GLEANINGS BY THE WAY;

BY REV. JOHN A. CLARK, D. D.,

Rector of St. Andrew's Church, Philadelphia,

AUTHOR OF "PASTOR'S TESTIMONY," "GLIMPSES OF THE OLD WORLD," ETC., ETC.

"Let me now go to the field and glean ears of corn." Ruth, ii. 2.

PHILADELPHIA:
W. J. & J. K. SIMON.
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER.
1842.
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by
John A. Clark, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court in the
Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
PRINTED BY KING AND BAIRD.

PREFACE.

When it was not so common, as now, to issue publications from the press, a book of any kind seldom made its appearance, without a preface, to give the reader some idea of its contents, and the history of its elaboration from the author's mind. But at the present day, when authorship is no longer the prerogative of the few, and the press teems with every species of literature, preface writing has quite fallen into desuetude; not improbably for the very solid and satisfactory reason that it would be a most difficult, perplexing, and onerous business, to their several authors, to assign any plausible grounds for the publication of one half of the volumes that come forth in such immense shoals from the press.

We are certainly attached to the good old custom of having a preface, although we are aware that many authors who omit this appendage, assign as a reason, that the preface is the only part of a book that is never read. This we think, in many instances, is not exactly true. There are those in the present day, who like to know why a book was written, and what it contains, before they begin to read it. By such knowledge—and this is precisely the information a preface ought to convey—they avoid the trouble of reading many a volume, which had the author been of the same mind, he might have escaped the trouble of writing. To this class of readers the preface is an important part of the book: while to those who eschew every thing of this sort, it will give but little trouble, to turn over a leaf or two to the commencement of the first chapter.

We did not mean, when we began, to write a defence of prefaces—but to write a preface to our own work.

The name of this volume, Gleanings by the Way, indicates the character of the work. It consists principally of thoughts gathered up—and sketches of scenery, and incidents, that came before the author during excursions made into the country at different periods, within the last four years. For several years the author has been labouring under infirm health, and has found it necessary after encountering the heavy pastoral duties and labours connected with a large city congregation for nine or ten months in succession, to retire from the scene of his ministerial duties, and seek to recruit his wasted strength and enfeebled health amid the retirement of rural life, or the diversified scenes of travel and journeying. During these seasons of relaxation, the author desired still to be engaged in something that might at least indirectly promote the interests of religion. This volume contains some of the things of which he at such seasons made a record.

In the tour to the far West, made during the summer of 1837—and the sketch that depicts the outline of the Mormon Delusion, the author cherishes the hope that facts are brought to light that will interest a large class of readers. And he also cherishes the hope that while these pages may interest the general reader, may beguile a lonely hour—and attract the attention of some who would not be likely to take up a more serious book—the tendency of the whole volume will be to advance, at least indirectly, that cause which lies so near to his heart. With this hope—and not with any expectation of earning increased literary reputation, he sends forth these Gleanings by the Way.

CONTENTS.

Chapter I. [13]
The Three Gleaners.
Chapter II. [25]
Views of Pennsylvania:—Tour to Harrisburgh—Aspect of the country—The Valley of the Susquehanna—The passage of the River—The Valley of the Juniata—Huntingdon—The Rev. John W. James—His sudden exit.
Chapter III. [32]
Glimpses of Western Pennsylvania:—Source of the Juniata—Ascent of the Alleghanies—The summit—The Great Mississippi Valley—Skepticism—Rank growth of religious error—Dunkards—Valley of the Conemaugh—Moonlight—Singular conversation—Infidel sneers.
Chapter IV. [42]
Pittsburg and its environs:—First view of Pittsburg—Its general aspect—Sabbath and its employments—An affecting incident—Orphan children—A Christian father in the midst of his children on the Sabbath.
Chapter V. [49]
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.
Chapter VI. [62]
A glimpse of Kentucky:—Cincinnati—The Queen city—Views in reference to missionary labour—The kind of missionaries wanted in the great Valley—Walnut Hills—Lane Seminary—Dr. Beecher—Woodward College—Dr. Aydelott—The old Kentucky man—Louisville—The Galt House—View of the interior of Kentucky—Plantations—A sore evil—Kentuckian traits of character—A thrilling incident.
Chapter VII. [75]
The Ohio near its mouth:—New Albany—Sailing down the Ohio—Profanity—Lovely views of nature—A sudden squall on the river—Kentucky shore—Young fawn—The mouth of the Tennessee river—The swimming deer—His struggle and capture—Meeting of the waters of the Ohio with the Mississippi—Gambling—Intemperance—Sail up the Mississippi to St. Louis.
Chapter VIII. [88]
The Mississippi and some of its tributaries:—St. Louis—Roman cathedral—Desecration of the Sabbath—Golden sunsets—Sail up the Mississippi—The meeting of the waters of the Missouri and the Mississippi—Alton—The burning prairie.
Chapter IX. [105]
Further views on the Mississippi:—Des Moines River—Iowa—Group of Indians—Tributary streams to the Mississippi—Galena—Bishop of Illinois—My sister's grave.
Chapter X. [114]
Illinois and the Lakes:—Lead mines—Indian treaty—Ride to Chicago—Vast prairies—The stricken family—Amusing adventures—Chicago—Milwaukie—Mackinaw—Indian encampment.
Chapter XI. [126]
Michigan:—Steamboat travelling upon the western Lakes—The waters of Huron—Saginaw Bay—The stormy night—The beautiful St. Clair—Detroit—Bishop of Michigan—Ypsilanti—Ann Arbour—Ore Creek—Bewildered at night in the woods—Rescue—Meeting of friends—Log Cabin.
Chapter XII. [140]
Tour from the West:—The Romanists—Miracles—Indians—Captain M—— The unhappy sailor—Toledo—Cleveland—Buffalo—Niagara Falls.
Chapter XIII. [151]
Western New York:—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.
Chapter XIV. [161]
A jaunt from Philadelphia to Albany:—A bleak, dreary morning—Bishop of Illinois—Sail up the Delaware—New York Bay—Sail up the Hudson—Unexpected meeting—College friend—Story of his afflictions—Poor African servant.
Chapter XV. [171]
The Irish couple:—Albany—The Irish mother—Incidents that occurred five years ago—The disappointed emigrants—The Little Falls—Rural retirement.
Chapter XVI. [179]
Western New York.
Chapter XVII. [181]
A Summer Tour:—Retirement—Seneca Lake—Burlington, N. J.—Brooklyn,
N. Y.
Chapter XVIII. [187]
Green Wood Cemetery:—Brooklyn—Improvements—Ride—Approach to the Cemetery—Views—Beautiful scenes.
Chapter XIX. [193]
Rhode Island:—Sail up the Sound—Burning of the Lexington—Providence—Meeting of old friends—Mr. Emerson—Transcendentalism—Westerly.
Chapter XX. [201]
The sudden storm:—Rapid travelling—Auburn—Stage coach—Seneca Lake—Summer's sultry heat—Sudden change—Fierce tempest—Imminent peril.
Chapter XXI. [205]
Reminiscences of the past:—Sunday—Sacred worship—The sanctuary recalling youthful scenes—Early plighted vows at the table of the Lord—Retrospect—Mournful reflections—Change in the congregation—Mr. and Mrs. N—— The C—— family—Col. T—— Village burial ground—C—— The buried pastor—My Mother—Palmyra—Early ministerial labours—Lyons.
Chapter XXII. [216]
The Origin of the Mormon Delusion:—The golden Bible—Moral, political, and numercial importance of the Mormon sect—Views of Revelation—Causes that have contributed to spread Mormonism—Martin Harris—Interview with the author—Transcripts from the golden Bible—Jo Smith, the Mormon prophet—His early history—First pretended revelation—His marriage—Chest containing the golden Bible—Attempts to disinter it—Consequence—Delusion of Harris—Translation and publication of the Book of Mormon.
Chapter XXIII. [232]
A letter written by Professor Anthon:—The circumstances that led to this letter—Martin Harris—His visit to New York—Interview with Dr. Mitchell—Professor Anthon.
Chapter XXIV. [239]
The Mormon, or Golden Bible:—The origin of the Book of Mormon—The statement of Mr. Isaac Hale, father-in-law of the Mormon Prophet—Rev. Mr. Spalding's Historical Romance—Mrs. Davison's statement—The blindness of Martin Harris—Testimony of the three witnesses—The eight witnesses.
Chapter XXV. [259]
Mormon Jesuitism:—Denial of Mrs. Davison's statement in reference to the origin of the Mormon Bible—The truth of her statement corroborated by a letter from the Rev. John Storrs—By another from the Rev. D. R. Austin.
Chapter XXVI. [268]
Analysis of the Book of Mormon.
Chapter XXVII. [285]
Analysis of the Book of Mormon continued.
Chapter XXVIII. [304]
Farther developments in relation to the Mormon imposture.
Chapter XXIX. [311]
Organization of the Mormons, and their removal to Ohio:—Steps leading to the Mormon emigration to the West—Conversion of Parley P. Pratt—Mission to the Lamanites—Sidney Rigdon—His avowed conversion—Fanatic scenes at Kirtland—Dr. Rosa's letter—Mr. Howe's statement—Smith's removal.
Chapter XXX. [323]
Mormon emigration to Missouri:—Mission to Missouri—Causes that led to emigration—Settlement at Independence—Change in operations—Gift of tongues—Rule for speaking and interpreting.
Chapter XXXI. [331]
Mormon Banking:—The prophet's attempt at financiering—Mr. Smalling's
letter.
Chapter XXXII. [337]
The Mormon Prophet and his three witnesses:—An interesting public document—The Danite band—Testimony of Dr. Avard—Paper drafted by Rigdon.
Chapter XXXIII. [345]
Concluding sketch in relation to Mormonism.

GLEANINGS BY THE WAY.

CHAPTER I.

THE THREE GLEANERS.

Nature has a voice to instruct, as well as charms to please. No one can walk over the surface of this earth, and gaze upon the objects and scenes that every where cluster around him, and not hear her instructive voice echoed upon his ear from ten thousand points, unless stupidity, or sin have sealed up his senses, and made him deaf as "the adder that stoppeth her ear, and will not hearken to the voice of charmers, charming never so wisely."

Providence, too, has a voice, that speaks with trumpet-tongue in the ear of those who watch the movement of human events—who regard the work of the Lord, and consider the operation of his hands. The fall of every leaf—the opening of every grave, the subversion of kingdoms—the overthrow of empires—every event transpiring around us, reads us a lesson full of deep and solemn instruction.

In the various and diversified developements of human character—whether contemplated in its rougher, or more polished state, there is a vast deal presented to view, from which an intelligent mind may gather very important elements of instruction.

One who keeps his eye out upon these various fields, will scarcely fail to glean something every day, either from nature, or Providence, or the different and ever varying phases of human character, that can be turned to a profitable account both for instruction and pleasure.

There are, however, different kinds of gleaning—and different kinds of gleaner. The caption to this chapter contains an implied pledge, that there is to be brought before the eye of the reader three successive gleaners.—And so we intend it shall be. We will at once introduce you to the first of the three.

Some sixteen hundred years before the first advent of the Lord's Anionted, there lived in Bethlehem a man of wealth and distinction. He possessed extensive flocks and herds, and fields, and all the usual resources of oriental riches. Palestine was then the land that flowed with milk and honey. Though there had been periods when for the sins of the people the heavens were shut, and the dews and rains withheld—till the blight of sterility seemed to have impressed its dreary iron aspect upon every smiling valley and sunny hill:—at the time to which we refer it was not so. That whole region then poured forth its productions most luxuriantly, for the blessing of the Lord was upon the land. And now the season of the barley harvest had arrived, and the reapers went forth with their sickles to cut down the bearded and bending grain.

This opulent citizen of Bethlehem, to whom we have referred, when the rising sun, ascending the deep blue arch of heaven and pouring its full orbed radiance over hill and dale, had drank up the dew drops of morning, rode forth into the country amid vine-clad hills, and beneath groves of olive and palm till he reached his own paternal estate. The bright luminary of day now poured down a full tide of heat and effulgence over the whole surrounding scene. The reapers were plying their glittering steel, and gathering the falling grain into sheaves. The sound of rustic music came upon his ears as he rode along through the fields. It was the song of the reapers. He approached them. They were his own hired servants. Though they were poor, and had to toil for their daily bread, their wealthy employer did not despise them. He was one who feared the Lord, and saw in every human form a brother. Kind were his words as he approached the reapers, and full of pious sentiment—for his salutation was, The Lord be with you.

Those sun-burnt and swarthy laborers, suspending for a moment their toil, respectfully and piously responded, The Lord bless thee. I know not what other pleasant discourse followed. An object of deep interest now presented itself to the rich owner of these grounds. In a distant part of the field was to be seen the slender and delicate form of a young female walking hither and thither to gather up the scattered heads of barley that had escaped the hand of the reaper. Then said he to his servant who was set over the reapers: Whose damsel is this? And he replied, It is the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi.

That lone female, whose hand was gathering the scattered heads of barley, had known better days. She had been nursed in the lap of ease. She dwelt in Moab. A stranger came there. He had been reared near Siloa's sacred stream. He had been instructed in the divine law and his intellect had been beautified and expanded, and his heart softened and refined by its heavenly teaching. He was young and beautiful, and full of manly dignity. This interesting Moabitess saw the stranger. His dark lustrous eye met hers with an interest that mutually increased till love burned bright in both their bosoms. They were joined in wedded love, and her Mahlon was all her own! No, not all—for death, the insatiable archer, had fixed his eye upon him. Only a short period elapsed, and Mahlon was numbered with the dead! She saw his bright eye forever shut, and the dark grave closing over his pale, unbreathing corse.

Mahlon had a father, but he too had found a grave in that Moabitish land where they now sojourned. Mahlon had a brother, but that brother had fallen beneath the shaft of death, and his dust slumbered fast by the side of his dead father. Mahlon had a mother. Poor lone widow! Her name was once Naomi—pleasant, but now she chose to be called Mara—bitter—for the Almighty had dealt very bitterly with her. She had buried all she most loved in a stranger land. Why should she not now return to her native land—to the altars of her fathers—and the home of her childhood?

Shall she go alone? No—not while Mahlon's widow lives. The hour of parting came. Her two daughters-in-law—for both of her sons had taken them wives in the land of Moab—had already accompanied her several miles on her way to the land of her nativity. But the moment of separation had now come! They stood under a cluster of palms—a cool, refreshing spring sent forth its waters which flowed and gurgled along beside them. All nature smiled around them, but their hearts were sad. This widowed, childless mother—after a long painful struggle of silent feeling, said unto her two daughters-in-law, go return each to your mother's house. The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead and with me. Then she kissed them each. And they lifted up their voice and wept. How could they part? They said, surely we will return with thee unto thy people.—And she said—nay—I have nothing to offer you: I go back to my country stript of friends, and substance. Therefore turn again my daughters, why will ye go with me?

The deep fountains of feeling were again broken up, and they again lifted up their voices and wept. Then Orpah clasping the mother of her buried Chilion in her arms, fell on her neck, and, sobbing long and loud, kissed her and bid her a final adieu.

Not so the beautiful, but now faded and care-worn Ruth. Hers was a love stronger than death. Many waters could not drown it. She refused to separate herself from the mother of him she had loved. They still lingered under the shade of the clustering palms. Orpah had taken her final leave, and her retiring form had now vanished from their view. The sad widowed mother, now preparing to start on her way, again addressed Ruth, still lingering at her side—Behold thy sister-in-law has gone back unto her people, and unto her gods. Return thou after thy sister-in-law.

But the fair and lovely Moabitess nobly replied—Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. So onward they two went together to the holy land. It was the beginning of the barley harvest when they reached Bethlehem. They were quite destitute, and scarcely knew how they were to provide themselves with the means of subsistence. But the eternal God in whom they trusted, and who feeds the fowls of the air, clothes the grass of the field, and decks the expanded petals of the lily with hues more brilliant and beautiful than those reflected from the shining robes of royalty—had not forgotten the poor—had not forgotten to insert in his law when ye reap the harvest of your land—thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of the field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest. * * * Thou shalt leave them for the poor and stranger: I am the Lord your God. This divine injunction was reiterated again and again. When thou cuttest down thine harvest in thy field, and hast forgot a sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it: it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow; that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thine hands. Here was a merciful provision for the poor. The devoted Moabitess who had left country and home for her love to Naomi, was not backward in offering to go forth to glean in the field after the reapers. It was on this errand, that she walked into the country, and patiently toiled beneath the rays of the scorching sun.

