CHAPTER VII.

Religious movements--Itinerant preachers--$50 a year--Camp-meetings--Weird scenes at night--Millerites--World coming to an end--Dissenters attempt to fly--Affrighted by a “sun-dog”--Destruction fails to materialize--The Mormons--An improvised Gabriel--Raising the dead--Converts--Salt Lake--An Irish refugee and his poem.

“On some fond breast the ’parting soul relies, Some pious tears the closing eye requires, E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.”

Before churches were built in the early settlements services were held by itinerant preachers at the houses of the people, or else in the school-houses, if accessible. Most of these itinerant preachers were earnest, zealous men, and labored honestly for what they considered to be right and their duty. Subsisting upon the cosmopolitan (to them) parishioners, their real need of money was not excessive. It is related of many of them that they did not receive in money more than $50 to $100 per year during their whole stay in the vicinity. Donations in kind being frequent, and usually abundant, the need of money was not felt. Money, indeed, to the pioneer was too precious to be lightly paid out, or even talked over, except of necessity. Most of the settlers in the neighboring townships who had not received Royal grants, had bought their lands from the Crown, the Canada Company, or the Bursar of Toronto University.

Although the price was usually about $4 per acre, with long terms allowed for payment, and the vendors were very lenient, yet pay-day inevitably came around, and every Halifax pound obtained must be hoarded against it.

My earliest recollection of an itinerant preacher is of one particular man whose visits were made quarterly, and who always sang at night:

“How happy is the man Who has chosen wisdom’s ways, And has measured out his span, To his God in prayer and praise.”

He was as happy and light-hearted as the birds of the air. His hands were not hardened by incessant chopping of forest trees, nor was his face blackened by burning log-heaps. Just how it was I never quite knew, but one day he borrowed a saddle and $40 from my father, and forgot to come back again. My father did not, so far as I can remember, participate in the ideal joys of this itinerant, nor did he seem to be disturbed or unhappy from deprivation of them.

The genuine camp-meeting was every summer the great feature, and was looked upon as the special means of grace. Tents and shanties were put up in a grove, and furnished with rude tables and beds, with seats arranged outside, and a rostrum for the minister. Four crotched sticks were stuck in the ground, with beams across, and sticks upon the beams. On these earth was laid to make a hearth, and a fire built on it. Such elevated fires shed weird lurid gleams over the scene at night. So far as I can recollect I have never seen (and I have seen a little of all lands) anything more picturesque. The shouting preacher, the groaning penitents, the managers or elders flitting about among the hearers, while mischievous, unsympathizing boys perched on the trees, ready for any prank which might present itself; each separate platform of fire casting its dancing shadows, showing up each detail distinctly--all combining to make a scene never to be forgotten. (See page 209.)

The camp-meeting generally lasted a week, and I would not for a single moment wish to convey the idea that much good was not accomplished by these gatherings, although they certainly were not without some traces of fanaticism.

The “Millerite scare,” as it might be called, was another instance of the extent to which religious fanatics could influence their hearers and affect their lives. From some manuscript left by my mother, and the account given me by my father, and by my uncle, David Annis, I have gleaned the following anecdotes of this curious event in our country:

During the winter of 1842-3 the Second Adventists, or Millerites, were preaching that the world would be all burnt up in February, 1843. Nightly meetings were held, generally in the school-houses. One E--H--, about Prince Albert, Ont., owned a farm of one hundred acres and upwards, stocked with cattle and farm produce, as well as having implements of agriculture. So strongly did he embrace the Second Advent doctrines of the Millerites that he had not a doubt of the fire to come in February and burn all up, and in confirmation of his faith gave away his stock, implements and farm. Sarah Terwilligar, who lived about a mile east of Oshawa “corners,” on the Kingston Road, made for herself wings of silk, and, on the night of 14th of February, jumped off the porch of her home, expecting to fly heavenward. Falling to the ground some fifteen feet, she was shaken up severely and rendered wholly unfit to attend at all to the fires that were expected to follow the next day. (See page 220.)

The house in the illustration is the one from the windows of which the attempt to fly was made. The wings were made of silk. Though, in the picture, they appear to do their work, they did not prevent the wearer falling to the ground about fifteen feet, and suffering the result in a broken leg.

