<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></SPAN>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">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.</p>
</div>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“On some fond breast the ’parting soul relies,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Some pious tears the closing eye requires,<br/></span>
<span class="i1">E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.”<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>EFORE 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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</SPAN></span> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>My earliest recollection of an itinerant preacher is of one particular
man whose visits were made quarterly, and who always sang at night:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“How happy is the man<br/></span>
<span class="i3">Who has chosen wisdom’s ways,<br/></span>
<span class="i1">And has measured out his span,<br/></span>
<span class="i3">To his God in prayer and praise.”<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</SPAN></span> ideal joys of this itinerant, nor did he seem to be
disturbed or unhappy from deprivation of them.</p>
<p>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 <SPAN href="#page_209">page 209</SPAN>.)</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The “Millerite scare,” as it might be called, was<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</SPAN></span> 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:</p>
<p>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 <SPAN href="#page_220">page 220</SPAN>.)</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</SPAN></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</SPAN></span> 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.</p>
<p>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
<i>down</i> 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.</p>
<p>A. S. Whiting, the manufacturer, tells of his experi<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</SPAN></span>ence 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.”</p>
<p>“Well, I want to put my horse in the stable and then have some supper,”
the traveller exclaimed.</p>
<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Well, never mind, I’ll go and put up my horse, while you get me some
supper.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>All that day, the narrator said, he could do no business, because the
people had not gotten over the surprise of finding themselves alive.</p>
<p>Just why they had fixed on that special day and hour is past finding
out. Since that time there have</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN href="images/ill_015.jpg"> <ANTIMG src="images/ill_015.jpg" width-obs="600" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></SPAN> <div class="caption"><p>POTASH MAKING. THE MELTING SCENE.</p> <p class="brcy">BARCLAY, CLARK & CO. LITHO. TORONTO</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="nind">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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</SPAN></span> man did not have the tree chopped down, the fraud
passed, and the Mormon thus scored what appeared convincing arguments.</p>
<p>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 (<SPAN href="#page_228">page 228</SPAN>) 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>I did not, however, accept his offer, for, honestly, I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</SPAN></span> 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.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>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:</p>
<h3>THE RED-CROSS FLAG.</h3>
<h4>I.</h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Beside Niagara’s awful wave<br/></span>
<span class="i0">He stood—a ransom’d Irish slave;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Self-ransom’d by a woful flight,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That robbed his heaven of half its light,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And flung him in a nation free—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The fettered slave of Memory.<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<h4>II.</h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The exile’s eye strove not to rest<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Upon the Cataract’s curling crest,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Nor paused it on the brilliant bow<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Which hung aslant the gulf below;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The banks of adamant to him<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Were unsubstantial all and dim,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</SPAN></span><br/></span>
<span class="i0">But from his gaze a child had guessed<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There raged a cataract in his breast.<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<h4>III.</h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A flag against the northern sky<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Alone engaged his eager eye;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Upon Canadian soil it stood—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Its hue was that of human blood,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Its red was crossed with pallid scars—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pale, steely, stiff as prison bars.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">“Oh, cursed flag!” the exile said,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">“The hair grows heavy on my head;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">My blood leaps wilder than this water,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On seeing thee, thou sign of slaughter.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, may I never meet my death<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till I behold the day of wrath,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When on thy squadrons shall be poured<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The vengeance heaven so long has stored.”<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<h4>IV.</h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then turning to his friends, who had<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Deemed him, from sudden frenzy, mad:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">“My friends,” he said, “you little know<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The fire yon red rag kindles so;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">None but an Irish heart can tell<br/></span>
<span class="i0">The thought that causes mine to swell,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">When I behold the fatal sign<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That blighted the green land once mine;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That stripped her of each gallant chief;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That scourged her for her bold belief;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">That would have blotted out her name<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</SPAN></span><br/></span>
<span class="i0">Could England buy the Trump of Fame.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But, help us, Heaven, she never can<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While lives one constant Irishman.”<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<h4>V.</h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He paused. No human voice replied,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But with a mighty oath, the tide<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Seemed swearing as it leaped and ran—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">“No! no! by Heaven, they never can<br/></span>
<span class="i0">While lives one constant Irishman.”<br/></span></div>
</div></div>
<p>Extravagant as is the tenor of this poem, yet as a literary production
it is good, and points unmistakably to the man’s genius.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</SPAN></span></p>
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