“As laborers in Thy vineyard
Still faithful may we be,
Content to bear the burden
Of every day for Thee.
We ask no other wages,
When Thou shalt call us home,
But to have shared the travail
Which makes Thy kingdom come.”
--_Monsel._
Under instructions from the District Meeting, in October, 1872, I left
by steamer _Onward_ for a journey to the vast interior, parts of which
had never been visited by a Methodist missionary. Along the Thompson
River and through the Nicola valley were large bands of Indians, mostly
heathen, who, while speaking a different language, were nevertheless of
the same stock as those among whom I had so long labored.
I took with me, as interpreter, a young man, a native of the Thompson,
who had lived on the Chilliwack since he was a boy, and hence spoke
the An-ko-me-num language as well as his native tongue. We were each
provided with a little Indian “cayuse” or pony, which we shipped by
steamer as far as Yale. In two weeks and three days we travelled 482
miles, preaching twelve times in English and fifteen times to Indians.
The kindness of the people and their eagerness to hear the truth were
remarkable. One Indian chief and some of his friends followed us
fifteen miles to hear me preach again. We preached in court-houses,
hotels, stores, log cabins, Indian shacks, and by the wayside, and
everywhere the people “heard us gladly.”
At Yale I met Sandford Fleming, Principal Grant and their party, just
newly arrived from their arduous overland trip across the continent.
The story of this trip is found in Principal Grant’s famous book,
“Ocean to Ocean.”
The journey up the old historic Cariboo road was exciting and romantic.
We had several narrow escapes from having our horses go over the
bluffs. Had they gone over they must have fallen in some places a
thousand feet or more into the rushing waters of the Fraser River
below. The road hugged the precipice, and in many places was not wide
enough to permit two waggons to pass. The great stage coaches, which
used to convey passengers to and fro over the 400 miles into Cariboo,
would rush by with break-neck speed, while our little ponies stood
aside on rocky ledges to permit them to pass. Here and there we met the
large ox teams, of five or six yokes, returning with empty waggons from
the interior, their huge flapping canvas covers frightening our little
animals until it seemed as if we should not be able to get them by.
The first Sunday I preached in the Court House at Lytton to a mixed
crowd of white men and Indians. The latter seemed eager to hear the
truth, and right gladly did I tell them of Jesus.
At Cook’s Ferry, near the outlet of Nicola valley, we found the
paymaster of the C.P.R. survey, a kind gentleman and an acquaintance
of mine from Victoria, who called out and asked me to take dinner with
him. After our horses were attended to, I gladly joined my friend.
Passing through the bar-room, where crowds of men sat gambling, with
whiskey barrels for their tables, I said, “Gentlemen, as soon as I am
through dinner I would like to preach to you.”
“All right, parson, we’ll be ready and glad to come,” they replied.
Dinner over, I walked out, when the men cleared away their cards and
set an empty barrel at one end of the room for a pulpit, where I
preached to them. I was greatly blessed in delivering my message, and
as soon as I had finished they came forward and left their collection
of bills and silver on top of the barrel.
“THE GENUINE ARTICLE.”
Next morning we rode to what was called Oregon Jack’s, some fourteen
miles distant, a wayside inn on the road to Cariboo. We tied our horses
to the post outside, and, as we walked in, the man behind his little
bar said:
“Good morning, Bishop, you’ll take a glass of, brandy, won’t you?”
“No, thank you; I don’t take anything stronger than milk or tea,” I
replied.
“You don’t?” said he, with an oath. “You are the first parson who has
come to these regions that didn’t take his bitters.”
Ignoring his remarks, which I took for what they were worth, I said to
him, “I will have my horses taken in and fed, if you will.”
“All right. Take the Bishop’s horses and fix them,” he called out to a
little fellow named Jim.
Dinner was soon ready, and my Indian and I sat down, one at each end of
the little table, and Oregon Jack sat about midway on the side. While
we enjoyed the bacon and beans, he kept up a running fire of questions.
“By the way, Bishop, I know you. You are the man that set the country
on fire down there some time ago.”
“Country on fire?” We had great bush fires on the Lower Fraser in those
days, and thousands of acres of magnificent timber were destroyed, and
I thought Jack was about to fix one of those fires on me. “I set no
country on fire,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I mean what you Methodists call a revival. You had a revival in
Chilliwack not long ago; we heard all about it. The young fellow who
was at the telegraph line used to be blessing the Lord every night that
such a sinner was converted, and told us all the news along the line
about your revival.”
