[...] Last of all comes Mr. Case's own
Circuit, the Bay of Quinte, traversed both by himself
and his laborious colleague each once in four weeks. It
included all the "First Ten Towns," as they were for
a long time called—"The first," "second," "third," "fourth,"
"fifth," "sixth," and so on, on both sides of the Bay,
excepting Sidney aad [sic] Thurlow, which were the
"eighth" and "ninth;" or otherwise—Kingston, Fredericksburgh,
Adolphustown, Marysburg, Hallowell, Sophiasburgh, Hillier,
and perhaps part of Ameliasburg, the north
side of which was supplied from the other side of the Bay, the preachers
crossing in a canoe,—eight town ships, at least; and
perhaps, also, parts of Pittsburg, Louborough, Richmond, and
Portland. This field was not so wide as some others, but it
was more densely settled than most, and the preaching places
were probably more numerous. This ground contained within it
many of the most respectable of the early Methodist families
of the Province, whose names ought not be allowed to perish
from our history: such as the Clarkes, and Perrys, and
Nevilles, and Switzers, and Shoreys, and Maddens, and
Prindles, and Vandusens, and Hawleys, and Sills, and
Gilberts, and Dorlands, and Bogerts, and Petersons, and
Hoovers, and Duglands, and Fergusons, and Dulmages, and
scores of others, nature's noblemen, who by grace
were made to be of "the excellent of the earth."
3. Among the people in general,
especially the young people, Case "took" at once, on account
of his youth and beauty, his amiable spirit and winning
manners, but especially his powers of song, in which he
excelled, and which he made to subserve the great object of
his ministry. He was wont then, and for many years after,
when he finished his sermon, which was always persuasive, to
break out in one of his melodious strains, by which he first
spell bound and then melted his auditors. Next, he would
pass around the room, shaking hands and speaking a word to
each, perhaps throwing his arms around the necks of the
young men, and entreating them with tears to give their
hearts to God. There was no society in the town of Kingston,
and its inhabitants were very irreligious. The market house
was the only chapel of the Methodists. Case and his
colleague [Ryan] made a bold push to arouse the people.
Sometimes they went together. Ryan was a powerful singer,
too, with a voice less sweet but stronger. They would ride
into town, put their horses at an inn, lock arms, and go
singing down the street a stirring ode beginning with
"Come let us march to
Zion's hill."
By the time they had reached
the market place, they usually had collected a large
assembly. When together, Ryan usually preached, and Case
exhorted, for which he had a peculiar gift.[*] Ryan's
stentorian voice resounded through the town, and was heard
across the adjacent waters to the neighboring points of
land. They suffered no particular opposition, excepting a
little annoyance from the baser sort, who sometimes tried to
trip them off the butcher's block which constituted their
rostrum; set fire to their hair, and then blow out their
candle if it were in the night season. This was accomplished
one evening by a wicked sailor, who then sung out, "Come on,
boys, and see the Devil dance on the butcher's block!" Such
opposition the preachers regarded as trivial, and held on.
An intelligent and respectable man, who years afterwards
became converted, and was a leader and local preacher among
the Methodists, in conversation with the author, dates his
first convictions in boyhood from having heard the then
youthful William Case preach from a butcher's block in the
Kingston market.
* Ryan was the more
senior of the two itinerants and preaching (with a biblical
text) as opposed to exhorting (without a biblical text) was
considered a higher form of "pulpit oratory."