Gleanings by the Way

by John A. Clark

Niagara Falls—Rochester—Canandaigua—Geneva—Seneca Lake—The moonlit heavens—Departed friends—The clergyman's son—The candidate for the ministry—A beloved brother—My departed mother—Geneva College—The Sabbath.

Geneva, Aug. 9th.

Every man who has visited Niagara Falls, that scene of enchantment, remembers with what difficulty he tore himself from the spot. To every mind that has any sensibility—any relish for the grand and sublime, every island and grove, every stone and tree, every green bank and shaded nook around that mighty cataract, is a charmed spot. Go to what point you may, to take your last look at the falls, whether it be on the British or American side—whether you stand on Table Rock or Goat Island—whether you look out from the top of the observatory that has been reared with daring intrepidity on the edge of the foaming current and the brow of the Falls, or look up from the foot of the vast cataract, and see a world of waters plunging in one animated, leaping mass from the heights above, you will feel as you gaze there to bestow your last lingering look, that the hand of some giant power has laid a spell upon all the scene around you, and chained you to the spot. You may tear yourself from this scene, but it is with the feeling with which you separate yourself from, and bid adieu to the loved one of your heart. Your eye and your thoughts oft turn back to catch another glimpse of that which you fear is fading from your view for ever.

Have you not sometimes in your journeyings, taken your leave with great reluctance from some dear family circle, who gathered around you at the door, and followed you while you could yet see them with every demonstration of kindness and interest? At length a turn in the road shut them from your view, and you went on your way musing on the past, and thinking perhaps you would never meet them more till you met them with the ransomed on high. While you moved on indulging in a pensive train of reflection, your path took another turn, and brought the mansion you left again to view, and showed you your friends still watching your course, whose waving hands and handkerchiefs testified that their hearts were with you, though their voices could no longer reach your ear. It was somewhat so with us, when on Friday morning the fourth of August, we started in the railroad cars from the Falls, bound to Lockport. The course of the railroad for some distance lies along on the bank of Niagara river, every now and then revealing to us the swift and green waters of the stream as it leaps along its deep-worn channel, some hundred feet below. We had proceeded thus a mile or two, when suddenly by a turn of the river, the entire view of the Falls was again brought before us. The eye was now able to take in the whole scene at a single glance, and no view of Niagara appeared more impressive than this. You could distinctly trace the rapids above the Falls, see the foaming current urging its way on like the angry billows of the ocean, till it reached the dreadful leap, and then gracefully and majestically sliding off from the edge of the precipice to the vast abyss below in one beautiful and vast column of emerald green. Below you saw, as in one great cauldron, the whole river boiling up in white and milky appearance, and then winding off in its deep channel, till at length it again assumed its native hue of green. The islands and groves, and wild scenery that environ this wonder of the world, were all gathered in one rich group distinctly before the eye. Who can look on such a scene and not remember its Creator? What must be the glories which God will reveal to his ransomed and sanctified people in the celestial world, when he allows to linger here amid the defilements and desolations of sin such traces of surpassing beauty and loveliness!

We took Rochester in our way, and thence directed our course by stage to Canandaigua, which, with its tasteful court-yards, and beautiful houses, and elegantly shaded streets, reminds one of a beauteous, gemmed, and highly adorned bride that has retired from the festal scene, and is seeking repose in some rural bower. The country through which we rode from Rochester to Geneva is in a high state of cultivation, and the rich fields of waving grain around one makes him feel at every step that he is passing through the garden of America. We reached Geneva in the early part of the afternoon. There is not a lovelier spot beneath the far-expanded sky for the site of a village than the banks of the Seneca. Though the business part of the village is situated principally on the northwest corner of the lake, by far the most beautiful part of the town stretches along on the western bank which rises some fifty or hundred feet above the quiet waters of this beautiful lake. Here a street runs along parallel with the lake, and the most delightful residences are built up on either side. Almost every dwelling has before it a fine court-yard filled with shrubbery and ornamented with flowers. And those built on the brow of the lake have gardens terraced down to the water's edge.

The lake is here some three miles wide, stretching off forty miles to the south, and presenting on the opposite side a beautiful and finely-cultivated country. On this street, looking off upon this lovely sheet of water, stands the college. As we recede to the west the land rises by gentle and successive undulations for a mile or two, furnishing on the summit of these successive ridges the most delightful locations for residences, from some of which you have brought within the ken of your eye the whole village and lake, and country beyond. I have already partially described the street that runs along on the western bank of the lake, which is adorned and shaded with trees, and on which the college and principal churches are built. Farther west and running parallel with this is another street inferior in beauty, but peculiarly attractive to me, as at its northern extremity is situated the old burying ground, where sleeps the dust of many, many dear friends.

