As I sat in my room an hour since, I was attracted to the window, which looks out upon the back-yard, by the merry voices of children. I found the voices came from an adjoining yard; and as I looked thither I was struck with the wonderful resemblance which two fine looking boys bore to a deceased clerical friend. I was not deceived! Upon inquiry, I found that these were the orphan children of my friend, whose image was so accurately traced in their countenances. Their father had been suddenly cut down in the freshness and vigor of manhood. Their mother, always delicate, survived him only a few weeks,—and they were left alone. They were now thrown upon the care of their paternal grand-father, who was a Campbellite Baptist, and whose family, though very amiable, were not professedly pious. Thus were the children of this deceased clergyman, at almost the very dawn of their being, removed from those religious sympathies and influences that their father would most ardently have desired, should have encircled them. We know not what may be in reserve for us, or our children. We may be quickly in our graves, and our children may be left to be trained by those who have no attachment to the church of our affections—and little regard for that holy religion which brings us into blessed union with the Framer of the skies, and the Father of our spirits. Can not we, who are bereaved parents, find in this thought an argument to reconcile us to that mysterious dispensation of Divine Providence, which has smitten down our tender blossoms, and covered up in the grave those dear ones that seemed the light of our eyes and the joy of our hearts! Surely, it is the Lord who hath done this! He hath made safe and ample provision for our little ones in his kingdom above! When we go the way of all the earth, we shall have no anxieties about them—about their education—their morals, their spiritual welfare, or their future success in life. Yes, thou art just and righteous in all thy ways, O thou King of saints! And blessed be thy name, that thou art on the throne, and orderest all things after the counsel of thy own will! Taking hold of the everlasting covenant, we can leave ourselves, our families, our all, in thy hands, for eternity!
Sunday Evening.
After returning from divine service this afternoon, I went to my room to spend a few hours in preparation for the evening exercises. The window of my chamber being open, and those of the back parlour directly under my room, I discovered that my kind host had his children, six little daughters, assembled there for religious instruction. He was a Sunday-school teacher, and his children were in the Sunday-school; and yet he did not feel himself on this account released from the parental obligation of instructing his own offspring in the way of holiness. I could distinctly hear the sweet voices of that little assembled group, one after another, reading aloud to their parent the word of God, and then his simple but striking comments upon the meaning of what was read. This was continued for awhile, and then they all united in singing one of the songs of Zion. Never did I listen to sounds sweeter than those that came from those uplifted voices, engaged in chanting the praises of God. Directly, however, those sweet strains were hushed. A solemn pause ensued. Then I heard the voice of that father going up to heaven supplicating a divine blessing upon his offspring. The prayer was a simple, earnest pleading with "the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ," for the sanctification and everlasting salvation of these children whom the Lord had given him. There was a tenderness, and pathos, and child-like simplicity connected with the prayer that deeply affected me. This manifestly was not an extraordinary—but usual Sunday exercise in which parent and children were engaged. A lovelier, or holier scene, I could not well conceive this side of heaven. What a delightful occupation to the parent! What a blessing to the children! When his head is laid low in the dust, the memory of that consecrated Sabbath hour, will come up with an influence to melt and subdue their hearts, and lead them to seek after their father's God. But, alas! how is this duty of family instruction neglected. How many Christian parents could be found in any Church who habitually set apart a portion of the sacred day, to be employed in singing and praying with their children, and instructing them in the knowledge of Christ and his salvation? What would be the effect, if all professing Christian parents were in the habit of spending an hour with their children this way each Sabbath! Would not the baptized youth of our congregation be a very different race of beings from what they now are? Should we so frequently hear of infidelity, and our breaking sins among the children of Christian professors? No. There is unquestionably a great neglect of duty here—a neglect on the part of parents which results in the everlasting ruin of their offspring.
CHAPTER V.
VOYAGE ON THE OHIO.
Travelling companions—Steamboats on the Ohio—The Elk—The Ohio river—The Harmonists—Steubenville—Wheeling—Marietta—Portsmouth—Kentucky—The dead steamboat captain—Kentucky funeral.
On board the Elk,
Monday Evening, June 19.
I have two exceedingly agreeable travelling companions. The one, Mr. B——, who started with a special view of accompanying me in this tour. He is a young gentleman of mature intellect, accomplished education, and ardent piety. The other friend we fell in with on our way to Pittsburg. Mr. F—— is a merchant, residing in Boston, a devoted member of the Congregational Church, a man of business, and of sterling Christian principle, possessing more of "the milk of human kindness" than ordinarily falls to the lot of mortals. The presence of these delightful companions has taken away much of the solitariness one feels in having a space of so many miles thrown between him and his home.