieu, perhaps forever. Here ends the various hopes and fears, which have swelled my bosom in a country celebrated for the salubrity of its air, the clearness of its waters, the richness of its pastures, and the hospitality of its inhabitants; and
Where no poisonous reptile could ever yet procure sustenance.