the local doctor and veterinarian. Like Luke had done up in the Huron, Thaddeus reflected, except that Jacob had never bothered to acquire any formal credentials. The Cummers were Lutherans when they arrived in Canada, but when Jacob built his log meeting house he had invited all denominations to use both the church and the campground. Later the Cummer family formally joined the Methodist Episcopals. The old man died a few years after that shared meal, but the majority of his fourteen sons and daughters still lived either in the village or nearby and, in particular, the oldest son Daniel was proving to be a stalwart supporter of the church. Of all the villages on the Yonge Street Circuit, Cummer’s Settlement was the place where Thaddeus would receive the surest welcome.
He looked forward to seeing Daniel Cummer again and was pleased that the man was waiting for him in front of the meeting house. He was far less pleased when he realized that nearly all the men present for the class meeting were Cummers, sons of Cummers, or married to Cummers. But then, he reflected, Yonge Street was never as rich a ground for the Methodist Episcopals as other parts of the province, and too many Methodist adherents had been drawn off by the Wesleyans, or by one of the other numerous versions of the doctrine.
When he completed the meeting, Daniel, as Thaddeus had hoped he would do, invited him to share a meal at his house. He confirmed that the Methodist Episcopals had lost ground on the Yonge Street Circuit.
“As you know, the Presbyterians and the Anglicans have always done well here,” Daniel said as he dipped into the savoury stew his wife served up, “but there are a lot of New Connection and Primitive Methodists as well. And, of course, Wesleyans.”
The British arm of John Wesley’s church had attempted a union with the Methodist Episcopals some years previously. The partnership soon fell apart, but the Methodist Episcopals suffered greatly by the Wesleyans’ claim on all of the property that had been brought to the merger at the time.
“It’s an uphill battle to keep the old church alive,” Thaddeus said. “Otherwise I doubt you’d be seeing me today. Bishop Smith must have been desperate to ask an old man like me to take a circuit again.”
“I expect he is desperate, there are so few of you left. I dare say there are no more than a handful between here and Cobourg. And your work is made all the harder by the times. The fall in wheat prices has badly affected the farmers of York, although here and there you can see signs that things are stirring again. John Hogg has started to lay out lots at York Mills, I hear.”
“If I remember correctly, most of the land there is swamp, isn’t it? Swamp, and a murderous steep hill.”
“Your memory is good,” Daniel said. “No one can fathom what he’s up to. People have started calling it Hogg’s Hollow, which doesn’t make it sound very appealing, but he must think he can sell the land. And now that David Gibson is home again, he’s making plans to build a mansion.”
Gibson had been one of the leading figures in the 1837 Rebellion. Like Mackenzie, he escaped to the United States before he could be arrested for treason. Unlike Mackenzie, he had fared well there. He was a surveyor, and found work building the Erie Canal. It must have been profitable, Thaddeus thought, if he could now afford to build a mansion.
“And farther up the line?” he asked. “What can I expect there?”
“More of the same, I’m afraid,” Daniel replied. “You might do well in Langstaff, but I’m not sure it’s even worth your while to stop at Thorne’s Hill. Not with the cult that’s sprung up around Holy Ann.”
“Holy Ann? And who would that be? It sounds like something that belongs more rightly with the Catholic Church.”
“No, no she’s a Methodist. Wesleyan. But a very strange one. They say she has the second sight and can perform miracles in answer to prayers.”
“Only God can do that.” Thaddeus was immediately on the alert. He had experience with women who claimed miracles and turned out to be charlatans.
“I know, I know,” Daniel said. “Just try and tell that to the ignorant folk who traipse up to Thorne’s Hill to drink from her well, all of them expecting to be cured of their ailments.”
“Who exactly is she?”
“Her name is Ann Preston. She’s a poor, ignorant Irish girl, brought to this country by Dr. Reid as a servant. She seems to be particularly adept at locating lost articles, just by praying to God for guidance, but I don’t think anyone took her seriously until the Reids’ well went dry.”
“What happened then?”
“She prayed to God, of course, and fetched up two buckets of the purest water,” Daniel replied.
“Was it raining at the time?” Thaddeus wanted to know, and Daniel looked at him in astonishment, then started to laugh.
“I’ve wanted to ask that question myself,” he said. “Good for you.” And then he grew serious again. “There’s a great deal of work for you to do here, Thaddeus. I’m afraid it’s not the easy circuit you might have been led to believe it was.”
“I’ve had harder,” Thaddeus replied. “I took on a whole nest of Universalists near Rideau one time.” But he was beginning to understand why Bishop Smith had been so anxious to have him return to the travelling connection. The Methodist Episcopal Church was fighting for survival.
He discovered how correct Daniel Cummer’s assessment was as he trotted north. There were only three women waiting to meet him at the general store in Newtonbrook. And as his weary pony trotted into Thorne’s Hill, he passed a knot of people clustered around a wellhead. Supplicants to Holy Ann, hoping she could cure them or reform them or make their chickens lay, he expected. And when he reached the wagoner’s cottage where he was supposed to conduct a class, there was no one there but the apologetic owner. It was hard for an ordinary preacher to compete with miracles, he reflected, when all he had to offer was a sermon or two.
He was cheered somewhat by the number of people in attendance at the meetings in Langstaff. There were three Methodists at the men’s class and five at the women’s, and they all came again in the evening to hear him preach. Oddly, there were no taverns in Langstaff and Thaddeus hoped that the lack of liquor was as a result of the influence of the church, but he was afraid that it was more due to the lack of prosperity in the small settlement.
Langstaff was where his boundary ended, the villages farther north more properly part of the Markham or Vaughan Circuits, so he arranged times and places for his return, then turned the cart to work his way southwest through sparsely scattered settlements as far as the Humber River. From there he would circle around to Yorkville and take a day or so to visit with his son. It wouldn’t be the same as going home to Betsy, but it would do.
Even though Yonge Street was by no means the largest circuit he had ever ridden, and in fact he hadn’t had to cover it on horseback as he had in the old days, Thaddeus found that disappointment had exhausted him by the time he reached Luke’s. He felt none of the exhilaration that came from preaching to overflowing halls or counting up new converts on this first round. He had accomplished nothing more than the humdrum exercise of reaffirming the faith of the already committed.
He was given a good dinner at the end of his last class meeting, however, so when he reached Dr. Christie’s yellow brick house on Scollard Street he was content to go straight upstairs and sink into a deep sleep on the daybed in Luke’s sitting room.
The next morning he found his way to the dining room, where a place had been set for him. Christie seemed pleased
