The house in the illustration is the one from the windows of which the attempt to fly was made. The wings were made of silk. Though, in the picture, they appear to do their work, they did not prevent the wearer falling to the ground about fifteen feet, and suffering the result in a broken leg.
Mr. John Henry, on that 14th day of February, was riding alone and met a man on horseback coming at the top of his speed. Accosting Mr. Henry he said, “Say, stranger, do you see that sign in the sky?” Mr. Henry looked up and saw only a sun-dog, frequently seen then and now in the winter season, and replied, “Yes, what of it?” “Well, that’s the Lord coming to-morrow to burn the world up,” and Mr. H. replied, “Get out! that’s only a sun-dog.” “Oh! you are an unbeliever,” was the retort, as the man dug spurs into his horse’s sides as if to ride away from the fire he felt so near. My father told me that on the evening before the final great day, he took a sleigh-load of neighbors down to a meeting in a log school-house near where Ebenezer Church now is, in Darlington. So deep was the snow, he said, that they had no difficulty in driving over the fences. Arriving at the log school-house, they found it densely packed, and most of the auditors standing. Being late, they sought to push themselves in, when someone from the middle of the room called out, “Stand back, boys, you don’t know breeding.” But they pushed on heedless of breeding or the want of it, and got in a few feet from the door, where they stood and listened to some Millerite in the master’s rostrum desk, as he told about the terrible fires to come on in a few hours. His words riveted the attention of all, cramped and uncomfortable as they were in the crowded room.
Tallow dips, fastened in tin reflectors, shed a mild light over all, and the heat from the crowded room became so great as to give a taste, an intense one, too, of the awful heat promised when the fires should appear. The old log school-house had been used before as a rude pioneer dwelling, and a cellar had been scooped out below the centre. Without an instant’s warning the old floor-beams broke and the crowd, who all expected to go up, as the Millerite preacher assured them, were let down with unexpected precipitancy. The scene, my father said, was too ludicrous for description. Screaming, fainting, pulling, praying, squirming, the dense mass fought to get out. Fortunately the tallow dips were fastened to the walls and continued to light up the place. My father dryly said he made his way out, got his load and went home (at Port Oshawa) and to bed. The next morning he found the snow as usual upon the ground and no signs of fire.
A. S. Whiting, the manufacturer, tells of his experience of the Millerite scare. During the long winter he was peddling eight-day clocks from house to house—clocks which he had brought with him from Connecticut. For many weeks he had heard that the immense snow mantle in that part of Upper Canada around Port Hope would turn to blood and burn up. On the afternoon of the 14th February, 1843, he, with his horse and sleigh and a load of clocks, was driving north from Port Hope. It was a gloriously bright, sunny day of clear bracing cold, with not a cloud in the sky. Just at nightfall he arrived at a small village and drove direct to the tavern. Tying his horse to the hitching-post, he went into the bar-room to ask for lodging and food for himself and the steed. He found no one, so pushed on into the sitting-room usually provided for guests. No one was yet visible. Then he called out, but received no answer. Going on from room to room, he finally reached the kitchen. Here he found a woman crying and sobbing. Upon asking for the landlord, and also questioning the hostler where to find him, he was told they had “all gone to meeting.”
“Well, I want to put my horse in the stable and then have some supper,” the traveller exclaimed.
“There is no use of eating, for we shall all be burnt up before morning,” the weeping woman managed to get out between her sobs.
“Well, never mind, I’ll go and put up my horse, while you get me some supper.”
On partaking of his supper, he asked for his room; still there was no one else about, and on retiring he was told in faltering words that he would be burnt up while he slept.
The sun set that night in more than usual splendor; all nature seemed serene and peaceful, and he could discover nothing to betoken the awful deluge of fire so soon to rain upon them. He slept well, and did not waken at two o’clock in the morning to see the two feet of snow turn to blood and commence to burn. Next morning, at the usual hour, rising and feeding his horse, he called loudly for someone to get him breakfast. After a time the inmates appeared, looking haggard and worn, and very much surprised that they were still alive. After breakfast, when he was about setting out, he asked “if they wanted pay, since they were all going to die so soon.” This broke the spell and brought them back to mundane things. They promptly enough asked for and received pay for the entertainment of man and beast.
All that day, the narrator said, he could do no business, because the people had not gotten over the surprise of finding themselves alive.