“By the way,” he continued, “is that old fellow that had a bald head,
who used to swear so that we thought the heavens would come down on us
when he drove his ox team up here, has he got it?”
[Illustration: GROUP OF STUDENTS, COQUALEETZA INSTITUTE.]
“Yes,” I replied, “he is converted, and very happy.”
“You don’t mean to say so!” said he. “Does it stick?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Well, that other fellow who stuttered so that he could hardly get it
out, has he got what you call religion?”
“Yes, he is very happy.”
“And how does he tell it?”
“Why, strange to say,” I remarked, “when he tells his experience in
class-meeting, or prays, he never stutters a bit.”
At that Jack opened his eyes wide, and with an even more pronounced and
deliberate drawl and nasal twang, he said:
“You don’t mean to say so! Why, now that must be the genuine article.”
By this time Jim, the little Scotch hostler, who had stood in the
doorway an attentive listener to the conversation, was moved by the
story, and began to brush the tears from his eyes.
Dinner being over, I said to Jack, “Now, after partaking of this good
dinner I would like to pray to God, from whom all blessings come.”
“Certainly,” he said; “you will pray, your reverence.” And he knelt
down with the rest of us.
As soon as prayer was over he shouted out “Amen!” as if he had been a
clerk in a church, and then jumping up, said:
“Now, you will have a glass of brandy, Bishop, won’t you?”
“No, thank you!” I replied; “I will have to be going now.”
When we went to get our horses we found they had about a peck of hard
barley in the trough. The little fellows did not know what it was, and
it was well that they did not eat it.
When we had got started the little Scotchman who had helped with them
shouted after us and waved his hand. I turned back, when he handed me a
five-dollar bill, saying he was sure I needed some money, and he wished
it was ten.
Who knows but some memory of early boyhood days had been awakened in
his heart which would lead him back again to the God of his fathers?
It is thus our bread is cast upon the waters to be gathered after many
days.
THE FRUIT OF MISSIONS.
I had hoped to spend the next night at the home of my friend S----, but
next day I met him and others going to the Ashcroft races. He expressed
his regret at not being home to receive me, but begged me to stay at
his place that night.
I preached at Cache Creek, and arrived at my friend’s ranch about
evening. His Chinese servant met us, and I said to him:
“John, I met your master to-day, and he told me to stay here all night.
You are to feed my horses, and I am to stay here until morning.”
He seemed doubtful as to my honesty, and in a somewhat peremptory tone
of voice said, “You savee Mr. S----? You savee Mr. S----?”
“Yes,” I said, “and he told me to stop here to-night.”
“You savee Mr. S----? You savee Mr. S----?” he repeated, each time
growing louder and more emphatic.
“Yes,” I replied, in a strong and decided voice, “I know Mr. S----,
your master, and I want you to get my supper, for I am going to remain
here to-night.”
Finally convinced, he took the horses and put them in the stable, and
returning to the house, very soon had a fine supper for us, of boiled
chicken and other delicacies.
After supper I said to him, “John, do you know Jesus? Have you ever
heard about Jesus?”
“Me savee little bit,” he said.
“Then let us pray to God, who has given us all this good food and all
good things,” said I.
We knelt down; I prayed, and my Indian friend prayed in his own
language; then, to our surprise, “John,” the Chinaman, at once began
to pray in Chinese, and, as I should think from the earnestness of his
utterances, made a marvellous prayer. Under the blessed influence of
grace we had a shouting, happy time.
As soon as we got through, John looked at me very earnestly, and, in
an excited tone of voice, said, “Me savee Mr. Piercy, Canton, China,
allee same you. Canton, China, one man, allee same you. Mr. Piercy,
tell me about Jesus. Mr. Piercy, Canton, China, allee same you.” And as
he spoke he grew more excited with his effort to convey to me the fact
that in Canton, his native city in China, he had been led to know Jesus
through the instrumentality of Mr. Piercy, a missionary like myself.
Suddenly it dawned upon me that the Mr. Piercy referred to was the same
George Piercy who, many years before, had left my native village in
England and had gone as a missionary to China. His consecrated devotion
had left a deep impression on my boyish mind, and I had ever since held
him in the highest esteem as a missionary of the Cross.
