“As laborers in Thy vineyardStill faithful may we be,Content to bear the burdenOf every day for Thee.We ask no other wages,When Thou shalt call us home,But to have shared the travailWhich makes Thy kingdom come.”—Monsel.
“As laborers in Thy vineyardStill faithful may we be,Content to bear the burdenOf every day for Thee.We ask no other wages,When Thou shalt call us home,But to have shared the travailWhich makes Thy kingdom come.”—Monsel.
“As laborers in Thy vineyardStill faithful may we be,Content to bear the burdenOf every day for Thee.We ask no other wages,When Thou shalt call us home,But to have shared the travailWhich makes Thy kingdom come.”—Monsel.
“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 steamerOnwardfor 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 andIndians. 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.
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?”
GROUP OF STUDENTS, COQUALEETZA INSTITUTE.
GROUP OF STUDENTS, COQUALEETZA INSTITUTE.
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.
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 factthat 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.”
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 metwith 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 menin 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 raiseYour hearts and voices in His praise.”
“Praise ye the Lord, ’tis good to raiseYour hearts and voices in His praise.”
“Praise ye the Lord, ’tis good to raiseYour hearts and voices in His praise.”
“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.
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.