It was while thus engaged, that Boaz, the rich Bethlehemite, came to his reapers, and first saw the lovely stranger. How she afterwards sped, those acquainted with the sacred story need not be told. It only remains for us to add, that she gleaned in the field until even, and beat out all that she had gleaned: and it was an ephah of of barley. And she took it up and went into the city; and her mother-in-law saw what she had gleaned; and she brought forth and gave to her that she had received after she was sufficed. And her mother-in-law said unto her, Where hast thou gleaned to-day? and where wroughtest thou? blessed be he that did take knowledge of thee!

This is the first of the three Gleaners. The story of the two that follow will be much shorter.

Circumstances, several years since, led the writer to spend a few days in a secluded little village, in a very retired and beautiful part of the country. It was in the month of August, when the indications of summer were seen on every side—the wheat fields were ready for the hand of the reaper, and during the livelong day there seemed no cessation to the tide of heat that came flowing down from the sun, overwhelming the broad earth and every creature that moved upon it with his fervid influence. The early dawn of morning, and the hour of twilight at the decline of day, seemed to be the only seasons, when one could walk forth with any comfort, to enjoy the rural scenery, that the hand of the Creator had spread with surpassing loveliness around this spot. These seasons were not allowed to pass unimproved. The first morning that I walked forth—while the grey twilight still lingered on hill and dale—casting a sombre, dusky aspect over surrounding objects, as I passed along, refreshed by the fragrant breath exhaled from the fields, cheered by the notes of the feathered tribe who were chanting their early matin lays, and enamored with the glorious scene pencilled on the eastern sky, which brightened and kindled into broader lines of orient radiance every step I took, and every moment I gazed, I saw a young lad, some twelve or thirteen years old, passing by me with a brisk step, but stooping every now and then, to gather up some straws of wheat, that lay scattered along the road. The occurrence, however, awakened no particular attention, and would have been forgotten, had not the same thing been observed in the evening. In returning to my lodgings, after a ramble over the fields on the evening of the same day, I met this boy with quite a bundle of wheat under his arm, moving with a quick step, but stopping every now and then to gather up a single straw that lay in the road.

The next morning, the circumstance had quite passed out of my mind, till suddenly and unexpectedly the form of this boy again appeared before me. He was still occupied in the same manner. He seemed in a great hurry, and yet he stooped to pick up every straw that lay in his path. I felt an unusual curiosity to learn his history, and the motives that influenced his conduct. Upon inquiry, I was made acquainted with the following facts. This lad was an orphan boy, who resided in an old cottage, about a mile distant from where I met him, with an aged grand-mother, who was blind, and very poor. Her children had all gone down to the grave, and this boy was the only representative of her family. The old blind cottager, was one who trusted in the Lord, and believed that he did all things well. She tried to train up her child to a life of industry and early piety. He was a promising lad and seemed disposed to aid his aged grand parent, and contribute to her comfort by every means in his power. Every evening he would read to her out of God's holy book, and in the day he sought some occupation by which he could contribute to her maintenance. At the time I fell in with him, he was in the employ of a wealthy farmer, assisting in securing the wheat harvest. This farmer resided in the outskirts of the village, while the broad fields which he cultivated, lay abroad in lengthening expansion and beauty in the immediate vicinity of his dwelling. Several of his barns were contiguous to his dwelling, so that the wheat when harvested, was principally conveyed from the field where it grew, along the road on which I had taken my walks, to these barns. Hence as one loaded wane after another was driven along, the whole road became strewed with heads and stalks of wheat. This lad, to whom I have referred, rose a half an hour earlier in the morning to go on his way to his daily toil, and lingered a half an hour later at evening on his way homeward to his nightly couch, in order to gather up these wheat stalks that had fallen by the way. These wheat gleanings thus gathered up by the way he every night carried home with him and subsequently threshed, and by steady perseverance in this course was able to obtain a considerable quantity of grain, to afford bread both for himself and his aged grand parent. Was not this a beautiful instance of filial piety? This is the story of our second gleaner—one who gleaned by the way.

Some twelve years since, it was our happiness, to have met a very remarkable man, who seemed to live for one single purpose. He possessed naturally great strength and brilliancy of intellect. While yet a child, a highly gifted mother had laid her plastic hand upon his character, and so directed his education as to bring out the highest powers of his mind in symmetrical development. Thus through the educational advantages he enjoyed, he was prepared to make large attainments, and to gather much information from every field of knowledge through which he walked. As he grew up, he became furnished with most ample stores of learning. He had the power to instruct and to please, and was eminently fitted to act upon other minds. Added to all this—he was a Christian. He had felt the power of a Saviour's love, and had consecrated himself to his service. To him had been committed the ministry of reconciliation, and he was acting as the legate of the skies—the ambassador of the King of kings. This was his business. All the powers of his mind were consecrated to the work of winning souls to Jesus. He still moved around in society. He was still the charm of every circle in which he was found. He did not always speak upon religion. He did not always stand before his fellow men in the attitude of a preacher. He travelled; for his health required it. He walked out into the fields. He looked abroad over the face of nature. He moved amid the circles of his fellow men. He engaged in literary pursuits and scientific investigations. But he pursued nothing to the neglect of ministerial duty. And from every circle in which he moved, from every scene he witnessed, from every company he met, from every field he trod, from every object to which he turned his eye, from every investigation in which he engaged, he gleaned something, by which to throw new charms around religion, and enable him to reach minds through new channels. He never for one moment lost sight of his great business—but was all the time steadily moving forward to the attainment of the object for which he lived and laboured. All his pursuits—all his enjoyments, all his recreations, were made to contribute at least indirectly to the furtherance of that great object. Like the wheat gleaning boy, he went to his daily labour, and relaxed no effort in the business of prosecuting prescribed ministerial duties, yet while going to and from these duties, he GLEANED BY THE WAY. Every flower that spread its expanded petals before his eye, every breath of music that fell upon his ear, every dew drop that glittered in the beams of morning, every little tiny insect that flitted across his path, every landscape that stretched before him, every mountain and hill that pointed upward to heaven, every forest and stream on which his eye rested, every star that hung out its golden lamp on the sable curtain of night, every interview of friendship, every vicissitude of life, every incident of travel, every occurrence whether pleasing or painful, presented to his enriched intellect some new aspect of thought, from which he could glean materials for the instruction of other minds. Thus he gleaned by the way. And through these gleanings he acted upon a thousand minds, that he could not otherwise have reached. He has gone to his reward. He sleeps in the silent sepulchre. But though dead, he yet speaketh. A thousand flowers gathered by his hand from the fields of literature and the scenes of active life, and by his hand planted in the garden of the Lord, still remain, and from their contiguity to Siloa's sacred font, and the blood-stained cross, they bloom with brighter tints, and richer fragrance, and still lead many to approach and fix their eye on that blessed cross, and ultimately to feel its transforming power. This is the history of our third gleaner. And from the history of the three, our readers will be at no loss to determine what suggested to us the idea of entitling this volume gleanings by the way.

CHAPTER II.

VIEWS OF PENNSYLVANIA.

Tour to Harrisburg—Aspect of the country—The Valley of the Susquehanna—The passage of the River—The Valley of the Juniata—Huntingdon—The Rev. John W. James—His sudden exit.

The following twelve Chapters consist principally of extracts from the note book which the author kept, during a tour through the great Western Valley in 1837.

On board the Canal Packet Swatara,
Wednesday evening, June 14, 1837.

I have never been more struck than to-day with the tranquilizing influence which the works of nature are capable of exerting upon the mind. There is a calmness, a solemn stillness—a sweet quietude spread over field and forest, and all that the eye rests upon in passing through the country at this beautiful season, which cannot fail to find a response in the bosom of every beholder. I have no doubt a ride into the country would often operate like a charm to calm down the agitations, quiet the corrodings, and soothe the anxieties of many, who amid the engagements of the city are the victims of carking care, and seem to live only to wade through the fiery stream of perturbed and anxious feeling.

We left Philadelphia at six o'clock this morning. The cars belonging to the three regular lines that run on the Rail Road to Harrisburg, filled with about one hundred and fifty passengers, and fastened to each other in one train, were moved by the same locomotive. There is something very exhilarating in the act of being borne through a beautiful country at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. It seemed as we moved along as though our whole train was instinct with life, and endowed with magic pinions, which it had only to spread abroad, and skim over the surface of the ground with the fleetness of the wind. As we passed along from the city, one varied, and verdant scene of all that is lovely in hill and dale, forest and field, orchard and farm-house, presented itself in quick succession after another—filling up the whole way with images as beautiful and varied as are brought to the eye by every turn of the kaleidoscope.

The country between Philadelphia and Harrisburg in its outlines and agricultural aspect strikingly reminded me of western New York. The impress of thrift and wealth are enstamped upon every vale and hill-side that meets your eye in this vast fertile landscape. I could not but ask myself, however, "Is there a moral beauty here, displayed in the lives of those who cultivate this land, corresponding with the marks of material loveliness which the Creator has spread over all this scene? Do the walls of these cottages and farm-houses resound to the voice of prayer and praise with each rising and setting sun? Is the Saviour of sinners universally known, and loved, and served here? Do all these people, whose homes are scattered along this range of country, regard this beautiful region as the theatre on which God has placed them to prepare for the skies?"

I know not what the state of religion may be generally through these counties, but when I turned to a tabular list to see how many churches and communicants we numbered in this extent of country, I felt sad to find how small a part of the land we had possessed, and how very little we, as a branch of the great Catholic Church, were doing to extend the kingdom of Christ even in our very neighborhood. I hope other communions have done and are doing more to diffuse vital godliness through this section of the land than we, otherwise there must be a lamentable want of that faith which Christ came to establish on the earth. O when shall prayer go up as one thick cloud of incense from every house and hamlet scattered through this region, made so fair and beautiful by a divine hand! Then indeed will "the valleys which stand so thick with corn laugh and sing, the hills will clap their hands, and every thing that hath breath praise the Lord."

At Harrisburg we took the canal. Our course till evening lay along the valley of the Susquehanna, which as we proceeded we found hemmed in with mountain bluffs, not unlike the palisades which surmount the banks of the broad Hudson, or some of the rougher mountain features in the neighborhood of the Highlands. The scene that opened before us was one of calm—quiet beauty. There was awakened somewhat of a romantic feeling as we sat down to our tea, borne quietly along through the rural beauties that clustered thick around us. Our cabin windows were thrown wide open, and we inhaled with delight the cool and refreshing breath of evening. On our right, almost within reaching distance, the road passed along just under the brow of a very precipitous hill, whose top peered up amid the clouds. On the left, parallel with our course, was the expanded Susquehanna: and beyond this beautiful stream one bluff and lofty range of hills rising up after another, gave to that side of the river the aspect of continuous mountain scenery.

As the day declined and the sun sunk below the horizon, a dark mass of clouds seemed rolling up from the northwest. This stupendous pile of clouds hung directly over the gap in the mountains, through which the Susquehanna poured its wide and troubled waters. Soon the heavens began to gather blackness, and the forked lightning to play with fearful glare on the surface of this dark mass of clouds, followed by loud peals of startling thunder. Almost immediately the rain commenced pouring down in torrents. The transition from the quiet scene through which we had been passing, to one of storm and tempest, was sudden and unexpected. There was a sublimity and awful grandeur that gathered around that hour and spot, which I shall not soon forget. What added to the effect, was, that just then we had arrived at the point, where we were to cross the Susquehanna. The bridge that had been flung up over the river to afford a passage for the horses to tow the boat across, had partially fallen down, so that it was no longer capable of use. A strong cable had been fixed across the stream, by means of which a power was applied to our boat, which, in connexion with the force of the current, would bear us rapidly over. It began to be dark, and the rain fell violently. The waters seemed rough and threatening, and many of the passengers felt a sense of great insecurity. To many on board, though I presume there was no danger, it was a moment of deep and awful suspense. My mind instantly run off into a train of serious thought. It appeared to me that our course this day had been not unlike the journey of life. At first in the May morning of our existence, we start off with speed and are borne as by enchantment through a succession of gay, bright, blooming fields. As we advance, though we move apparently beneath benignant skies, and tread amid many of the beauties of creation, our path all the while runs along by the side of the river of death. That river we must finally cross, and it may be amid darkness and storms, and beneath the impending thunder cloud of divine wrath! Happy are they whose hopes and interests are so garnered up in Christ, that it matters not to them when, or how they cross it! Happy are they who can embark upon this river with such a simple, and firm reliance on the Saviour, as to feel that there is no danger, however rough or dark the passage may be!

Thursday, June 15.—When we awoke at four o'clock this morning, we found ourselves wending our way along the valley of the Juniata, a stream tributary to the Susquehanna. The scenery on either side of this river is surpassingly beautiful, and in style not unlike that which we passed yesterday on the Susquehanna. The hills that hedge in the narrow valley of the Juniata are usually of a conical, or triangular shape, covered to the very summit with a stunted growth of forest trees. There was a peaceful quiet—a solemn stillness reigning through almost the entire extent of this valley, which to me appeared truly delightful. It seemed like the deep and unbroken silence of nature. It was to us a stillness seldom broken save when the sound of the boatman's horn, or the heavy tread of the horse on the tow path, went up the mountain side, and woke an echo amid the untrodden solitudes that stretched up those wild, and wood covered steeps.

As we advanced farther up the Juniata we saw evidences of a more dense population. Villages occasionally rose to view. We passed Lewistown early in the forenoon, and heard a favorable account of the acceptableness and labors of our young clerical friend, the Rev. J. F. H. How true it is, that wherever a faithful servant of the Lord is planted, there "the waste places will soon be converted into a fruitful field, and the desert will be made to rejoice and blossom as the rose!"

Just at nightfall we passed Huntingdon, the place where poor James fell last August on his way to western Pennsylvania. This esteemed brother had been much in my mind in all our jaunt up the valley of this river: and it had occurred to me as we passed along, if there was a spot on earth where one could be content to lie down and die, far from friends and home, it was along this valley, amid this sweet quiet mountain scenery. One can scarcely look out upon these green and foliage clad heights and the multiplied demonstrations around him of Almighty power and skill without feeling his heart drawn up in devout adoration to the Framer of these everlasting hills.

I was disappointed, and sorry in finding the scenery less beautiful at Huntingdon than at any of the former points on the Juniata. The village presented an unattractive appearance. The house in which our brother[1] met his final hour was pointed out to me. It seemed a very gloomy and unlovely abode. As I passed the spot I felt the deep fountains of sensibility moved in my soul: I thought, that it was here, far away from the sympathy of his people, that this man of God lay down in the agonies of death. It was here that his eye was sealed for ever on earthly scenes—and his liberated spirit mounted up to God! Though to mortal eyes the circumstances of his death seemed most undesirable, yet we know that he went quickly up to tread the streets of the heavenly city, and to stand where he could gaze everlastingly on the unveiled face of Jesus, his crucified and risen Lord. O who that looks to the end of the glorious consummation will not long to depart and "be with Christ which is far better!"

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The individual above referred to was the Rev. John W. James, assistant minister of Christ Church, Philadelphia. Mr. J. was travelling with his family on a summer excursion in 1836, when he was suddenly arrested with disease, and called from the scenes of his labors to "the rest which remaineth for the people of God." He was a faithful minister of Jesus Christ, and his memory is still most sacredly cherished by many, who feel that he was to them the messenger of salvation.

CHAPTER III.

GLIMPSES OF WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA.

Source of the Juniata—Ascent of the Alleghanies—The summit—The Great Mississippi Valley—Skepticism—Rank growth of religious error—Dunkards—Valley of the Conemaugh—Moonlight—Singular conversation—Infidel sneers.

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.

The remark which fell upon my ear, and drew my attention to the discussion that was going on in this little group—was—"that any man would find it hard work to be an infidel." I was glad to hear such testimony from such a quarter. As it was regarded no intrusion to sit or stand any where, where one chose on the deck, I found an unoccupied seat near this little knot of gentlemen, which I immediately took with a view of listening to their conversation now that it had turned upon the subject of Christianity. The question had been raised as to what constituted a Christian, when one of the company thus delivered himself:

"He may be called a Christian who acknowledges the divine authority of the doctrines and precepts of the Saviour."

This remark the more interested me, as it came from one who had spent much of his time since we entered the packet in card-playing. As the conversation progressed, I became more and more interested—but determined to continue a silent listener. The general style of remark, was of a character that evinced beyond all question a consummate ignorance on the part of the speakers, not only of the real design of the gospel, but of the leading truths which the Bible unfolds. I could not but think how melancholy it was that so many of the distinguished men of our country—who were well educated in other matters—should be so profoundly ignorant, in the science of all others most important. I could not but fear that the individuals congregated in that little group but too truly represented several classes in our country, which taken collectively constituted the majority of our population. I was so struck and so pained at what I heard that I felt constrained to note down the substance of the conversation at once.