Memory loves to go back to the past. I well recollect a summer evening of 1820. The day had declined, and the curtains of night were drawn around the green earth. While twilight still lingered in the west, gently fading into darkness, the moon rose in full orbed splendour. I was returning, with a friend from a walk. Our course lay along on the margin of the lake. Never did I see a sweeter or lovelier scene, than was exhibited on the bosom of that lake, lit up with a flood of splendour streaming down from the bright orb of night. That beautifully-expanded sheet of water lay in unruffled smoothness. The lake seemed like a sea of glass. If a ripple run over that transparent surface, it was so gentle, that it seemed only the rocking of the moon-beams to sleep that played there. The air was bland and balmy, and full of the fragrance which the verdant and flowery earth gave forth. But with myself and my friend, life then looked thus bright and fresh and fair. Our walk terminated at the threshhold of my own paternal mansion. We went in and sat down. Three other persons joined us. We looked out upon the moonlight scene, and talked of future days. There was not one sad or clouded brow there. I can remember every countenance in that happy group as though it were but yesterday night. But now of the five that sat there and enjoyed the delightful converse of that sweet night, I alone am the only survivor. All the rest have for these nine years slept within the precincts of the burial-ground.

One of this little group was the friend of my childhood. His father was the parish priest, from whose lips my infant ear first drank in the sounds of a preached gospel.—I well recollect with what a throbbing heart I first drew near the chancel in an old time-stained church in New England, with a band of children like myself to rehearse to this holy man my catechism. I well recollect the solemn tones of his voice, and the benignant look with which he pronounced a blessing on our young heads. I can never forget the many kind, cordial welcomes I have received under the roof of the pastor of my childhood. The young man to whom I have referred was his eldest son. We were now far from the scene where had past the sports and frolics of childhood. The good hand of the Lord had shown me that there was something better than the fading vanities of this empty world to occupy and absorb the affections of an immortal being. Often had I tried to lead my young friend to see things as I saw them. When absent I had written to him; but though his affection for me seemed unchanged, he always evaded any coming to the point, in relation to his own personal salvation. Though amiable and moral, he was naturally gay and vivacious, and the world had still an unbroken hold upon his affections. On the evening to which I have referred, he seemed more than ordinarily pensive. In less than a year, though apparently full of vigour and health, he was suddenly laid upon a sick bed. The last night of his life I was with him, and did not leave his room till the dawn of morning. At midnight when all was still, he called me close to his bed-side, and thanked me for my letters that I had formerly written to him, and all my solemn admonitions, and assured me that they had not been forgotten, but had made very deep impressions upon his mind. And then he continued—"I wish to be saved, I wish to give my heart up to God, I wish to be pardoned and have a hope in Christ. Oh that I had sought the Lord in health, and now were at peace with him." Then he fervently called on God for mercy. His mind soon began to wander. The next morning he was an unbreathing corpse.

Another of this company, was one who had been associated with me in study. The home of his childhood was amid the rugged hills of New England. He had contended with a long train of difficulties to push his way onward to the threshold of the sacred ministry. The last obstacles now seemed giving away. In about a year he would go forth as the accredited ambassador of the King of kings. Animated with this thought, and the brightening prospect around him, his mind on that evening seemed winged with hope, and his conversation was full of life and sprightliness. Just about a year had gone. The day for his ordination was appointed. His friends were anxiously waiting to see him put the sacred armour on. But the hand of disease suddenly seized him, and on the very day he was to have been ordained, he died, and I trust went up to the heavenly court to be made there a "priest unto God."

A third in this group, was a beloved brother, who had been to me not only a brother, but my spiritual father. It was his voice that first directed my feet to the cross of Christ; and it was from his hands that I first received the consecrated memorials of a Saviour's dying love. The cares and toils and anxieties of his spiritual flock were even then wearing away his life. A few years passed by, and my friend—my counsellor—my brother, was borne to that same burial-ground, where his voice had been so often heard, committing "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." There are those that remember the pastor's counsel, who still go to that grave where his ashes sleep, and water it with their tears.