How little we know of the far-reaching character of our influence. Here
in the interior of British Columbia, thousands of miles from the scene
of his labors, I met the gracious results of the work of this saintly
servant of Christ.
“And they shall come from the east and from the west and from the north
and from the south, and shall sit down in the Kingdom of God.”
A SERVICE AT KAMLOOPS.
Next day we continued our journey, by way of Savano’s Ferry, on the
north side of the lake, visiting and preaching until about opposite
Kamloops, where we had to swim our horses to reach the other side.
On the bank of the river I met two old friends, members of Parliament,
who invited me to take dinner with them. I told them that I would
gladly accept their invitation as soon as I had stabled my horses and
had found out where I was to preach that night.
Kamloops was then a very small place. I met with a Mr. McKenzie, a
local store-keeper, who said I might preach in his kitchen. I then went
back to the restaurant to take dinner with my friends. After a good
repast I walked to the billiard room and called out:
“Gentlemen, we are going to have preaching in Mr. McKenzie’s kitchen at
eight o’clock, and I want you all to come.”
“All right, we’ll be there, parson,” they answered.
A lively chap, with a big overcoat on, followed me out of the door. He
was about three sheets in the wind, and was trying to put a bottle of
whiskey into his big outside pocket as he staggered along, the whiskey
bottle slipping past his pocket every time he tried.
“I know--(hic)--who you are. (hic) You are a Methodist parson. (hic) I
can tell by the cut of your jib,” said he, in a maudlin voice.
“You have struck it. Who are you?” I replied.
“My name is Bill H----,” said he.
“You sinner, you ought to be away home with your family. I visited them
to-day, and they are expecting you.”
“You’re right, I ought,” he replied.
Having called at other places, we were soon at Mr. McKenzie’s house,
and I said to my drunken companion, “This is the place for preaching.”
“I will go to church with you,” said he, and staggered in. Some man
pulled his coat tail, as he was going to the front of the room, and
bade him sit down.
There were about twenty intelligent looking men in the congregation.
After the sermon, which was listened to with respectful attention, I
began to give out that beautiful hymn:
“Praise ye the Lord, ’tis good to raise
Your hearts and voices in His praise.”
when Bill jumped up and, with an oath on his lips, said, “I’ll give
this parson five dollars; how much will you give, Jack?”
They said, “Sit down, you fool, the parson is not through yet,” and
pulled him down by the tail of his coat.
Just as the service closed, another man jumped up, took his hat,
knocking in the crown, and said, “Now, Bill, where is your five
dollars? Down with your dust, every one of you, and let us give this
parson a good send-off.”
A few minutes after, the storekeeper came with his two hands full of
bills and silver, and handed it to “the parson” as the collection,
while another man seized the bottle of whiskey out of Bill’s pocket and
said, “Look here, parson, this is the fellow that was so anxious to
give you a collection, and see what he had in his pocket.”
Bill turned around, and declared by all that made him that it was
not his bottle, but that the other man had put it in his pocket. The
collection was $22.50, a token of the hearty generosity of those
rough-mannered but large-hearted men of the West, who respected
religion though they were not in the enjoyment of it themselves.
IN THE NICOLA VALLEY.
Next morning we were off down the Nicola valley, through a most
beautiful country. I preached to the Indians and settlers that night,
and next day met a band of Indians with their chief, and preached
Christ to them while sitting on horseback. They seemed delighted to
hear the story of love, and for years they kept up the request that we
send them a teacher.
With the visit to Nicola our missionary tour was at an end, and we made
our way home again as quickly as possible. In all we had travelled
nearly 500 miles, at an expense of $59.50, and without asking anyone
for a cent, we had met the expense, and had fifty cents to the good.
My report to the Chairman of District recommended the establishing of
a mission both among the white settlers of the Nicola valley and the
Indians of that district. Shortly afterwards a missionary was sent to
the settlers of the Nicola, but though the poor natives made fervent
appeals for help, next to nothing has been done for them.
On my return my soul was stirred within me by the news that my dear
friend and son in the Gospel, David Sallosalton, had during my absence
taken ill and passed away to the better land. During his last moments
he had asked for me repeatedly, and expressed the wish that he might
see me before he went to heaven. We were not to meet here again, but
some day we shall greet each other where they never say good-bye.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] The Bunch Grass Country was named from a very nutritious grass
abounding in that section, which grows in tufts, and on which cattle
live and thrive all winter.