As the conversation progressed, one of the gentlemen observed—

"No man can come up to the requisitions of the gospel: neither is this expected. It of course became a perfect Being, like the author of Christianity, to lay down a perfect system. We are to aim to reach this system in all its demands. Some will succeed in one particular, and others in another. No one will come up to the required standard in all things. Still every one should do what he can to come up to the model set before us. This is my idea of being a Christian."

The same individual afterwards observed, "Christ had great shrewdness. He never answered questions directly, but evasively. Take, for instance, the case when he was asked 'Is it lawful to give tribute unto Cæsar,' he replied, 'render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's, and unto God the things that are God's!' this is the way he generally did. It was difficult to obtain a direct answer from him."

"He was like a Yankee," said another of the company, sneeringly.

"Or like a Quaker," rejoined a third, with a leering laugh. "I never yet could get a direct answer from a Quaker; they will always answer your question by asking another."

"That is because they wish neither to give offence, nor to get caught," replied one of the company.

I felt it was almost sinful to sit and listen to this profane manner of speaking of the blessed Saviour—of Him before whom the loftiest hierarchs in heaven cast their crowns in lowliest reverence. It was a page of human nature, however, that I thought it well for me to read; and therefore, I sat still:

"A really conscientious man," continued the man of law, "is just the worst witness that can be brought on to the stand. He has so many qualifications to make, and is so afraid that he shall not state every thing precisely as it is, he fritters his whole testimony away. A legal friend of mine told me the other day that he had just lost a cause by having a student of divinity as a witness. When he conversed with him in private, he thought his testimony would be entirely conclusive, but when sworn he made so many qualifications to all he stated, such as—'if he recollected correctly'—'if he heard correctly'—'if he did not receive a false impression,'—and ten thousand other hypotheses, which so weakened his testimony as to render it good for nothing."

Again the conversation went back to the question as to what constitutes the substance of Christianity. One of the gentlemen remarked.

"In my view the whole of it is summed up in this precept—'Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you.' Whoever acts on this principle is a Christian; and I don't care what he believes about the Trinity, or atonement, or any of the other mysteries of faith. Let him be a Unitarian, or Trinitarian, or believe what he chooses about the Deity, if he acts on this principle he will do well enough, and need not trouble himself about matters of faith."

Another of the group responded—"This is undoubtedly true—it is in accordance with common sense; but some hold strange views. A lady of my acquaintance, the other day, was expressing great anxiety about the salvation of a certain acquaintance of hers. This acquaintance, though somewhat of a fashionable woman, and not particularly religious, is nevertheless a most lovely and estimable character. I replied to the lady expressing this anxiety, 'If you think she is in danger, I am sure there is not much hope for me.' She looked very grave, and shook her head as though she thought my case wholly desperate. Now I think it is horrible for people to be cherishing such opinions about their neighbours—looking upon all the community around them as going infallibly to an eternal hell, unless they have a certain species of faith, which is supposed to ensure to those who have it the favour of God, and everlasting life. I believe this is all a mystic dream, and whoever acts on the principle 'of doing to others, as we would they should do to us,' may with perfect safety give to the winds all apprehensions about salvation, and all controversies about doctrines, and particular forms of faith."

The individual who uttered these sentiments was the very person who had remarked that "it was hard work for any one to be an infidel."

To me it seemed astonishing, that intelligent men, who knew any thing of the scriptures, could hold the views that had been broadly expressed, and yet suppose that they were not infidels. I was more than ever convinced that men might be learned in science, in law, in medicine, in politics, and yet be profoundly ignorant of the great design and prominent features of the gospel.

CHAPTER IV.

PITTSBURG AND ITS ENVIRONS.

First view of Pittsburg—Its general aspect—Sabbath and its employments—An affecting incident—Orphan children—A Christian father in the midst of his children on the Sabbath.

Saturday Evening, June 17.

About nine o'clock this morning, we passed the Alleghany river just above the point where the Kiskiminetas falls into it; our course thence was along the banks. The scenery on either side of this river, like that of all the other rivers we have traced, is very interesting. Its waters seem clear and transparent, and the banks are beautifully over-hung with trees of a rich dark foliage.

It was about three o'clock, P. M., when we caught the first view of Pittsburg. The day was unusually bright and sunny, and the atmosphere uncommonly clear, and our Pittsburgian friends congratulated us upon having so favorable a time in which to take the first view of their city.

I was aware that the hills that encompassed this city were filled with bituminous coal, and that one great source of its wealth and prosperity were the factories moved by steam power which could be employed with great effect and cheapness, in consequence of the abundance of this coal. I was also aware that this article constituted the principal fuel which warmed their houses. I therefore expected to see a smoky city, but I was not prepared to see what actually, at first sight, burst upon my view—a vast cloud of smoke rolling up in ten thousand dark columns, and forming a dense, murky canopy, that hung in expanded blackness over the whole town. The city seemed in its sooty and blackened houses, and in its columns of everlasting smoke, like one vast and extended group of furnaces or glass-factories. As I continued to gaze upon it, I was reminded of the smoke that went up from the plain of Sodom the morning after the destruction of that city, "when Abraham gat up early and looked over the whole plain." Our nearer approach to the city did not relieve me from my first impression. Every object and scene, every house and building within the purlieus of the town seemed stained, soiled, and tarnished with the sooty vapour that was ceaselessly ascending from its ten thousand chimneys. Like the frogs of Egypt this dreadful smoke came up into their houses, and there was no escape from it. The walls of the most elegant drawing-rooms bore evidence that the discolouring element had found its way there. The atmosphere every where seemed impregnated with it. I raised the window in my chamber, and the room was almost instantly filled with smoke. Almost as soon as I reached the church on Sunday evening, the doors and windows being open for the admission of air, I perceived the church was filled with a cloud of smoke. Surely Pittsburg is a smoky city. I ask the pardon of its inhabitants for this doleful description. The town certainly bears marks of great thrift and prosperity, and its inhabitants do not lack in sterling excellencies of character. I should be very ungrateful if I did not here record the acknowledgement of the many acts of kindness and hospitality that were extended to me during my temporary stay.

In the manner in which the people regarded the unpleasant appendage connected with Pittsburg to which I have just adverted, I saw another evidence of the benevolence and wisdom of the Creator in constituting us with capabilities of adapting ourselves to whatever is around us. The smoky atmosphere, so far from being an annoyance to the citizens of Pittsburg, is constantly spoken of by them as its beauty and glory, and seems associated in their minds with all the delights and interest of home.

I have visited the environs of the city, and clambered to the summit of some of the hills out of which the coal is dug. The views from these elevations up the Alleghany and the Monongahela are beautiful. The scenery in every direction around Pittsburg, viewed from these eminences, would be magnificent, were it not for that unchanging cloud of smoke that covers the city as a canopy of darkness.

From many a point on the lofty range of hills that encircle the city, you have a view at the same glance of the Alleghany and the Monongahela, wending their way from different points through their own distinct beautiful valleys, and hastening on like two ardent lovers to meet and mingle into one; and still farther on you see these two blended rivers moving off in one united stream—the beautiful ohio, which winds its serpentine way through its own rich valley, to meet the waters of the mighty Mississippi—a thousand miles from this spot.

Pittsburg, Sabbath Morning, June 18th, 1837.

The church-going bell calling worshippers to the house of prayer, emits sounds that fall sweetly on the Christian's ear. How delightful is the thought, that go where we may in this happy land, we find some who love the Saviour and are glad when it is said—"Let us go up to the house of the Lord."

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.

Whoever has travelled on any of the western rivers knows something about the annoyances connected with western steamboats—the drinking—the swearing—the gambling. We were induced to take our passage in "The Elk," from the fact that it was the only boat that was going down the river this morning. We soon found that our boat was not of the first order; our captain, however, appears to be one of the most quiet, taciturn, and unmoveable men we ever met.

It was about ten o'clock, that we found our boat pushing off from the shore, and our backs turned upon the clouds of smoke that hung in dense masses over what has been called the Birmingham of America. As we stood on the deck, we seemed at the moment of starting enclosed by a forest of dark tunnels peering up from countless steamers lying along the shore. More than forty of these were clustered together in the same group where "The Elk" was stationed. It is said there cannot be less than seven hundred steamboats moving on these western and south-western rivers.

We were fully in the stream!—We began to feel that we were borne on the flowing bosom of the Ohio! The luxury of that moment was worth travelling four hundred miles to enjoy! What thronging emotions then came rushing upon our minds! We remembered whither this stream was bearing us—away from our friends—perhaps never to return! We thought of the vast territory it watered—its majestic length—the scenes of Indian warfare that had been acted upon its shores and on its surface, long before the axe of the white man had felled a single tree in those vast and unbroken forests that stood upon its banks, and were reflected from its mirrored surface! It was even then the beautiful river, as the name Ohio denotes. It is said that "the line of beauty" is not a straight but waving line. If so, this river is richly entitled to its name. From first to last, it moves in "the line of beauty." So winding is its course that we usually do not see, as we are passing along upon it, more than a half or quarter of a mile in advance of us, and often not so far. Thus we see it in distinct sections, each section resembling a beautiful little lake, surrounded by its own sweet and peculiar scenery—shut in by its verdant and variegated banks and wood-covered hills, and ornamented by one or two, and often several little green islets, around which the parted waters wind romantically.

We passed the settlement of the Harmonists, or Economists, as they are frequently called. This people are the followers of Rapp, and reside at a town called Economy, about fifteen miles below Pittsburg. They also form a singular instance of the power of delusion. The people belonging to this community are principally German emigrants, extremely ignorant, and, therefore, more easily controlled by a shrewd and cunning leader. Rapp professes to be a prophet sent from God, and gifted with the high privilege of holding such constant communication with heaven, as to receive from thence directions how to regulate and govern all their affairs.—He therefore enjoins upon every individual belonging to the community, entire, passive submission, and implicit obedience to his orders.

This self-constituted ruler claims to be their sole religious instructor. The people usually assemble on the Sabbath, when he speaks to them, what it concerns them to know in relation to the Supreme Being and his Prophet—and then gives them directions about their labour for the ensuing week, reminding them of the great importance of harmony and economy, assuring them, that both of these will be effectually secured if they undeviatingly follow his directions.

Though they have no outward ordinances, they make great account of an annual festival—the Harvest Home. At the observance of this festival, after immense preparation in the way of providing all manner of good things to eat and drink, not less than six hours are spent at the table—which are occupied alternately in eating, singing, and praying. The above particulars I received from several different, but well informed individuals, residing at Pittsburg.

In the course of the day we passed Steubenville, pleasantly situated on the river. I had barely time during the landing of passengers to ascend the hill, and look into one of its principal streets. Its houses, like those of Pittsburg, bore the dingy stain so common to all this bituminous coal region. I wished to have met the Rev. Mr. M——, of this place, with whom I had no personal acquaintance, but in whom I felt a particular interest on account of the silent and powerful influence he exerted in the institution where he finished his literary studies, in commending godliness and rebuking sin, by a holy, spotless, and unblemished life. The savour of his name still remained at that institution several years subsequent, at the time when I was passing through my preparatory studies there. I found upon inquiry that the same simplicity of faith, and singleness of mind, and devoted holiness of life, characterized his labours on the banks of the Ohio, which imparted such a charm and moral power to his conduct as an academical student. There is nothing, after all, that can place such a mighty moral lever in a man's hands, as simple-hearted piety—decided holiness of heart and life.

We reached Wheeling just at sunset, and made our arrangements to remain there through the night, with a view of taking the stage next morning to pass into the interior of Ohio, making Gambier one of the points at which we should stop. There having fallen heavy rains, however, the state of the roads was such that the project was abandoned, and we determined to keep on in the Elk. We felt some pleasure in being permitted to spend an hour or two within the limits of the "old dominion," for it was the first time that either of us had trod upon Virginia soil.

Tuesday, June 20th, Cabin of the Elk,
Passing down the Ohio.

I know of nothing more delightful than to sit at one's ease, and be wafted down such a beautiful stream as this, winding its graceful and circuitous way through groves and grass-covered fields, and beauteous woodland scenes. Occasionally we see the banks surmounted with lofty bluffs that lift their proud summits up towards the clouds—and then succeeded by bottom land studded with trees that bend over to dip their pendent boughs in the glassy surface that sweetly reflects them. As one sits in a sheltered nook in the cabin, gliding down such a stream, with such a scenery around him, and feeling the cool refreshing breeze fanning his fevered brow, and imparting vigour and new elasticity to his enervated frame, he must be very stupid, or very depraved, if his heart is not drawn upwards and made to throb with gratitude to the glorious Framer of this garnished and goodly scene!

One acquires as he proceeds westward, largeness and expansion to his ideas: his mind is carried out of its former habits of thought, and swells away into the vast dimensions of the majestic rivers, and boundless tracts of country, over which his eye expatiates. Only think of sailing beyond the Mississippi, in a steamboat, still westward more than two thousand miles, and find your course at every step skirted with the most rich and fertile lands which stretch away interminably before you!

We passed this day some interesting towns. Marietta appears beautiful from the river, is neatly built, and bears the marks of thrift and enterprise. Point Pleasant and Guyandot in Virginia, Gallipolis and Burlington in Ohio, are interesting points.

Wednesday, June 21.

We found ourselves this morning lying at the shore of Portsmouth, with the borders of Kentucky on our left. Being detained several hours we took a view of the town, found a neat little Episcopal Church, and had an interview with its humble, worthy, and devoted minister, the Rev. Mr. S——. In all this western world we find that ministers have many trials and discouragements. The people are more intent upon every thing else than that of saving their souls. We here met, to our great delight and surprise, the Rev. W. J——, and his lady, on their way to Louisville, his future field of labour.

The river continued to present us with the same beautiful views, varied now and then by loftier ridges of head-land on the Kentucky side. It was about two o'clock, P. M., when we saw on the Kentucky shore in a solitary place, a house surrounded by a large collection of people. Our boat seemed to sympathize in the scene before us, for it was immediately arrested in its course, and the captain put on shore. I have before spoken of the captain of our steamer, as remarkably quiet, taciturn, and even tempered. We did not know that the placidity of his natural temperament could be moved, or his tongue unloosed by any earthly power, till the second night after our embarkation, when we were awakened from our sleep by the tones of boisterous anger, and volleys of oaths that almost froze our blood. It was our captain chiding his men. We were now to see him under new circumstances. As I have said, we dropped him on the Kentucky shore about two o'clock, while the boat went on to a small village a few miles below. We were told by some of the hands on board that the captain had stopped on account of the severe illness of his brother-in-law, who was the owner of the Elk, and its former commander. The order was to wait until he joined us. The Rev. Mr. J. and myself improved the time of this delay by clambering up to the summit of one of the loftiest hills in the neighbourhood, where we had a fine view of the river and the surrounding scenery. When the signal for our boat's departure was sounded, we perceived, as we were going on board, a coffin covered with black velvet. We now learned for the first time that our boat was to go back to the point where we dropped our captain, and remain there until the funeral rites of his brother-in-law, now deceased, were performed. It was in vain to remonstrate, so we submitted to the delay with as much cheerfulness as possible.—To improve my time I determined to go on shore and witness a funeral among the yeomanry of Kentucky. The steamboat had been drawn up to the bank under the verdant canopy of a cluster of umbrageous trees. After ascending the bank, which might have been some fifty feet from the water to its summit, we found ourselves in the midst of a beautiful grove, where the underwood had been cut away, and the earth was carpeted with green sward. Most of our passengers having landed, the coffin was brought out from the boat and conveyed towards a cottage that stood some two hundred yards distant. We all then moved on towards the house. The first thing that attracted our attention in approaching this rural dwelling, was the number of horses fastened to the fences, and equipped most of them with ladies' riding saddles.—Around and within the house we found a large company assembled. I was sorry to see so many rotund and rubicund faces among the men, bearing unerring indications of intemperance. The fair daughters of Kentucky were certainly on this occasion more happily represented than the stronger sex. They were, however, very peculiarly dressed. They generally wore a sun-bonnet, which had a long frill or flounce that hung like a shawl over their shoulders, and carried in their hands little riding whips, which left us at no loss to understand who were the riders of the caparisoned steeds that we had seen in such numbers around this house of mourning.

I pressed along through the crowd, and followed the coffin to the house with the hope of witnessing the religious exercises that I supposed would be performed on this occasion. The house consisted principally of one long large room, in a corner of which the corpse was placed. Here also the mourners sat, and the company that were collecting to attend the funeral. The coffin was brought into this room, and placed in front of the corpse, which was clad in the vestments it was to wear in its narrow house. It was immediately in the presence of the mourners, and of this promiscuous company, raised from its position and transferred to the coffin. This being done, the undertaker proceeded to fasten on the lid with the exception of the head-piece, which was separate from the other. The wife, and mother, and family friends, then moved forward, and proceeded to take leave of the unbreathing dead. I never was more struck with the power of human sympathy. At that moment many hardy, sun-burnt, iron-looking faces put on all the expression of deep and overwhelming emotion. Tears ran down cheeks that one would have thought had never been wet with such tender drops before. Even our imperturbable captain, whom we thought proof against all feeling, and almost a perfect impersonation of apathy, wept and sobbed aloud.

