The news, grotesquely exaggerated, flew about the next day, and at
night, though it was very cold and windy, the house was jammed to
suffocation. On these lonely prairies life is so devoid of anything but
work, dramatic entertainments are so few, and appetite so keen, that a
temperature of twenty degrees below zero is no bar to a trip of ten
miles. The protracted meeting was the only recreation for many of them.
The gossip before and after service was a delight not to be lost, and
this last sensation was dramatic enough to bring out old men and women
who had not dared to go to church in winter for ten years.
Long before seven o'clock, the schoolhouse blazed with light and buzzed
with curious speech. Team after team drove up to the door, and as the
drivers leaped out to receive the women, they said in low but eager
tones to the bystanders:--
"Meeting begun yet?"
"Nope!"
"What kind of a time y' havin' over here, any way?"
"A mighty solumn time," somebody would reply with a low laugh.
By seven o'clock every inch of space was occupied; the air was
frightful. The kerosene lamps gave off gas and smoke, the huge stove
roared itself into an angry red on its jack-oak grubs, and still people
crowded in at the door.
Discussion waxed hot as the stove; two or three Universalists boldly
attacked everybody who came their way. A tall man stood on a bench in
the corner, and, thumping his Bible wildly with his fist, exclaimed, at
the top of his voice:--
"There is _no_ hell at _all_! The Bible says the _wicked_ perish
_utterly_. They are _consumed_ as _ashes_ when they die. They _perish_
as _dogs_!"
"What kind o' docterin' is that?" asked a short man of Councill.
"I d'know. It's ol' Sam Richards. Calls himself a
Christian--Christadelphian 'r some new-fangled name."