I was at length in Pittsburg. I had always heard that it was a smoky city, and was not, therefore, at all disappointed. In truth, I did not see it to be more sooty than several other places below it on the river.
Pittsburg is about half as large as Cincinnati; and is pleasantly situated, at the junction of two large rivers. It seems to be a very busy, bustling place; for though it was yet early in the morning—quite early—the streets were pretty well filled with travelers and carriages.
Opposite Pittsburg—that is, across the Alleghany River—is Alleghany, which of itself would make quite a large city. It is at least as large as New-Haven, or Salem, or, perhaps, Troy.
And now, though I am soon to proceed, yet as the cars are not yet ready, I have a little time for reflection, and I avail myself of it.
The world, itself, seems to me like a great steamboat—larger, indeed, than the Pittsburg, and yet a huge passenger-boat. People are continually coming on board, and continually leaving it.
To-day we form an acquaintance with a few of the vast variety of faces we see; to-morrow, perhaps, they are separated from us, to go, we know not whither.
One striking difference there is in the two cases. When the passengers separated at Pittsburg—and so also of other separations at Wheeling and other places below—it was not with a certainty that the separation was final, for this world. There was, at the least, a possibility of meeting again, somewhere, and at some time.
But when we separate in the great steamboat of the world at the verge of eternity, when we step forth upon its immeasurable shore, it is with positive certainty of meeting no more in this world.
We may meet again—we shall, most undoubtedly. We shall meet at the sound, not of the little bell to which we are accustomed on board the boats of Western rivers, but of the trump of God. We shall meet, but it will be at the general judgment. We shall meet, but it will be in the immediate presence of God.