The coffin was then borne out into a rude open piazza or stoop in front of the house, and there left for some time till the curiosity of every gazer seemed fully glutted. Then again the near relatives came forward and kissed the dead. The widowed wife seemed almost frantic in bestowing the parting tokens of her affection upon the unbreathing body of her deceased companion. I felt obliged to turn away, for I could not endure the sight of her wild frantic manner as she clasped and kissed again and again the cold clay of her husband! This finally had a close. Then after a short pause, a female bearing in her hands a pair of shears, pressed her way through the crowd, and proceeding to the head of the coffin, took off several large locks of hair that rested on the cold forehead of the dead man. The coffin was then immediately closed, and preparation made to move towards the grave. I accosted an elderly lady that stood near me and said—

"Are we to have no religious services on this occasion?"

"No."

"Is there no minister present to officiate?"

"No," was the only reply I received.

I then turned to another and said, "Are there no ministers who reside in this part of the country?"

"None very near here," was the response.

I mentioned this conversation to my friend B—— who stood near, and observed to him that I regretted that such an opportunity should be lost, when the feelings of all were so subdued, to direct the minds of these people to the solemn realities of eternity; that even a single prayer offered up at this moment might be the means of saving a soul. He went and spoke to our captain, mentioned that there was a clergyman present, and suggested to him the expediency of inviting him to engage in some religious exercises. The captain with his usual apathy, into which he had again relapsed, replied, "I don't know whether it is worth while."

The funeral began to move off in the following order or rather disorder. First, the four bearers took the lead, carrying the coffin on two rudely hewn sticks, prepared for the occasion. Then followed four or five of the near relatives all abreast. Then came the bereaved widow, riding on horseback, and after her all the assembled crowd, male and female, hurrying on twelve or fifteen abreast of each other. The funeral train proceeded near where we landed, and, after having gone a short distance into the grove, it descended into a narrow ravine, through which run a little brook, gurgling over its pebbly bottom. When the bearers reached this brook they had no other way to proceed but to ford it; the others got over as well as they could, on logs and stones. Having ascended the opposite bank, we soon reached a well trodden path, which we followed for some short distance, and then turned abruptly into a cornfield. When we had reached the central part of the field, which was an eminence of some height, we found an open grave. The excavation was at least four times larger than the coffin required, with a place sunk in the bottom just large enough to receive it.

While we were ascending the hill near the grave, the captain having had some consultation with the friends of the deceased, and again feeling some kindlings of sensibility, sought me out from among the crowd, and very affectionately throwing his arm over my shoulders thus accosted me—

"I am very sorry to detain you on your journey, but the hands were all so much attached to Mr. R., I could not well send them on till the funeral was over." I replied, "It is perfectly right to detain us under these circumstances. This is a very solemn event, and one that should be regarded as a loud call both to you and your hands. We must all soon come to this! How important then to lay it to heart!"

To all this he readily assented and replied, "Several of the friends have expressed a wish that you should give us a short exhortation at the grave."

I felt no disposition to decline complying with this request. Accordingly when the coffin had been placed over the excavated grave, with the broad blue canopy over our heads, amid the stillness of the surrounding country scene, and the hill-side beneath me covered with a dense mass of human beings, I lifted up my voice for my Master, and spoke to them of sin, and death, and Christ, and salvation. As I looked over the silent listening throng, I remembered that I had never met one of them before, and probably should never meet one of them again, till we stood together at the judgment bar. I endeavoured to exhibit to them the scenes of that great and dreadful day, and the terms on which they would be accepted or rejected. I endeavoured to direct the mourners that wept around that grave to the balm that is in Gilead and the physician who is there. The countenances of all were solemn, and there were not wanting evidences of deep and tender emotion. The remarks were closed with prayer to the eternal Framer of earth and sky. Whether on that hill-side, with the Ohio rolling at our feet, and the blue heavens stretching over our heads, any good was done when we laid the dead steamboat captain in his grave, the developements of the great day must show! In my heart I thanked the Lord for this opportunity of going out into the highways and hedges to try to compel them to come in.

As soon as the grave was closed up, the bell from our boat reminded us that we must be on our way. During the rest of the voyage our captain seemed very serious and thoughtful. At tea he requested that a blessing should be invoked on our meal. My friend B. sought a private opportunity to press the subject of personal religion upon his attention. He received what was offered with great candour, and seemed willing to prolong the conversation. His conduct after this to us was marked with every indication of respectfulness and attachment. The next morning we found ourselves at Cincinnati, the city which has been called "the Queen of the West."

CHAPTER VI.

A GLIMPSE OF KENTUCKY.

Cincinnati—The Queen city—Views in reference to missionary labour—The kind of missionaries wanted in the great Valley—Walnut Hills—Lane Seminary—Dr. Beecher—Woodward College—Dr. Aydelott—The old Kentucky man—Louisville—The Galt House—View of the interior of Kentucky—Plantations—A sore evil—Kentuckian traits of character—A thrilling incident.

Cincinnati, Friday Morning, June 23d, 1837.

We reached this city, not inappropriately called "The Queen of the West," yesterday morning, and bid adieu to the Elk and its taciturn captain. Upon the whole I have been greatly pleased with Cincinnati. The whole air and aspect of the town has reminded me more of Philadelphia than any city I have seen west of the mountains. Christ Church, in this city, is a noble building, and the interior furnishes a beautiful specimen of architectural taste and skill. St. Paul's Church is also a tasteful structure, although I was not able to obtain a view of the interior. The Roman Catholic cathedral and college make a fine appearance, but the interior of the cathedral greatly disappointed me. The audience room is small, narrow, and mean in appearance. I am happy to say that in passing through this western region I find but one impression among well-informed and intelligent men in relation to the growth and progress of popery here; and that is, that it is making little or no advances, except with the increase of foreign population.

In my visit to Cincinnati I derived much information in relation to the west, as well as much personal enjoyment from the conversation and society of our most excellent brother, the Rev. J. T. B., Rector of Christ Church. He occupies a most important position on the walls of Zion, and I could not but say to myself, the more I saw and conversed with him, "Oh that we had a thousand such clergymen at the west as he." He, as well as several other intelligent clergymen in this region, assured me that it needed only a band of well-trained, devoted, godly men, to plant the Episcopal Church every where through the whole length and breadth of this vast valley. The united testimony of all is, "Send us the right kind of men—or send us none. The idea that any one will answer for a missionary to the west is a most fatal error. We want here men of enlarged and liberal views, thoroughly educated, of great prudence, energy and efficiency—men who are willing to work, and willing to keep on working till they see the fruit of their labours—and above all, pious, devoted men—men full of the Holy Ghost, and burning with a love for immortal souls, who will speak directly to the hearts and consciences of people. Give us such ministers, and no limits need be set to the establishment of the Church. But if men of another stamp are to be sent, those whose dullness, and deadness, and inefficiency prevent their getting any place among the old established parishes at the east, the result will be that our prospects here for the Church wherever they plant themselves will be for ever ruined."

I have heard these sentiments again and again from the lips of some of our most devoted ministers at the west. The body of clergy that now come here are going to give character to the Church. They are engaged in the momentous business of laying foundations. We must look not only to the immediate, but future results of their labours. In almost all places, before any thing can be done a church has to be built. I had no conception till I entered this great valley of the difficulty of finding a place in which to assemble the people for public worship. Almost the first business to be done is to effect the erection of a church. The clergyman who can inspire such confidence in himself and awaken such a degree of interest, as to lead a western community to embark in such an enterprize, must have some tact and power. Another difficulty is to induce the people to attend church. Vast numbers here have fallen into the confirmed habit of spending their Sabbaths in another way. It is an effort for them to go to church. There must be some attractions in the minister to draw this class of persons out, and they are here a very large, and respectable, and influential class. A dull, sleepy, prosing minister is not the man for the west.

In the afternoon we rode out to Walnut Hills to visit Lane Seminary, and pay our respects to Dr. Beecher. He received us with that frank, blunt cordiality, which I have so often experienced in New England, and which makes its rough and cragged hills more attractive to me than all the luxuriant fields of the west. The pleasure of our visit was not a little enhanced by the presence of Miss Catharine E. Beecher, who is widely known to the literary world through the productions of her gifted pen. I am sorry that my limits will not allow me to detail to you some parts of a discussion that we had upon several interesting topics—especially in reference to the present state of the Presbyterian Church, and of the best mode of diffusing light among the Roman Catholics. I certainly left Dr. B—— more than ever impressed with a high conviction of the brilliancy of his intellect, and the depth of his piety.

The location of Lane Seminary is in the midst of a most beautiful landscape. There is just enough, and just the right admixture of hill and dale, forest and field, to give it the effect we love to feel in gazing upon a calm and quiet scene of beauty. In our return to Cincinnati we took another route, which, as we approached the town, gave us from the lofty amphitheatre of hills that encircle this "occidental queen" a new view of her charms. As we approached the lofty eminences in the rear of the town, while we gazed from the summit down upon the city, I could not but reflect how Jerusalem must have appeared to the spectator who stood upon Mount Olivet, and looked down upon the proud domes and busy streets that lay beneath him. And the thought too then occurred to me, that had I the gifted vision of him who once stood upon Olivet, and wept over Jerusalem, I might see in this beautiful city enough to draw forth floods of grief. With all my admiration of Cincinnati, I see here abundant evidences of great wickedness. The temperance cause I fear has made but little advance in this place, and the god of this world holds a fearful sway over the minds of too many of its inhabitants.

I met last evening the Rev. Dr. Aydelott, the former Rector of Christ Church, who now occupies the place of President of Woodward College, an institution in Cincinnati, endowed by the munificence of a single individual, and which promises, with its present head, to do much for the cause of learning in the west. I am satisfied that education here is to be one of the great moral levers by which mind is to be raised from the darkness and degradation of sin. In the President of Woodward College I found a man of thorough evangelical views, sound intellect, and fine literary attainment.

Louisville, Tuesday, June 27.

It was about noon, Friday the 23d, that we left Cincinnati on board the steamboat Commerce. Having reached the great Miami, we had immediately under our eye the view of three states. Ohio which we were leaving—Indiana which now constituted the right-hand bank of the river, and Kentucky, which still continued to present us with its "alternations of bottom and bluff" on the left.—We met on board a fine specimen of plain, honest, fearless Kentucky character. He was an old man who cultivated a farm without slave labour, possessing great bluntness, a large share of intelligence, and an evident warm-hearted piety. Having formed some acquaintance with B——, he accosted Mr. F—— and myself almost immediately upon coming where we stood, in the following manner. "Well, gentlemen, I find your friend here is for Christ: which side are you on? I am willing to show my colours." He seemed very happy to know that we were trying to serve the same Master whom he loved.

At early dawn, on the morning of Saturday, June 24th, we found our steamboat lying along the shore, on which Louisville is built. As the heat now began to be oppressive, it was very reviving to leave the confined cabin of our steamer, and inhale the fresh breath of morning. Louisville is evidently a flourishing business town, containing about twenty-five thousand inhabitants, ten thousand less than Cincinnati. We put up at the Galt House, an establishment which we had heard very highly commended. We however, in the end, did not feel disposed greatly to dissent from the remark of one of the lodgers at the Hotel, who in true Kentucky style remarked—"that the Galt House was not after all just what it was cracked up to be." I found many things to interest me in Louisville. During the few days that I stopped here, it was my intention to visit Lexington, but having been providentially prevented, I endeavoured to make amends for this disappointment by taking short excursions into the country. How could I fail to be delighted with the splendid corn and hemp fields along by the sides of which I passed! and the luxuriant forests which, with their underwood cleared away, and grown up, as they were, with blue grass, appeared like noble parks affording pasture ground for the hundred beeves that roamed there! How could I fail to be delighted with the frank, and generous, and warm-hearted hospitality which I every where experienced. But I saw a dark cloud hanging over this beautiful state! Almost all its inhabitants see it, and lament it, and hope that it may one day be rolled away! Through the politeness of a friend I was afforded an opportunity of visiting several large plantations cultivated by slaves. I was pleased with the evident kindness with which the slaves are treated, and the happy contentedness which they displayed. But still I could not but see many evils connected with this system. And I have no doubt that large portions of the intelligent part of the people in Kentucky have juster views of these evils than any of their northern neighbours—and that could silent wishes remove the difficulty the chains of bondage would be instantly broken. I dined with a gentleman, of great urbanity and professed piety, living on a small plantation in the country. After dinner, we walked out, and passed by the shantee in which his slaves lived. He asked me to look in, and talk with them, he in the mean time passing on, with some other gentlemen into the garden. I did so. In the cottage they occupied there was every appearance of neatness and comfort. I remarked to an intelligent looking woman who stood over the wash-tub—

"You look quite comfortable here, I suppose you are very happy."

She immediately replied, "I am not happy."

"Ah!" said I, "what makes you unhappy? Are you not treated kindly by your master and his family?"

"Oh, yes!" she responded, "I have nothing to complain of on that ground."

"What is it then that makes you unhappy?" I asked.

"My sins," she replied.

I remarked that this was indeed the cause of all our misery; and I then endeavoured to point her to that blessed fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, where she and all our guilty race might wash and be clean.

As I passed along, I saw several young children around the establishment, and when I joined our host in the garden, I told him what had passed, and inquired of him, if the parents of the children we saw had been regularly married. He appeared somewhat confused, and very serious—but at length replied—

"This is one of the worst features of slavery. Two of the parents of those children are married. The woman with whom you were conversing is the mother of four children, and has never been married? Her conscience is not easy."

I inquired if such things were of common occurrence among the slave population? He replied—"Yes—and we cannot prevent it." Alas for that state of society which brings along unavoidably such sin in its train!

I inquired in relation to the religious instruction of the slaves, and was sorry to learn that it was so very defective. On one plantation where there were seventy slaves, the master was a perfect worldling, and never allowed his slaves to attend public worship or receive any kind of religious instruction. Must there not be something wrong in that state of society which places seventy immortal souls so entirely under the control of one individual that he can shut against them completely the gate of heaven? But this is an unwelcome theme and I pass on.

Perhaps there is no part of our country where there are such fixed and marked traits of character as in New England and Kentucky. There are many traits in the Kentuckian which I admire, and which when brought under the influence and control of Divine grace form the substratum of a noble character. One of the attributes of this character is an honest independence, which despises the meanness of stooping to get any advantage by blandishment or truckling. This is evident from the common drayman to the high-minded planter. Another attribute in this character, is a love, amounting almost to a passion, for discussion, oratory, and public speaking. It is said, that in no one of the states are all political questions so thoroughly discussed and understood by the great mass of the people as in Kentucky. During the sittings of the courts, I am told that all leave their work, and give up their time to attend the trial of the various suits that are pending, and to listen to the speeches that are made on the occasion. Wherever there is public speaking, there the people will flock. I believe there is no state where a talented, eloquent ministry could effect more than here.—Unhappily there is much infidelity prevailing in this state, and yet I have no doubt that it may and will be entirely supplanted by the labours of a faithful and efficient ministry. You will be gratified to learn that the Rev. Mr. J—— has commenced his labours with great acceptableness. His removal to Louisville, at this time, is regarded by the friends of the Church in this region as a most auspicious event. I have no doubt that a wide field of usefulness lies before him. They are erecting in Louisville a new Episcopal Church, and if a suitable pastor is procured, there is not the least question but that both churches will be entirely full.

The very best specimen of true original Kentucky character, which I have met, was on board the steamboat. The love of this individual for his native state amounted almost to a passion. Though in exterior very plain and blunt, he possessed uncommon intelligence, and contributed by his conversation in no small degree to our enjoyment.

He gave me the following statement in relation to the early settlement of Kentucky.

"This was one of the most beautiful and blooming territories over which a wild luxuriant forest ever waved.—And yet as it was a sort of dividing line between the northern and southern Indians, it became the battle-ground upon which these nations met and waged interminable wars, so that it went among the savages by the name of the dark and bloody land. Near the close of the revolutionary war several settlements were attempted in Kentucky by emigrants from Virginia. My ancestors were among the number. The Indians both from the south and north, almost immediately became jealous of these white settlers, and adopted the purpose of exterminating them. The settlers were able to keep their position only by building a fort and living in it. While a certain portion of the men worked in attempting to clear and cultivate the land, another portion being armed, were on watch. I was born in one of these forts near Boonsborough. I wore, till I was twelve years old, hose made of buffalo hair. Our chief living was upon bear and buffalo meat. We were in the midst of the wildness of nature. Hundreds of times have I seen the Indians rushing upon our fort, or fleeing before the sharp-speaking guns of our friends. People who live in the densely settled portions of our country, know very little about the toils and dangers, the sacrifices and privations which the first settlers endure."

