Part 1 (1/2)
Neville Trueman the Pioneer Preacher.
by William Henry Withrow.
PREFACE.
In this short story an attempt has been made--with what success the reader must judge--to present certain phases of Canadian life during the heroic struggle against foreign invasion, which first stirred in our country the pulses of that common national life, which has at length attained a st.u.r.dier strength in the confederation of the several provinces of the Dominion of Canada.
It will he found, we think, that the Canadian Methodism of those troublous times was not less patriotic than pious. While our fathers feared G.o.d, they also honoured the King, and loved their country; and many of them died in its defence. Reverently let us mention their names. Lightly let us tread upon their ashes.
Faithfully let us cherish their memory. And sedulously let us imitate their virtues.
A good deal of pains has been taken by the careful study of the most authentic memoirs, doc.u.ments, and histories referring to the period; by personal examination of the physical aspect of the scene of the story; and by frequent conversations with some of the princ.i.p.al actors in the stirring drama of the time--most of whom, alas! have now pa.s.sed away--to give a verisimilitude to the narrative that shall, it is hoped, reproduce in no distorted manner this memorable period.
W. H. W.
TORONTO, March 1st, 1880.
CHAPTER I.
WAR CLOUDS.
Now lower the dreadful clouds of war; Its threatening thunder rolls afar; Near and more near the rude alarms Of conflict and the clash of arms Advance and grow, till all the air Rings with the brazen trumpet blare.
Towards the close of a sultry day in July, in the year 1812, might have been seen a young man riding along the beautiful west bank of the Niagara River, about three miles above its mouth. His appearance would anywhere have attracted attention. He was small in person and singularly neat in his attire. By exposure to summer's sun and winter's cold, his complexion was richly bronzed, but, as he lifted his broad-leafed felt hat to cool his brow, it could be seen that his forehead was smooth and white and of a n.o.ble fulness, indicating superior intellectual abilities. His hair was dark,
--his eye beneath Flashed like falchion from its sheath.
His bright, quick glances, alternating with a full and steady gaze, betokened a mind keenly sympathetic with emotions both of sorrow and of joy. His dress and accoutrements were those of a travelling Methodist preacher of the period. He wore a suit of ”parson's grey,” the coat having a straight collar and being somewhat rounded away in front. His buckskin leggings, which descended to his stirrups, were splashed with mud, for the day had been rainy. He was well mounted on a light-built, active-looking chestnut horse. The indispensable saddle-bags, containing his Greek Testament, Bible, and Wesley's Hymns, and a few personal necessaries, were secured across the saddle. A small, round, leathern valise, with a few changes of linen, and his coa.r.s.e frieze great-coat were strapped on behind. Such was a typical example of the ”clerical cavalry” who, in the early years of this century, ranged through the wilderness of Canada, fording or swimming rivers, toiling through forests and swamps, and carrying the gospel of Christ to the remotest settlers in the backwoods.
Our young friend, the Rev. Neville Trueman, afterwards a prominent figure in the history of early Methodism, halted his horse on a bluff jutting out into the Niagara River, both to enjoy the refres.h.i.+ng breeze that swept over the water and to admire the beautiful prospect. At his feet swept the broad and n.o.ble river, reflecting on its surface the snowy ma.s.ses of ”thunderhead”
clouds, around which the lightning still played, and which, transfigured and glorified in the light of the setting sun, seemed to the poetic imagination of the young man like the City of G.o.d descending out of heaven, with its streets of gold and foundations of precious stones, while the rainbow that spanned the heavens seemed like the rainbow of the Apocalypse round about the throne of G.o.d.
Under the inspiration of the beauty of the scene, the young preacher began to sing in a clear, sweet, tenor voice that song of the ages, which he had learned at his mother's knee among the green hills of Vermont--
Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation, Sink heart and voice opprest,
I know not, oh! I know not What joys await me there; What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those walls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng.
With jasper glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze, The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays.
Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced;
The saints build up its fabric, The corner-stone is Christ.
[Footnote: We cannot resist the temptation to give a few lines of the original hymn of Bernard of Clugny, a Breton monk of English parentage of the 12th century--”the sweetest of all the hymns of heavenly homesickness of the soul,” and for generations one of the most familiar, through translations, in many languages. The rhyme and rhythm are so difficult, that the author was able to master it, he believed, only by special inspiration of G.o.d.
Urbs Syon aurea, patria lactea, cive decora, Omne cor obruis, omnibus obstruis et cor et ora, Nescio, nescio, quae jubilatio, lux tibi qualis, Quam socialia gaudia, gloria quam specialis.]