The construction, in 1874, of St. Paul’s Church launched Metlakatla into its golden age. With a vestibule, gallery, belfry and spire, groined arches and solid timber frame, this Gothic cathedral—reportedly the largest church west of Chicago and north of San Francisco—could accommodate twelve hundred. Although it had an organ and a hand-carved pulpit, and sported stained-glass windows and Brussels carpet in the aisles, the interior was otherwise simple. In keeping with Duncan’s belief that ritual or symbol might incite Tsimshian emotions, there were no crosses or altars.
By the late 1870s, Metlakatla could boast soap and textile factories, a tannery, cooperage, guesthouse, fire hall and dog pound. Villagers lived in two-storey single-family residences with enclosed flower gardens; pairs of houses were linked with one-storey common areas. According to White’s “Bringing the Indians to their Knees,” people wore European clothes and dressed “very tastefully.” One visitor was “not sure but that they have the latest fashions.” Residents promenaded after work along a three-metre-wide macadamized sidewalk that ran the length of the village. Oolichan-oil street lamps hung in front of each home. The thirty-man police force had boots and caps, and brass buttons on their uniforms.
Work and worship were the primary village activities, but Duncan made sure that there was leisure time as well. Soccer matches were held on two playing fields; a choir practised regularly, as did, of course, the band. There was a museum and reading room, a bandstand, a printing press and a playground with climbing bars and a merry-go-round. The Tsimshian love of potlatching was redirected towards other forms of communal festivity; Christmas, New Year’s, Victoria Day, birthdays and house-raisings were all marked by celebrations.
Metlakatla became a destination: a state-of-the-art Christian colonial outpost. Rich tourists on round-the-world expeditions were astonished at how well the village mimicked English Victorian religious and social values. Government officials and other missionaries dropped by in order to learn the latest techniques for turning unruly First Nations people into exemplary citizens. Lord Dufferin, Canada’s Governor General, paid a vice-regal visit in 1876. He had high praise, reported the Victoria Daily Colonist, for “the neat Indian maidens, as modest and as well-dressed as any clergyman’s daughter in an English parish.” At about the same time, Bishop George Hills was able to write to his superiors that Metlakatla “has now grown to one thousand people, forming the healthiest and strongest settlement on the coast.”
Magazine and newspaper articles were especially effusive, portraying Duncan as a brilliant, divinely inspired figure who was single-handedly civilizing the First Nations people of the West Coast. In his 1909 book, The Apostle of Alaska, John Arctander called the missionary an extraordinary leader and claimed that he had “fewer faults than any man I ever met.” But all was not quite as well at Metlakatla as these glowing reports led readers to believe. Duncan did have faults. Even if he’d had none, disruptive external forces were also beginning to shake his pedestal.
At the heart of the changes that were about to sweep down on the model village were growing rifts between William Duncan and his superiors. One of these superiors was Bishop Hills, who was based in Victoria and whose diocese comprised the entire province. Hills was not a typical frontier churchman. His tastes, both personal and liturgical, were far from simple and direct. Patrician in manner, the son of an admiral, he was “high church,” and Duncan took an immediate dislike to him.
Hills wanted Duncan to be ordained. Metlakatla had become important, and the bishop felt a clergyman should be in charge. Duncan, somewhat mysteriously, resisted taking holy orders all his life. He did not feel “called,” he said, and worried that ordination would interfere with his secular duties. Hills was also concerned about Duncan’s refusal to offer the Eucharist at his church services. But how, argued the missionary, could you serve communion wine to people who were sworn not to consume alcohol? The austere Metlakatla church, the lack of priestly vestments, the total absence of pomp and pageantry—these things distressed Bishop Hills, for ceremony was at the core of his version of Christianity.
Back in England, the Church Missionary Society was displeased with Duncan as well. Officials there expected him to groom First Nations clergymen. They wanted more of the day-to-day operations of the mission turned over to Tsimshian leaders. Ironically, Duncan’s efforts had produced potential leaders—articulate, capable men such as David Leask and Robert Hewson—but he always seemed to have some excuse for why Metlakatla was not yet ready for independence. Duncan often claimed that he was willing to move on and prepare new ground for God, but this next, supposedly obligatory stage in his career never seemed to arrive.
In 1877, an incident occurred that gave Duncan a convincing reason to stick around. He left the mission in the care of a new arrival, a young minister named James Hall, and went to Victoria. Hall’s passionate, near-hysterical style of preaching, as opposed to Duncan’s low-key approach, resulted in an unexpected wave of religious frenzy. Some congregation members heard divine voices; others saw angels. A group of girls discovered a mystical cross in the woods. Several dozen men set off in canoes to take the news to Fort Simpson. Hall was panic-stricken at this turn of events.
Duncan rushed home and managed, with difficulty, to settle everyone down. It was just as he had predicted: the Tsimshian were too childlike to be left to their own devices. They required more training. They needed him, and he could not leave. The incident revealed the community’s fatal flaw: Duncan needed Metlakatla as much as it needed him. He and his model village were like co-dependants in an unhealthy marriage. He had created this beacon of light and defended it against detractors, and now he was unable to surrender control.
Although Metlakatla appeared outwardly to possess a degree of self-governance, everything important depended on Duncan’s initiative and authority. The Tsimshian village council held lengthy discussions and made community decisions, but Duncan was always there in the background, subtly guiding the meetings so that the decisions made were the ones he wanted. His view of the mission was paternalistic; he could not allow his children to grow up and live their own lives. He couldn’t let go.
At first, Duncan had been keen to translate religious texts so that villagers could worship in their own tongue. But his efforts in that department began to flag; village church services were soon held exclusively in English. Duncan justified this change by saying that since English would surely become dominant on the British Columbia coast, everyone might as well get used to it. But this reliance on the language of the colonizer also increased his level of control.
In 1879, Hills persuaded church authorities to split his domain in three—partly, one can’t help thinking, so that he would no longer have to deal with Duncan. A new diocese of Caledonia, covering northern BC, was formed, with Metlakatla as its headquarters. A new bishop, William Ridley, was appointed and soon arrived, with his wife Jane, to take up residence. Bishop Ridley had a history of health problems and an undistinguished past; he was an odd choice for the wilderness posting. He agreed with Hills on matters ecclesiastical and was horrified that a mere lay missionary should possess such freedom and authority. The scene was set for a rapid escalation of the conflicts simmering between Duncan and the church.
Ridley, backed by the missionary society, began to pressure Duncan to offer Holy Communion and conduct services in Tsimshian. Duncan countered by suggesting a modified Eucharist; his version would include a symbolic communal meal but avoid wine and any reference to consuming Christ’s body. He feared the natives might interpret the sacrament as an endorsement of cannibalism, and the possible consequences alarmed him, especially after the Hall fiasco. The bishop rejected this compromise.
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