My Kentucky acquaintance illustrated this last remark by a vast number of thrilling incidents, one or two of which I will relate.

When he was quite young, several of the people of that settlement, undertook to manufacture maple sugar. The winter had relaxed its rigours, and the warm sun began to pour down his genial rays. The snow was fast melting away, and the sap ran merrily from the perforated sugar trees. Several negroes were engaged a short distance from the fort in collecting the sap. It was supposed that no Indians were in the neighbourhood, as none had been seen for several months. Tempted by the bright sunny day, a daughter of one of the settlers, a young, beautiful, blooming girl, rambled beyond the enclosures of the fort, where the negroes were collecting the sugar sap. While she stood there, full of buoyancy and free from every apprehension, a negro being near, busily engaged in some of the various processes of sugar-making, four or five wild Indians in a moment sprung upon them! The negro they seized and bound, and in an instant cut down with their tomahawks this beautiful girl. Having scalped her, they fled, carrying with them the captured negro. The alarm was soon given at the fort. They were pursued—overtaken, and several of them shot. The negro was rescued. Those that had escaped went five hundred miles around among the tribe to raise the war-cry, and then came back and again attacked the settlement. In that encounter my Kentucky friend told me that eleven of his family relatives were killed.

Another incident which he related was the following. Somewhere on a station near Kentucky river, in the spring, when the earth began to put on her bloom, two young ladies, the eldest of whom was the first child born in Kentucky, went out to gather flowers. As they saw some very rich blossoms on the banks of the river, they took a little skiff, and went from one side to the other collecting them. While thus engaged a number of Indians were in the canebrakes watching them. The young ladies having by a turn of the river passed beyond the view of their enemies, the Indians proposed to gather flowers, and place them all along the bank, where they were in ambuscade, so that when they returned, attracted by these flowers, they would come up to the bank and then the boat could be seized. The plan entirely succeeded, and while these young ladies were gaily cropping their flowers, a huge wild Indian sprang from his concealment into the boat. Their destiny then seemed sealed. They were immediately borne away as captives. One of them, however, wore a dress handkerchief of red and brilliant colours.—This she silently kept pulling to pieces, and dropping the shreds as she was hurried along through the forest. The friends of these young ladies soon become alarmed. Marks were discovered of an Indian trail. The empty boat was found. A band of armed men commenced pursuit, headed by the father of one of these young ladies.—They discovered the shreds of the handkerchief, and traced them till night fall, when they suddenly came upon them where they were encamped. They perceived there was a large number of Indians, and thought secresy in their movements important. They waited till the Indians were asleep, and then the father drew near. He saw the two young ladies sitting by themselves, guarded by an Indian. The others appeared to be asleep. His men were at some distance, and he thought it better to go up unseen, and tomahawk this sentinel, and rescue his child without alarming the other Indians. But in attempting it, his faithful dog which accompanied him, growled at the sight of these savages. In a moment they were on their feet and he their prisoner. They determined at once to put him to death. He was stripped and bound to a tree, and they were just levelling their pieces to fire at him.—What a moment of awful suspense for his child who stood looking on! His men, alarmed at his long absence, drew near, saw what was going forward, and instantly fired upon the Indians. A panic was immediately struck into the camp, and as the fire from the whites was kept up, and one and another Indian fell gasping on the ground, they soon fled and left their prisoners. The father and the two young ladies returned. One of them is still living, the mother of a large and respectable family, whose declining age is cheered with the comforts of a sweet hope in Christ.

It is well for us to know something of the hardships endured by the first settlers in the west.

CHAPTER VII.

THE OHIO NEAR ITS MOUTH.

New Albany—Sailing down the Ohio—Profanity—Lovely views of nature—A sudden squall on the river—Kentucky shore—Young fawn—The mouth of the Tennessee river—The swimming deer—His struggle and capture—Meeting of the waters of the Ohio with the Mississippi—Gambling—Intemperance—Sail up the Mississippi to St. Louis.

New Albany, Indiana,
Tuesday Morning, June 27, 1837.

Indiana is unquestionably destined to become one of the most interesting of the Western States. Its principal towns that stand along on the Ohio, must of course become very important points. This will be particularly the case with New Albany, which is already one of the most populous and flourishing towns in Indiana. It bears on every part of it the marks of a new place, and the manner in which every house and shed within its precincts is crowded, shows that it must have expansion. It is situated about four miles from Louisville, just below the rapids, on a fine broad table of land, which is so far above high water mark, as effectually to secure it from those inundations, occasioned by the sudden rise of the Ohio. Some way back in the rear of the town, and nearly encircling it, rises up in a very picturesque manner, what is here called a knob, an elevated steppe of land, from which we look down upon the town and river, and see them spread out before us as on a map, in distinct and beautiful delineation. Louisville appears in the distance, and the adjacent country, which with the windings, and wooded scenery of the beautiful Ohio, presents a view so exquisite, that the imagination can scarcely conceive any thing more romantic.

It is only three or four years since there were but a handful of inhabitants at New Albany: it now numbers six thousand, and is rapidly increasing in population. A very large proportion of its inhabitants are young, enterprising men from the East, who possess moderate means, and have come here to build up their fortunes. How important to bring such minds under the influence of the Gospel! This is a centre from which influences for good or evil will go forth through the state, and I believe it may be truly said, it is one of those fields that "are white for the harvest."

I met Bishop Kemper at Louisville, on his way to hold an ordination at Madison, another interesting town in Indiana, on the Ohio, between Louisville and Cincinnati. The bishop purposes to devote two or three months between this and autumn to Indiana. He appears indefatigable in his efforts to promote the good cause, and every tongue through the whole west speaks forth his praise, and cheerfully accords to him the high encomium of a zealous, devoted, and holy man. There are now seven or eight Episcopal clergymen in Indiana, and the cry still is, "The harvest is plenteous, but the labourers are few."

Steamboat, Tuesday Evening, June 27th.

It was about three o'clock to-day, that we started on our way from Louisville, down the Ohio. It was excessively hot, and I experienced a languor and sense of exhaustion, which I do not recollect ever before to have felt. When the sun began to decline, and we again found ourselves gliding as by enchantment over the surface, and sweeping through the midst of the beautiful scenery of the Ohio, I felt that I had passed into a new world. As I traversed the deck of the boat, and saw reflected from the smooth and mirror-like bosom of the river, the luxuriant foliage, rich and dark by its own deep verdure—the smooth green bank that sloped down to the water's edge, as though to kiss the smiling surface that slept so quietly below—the abrupt precipitous bluff, starting up like a mound of earth, or a wall of solid masonry—and the head-land sweeping off into sloping woods that towered in majesty above the stream, I could not but feel, and could scarcely refrain from exclaiming aloud, how beautiful and surpassingly lovely are the works of God! What must the heart of that man be made of, who can pass through the midst of such displays of divine beauty, and pollute the very atmosphere as he passes with profanity! This is what hundreds are daily doing. Almost all the hands on board of the steamboats, down even to the little boys, utter an oath almost every other word. Profane swearing is one of the crying sins of this western world. Oaths the most horrid are awfully common among all sorts of people. Amid these scenes of varied beauty where creation appears so lovely we may truly say,

"* * * Every prospect pleases
And only man is vile.
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown."

Men pass here in thousands, and mindless of all these tokens of a wonder-working Deity, continue to live as though there were no God in the Universe, or as if He existed only to afford a theme for more aggravated profanity. And yet looking at the matter, aside from the native depravity of the human heart, one would think that the spontaneous effusion of every intelligent mind whose attention was directed to this scene, would be, as he looked around, "Surely this is the teaching of the mighty God! May lessons be impressed upon my heart by the outspread volumes before me, which no mutations of time, no excitement of passion, no fascinations of the world, no devices of the Evil one will ever efface. Eternal Creator, here among this green, boundless, majestic temple of thy works I renew the consecration of myself to thee, soul, body, and spirit. While these rivers roll their waters towards the sea—while a spear of grass grows in these fields—while a tree on these wooded banks is clothed with foliage in the vernal month—yea, while the solid earth lasts, and the cycles of eternity move on, with thy grace will I live only to serve and glorify Thee."

Wednesday, June 28th.

While we were leisurely sailing along to-day, the weather being oppressively warm, and the heavens very bright and sunny, and not a breath of air stirring, pyramids of snow-white clouds began to be piled up in the northern and western sky. These masses of cloud seemed heaped together in every fantastic form. They towered aloft like huge mountains of snow. What added to the interest and singular appearance of the scene was, that this arch of the snow-pillowed sky sprung directly up from a boundless sea of verdant foliage that stretched interminably around. Through these masses of white cloud, there occasionally appeared large interstices, like deep caverns, opening into the blue profound!—long vistas through which we could seem to catch a view of the inmost heaven. Suddenly a tremendous gale struck us; the waters of the calm Ohio were thrown into the utmost commotion, and the wind came down upon us with a power that threatened to shiver the steamer into a thousand atoms. The heavens gathered blackness, and the whole dark firmament presented a surface every now and then lit up with a sheet of the most vivid fire. The waters ran very high, the wind roared, and the thunder was awful. The captain very prudently sought the shelter of the shore, and our boat was soon fastened by a strong cable to a tree. Then the rain fell in torrents, as though the waters of the river itself were scooped up and poured upon us. We learned that a few days before, not far from where we were, a steamboat had been capsized by a similar flaw of wind. We were soon again on our way, moving beneath a bright and benignant sky, and fanned by a gentle and refreshing breeze. How much our course down this river resembles human life! I cannot stay to make the application, but will only add that they only are wise who seek the shelter of God's presence as a hidingplace till the storm be overpast.

We stopped towards evening to take in wood on the Kentucky shore. We there saw for the first time the native cane-brake. A wood-cutter's hut was near. A little ragged boy came out followed by two large dogs, and a little pet fawn. The dogs seemed to be fond of this little innocent thing, which had been taken only two or three weeks before. It seemed as it skipped along, and played around the footsteps of the child, very affectionate and confiding. Oh! that hardened sinners were transformed into a nature as mild, and gentle, and sweet as this little fawn! The power of Christ through the gospel can alone accomplish this.

Just at nightfall we passed the steamer Louisiana in distress. She had run upon a reef of rocks, and was in a sinking state. I cannot but here record the mercy of God which has followed us thus far in our journeyings. Steamboats have been blown up, and fired, and sunk, all around us since we started, and yet the Lord in boundless mercy has preserved us.

Thursday, June 29th.

When I awoke this morning, I found the boat was taking in wood at Paducah, just at the mouth of the Tennessee, having passed the Cumberland river in the night. We were now approaching a scene of interest that we had been long anticipating—the meeting of the waters of the Ohio and "the father of rivers." The morning was rainy and unpleasant, still we were constantly on the alert, eagerly intent upon seeing every object of interest around us. While thus looking abroad, an affecting scene presented itself to us. The Ohio here, having received its last large tributaries, had become very deep and broad. Its banks were covered with tangled underwood, and dense forest-trees—presenting a scene of unbroken wildness. Now and then a woodman's hut was visible on the shore, and a little boat fastened to the bank. A deer, bounding with the fleetness of the wind to escape his destroyers, had reached the river's edge. What could be more natural than that, as his pursuers pressed on, he should plunge into the midst of the flowing stream! How cool and grateful must have been its waters to him thus panting and faint! But will he find safety here! No. His pursuers are again upon him. Having seized two little skiffs they eagerly press on to reach him. We saw them gliding through the waters towards him. Again he puts forth all his energies, and dashes through the waves like an arrow through the air. The effort he is making is for his life. But the strong arms that ply the oars, send forward the little barques which contain his pursuers with a velocity that seems to cut off the hope of escape. Now they are upon him! one boat is in advance of him, and the other rushing towards him. His destiny seemed sealed! But no—he is gone! He has darted to the depths beneath, and risen far beyond the furthermost boat! He is exerting every nerve to reach the shore! A few moments more, and his point will be gained—he will be bounding through the Kentucky woods! No. Hope again dies! His pursuers are again upon him—the boat is again between him and the shore. His strength is exhausted. The uplifted oar with dreadful stroke has fallen upon his head. The hands of his fell pursuers have grasped his horns, he is dragged up into the boat and the huntsman's knife has made a deep incision in his throat. He pants, and struggles, and expires!

I said to myself—the sinner is pursued by sin, and satan, and passion, like that chased deer. There is no escape for him but in Christ. Oh what a happy, blessed hour of deliverance is that when the arm of mercy is reached forth to pluck him from the hands of his destroyers!

It was about nine o'clock this morning, when we first come in sight of the Mississippi. The waters of the Ohio had seemed muddy to us, but now they appeared clear and limpid compared with the muddy and discoloured stream which we were about to enter. There it was before us in all its magnificence, "the mighty father of rivers!" When our steamer touched its waves, it was with us a moment of deep and intense interest. We now turned up to breast its impetuous current which swept proudly along by us in foaming eddies. Every part of the river seemed turbid and thick with mud, and we could not understand how these waters could hold so much soil in solution. I shall never forget my sensations, when, shortly after we reached the Mississippi, I saw one of the boatmen draw up a pail full of this muddy water, and putting his lips to the vessel drink it off with apparent relish. I afterwards found it was the only water drank on board the steamboats, and in the towns situated on this river. I also found that after it was filtered, it was the most delightful water that I ever drank. One cause of its turbid appearance is the large portions of magnesia it holds in solution. This water derives its peculiar characteristics from the Missouri. Above that stream the waters of the Mississippi are clear and limpid.

I have already spoken of the annoyance to which we were constantly subjected from the profanity of those we encountered. And I may now add that, gambling is another of the vices that are rife here. On our way from Louisville to St. Louis there has been one incessant scene of gambling night and day. We have evidently had three professed gamblers on board. I am told that there are men who do nothing else but pass up and down these waters, to rob in this way every unsuspecting individual, they can induce to play with them, of his money. We saw one victim fall into the clutches of these blacklegs. He was a young merchant, I believe, from Chilicothe, Ohio. He was first induced to play a simple game of cards. A slight sum was then staked to give interest to the game. He was allowed for awhile to be successful and to win of his antagonist. He played on till he became perfectly infatuated. He would hardly stop long enough to take his meals. Being fairly within their toils, large sums began to be staked, and this young man did not see the vortex into which he was being borne until he had lost six hundred dollars. In this deep gambling, physicians and judges who were present participated. What will our country come to, with such examples before the people! After being shut up for two or three days with such company, I thought how horrible it must be to be shut up in perdition with such characters forever! Surely the very presence of such men, with their depraved passions in full play, would of itself constitute a perfect hell! Another crying sin, which abounds on board the western steamboats, and is fearfully prevalent through every portion of this western region, is the free and unrestrained use of ardent spirits as a drink; usually on board these western steamboats whiskey is used just as freely as water. All drink. The pilot—the engineer—the fireman—all drink. The whiskey bottle is passed around several times a day, and then the dinner table is loaded with decanters. I am satisfied that more than two-thirds of the disasters that occur on board these steamboats, are attributable to this free use of ardent spirits.

I know it will be natural to ask, can nothing be done to arrest the progress of these mighty evils? A gentleman at St. Louis, Captain S——, has embarked in a noble effort to do this. Last summer he ran a boat from Galena to St. Louis, with these avowed principles—that the Sabbath should be sanctified—that wherever the Lord's day found them, there they would tie up their boat and remain till Monday—that no ardent spirits should be brought on board the boat—that no profane swearing should be allowed, and no card-playing permitted. He remarked to me that the exclusion of ardent spirits removed the whole difficulty—that where there was no intoxicating drink, there was very little disposition to indulge in profanity or gambling. This gentleman has now raised forty thousand dollars, and hopes to bring it up to one hundred thousand in order to establish a line of boats on the same principle from Pittsburg to New Orleans. I do believe that this is one of the most important enterprises of the present day, and that the religious interests of the west are vitally connected with it. Captain S—— remarked to me, that no class of men, after the clergy, could exert such a prodigious influence for good or for evil, in the western valley, as the captains of steamboats. If they were only pious men, there is no telling how much they might do, every trip they made, to promote the cause of the Redeemer.

If something be not speedily done at the west to prevent the profanation of the Lord's day, there will soon be no Sabbath. At the principal landing places along the rivers, business appears to go forward on the Sabbath just as upon any other day. Professors of religion are deeply involved in this sin. Goods are carried to and from their ware-houses at noon-day, and their clerks are busy in the counting-room while they are at church. Facts of this kind I do not guess at, but know. Will not God visit for such things? Oh what will become of our land when God riseth up to judge the earth?