Mr. John Henry, on that 14th day of February, was riding alone and met a man on horseback coming at the top of his speed. Accosting Mr. Henry he said, “Say, stranger, do you see that sign in the sky?” Mr. Henry looked up and saw only a sun-dog, frequently seen then and now in the winter season, and replied, “Yes, what of it?” “Well, that’s the Lord coming to-morrow to burn the world up,” and Mr. H. replied, “Get out! that’s only a sun-dog.” “Oh! you are an unbeliever,” was the retort, as the man dug spurs into his horse’s sides as if to ride away from the fire he felt so near. My father told me that on the evening before the final great day, he took a sleigh-load of neighbors down to a meeting in a log school-house near where Ebenezer Church now is, in Darlington. So deep was the snow, he said, that they had no difficulty in driving over the fences. Arriving at the log school-house, they found it densely packed, and most of the auditors standing. Being late, they sought to push themselves in, when someone from the middle of the room called out, “Stand back, boys, you don’t know breeding.” But they pushed on heedless of breeding or the want of it, and got in a few feet from the door, where they stood and listened to some Millerite in the master’s rostrum desk, as he told about the terrible fires to come on in a few hours. His words riveted the attention of all, cramped and uncomfortable as they were in the crowded room.

Tallow dips, fastened in tin reflectors, shed a mild light over all, and the heat from the crowded room became so great as to give a taste, an intense one, too, of the awful heat promised when the fires should appear. The old log school-house had been used before as a rude pioneer dwelling, and a cellar had been scooped out below the centre. Without an instant’s warning the old floor-beams broke and the crowd, who all expected to go up, as the Millerite preacher assured them, were let _down_ with unexpected precipitancy. The scene, my father said, was too ludicrous for description. Screaming, fainting, pulling, praying, squirming, the dense mass fought to get out. Fortunately the tallow dips were fastened to the walls and continued to light up the place. My father dryly said he made his way out, got his load and went home (at Port Oshawa) and to bed. The next morning he found the snow as usual upon the ground and no signs of fire.

A. S. Whiting, the manufacturer, tells of his experience of the Millerite scare. During the long winter he was peddling eight-day clocks from house to house--clocks which he had brought with him from Connecticut. For many weeks he had heard that the immense snow mantle in that part of Upper Canada around Port Hope would turn to blood and burn up. On the afternoon of the 14th February, 1843, he, with his horse and sleigh and a load of clocks, was driving north from Port Hope. It was a gloriously bright, sunny day of clear bracing cold, with not a cloud in the sky. Just at nightfall he arrived at a small village and drove direct to the tavern. Tying his horse to the hitching-post, he went into the bar-room to ask for lodging and food for himself and the steed. He found no one, so pushed on into the sitting-room usually provided for guests. No one was yet visible. Then he called out, but received no answer. Going on from room to room, he finally reached the kitchen. Here he found a woman crying and sobbing. Upon asking for the landlord, and also questioning the hostler where to find him, he was told they had “all gone to meeting.”

“Well, I want to put my horse in the stable and then have some supper,” the traveller exclaimed.

“There is no use of eating, for we shall all be burnt up before morning,” the weeping woman managed to get out between her sobs.

“Well, never mind, I’ll go and put up my horse, while you get me some supper.”

On partaking of his supper, he asked for his room; still there was no one else about, and on retiring he was told in faltering words that he would be burnt up while he slept.

The sun set that night in more than usual splendor; all nature seemed serene and peaceful, and he could discover nothing to betoken the awful deluge of fire so soon to rain upon them. He slept well, and did not waken at two o’clock in the morning to see the two feet of snow turn to blood and commence to burn. Next morning, at the usual hour, rising and feeding his horse, he called loudly for someone to get him breakfast. After a time the inmates appeared, looking haggard and worn, and very much surprised that they were still alive. After breakfast, when he was about setting out, he asked “if they wanted pay, since they were all going to die so soon.” This broke the spell and brought them back to mundane things. They promptly enough asked for and received pay for the entertainment of man and beast.

All that day, the narrator said, he could do no business, because the people had not gotten over the surprise of finding themselves alive.

Just why they had fixed on that special day and hour is past finding out. Since that time there have

been many attempts to fix the time for a general conflagration, but nothing ever became so general as this of the Millerites. It is said the Scotch were not as a class believers in the doctrine, and had no disposition to scare themselves to death.

