Gleanings by the Way

by John A. Clark

Saturday morning, June 17, 1837.

We reached Hollidaysburg, a little village on the Juniata, where the Alleghany Portage Rail Road commences, yesterday morning, June 16th, about eight o'clock. Our way from this point was up the mountain by successive inclined planes. I never saw more strikingly illustrated the triumph of art over the obstacles of nature.

In our progress up the mountain, we at length left the Juniata, at a point so near its source that we saw the two little rills which, by their confluence, constituted the commencement of that river, pouring down the precipitous side of the same hill, and which, separately, were so small that one might step over them with perfect ease. We traced these mountain brooks with our eye as they swept along over the washed and worn pebbles—saw them unite, and then followed them in imagination till they swelled along the banks of the Juniata, mingled their waters with the Susquehanna, poured into the Chesapeake, and finally were lost in the ocean.

In our ascending way up the mountain, we found the scenery altogether of a new, wild, and more rugged cast. Our ascent amid these vast summits,—the wonderful velocity with which we were borne—the ease with which we seemed to move through the gaps of the mountains, and over the tops of these everlasting hills—surrounded at every step by the most picturesque and gigantic elevations, appeared like the effect of enchantment. Then too as we moved upward a change was perceptible in the atmosphere—we felt its invigorating and exhilarating influence—and perhaps the new buoyancy, which our spirits acquired, helped to impart increased effect to the majestic scene that stretched around us, and had laid hold of our every sense and feeling with the power of a giant.

Our course was still upward—upward! and all our train of cars still flew upward till we reached the very tops of the mountain wilds and fastnesses that stood in such majestic grandeur around us. It was announced at length that we had attained the summit height of the mountain. Just here the rivulets changed their course. The streams had all flowed eastward to empty themselves into the Atlantic, but now they turned westward and leaped forward, as though eager to find repose in the deep waters of the Mississippi. The Conemaugh, a tributary stream to the Kiskiminetas takes its rise here, and appears as a very little rill at its commencement.

It was with peculiar emotions that I stood on the summit of the Alleghanies, and strained my eye to look off towards the vast valley of the Mississippi, whose western boundary is terminated by the Rocky mountains, a distance not less than 2500 miles. I then thought what immense undeveloped resources does this vast valley contain! What an object of sublime contemplation is this broad and beauteous region in its surpassing fertility—its measureless capabilities—its vast rivers—its deep untrodden forests—its boundless prairies—and in its ten thousand rising villages and cities! What vast, complicated and mighty sympathies are gathering around this valley! What scenes are to be acted here, deciding this nation's civil and religious destiny! What teeming millions are to be sustained by the products of this soil—are to live and die, and be prepared for heaven or for hell on the broad bosom of this valley! There is nothing but the gospel that can exert a saving influence upon the mass of mind congregating here, and make this far outspreading and fertile region the abode of moral beauty and the home of civil freedom. The gospel planting her foot here, and stretching her arms over the whole extent of this western valley, must wake up holy affections, and songs of praise to the sin-conquering Lamb, all along the banks of these thousand streams, or the blight of desolation will fall here—and the fairest portion of God's earth will be withered by the scorching fire of human passion—and bathed, as has been the old world, in seas of human blood! There is but one influence that can save this mighty empire from the sway either of lawless anarchy or of iron-handed despotism, or rescue the populous millions that will spread over it, from the deep "damnation of hell," and that is the influence of the gospel. What new arguments do we find in this thought to lead us to be unwearied in our efforts to send Bibles, and tracts, and missionaries, and to establish Sunday-schools in the west!

I have already seen enough of western character to discover that while mind starts up here vigorous and majestic as the sturdy trees of the forest, it is exceedingly prone to spurn the restraints, and question the authority of divine Revelation. No where probably is there more avowed or evident independence of mind—or with a certain class, greater susceptibility of being gulled, by a swaggering, boastful departure from the ancient landmarks of faith. The great adversary is always ready to persuade men that there is much more manliness and independence in believing something new, however false, than in adhering to what is ancient, however true, in the faith of our forefathers.

We had scarcely crossed the mountains and reached the level of the great valley, before we encountered a group of men of very singular, and grotesque appearance. Their beards were long and filthy, hanging down upon their breast. I was greatly surprised to learn that this savage appearance was for conscience' sake. I was told that these were individuals belonging to a religious sect called Dunkards. My informant gave me the following particulars in relation to this people. They sometimes live in distinct communities, and have all things in common. This, however, is not always and perhaps not generally the case. They do not usually build houses for public worship, nor believe in sustaining a ministry as a distinct order of men. Certain persons in their churches, they think, are from time to time called to preach, and these are denominated ministers. These individuals, however, still pursue their own secular avocations as before. They not only hold to baptism and the Lord's supper, but to washing each other's feet, and, I believe, the observance of an annual love feast. They also keep up the ancient custom of saluting each other with the kiss of charity, and this among all their members, whatever the color or sex may be. Their converts are all baptized by immersion, and hence, they are sometimes called Dunkard Baptists. They hold to a trine baptism—dipping the candidate three times, with the face downward into the water. Their sacramental seasons are periods of general feasting—when they keep open houses, and free tables. In doctrine they hold to the Arian heresy, though some of them are decided Unitarians. They also believe, most of them, in universal salvation, holding that the wicked will be punished after death for a certain period, and then be restored to happiness. One of the peculiarities to which I have already referred, is that they feel conscientiously bound to abstain from cutting the beard, or removing the hair that grows upon their faces. I am told that this sect is quite numerous in the west.

Last evening we were slowly moving down the valley of the Conemaugh, on board the Canal Packet Detroit. The scenery on either side of the stream whose course we were following was bold and beautiful. The trees were covered with dark thick foliage—at one time spreading out before us the view of a lengthening forest, and then again opening to disclose to us a rich verdant lawn—a beautiful corn field or a smiling farm house—with all its usual appendages for convenience and comfort. After the lingering rays of twilight had faded away, and night had drawn her sable covering over the woodland scenes that stretched so gracefully around us, the moon rose in silvery brightness, and poured down her rich mellow light on all the shadowy landscape. Now and then a floating cloud crossed her path, and gave a deeper momentary shade to the sombre shadows that here and there were flung over the face of nature. It was a summer evening to make one court the open air; most of our passengers were on deck. Some were sitting apart by themselves, in silent meditation: some were gazing upward into the peaceful heavens—and others, off upon the quiet scenes of nature. Others stood around in little groups and knots, holding various conversations. I was walking slowly from one end of the deck to the other, a silent observer of what was passing around me.

At length a remark that I heard arrested my attention, and led me to stop and listen. The group was composed of some six or eight individuals, who were most of them evidently well educated and intelligent men, though, as it will appear in the sequel, exceedingly ignorant upon all topics connected with the gospel. One of the number was a physician of some standing; another a lawyer, a member of the Senate in our state Legislature, who although young has already attracted considerable attention by the depth of his acquirements, and the brilliancy of his talents.