The whole character of the scenery, since we entered the Mississippi has become changed; the banks of this great stream are low and marshy. They are generally covered with dense forests and tangled underwood, and present the appearance of nature in its untrodden wildness.

Friday, June 30th.

We to-day made a short stop at a place which bears the name of Western Philadelphia. There were some half dozen buildings, and two stores. It is only about nine months since the settlement commenced. Chestnut and Market streets were pointed out to us. Their course was through a flourishing cornfield, the stalks of which were so luxuriant and lofty, that we in vain essayed to reach their tops with our hands.

There are more signs of cultivation visible, as we passed along, on the Missouri than on the Illinois side. The banks as we proceed up the stream, occasionally rise into high bluffs—especially in Illinois—towering aloft, not unlike the palisades on the Hudson. Frequently one rock is piled upon another to such an elevation, that the summit of the bluff juts over the river, as though it were ready to tumble down upon the heads of those who were passing along on the quiet stream beneath. This is particularly the case as we enter the lead country which commences some time before we reach St. Louis. These lofty towering bluffs that rise up so perpendicularly, projecting over the river, afford every convenience for forming natural shot towers. We saw several of these lofty cliffs that were thus used. A little box was erected upon the summit of the rock, where the molten lead was poured down through the mould, into a little tub on the shore beneath to receive the shot as they fell.

As we slowly wended our way up this mighty stream we found the shores adorned with flowers, and covered with cane-brake and thick underwood. We also saw the trees loaded with grape-vines—and many of them completely matted over with ivy, woodbine, and misletoe. The luxuriance of vegetation seemed so great, as not only to cover the earth, but to lift itself up suspended in the air.

We passed to-day St. Genevieve, a French village standing on a beautiful hill-side. The loveliest prospect stretched out before the town. We could from this point see the broad Mississippi in its magnificent course piercing the boundless forests of eternal verdure, and spreading out its watery surface upon which a hundred green islets seemed to float. The town itself, like all the French villages that we have seen on this river, appeared old and dilapidated, and quite destitute of every thing like improvement, or enterprise. I could not but contrast these French villages, in the midst of this rich luxuriant land, with their little Roman Catholic chapels, their low narrow houses, and abundant marks of poverty, with the neat, tidy, thriving villages of New England, which, although they rear their heads from a hard rocky soil, where industry has to be taxed to the utmost to obtain the means of subsistence, present—in their beautiful church edifices—their elegant public buildings, and well constructed private residences—marks of thrift, industry, and comfort, which cannot fail to gladden the heart of the traveller who passes through them. Such is the difference in their influences between Protestantism and Romanism.

Twelve miles before we reached St. Louis we passed Jefferson barracks, a military station on the Missouri shore, located on a beautiful swell of land.

Carondolet is another French village on the banks of the Mississippi, around which every thing appears ruinous and poverty stricken.

At length St. Louis rose to view, and we hailed the sight with no ordinary sensations, not only as it was to be our resting place for awhile, but as a point of exceeding interest in this vast western world.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MISSISSIPPI AND SOME OF ITS TRIBUTARIES.

St. Louis—Roman cathedral—Desecration of the Sabbath—Golden sunsets—Sail up the Mississippi—The meeting of the waters of the Missouri and the Mississippi—Alton—The burning prairie.

St. Louis, Tuesday Evening, July 4th.

This, unquestionably is destined in time to become the great city of the west. Its location is pleasant, and from the manner in which the upper part of the city is now building, I should think it would ultimately compete in regularity and beauty with almost any city in the Union. Its most prominent public buildings at present are the theatre and the Roman cathedral. One of the priests politely showed us through the latter building. The interior would be very grand and imposing, were it not for the gaudy paintings, intended as scriptural illustrations, suspended around the audience room. However much these may catch the attention and awaken the admiration of the ignobile vulgus, they cannot fail to excite any thing but complacency in minds accustomed to the more chaste productions of the pencil. In entering the church, we passed through the basement, where are the confessional boxes and a small altar, on which wax candles were burning. Here we saw one of the sisters of charity, sitting in black vestments, in a solitary dusky nook, as though absorbed in holy meditation. In the church we found another priest, engaged, as far as we could understand, in preparing a class of German boys for confirmation.

I learned from an intelligent source that Romanism is making little or no progress among Protestants at St. Louis. They have found it necessary to cut off, or conceal many of its offensive excrescences, so that a friend remarked to me, that he thought that a reformation in spite of themselves, silent and gradual, was going on in the Roman Catholic Church. The fact is, that the great difficulty at St. Louis is, that the mass of the people "care for none of these things." They are equally indifferent to every form of religion. Of course iniquity abounds, and the institutions of God are trampled in the dust. The following fact will illustrate this point. As I went to church on Sunday morning, to my utter astonishment, in passing by the new theatre, I saw some twenty or thirty men at work on it—masons, house-carpenters, and painters. God's law, Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy, was to be of no account, because the people of St. Louis were anxious to have their new theatre opened on the evening of the Fourth of July! Each one of the usual denominations has a church here. From all I could learn, however, I fear religion is at a very low ebb in St. Louis. There are numberless discouragements to be encountered every where in the West, calculated to weaken the hands and depress the spirits of the ministers of religion. No one can understand the number or nature of these discouragements, without being actually on the ground. A successful missionary at the West must have great faith and patience, and be unwearied in his labours. To animate his clergy, and cheer them on in their toil, there could not be a better man than Bishop Kemper. He seems to throw sunshine around him wherever he goes.

One thing struck me as remarkable at the West, and particularly at St. Louis. I refer to the appearance of the heavens at sunset. Nothing can exceed the richness and splendour of a western sunset. I have heard much of an Italian sky, but my imagination never conceived such pictures of beauty and indescribable glory, as are painted on the sky here at the decline of day. The whole hemisphere seems flooded with unearthly radience. The clouds piled up the western sky, appear more brilliant and gorgeous than any or all the colours of earth can make them. And as you look at them, you see, through the clouds, apertures, which seem like golden vistas, through which you look almost into the heaven of heavens.

Our Fourth of July has been spent quietly here. There has not been half the noise and disturbance I had anticipated.

Wednesday Evening, July 5th.

We this morning left St. Louis about nine o'clock. Our progress up the river has been slow. Some eighteen miles from St. Louis we witnessed one of the most interesting sights in all our journey—the meeting of the waters of the Mississippi and the Missouri! I cannot attempt description! The imagination alone can conceive it. If I ever had feelings of sublimity waked up in my bosom, it was when our boat stood off just abreast the Missouri, and I looked up its mighty channel, and thought of its source between two and three thousand miles distant, amid those mountains whose tops are covered with eternal snow, and then thought of the sunny orange groves, near where it empties its waters into the ocean!

We stopped a few hours at Alton, Illinois, just above the point where the Missouri mingles its waters with the Mississippi. This is an interesting town, fast rising into importance. It is destined to become a point of great interest. Its present population exceeds two thousand. We passed Marion City and Quincy, as we advanced up the river. Of the former we have heard frequent descriptions. We stopped an hour or so at the latter, and enjoyed from the high bluff on which it is built, a view of one of the most magnificent prospects that ever stretched before the human eye. The expanded waters of the Mississippi—the innumerable green islets that seem to float on its bosom—the beautiful vistas opening between these—the boundless ocean of forest stretching off to the south and west, and the level, treeless, luxuriant prairie running back to an unknown distance—all these lay at your feet, furnishing one of the most picturesque scenes upon which the eye ever gazed. I regretted the shortness of our stay at Quincy, not only on account of the enchanting loveliness of the spot, but more particularly as it deprived me of the pleasure of paying a visit to Dr. Nelson, the author of a popular work entitled, "The cause and cure of Infidelity," a book of sterling excellence.

We had now passed over a long tract of river navigation since we embarked at Pittsburgh. Our eyes had become almost wearied with tracing first the endless sylvan beauties that clustered around the banks of the smooth-flowing Ohio; and then the vast, unpenetrated, boundless forest scenes that spread away on either side of us from the abrupt, muddy banks of the Mississippi. Our ear had become wearied with the monotony of the sharp, rough sound of the high-pressure engine, that was heard ceaselessly day and night. Books scarcely any longer could interest us. The character and conversation of most of those around us seemed exceedingly dull and common-place. There was however one exception. This was found in the person of one of our passengers—a man of almost herculean stature, who, we soon learned, possessed great versatility and vigour of mind. His manners, however, at first appeared so coarse, and his conversation so blunt, that there seemed something exceedingly repulsive connected with his character. But this impression soon wore away, and in a few days he became the centre of almost universal attraction. He was a true Kentuckian of the old school; he was born and brought up amid the stirring scenes connected with the early settlement of his native state, and was perfectly familiar with all the war legends, and every bloody fray from the first movement of Col. Boone to the final expulsion of all the savage tribes from this their ancient hunting ground. To use his own language, he was "born in an Indian fort, and through childhood fed upon bear's meat, and clothed in buffalo skins." His physical strength seemed enormous, and he bore evident marks of being one of those brave, reckless characters that find pleasurable excitement in facing danger and death in every form. Yet he was not destitute of the softer and more kindly feelings of our nature, and withal seemed to have a high and reverential regard for religion.

It was now just at the close of a long summer's day. Our steamer for many a long weary hour had been pushing her slow course up the broad current of the Mississippi, when there suddenly opened upon us a vast, far-extending prairie. To me this was an object of thrilling interest, and the more so because hitherto we had seen scarcely nothing upon either side of the river but unbroken and boundless forests, stretching away as far as the eye could reach to the distant horizon. But here was a vast expanse in which no tree, nor stump, nor stone was visible. Naught met the eye but the tall grass, waving in the breeze, bending, rising, and rolling to and fro like the waves of the ocean after a tempest; and this grassy surface interspersed with wild flowers of every colour, hue and form.

For a long time I watched this beauteous scene, till the shadows of evening began to settle down upon it. While I continued still gazing upon the prairie, the old Kentuckian, who stood near, was making his observations, and at length remarked, "That prairie on fire would be a noble sight! I have seen them burning in a dark night, while the wind sprung up and bore on the flames like a sea of fire. I can tell you a good story and a true one about a burning prairie, and a family who perished by the conflagration."

We were urgent for him to proceed in the narrative. He began by giving an account of the family that perished in this conflagration, with whose history he seemed quite familiar. It was a beautiful and touching picture of real life that he drew in describing this family as they lived somewhere in the valley of Onion River, amid the sublime mountain scenery of Vermont. He represented Mr. N——, the father, as a hardy, sensible, and pious New England farmer. The family consisted of four children, two of whom, James and Lydia, were grown up to adult age, while George, the next son, was about thirteen years old, and the youngest daughter was only eight. Mr. N—— had long toiled to accumulate a little property, but the increase had been so slow, that in a fit of discouragement he sold his little farm, and determined to emigrate to the Far West, where he learned he could purchase land at a very low price, and procure the means of subsistence with very little labour. He persuaded himself that by adopting this course he should be doing more justice to his children than by remaining in a country where property, and even the means of subsistence for a family, could be attained only by years of persevering toil. There was only one heart made sad by this determination, and that was the heart of his favourite and eldest daughter. Lydia N—— was a girl of excellent sense, and some personal attractions. She had interested the affections of a young man who had grown up with her from childhood. His father owned an adjoining farm. The two families were quite intimate, and many happy hours had Charles S—— and Lydia passed together. This proposition of emigrating to the Far West seemed to the young people a death-blow to all their long-cherished hopes, as the circumstances of the young man did not warrant his forming a marriage connexion at once. But true affection is ready to make any sacrifices to attain its object. As soon as it was a settled point that Mr. N—— was to leave, Charles S—— offered to accompany him in the capacity of a hired man, if he would accept his services. Mr. N—— assented, and every thing was arranged accordingly.

They were now on their way, moving in true western style. They expected to be weeks and months on their journey before they reached their distant home. The family and all the effects they bore with them, were carried in two stout wagons, each one of which was drawn by three yoke of oxen. Mr. N—— or his eldest son usually acted as the driver of one of these wagons, while Charles S—— took charge of the other. They had already been on their journey many weeks, and had penetrated so far into the western world as to find it necessary to pitch their tents each night, and seek a lodging-place wherever the shades of evening overtook them. They at length entered the prairie country, and were for awhile almost spell-bound by the wide tracts of plain that stretched around them. To them the wonders of the boundless prairies appeared more amazing, because they had always been shut up by lofty mountains in a narrow dell, and had never till now looked abroad upon such amplitude and vastness of expanse.

They had now been travelling through prairie country for several days. It was late in autumn, though the weather continued as bland as summer. The day was bright and sunny; the wagons, each covered with a thick tow-cloth awning, and drawn by three yoke of oxen, were moving slowly on through the vast extended region of long grass, now sere and dry, which stretched around them like a shoreless ocean, and gently bent and waved to and fro in the autumnal breeze. No house, nor stone, nor hillock, nor solitary tree were seen within the vast circle of the encompassing horizon. As the sun declined, and the shadows began to lengthen, the tops of a small grove began to be visible in the distance. The emigrants immediately determined to seek a place of encampment for the night in the neighbourhood of this grove; for they naturally concluded that they should there find a spring or rivulet that would furnish water for their cattle and for their own use, and fuel for cooking their evening meal. They had been successful this day in shooting a large quantity of prairie hens, and were anticipating a delicious repast.

Mr. N—— proposed that James and himself should go on ahead of the wagons, and get every thing ready by the time they came up. They accordingly started off, having left Charles S—— to drive the forward wagon in which the family rode, and George to conduct the other. Mr. N—— and James, however, had gone but a few yards before Lydia came bounding through the long, sere grass, with the fleetness of a deer, bearing a tea-kettle in one hand, and three or four prairie hens in the other. Lydia, as we have before said, was full of sprightliness and vivacity, and she had too often clambered up the steep and rough sides of the Green Mountains to think any thing of a walk of two or three miles across the prairie. Her object in accompanying her father and brother was to hasten the evening meal; and as her father made no objection, the group moved on with quickened step towards the distant woods. They had already proceeded full three miles when they came to a beautiful spring of cool, clear water. Here they all sat down, and with grateful hearts partook largely of nature's refreshing beverage. In the mean time Mr. N—— drew his pipe from his pocket, and having filled it with the dried Indian weed, a supply of which he always carried with him, he soon ignited the same by means of his jack-knife and a flint. They were now only a short distance from the woods, and having filled a tea-kettle and a pail with water, they went forward and began to cut up some wood and prepare for kindling a fire.

And now the sun had set, and the evening shades were gathering fast around them. Beneath the covert of a large tree a fire was burning brightly, over which was suspended the tea-kettle and all things were ready for the arrival of the party on board of the wagons. Lydia ran out of the woods a little way into the prairie to see if she could any where discover the advancing party. She saw them about a half mile distant, moving slowly on, but she saw at hand, and near the spring, what greatly alarmed her—a smoke and flickering blaze. She ran back in great haste and said, "Father, I fear in lighting your pipe you have set the prairie on fire!"

Mr. N—— started up as though a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, and rushed forward to ascertain the truth of Lydia's remark, James and Lydia both following him. The moment they had emerged from the woods and got into the open prairie, the awful certainty burst upon them in a moment! What a sight then met their view! The prairie was indeed on fire. It was now quite dusky, and the little flickering blaze which Lydia had seen had already become a sea of fire! The wind drove the flames in the direction of their friends, whose escape seemed impossible.

The long dry grass, which had waved so gracefully in the wind, now caught every where like tinder, and sent up a long sheet of flame that widened and expanded every moment, and mounted up with increasing brightness and height, as though it would reach the very skies.