During the summer of that memorable year (1843) the Mormons came to the country, in the hope of making converts. At Butterfield’s Corners (Taunton) a man named John G. Cannon held forth for several days, sometimes in the open air and again in the houses of those inhabitants who appeared to have leanings that way.

On one occasion, in the midst of a heated harangue out of doors, he raised his right hand and said, “I ask Heaven if this is not true?” at the same time looking upwards. A moment, and the answer came from above, in a deep bass voice, “It is true,” thus startling the audience almost into belief. Again, on making the assertion that the golden tablets of brother Joseph Smith were inspired, he asked, raising his voice, “Are they?” and again came the deep-voiced reply, “They are.” One of the men, listening, declared there must be a man in a hollow basswood tree standing near, and said he would go for his hired man with his axe and have it cut down. “Don’t you touch it,” the Mormon cried authoritatively; “if you do the Lord will strike you dead.” Perhaps half convinced, the man did not have the tree chopped down, the fraud passed, and the Mormon thus scored what appeared convincing arguments.

Quite near this scene a young girl was very sick with a fever, and lay in a state of coma. That he could raise the dead he now gave out, as in the illustration (page 228) he is represented as doing. And it is only fair to the Mormon to add that after his pressure and manipulations over the girl she did open her eyes and look about.

Several converts were made. Among these a family of the name of McGahan embraced the faith, sold their farm for $4,000, gave the money to the Mormon, and went off to Salt Lake. Another, named Seeleys, also sold all and went, but they could not raise much money.

My father had charged me many times, that if ever I went to Salt Lake I should go and see these people. In 1878 I happened to be in the Mormon centre. From a man cutting stones for the new Mormon tabernacle I enquired for the family. The stone-cutter dropped his mallet as quickly as if shot, and replied that he knew them well, and would get a conveyance and take me to them, twenty-five miles down Salt Lake valley, and assured me of a most hearty welcome.

I did not, however, accept his offer, for, honestly, I confess I was afraid of the Mormons. As a “Gentile” I feared to risk my life among them, and preferred not to leave the protection of United States troops at Camp Douglas.

* * * * *

After the Irish rebellion there came to New York State a talented Irishman, who lodged on the United States side of the Niagara River at the Falls. From that point of vantage he daily watched the Canadian shore just across the river. Like the moth and the candle, he could not keep away from Britain after all. But while he remained there this is what he wrote of us:

THE RED-CROSS FLAG.

I.

Beside Niagara’s awful wave He stood--a ransom’d Irish slave; Self-ransom’d by a woful flight, That robbed his heaven of half its light, And flung him in a nation free-- The fettered slave of Memory.

II.

The exile’s eye strove not to rest Upon the Cataract’s curling crest, Nor paused it on the brilliant bow Which hung aslant the gulf below; The banks of adamant to him Were unsubstantial all and dim, But from his gaze a child had guessed There raged a cataract in his breast.

III.

A flag against the northern sky Alone engaged his eager eye; Upon Canadian soil it stood-- Its hue was that of human blood, Its red was crossed with pallid scars-- Pale, steely, stiff as prison bars. “Oh, cursed flag!” the exile said, “The hair grows heavy on my head; My blood leaps wilder than this water, On seeing thee, thou sign of slaughter. Oh, may I never meet my death Till I behold the day of wrath, When on thy squadrons shall be poured The vengeance heaven so long has stored.”

IV.

Then turning to his friends, who had Deemed him, from sudden frenzy, mad: “My friends,” he said, “you little know The fire yon red rag kindles so; None but an Irish heart can tell The thought that causes mine to swell, When I behold the fatal sign That blighted the green land once mine; That stripped her of each gallant chief; That scourged her for her bold belief; That would have blotted out her name Could England buy the Trump of Fame. But, help us, Heaven, she never can While lives one constant Irishman.”

V.

He paused. No human voice replied, But with a mighty oath, the tide Seemed swearing as it leaped and ran-- “No! no! by Heaven, they never can While lives one constant Irishman.”

Extravagant as is the tenor of this poem, yet as a literary production it is good, and points unmistakably to the man’s genius.

Time in its whirligig works wonders, especially in America. A few years after, that poet and refugee came to Canada, sought election to Parliament, succeeded, and afterwards became a member of the Dominion Government. Comment is unnecessary.