The feelings of this group were excited almost to agony in behalf of their friends. The thought at length struck them that if they could only succeed in getting them through the long line of flame, they might save them, as the conflagration was evidently moving off from the place where they stood; and as the column of flame seemed to extend more to the right than to the left, they embraced the determination to make an effort to reach their friends in that direction. Reckless of consequences, wild with despair, they instantly rushed forward, and succeeded in getting in advance of the fire in one place. But they soon saw that the enemy was coming upon them with the speed and the fury of the whirlwind. Mr. N—— lifted up his voice and shouted aloud, bidding the teams to move in this direction, but no sound was returned save the awful crackling of the advancing flames. Darkness, too, covered the whole vast prairie, save where this sweeping column of fire spread its desolating track. They could no where discover a single trace of the wagons; and now they began to see the peril of their own situation. Already were they completely environed with the fire, and all retreat seemed cut off. The only hope left them was to endeavour to rush through the flames and get to the windward side of the conflagration. Mr. N—— and James made their way for a while successfully through this awful tempest of flame, the daring Lydia keeping close at their heels. At length a point was gained which seemed to open the prospect of escape; not a moment was to be lost, for already the fire raged around them like a furnace. Mr. N——, drawing in his breath, dashed through this awful line of flame, and reached a spot where the consuming element ceased to rage, it having already swept away every vestige of combustible matter. Though scorched and smarting in every limb, he could not but feel grateful to God for this deliverance. He instantly turned to see what had become of his children. At this instant he saw one bright, lurid sheet of fire mounting up like a vast wave of the ocean, and completely overwhelming them! He rushed back to assist them, but the flame, like a furnace seven times heated, rolled its intense, fiery surge back upon him in such a manner that he was obliged to retreat. At this moment he heard Lydia shriek—her dress was all on fire, and her brother was trying to bear her through the raging tempest. When it had in some slight degree abated, again the father rushed forward—but another gust of wind swept such a torrent of fire over the bodies of his children that it was impossible for him to reach the spot where they were. When the burning waves had passed by, he strained his eyes, but in vain, to catch a glimpse of these objects of his affection. They were not visible. At length, as the fire marched on, he reached the spot where he had seen his children struggling with this awful element, and there he found them both, lying on the ground—their clothes nearly burnt off, and their bodies half consumed by the devouring flame! His poor daughter was gasping in death, and his son so dreadfully burned that he could scarcely move a limb. The fire was still burning the roots of the grass around and beneath them. A little distance, however, there was a spot where the consuming element had exhausted itself; to this place he endeavoured to remove his children. Poor Lydia almost expired in his arms. As he laid her down on this black and scathed spot of earth, she faintly said, "Christ is my hope! Jesus can make this resting-place 'soft as downy pillows are!'" The father hastened to remove his son to the same spot. He there laid him with his face turned towards his sister. He soon saw that she was dead, and said to his father, "This is a sad night for us; Lydia is gone, and I think I shall soon follow."

"This is an hour," replied his father, "in which all we can do is to look to God. He has said 'when thou passest through the fire I will be with thee.'"

"Will you pray with me, dear father?"

"I will," said the agonised father, and kneeling down on the blackened earth, while bending over one child already dead, and another almost ready to expire, he cried unto God for help and mercy. When he arose from his knees he perceived that James's breathing was more rapid and embarrassed than it had been before. A dreadful fever was burning through his veins.

"I shall soon be," said the dying son, "where the flame can no longer kindle upon me; and I shall be able to bathe in the cool, refreshing stream that flows from the throne of God and the Lamb."

"God grant," said the father, "that an entrance may be ministered unto thee abundantly into his everlasting kingdom." "Amen," responded James, and died. The chill of death had suddenly come over him, and his spirit fled to the presence of his Maker and Judge.

The father sat for a long time on the ground gazing upon his dead children. The curtain of darkness was drawn over the scene—but here and there dissipated by the dying and reviving embers, and flickering flame that still lingered on almost every spot over which the awful conflagration had swept. An unsteady, lurid light, just sufficient to reveal the wide-spread scene of desolation, was thus flung over the dark and blackened waste where the consuming element had a few hours before rode on in his resplendent car. At the distance of a few miles, and as far to the right and left as the eye could reach, rose one vast extended column of flame, mounting up to heaven amid the darkness of midnight, and marching on with the speed, and fierceness, and fury of the whirlwind. It was an awful and sublime sight! Here the father sat by the side of his lifeless and unbreathing children; the stillness of solitude was around him;—and there, bursting up from amid thick darkness, was this tremendous conflagration, which seemed so bright, and fierce, and awful, that one could hardly refrain from thinking it would burn up the world and melt the elements with its fervent heat.

But I ought before this to have told the reader the account the Kentuckian gave of the fate of those who were connected with the advancing wagons. They had seen the smoke of the fire that was to cook their evening meal curling above the trees, and directed their course to that point as the spot where they should meet their friends. They were not at all aware of the coming of this awful conflagration, or of the approach of danger, till they saw the whole prairie directly before them lit up with one extended sheet of flame. No one can depict the terror, the anguish, the horror of that moment! No one can depict the sublimity and grandeur of the scene that at that moment burst upon their view! But fear and wild distraction took complete possession of the whole company. The very cattle that drew the wagons seemed to sympathise with them, and to discover at once that their fate was sealed.

We have already remarked that the fire extended more rapidly in one lateral direction than the other. This Charles S—— observed, and immediately sought to take advantage of it, and if possible get to the windward of the fire. But long before they reached the line of the flame, the fire had extended miles in this very direction. It was too late—there was no escape—the fire was every moment approaching them. Mrs. N—— clasped her young daughter to her bosom and sat still in the wagon. The oxen, as the flames advanced, became perfectly unmanageable. They rushed forward with the fury of wild and maddened beasts into the thickest of the flames. The one team took one direction, and the other, another, but both of them continued to move on through the hottest column of flame, till at length the cattle one after another fell down in the yoke, suffocated by the flame, and bellowing as though in the agonies of death. Long before the last ox had fallen, and the wagon had ceased to move, Mrs. N——, with her youngest child clasped to her bosom, had given up the ghost. The tow awning which covered the wagon in which she rode, took fire almost as soon as they met the line of flame, and instantly all the combustible materials in the vehicle were in flames. Escape seemed impossible, for already the oxen were moving with the speed of the wind through the thickest of the flames, and Mrs. N.——, clasping her child to her bosom, yielded to her fate, committing all to God. Poor George, not able to keep pace with the team he drove, as he saw the flame marching on, sought by running to escape from the face of the devouring element, but the attempt was vain. The whirlwind of fire soon overtook him, and like a resistless sea, rolled its burning waves over him. When Charles S—— saw the team he drove could no longer be controlled, and that in order to follow them he must encounter certain death, he left them to take their own course, and sought to rush through the line of flame—which had now become so expanded, that long before he passed the fiery column, the flesh was almost burned from his bones, and he at length fell down upon the burning earth, unable to move a step farther. The fire still moved on with awful, unabated fury over the wide and far-extended prairie. No one that looked upon that awful sight could have failed to have exclaimed, "What a time it will be for the ungodly when this whole world shall be on fire!"

When the morning came, a most melancholy spectacle was presented to view over that blackened plain. One solitary living human form alone, was seen slowly moving amid the scene of desolation—and that was Mr. N——. He found Charles S—— just in the last agonies of death, from whom, however, he learned the particulars above stated. This young man soon expired; and Mr. N——, alone, of all that emigrant train, was left to tell the sad story of the burning prairie.

CHAPTER IX.

FURTHER VIEWS ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

Des Moines River—Iowa—Group of Indians—Tributary streams to the Mississippi—Galena—Bishop of Illinois—My sister's grave.

Friday Evening, July 7th.

Having passed the Des Moines river, the whole country bordering on the west bank of the Mississippi, is denominated the Wisconsin Territory, or more commonly here, the Iowa country. It is indeed a most beautiful country. It is said that a little more than four years since, there was not a single white settler west of the Mississippi and north of Des Moines river; now, there are between thirty and forty thousand. The Iowa country will, undoubtedly, soon become a state. Its new towns are springing up rapidly. I stopped at Burlington, where there are more than twelve hundred inhabitants, and where two years since there were only a few log-cabins. How important is it that the gospel should be planted here! The Methodists are beginning to send their preachers to proclaim salvation here. Every where we find them first on the ground. Truly their promptness and zeal are to be commended.—We have not a clergyman in this whole region. Cannot one be found who is willing to go to the Iowa country? Is there not one in the classes now graduating in our seminaries, that will come over to this Macedon and help them?

As the day declined, the scenery around us seemed still more pleasing. The prairies on the left bank of the Mississippi became increasingly interesting. The river stretched before us like a broad lake, indented at a hundred points by masses of luxuriant and thickly clustered trees, that seemed to float in natural and upright form upon the surface. These, with all their verdant foliage, were distinctly reflected from the mirrored bosom of the unruffled waters, so that we seemed, as we gazed upon the watery surface, to look into the very depths of the forest, and see one tree standing back of another almost interminably. While thus gliding on, by a turn of the river we came suddenly upon the corner of another large prairie, and almost the first object that met our view were two rude bark covered wigwams that had just been put up on the very margin of the stream. In front of these cabins a fire had been kindled, either to keep off the musquitoes or to cook their evening meal. At the entrance of these Indian huts lay a dog, and around him stood or sat half a dozen Indian children, some of them in a state of almost entire nudity. Still nearer the water, looking into it, and off on to the opposite shore, stood the adult members of each family. These scarcely raised their head, or deigned to cast a glance at us, as our boat with all its clattering machinery swept proudly by.—While I continued to look at them, and saw them standing amid the solitariness of the prairie, with their eyes still fixed upon the opposite bank of the river, where rested the bones of their ancestors—when I saw how dignified, and serious, and contemplative they seemed, I could not but regard them as the last representatives of a race fast fading away, and who will soon scarcely have a place or name this side of the Rocky Mountains. It seemed to me that they were standing at this twilight hour looking once more upon the shore where rested the bones of their people, before they bade a final adieu to these scenes where they used once to hunt the deer, glide over the watery surface with their bark canoes, raise the luxuriant corn, and build their wigwams. Strangers now possessed their home, and they were just bidding to the scenes of their childhood a long, long farewell! Oh, thought I, that they could have the gospel to tame their fierceness, soften their savage natures, and cheer them in their solitary wanderings through the wilderness! It occurred to me as very likely that those Indians who stood there on the bank of the Mississippi, knew nothing of the way of salvation, and very likely had never heard of the name of Jesus! We know there are thousands that range over the great hunting grounds of the west precisely in this condition. We are going to meet them at the judgment bar—shall we not make every effort to send them the gospel?

Saturday Evening, July 8th.

We found ourselves, when we awoke in the morning, at Stevenson. This is another of those places springing up as by the wand of enchantment. It is located at one of the most beautiful points in all the west. Just here Rock River enters the Mississippi, separating the town from Rock Island, on which stands Fort Armstrong. It was in reference to the section of country just around here, that the Black Hawk war took its rise, and all along above was the scene where it raged. I do not wonder that the Indians gave up this tract of country with reluctance. The eye never looked out upon a more beautiful land—the imagination in its most romantic flight never conceived any thing more lovely. On the Iowa side, especially, the country sweeps off from the shore most beautifully in the form of a rolling prairie, covered here and there with small clusters of trees, that give it the aspect and loveliness of a region that had been under the highest cultivation for the last three centuries. And yet five years ago no foot trod there but the Indian's.

The day passed pleasantly away. As the shades of evening gathered thick around us, we bade adieu to the mighty Mississippi, on whose broad current we had travelled nearly seven hundred miles. Our boat turned in behind an islet of living green, and pushed its way up the serpentine course of Fevre River. At length Galena was in view. It was at the close of the week, and here we were to seek a resting place for a number of days.

Galena, July 15th.

Fevre River, at Galena, runs through a narrow vale, and is hedged in on either side by ranges of hills. The town is built at the base and on the side of the western ridge, which is here quite precipitous. The valley itself is overflown with every rise of the Mississippi above this point. The waters of the Fevre River between Galena and its junction with the "Father of rivers" are very sluggish—so that the waters of the Mississippi flow up to Galena often three or four times a year, and flood the whole lower part of the town. Since I have been here the third rise which they have had this season occurred, occasioned as it was supposed by the melting of the snows and ice around the sources of the most northern tributaries of the Mississippi. One thing is very remarkable in relation to the whole class of western tributaries to this stream. The freshets to which they are subject, all occur at different seasons, beginning with the southernmost and ending with the most northerly. This is accounted for by the fact, that, as these streams take their rise at different points of latitude in the Rocky Mountains, spring and summer reach the source of each of them in regular progression from south to north, by a few weeks later. This is a most merciful provision: for if the freshets in two or three of these streams were to happen at the same time, the effects would be desolating. Let the Red River, the Arkansas, and the Missouri, pour their swollen streams at the time of their annual freshets, together into the Mississippi, and the whole lower regions for hundreds of miles above and around New Orleans would be one unbroken sea. What a tremendous armament of destruction has the Almighty here! Have not the inhabitants of that city which has seated herself as a queen at the mouth of this river, reason to remember that the Lord can bury them in a moment in the midst of the sea? He has only to blow with his wind, and the waters will flow, and the depths cover them! Let those who openly and remorselessly trample on every law of God consider this and tremble.

Galena is by no means a pleasant town. There are some situations on the hills which environ it that would furnish delightful sites for residences, but at present these are chiefly unoccupied. The streets of this place are narrow, and after a rain unspeakably muddy. The houses are small, poor, and crowded. There is nothing interesting or attractive about the appearance of the town, except in a business point of view. Galena is the port where almost all the lead raised from the vast mines scattered through this region is brought to be shipped, and will therefore unquestionably be a place of great importance. Its moral character, I fear, is far from what we could wish it. Like many of these western towns, till recently, there has been scarcely the semblance of a Sabbath here. Drinking, duelling, and gambling, have all been common.—And yet there are many here that wish things were different, and are making some successful efforts to cause them to be so.

The Bishop of Illinois was here, and officiated the first Sunday I spent in Galena. He bore his testimony very faithfully, in rebuking the prevailing sins of the country, especially duelling, Sabbath-breaking, and profane swearing. I believe his counsel was very kindly received. There is a great deal of intelligence among the residents in this place, and they seem willing to have the truth preached to them plainly.

To me there was one object of thrilling interest in Galena—its grave yard! Some half-mile from the town, on the head lands beyond the western range of hills that encompassed it, where one stands and looks down into the valley of Fevre River, and off upon the far-spreading prairie, in a retired place, is the spot of earth allotted to the dead, shut in and guarded from unhallowed tread by a neat enclosure. Owing to the newness of the country, and the difficulty in procuring marble, scarcely a single sculptured monument appears on this ground which has already become the resting place of many who were once engaged amid the activities of life. But affection has displayed itself in another form. Not a few of the graves are enclosed by a little fence, painted beautifully white, and the graves are adorned with wild roses which scatter their fragrance and leaves over the place where rests the mouldered dust beneath. When I first entered this sacred enclosure, and trod through the high tangled grass that grew here, I felt at each step that I was treading on holy ground. I was led to a spot where rested the mortal part of one whose image came up before me with the vividness of living reality. The long grass had grown, and become matted over her grave! Fifteen years had elapsed since I had looked upon that dear form, that rested in unbreathing stillness below. During this period I had passed through many trying scenes and often drank deep into the cup of sorrow. And now with the image of this dear departed one, all of "life's troubled dream" rose up before me with a power that paralyzed every effort I made to subdue or control my feelings. I then felt and wept like a child. Why should I not have done so? I was standing on the grave of the sister of my childhood, whose existence and mine for many years had run along together as though our being had been woven in the same web. I remembered how when I was but a very little child, she led me to the country school—how we wandered together in playful glee on the green bank of the Housatonic, and her hand gathered for me the wild flowers that grew there. I remembered how in the wild buoyancy of childhood we strolled together through the orchard, and gathered fruit from a favourite tree? With what kind looks and affectionate greeting our dear mother met us when we returned from such a ramble. And could I then fail to remember the sad hour when that dear sainted mother gasping in the agonies of death bade us all a long farewell? When a mother's kind eye no longer gazed upon me, was it not natural that my heart should turn with deeper and stronger affection to the sister of my childhood? But where was she? She no more came, bounding along with sparkling eyes, and flowing locks, and animated features at the call of her brother. There she lay sleeping, oh how silently, how profoundly in the grave! The solitude and stillness of the mighty prairie were around me. No mortal was present to witness or intermeddle with the feelings or overflowings of my heart, save him who recognised in this heaped hillock of earth the resting place of the loved one of his heart—the wife of his youth—the mother of his children. Together we bowed down there in silent grief? Our hearts were so full that we could do nothing but mingle our tears together over that sacred spot, which I would again travel all the way from the Atlantic to the Mississippi to look upon! A thought full of light and glory, however, darted across my mind as I bent over that grave. I remembered that this dear sister had closed her eyes upon this mortal scene, full of faith, full of trust in Christ, and of calm resignation to his blessed will. I recollected the words of my Saviour, and his promise to raise the dead. This recollection chased away my tears, and brought a flood of heavenly radiance down upon that grave. I said, "my sister shall rise again." "The Lord Jesus will bring her with him." This is his promise.

The last time I visited this grave, I brought away a little flower that bloomed on it. It has already faded—but that glorious body which Christ will give to that dear mouldered form will never fade, but bloom on in immortal youth, through the unending ages of eternity. Oh, how happy shall we be, when we have passed all these gloomy scenes that now surround us, and stand in the midst of that "land where the inhabitants no more say I am sick"—when we shall have done with sin, and behold the Redeemer in all his glory! May the Lord safely bring us there.

CHAPTER X.

ILLINOIS AND THE LAKES.

Lead mines—Indian treaty—Ride to Chicago—Vast prairies—The stricken family—Amusing Adventures—Chicago—Milwaukie—Mackinaw—Indian encampment.

We spent one day during the present week in passing through the mining country to visit several of the diggings in Wisconsin, and around Galena, and also the smelting furnaces, where the mineral is extracted from the ore and cast into pigs. The country through which we passed was one continued series of rolling prairies. It was perfectly enchanting to see what a perfect flower garden was before us wherever we went.

We descended a mine which had been sunk about one hundred feet. The lead runs in veins either due north and south, or west and east. Veins frequently cross each other at right angles. If it is a north and south vein, and a good one—and crosses an east and west vein, it becomes inferior from that point, and the other assumes a superior character, and usually is the best lead. The way the miners dig the lead is to pierce down perpendicularly till they get to the bottom of the sheet—then take the base out and dig upwards. The lead is usually wedged in between two ledges of rocks, filling up the crevice, which runs down from fifty to one hundred feet. It is frequently wedged in so tight that the rocks have to be blasted to loosen it. I went down about fifty feet where they were at work, and then passed along in a horizontal direction, about eighty feet, where the miners were knocking out the lead in the fissures in the rocks over their heads. We loitered around the mines till the decline of day. The shades of evening gathered over us before we had crossed the last prairie on our way to Galena. The moon was just climbing above the horizon, when a prairie wolf darted across our path, as though scared by the sound of our carriage wheels, but having run a few rods, turned around to look to see who were the intruders upon his domain.

An Indian treaty is about negotiating at St. Peters, and a steamer started from here a few days since to carry up a party who desire to be present at this gathering of the wild men, and to visit the majestic and stupendous scenery around St. Anthony's Falls. I had fully intended to have been one of the party, but on the eve of starting I felt myself forced for want of time to forego the excursion.

The Steamer James Madison,
Wednesday Evening, June 19th.

At early dawn, on Monday last, we crossed Fevre river, and started for Chicago in an open lumber wagon, 'ycleped a stage. Taking our trunks for seats, we determined we would make the best of every thing, and if possible keep up good spirits, while we learned the manner in which people travel through new countries. Our journey, though attended with no little fatigue, was like a walk over the rosied path of pleasure, compared with a jaunt of which Bishop Kemper gave me an account. He had made an appointment somewhere in the interior of Indiana, where it was necessary for him to be at a given day, and had undertaken to pass over Illinois from St. Louis to that point by land. He was overtaken by rain which continued a day or two: the streams became swollen, and the roads, often for miles, completely overflown. All this time he was obliged to ride in an open wagon, the bottom boards of which were loose, and often slipping out, rendering it necessary for him every now and then to get out, and stand in the mud and water, till the rickety wagon could be again brought into a state of temporary order. During the last part of his journey he rode all night with the rain pouring down upon him, and the horses sometimes fording deep creeks—sometimes plunging into sloughs, and then wading for miles through the water which had overflowed the road. The office of a missionary Bishop at the west, if he does his duty, and throws himself with all his heart into the work, is no sinecure.

Our course from Galena, for the first thirty miles, was through beautiful oak openings, and over a rolling prairie. After this, on nearly to Chicago, our path lay through a magnificent, level prairie country. The wide sea of grass around us was now and then broken by a grove, springing up with luxuriance and beauty amid the treeless tract of country that stretched around on every side. These groves are points of great interest, and are spoken of by the sparsely scattered inhabitants of northern Illinois, as we speak of cities and towns. The most beautiful of those which we passed were Buffalo, Inlet, and Paw Paw groves, around or near which were scenes of massacre and slaughter during the Black Hawk war.

As no one can conceive the sensation awakened by being out of sight of land at sea, till he actually stands on the deck of a vessel, that is ploughing her way through the trackless world of waters that stretch interminably around him, and strains his eye in vain to catch a view of one single fading outline of the far off shore—so no one can conceive the emotion that rises up in the bosom of the traveller as he stands on the broad prairie, and sees the horizon settling down upon one wide sea of waving grass, and can behold around him neither stone, nor stump, nor bush, nor tree, nor hill, nor house. These vast prairies, though bearing a luxuriant growth of grass, would impress one with a sense of desolateness, were they not beautified with flowers, and animated with the songs and the sight of the feathered tribes. The view of the prairie, as it stretches off before you, often appears like a perfect flower garden. Though we were too late to see these productions in their rich vernal beauty, yet often they stood strewn around us on every side as far as the eye could reach, spreading out their rich and brilliant petals of every colour and hue. An intelligent lady told me that in a single walk over the corner of a prairie, she gathered for a bouquet forty different kinds of flowers; and another informed me that she had been able to gather one hundred and twenty different kinds. Though the music wafted along over these luxuriant expanses of earth be usually not so melodious nor varied as that to which the woodlands echo, there is something very animating in the wheeling of the plover, the chirping of the robin, and the fluttering of the wings of a flock of prairie hens, started up at every half mile of your journey. And then occasionally we saw noble herds of cattle feeding over these vast plains. Such large, and fat, and noble-looking oxen and cows, I never before beheld, as I saw grazing amid the luxuriant prairies of Illinois. There is no fence to stay them in their course:—they range where they choose amid the ten thousands of acres that stretch unenclosed around them.

I have already intimated that this part of Illinois is as yet but thinly populated. It is rapidly filling up but for some years the first settlers will have to endure many hardships, and submit to many privations and sacrifices, of which we can scarcely form an idea. The following fact will serve to illustrate this remark. While on our way to Chicago, as we stopped on one occasion to change horses, I went in and sat down in the only house in the place. It was a comfortable log-cabin, and all nature looked so bright and sunny without, I was hardly prepared for demure and melancholy looks within: and yet the moment I entered, I saw in the countenance of the good lady of the cabin that her heart was ill at ease. She looked so forlorn and full of gloom, I determined to enter into conversation with her and if possible elicit the cause of her depression. After a variety of inquiries, she was drawn out to give the following sketch of herself, which I will put down as nearly as possible in her own words.

"We came into this country from western New York several years since. We have never failed to be amply remunerated for our cultivation of the soil. In a temporal point of view we have increased in goods. But our children have never been to school a day since we have been here. We used to go to meeting every Sabbath, but here often for months there is no such thing known as public worship. A while ago, there was a minister that used to come once in three weeks, and preach about four miles from this. But now he is dead, and we have no preaching at all. We have no ministers and no physicians. What made me more contented to reside here, was that my oldest daughter was married and lived my nearest neighbour, about two miles from this. She had three lovely and promising children, in whom all our hearts were bound up. But the grave now covers them! They were all cut down one after another about six months ago by the scarlet fever. We could'nt get any physician to see them, and they all died within ten days of each other. And then we had to carry them ourselves to the grave. We put them into the ground in silence. There was no one to lift up the voice of prayer."

Here the good woman seemed choked in her utterance. She wiped her eyes and ceased speaking for a moment. I remained silent, and soon she proceeded.

"My daughter laid her loss very much to heart. She never after the death of her babes wore a bright countenance. About ten days ago she was confined. Herself and her infant are dead! We buried them about three days since. She had no physician to attend upon her, for there was none within thirty miles. She had no minister to speak to her words of heavenly consolation, for there are none near here. Her husband has a good farm, and the crops look well; but what is all this to him, now that his wife and children are all gone? He appears desolate and broken-hearted."

Having listened to this touching story, I could well understand why the aspect of gloom sat upon her countenance, and while I endeavoured in a few words to direct her thoughts to Him who was "appointed to bind up the broken-hearted, and to comfort all that mourn," I was led to think of the unnumbered blessings and privileges that we who live on the Atlantic border enjoy, for which we feel little or no emotions of gratitude. How unspeakable are our religious privileges! And yet how little are they appreciated by the great mass of the people! Will not God one day visit for these things?

In our journey we had some singular and rather amusing adventures. We found all along at our log inns, for our refreshment, substantial food, bacon and beans, or fried pork and potatoes, and if we were too dyspeptic to eat these, we could fast, which is sometimes useful. But at night we frequently found ourselves placed under more embarrassing circumstances. A single instance will serve to illustrate a number of analogous cases. I select the second night after leaving Galena. It is after nine o'clock. The strip of moon that is visible emits a few feeble rays. The stars, half obscured, glow faintly in the heavens. Our course is still onward through the boundless prairie. In the distance may be seen the faint outline of a grove. We hope to find there a resting place for the night. As we approach it, we find it is a cluster of trees that grow on either side of Somonauk Creek. Our driver has already plunged his horses into the cool waters of the creek. The farther bank is gained. Our course now is beneath the noble elms that hang drooping over the creek, and spread abroad their branches forming a thick and dark shade over the road. We see in the distance the smoke eddying up amid the trees. It is the place where we are to spend the night—a log cabin, before the door of which is kindled a fire, half smothered with dirt and chips, whose eddying currents of smoke as they are swept into the house by the evening breeze expel the swarms of musquitoes that for several hours had been making acquaintance with us.

When the weary traveller reaches his resting-place for the night, it is a great comfort to have a bed and room by himself to which he can retire and seek repose. But this is a luxury not to be expected usually by the western traveller. They have here what is playfully called "The Potter's field," a place in these log taverns in which they put strangers—a room designed as a dormitory, in which all travellers, men, women and children are placed to lodge! The house which we had reached at Somonauk Creek had a place of this sort. It was the only room in the house save the kitchen. Two stage loads had already arrived, and other travellers were coming in. I told my friend B—— that we must try to secure a bed while we could. In this Potter's field they gave us a comfortable corner with a straw bed on which to stretch ourselves. We were among the earliest to seek our repose. Fortunately, there was one bed enshrouded with curtains, which was assigned to a gentleman from Vermont and his newly married bride, whom he was bringing to reside at the west.—They went on stowing the beds with occupants, and spreading the floor with couches, till fourteen persons were disposed of, and then they found that every foot of ground was occupied. The landlord appeared to be full of the milk of human kindness. When some of our fellow lodgers cried out, that they were half devoured by musquitoes, he very benignantly replied, "I will open the door and let in a current of smoke, and that will drive them out." We found some inhabitants tabernacling in our bedstead that annoyed us more than the musquitoes. Yet after all we got some rest, and when we rose to breathe the fresh air we felt that we had abundant cause to thank the Lord for his goodness. However indifferent had been our lodgings, we remembered that the Saviour while here on the earth, had not always so comfortable a spot at night to lay his head as this.

About a dozen miles before we reached Chicago, we seemed to descend to another steppe of land, where the prairie was for the most part from two to twelve inches under water. The grass, thus having its roots continually irrigated, looked very rank; we made but very slow progress through it on our way. Though that part of Chicago which is built up, stands on more elevated ground, the anticipated limits of the city extend into this wet prairie. We saw the lots staked out as we passed, which I suppose have been sold at a very high price. I could not but think of the remark of a fellow traveller, who, in speaking of this and several other places, said, "If each of these places do not become as large as Pekin in China, these city lots cannot all be built upon."

Chicago is truly an interesting place. It has sprung up here in three or four years—a city—as by the wand of enchantment. I had heard much of this place, but must confess I was not prepared to find so large and interesting a town. Its situation on either side of the Chicago river is too well-known to need description. It has quite the air of an eastern town. There is a fine brick Episcopal Church just completed. Our stay was very brief in Chicago. Almost the first sound we heard after our arrival, was the ringing of the bell of the large and beautiful steamboat, James Madison, which was on the eve of departure for Detroit and Buffalo. As we might have no other opportunity of going by the lakes for the next ten days, with the specimen of land travelling that we had just had, we were not long in making up our minds whether we would avail ourselves of this boat, or direct our course to Detroit through the Michigan woods. We gave Chicago a very hasty survey, took our passage on board the James Madison, and as the shades of evening gathered over us we found ourselves skimming over the waves of Michigan lake.

Mackinaw, July 20th.

We this morning found ourselves bounding over the green waters of the Michigan with the Wisconsin Territory on our left. About nine o'clock, A. M. we landed at Milwaukie. A bar in the river prevented the steamboat from going up to the town, but we found ourselves amply compensated for our long walk by a view of this interesting place from several of its streets and more elevated parts. The whole site of the town, in connexion with the adjacent country, is richly entitled to its Indian name,—"The Lovely Land." Less than two years since there was scarcely a frame house on the spot, and now there is a population of nearly three thousand, with buildings that will compare in stability and elegance with those found in our large eastern towns.

It was towards evening when we approached this picturesque spot—Mackinaw—where the wide expanse of water, and the dark evergreens of the islands, and the thronging multitudes of wild men, gave to this point in my journey a novel appearance. I think this would be a most delightful retreat for an invalid who wanted retirement, a cool, invigorating atmosphere, and inducements to active exercise. It would be impossible for a man to be here long without having new trains of thought awakened in his mind, or without being led to contemplate the human character under several new aspects. Mackinaw is an island of about nine miles in circumference. There is a fort occupying the elevated parts of the town, which is now vacated, the troops having been withdrawn to be present at the treaty at St. Peter's. This circumstance, in connexion with the great number of Indians now present, has created some uneasiness in the minds of the inhabitants of this place, especially as the Indians are very much dissatisfied with the attempt to palm off on to them goods in part for their annuities, when money had been promised. Already has a council been held among them, and the hint has been dropped that they can bring a thousand warriors into the field. The first object that met my eye on the low pebbly shore, as we approached the island, was the beautiful lodges, and well made bark canoes of the Ottawa and Chippewa tribes. The whole appearance of their encampment in this wild spot is picturesque and imposing. Each family had their bark canoe, which was now drawn up on the beach, and lay beside their lodge or tent. In this canoe, made of the outer rind of the birchen tree, they carry their family, and furniture, and all their worldly effects—children, dogs, fishing-tackle, guns, their tent, cooking utensils, and themselves. Their tent, or lodge, consists first of five or six tapering rods, which are set up so as to form a cone, and then around these are placed a coil of matting, made of reeds or flaggs, and arranged in such a manner as to form a series of concentric or circular covering, each lapping upon the other like the scales upon a fish. In the centre of the lodge a fire was kindled, a hole having been left in the upper part through which the smoke could pass off. Around the fire were spread the blankets and bear-skins, which furnished both beds and seats. We entered several tents and were kindly received. Almost the first countenance of a white man upon which I looked after reaching the shore, was the bright sunny face of our beloved brother, the Bishop of Michigan. I never had a more unexpected or joyful meeting with a Christian brother. We spent two or three hours in the most delightful Christian intercourse. Bishop McCoskry was on his way to visit Green Bay, Milwaukie, and other parts of Wisconsin. It was only a few hours, before our steamers were again moving forward through the deep green waters, to their several places of destination.

CHAPTER XI.

MICHIGAN.

Steamboat travelling upon the western Lakes—The waters of Huron—Saginaw Bay—The stormy night—The beautiful St. Clair—Detroit—Bishop of Michigan—Ypsilanti—Ann Arbour—Ore Creek—Bewildered at night in the woods—Rescue—Meeting of friends—Log cabin.

Detroit, July 23d.

We parted with the friend we met at Mackinaw in the night. The two steamers rode off in two opposite directions. Our course, which from Chicago had been to the north, now became southward. There is something exceedingly novel in steamboat travelling upon the great western rivers. But the navigation of the lakes by steam presents scenes to the eye, and furnishes material for the imagination, far more grand, and striking, and magnificent. These lakes are indeed great inland seas. The wind and the storm have mighty power over them. But the well-directed steamer rides proudly over their agitated surface with all her precious cargo of life, and holds steadily on her way to the destined port in despite of wind and waves. This, however, is not always the case. The wind at times blows so fierce and furious that the vessel is driven back some fifty or ninety miles in her course. When a storm occurs with great and unwonted violence upon these lakes, especially upon Huron and Michigan, where there are very few safe harbours, the expedient adopted is to keep the boat at sea, and let her drive before the gale. We saw, but in one single instance, these waters putting on a wrathful appearance. During the greater part of our voyage, they lay beneath our steamer that swept over them in smooth and placid tranquillity. There is something in the very appearance of the waters of these lakes to wake up poetic conception. They have a sandy or pebbly bottom, which appears white as chalk, while every rippling wave as well as the whole mass of waters that roll beneath you, though so pure and transparent that a silver dollar might be distinctly seen at the depth of thirty feet, everywhere assumes the colour of deep emerald green.

The day after we left Mackinaw, while passing Saginaw Bay, every vestige of land faded from our sight, and we saw nothing around us but one wide world of waters. As the close of the day drew on, the hitherto bright sunny heavens became covered with dark menacing clouds. A wind sprang up, and the waters of Huron, that had previously slept with the tranquillity and hushed slumbers of an infant, suddenly woke to the fierceness and fury of an enraged giant. I plainly saw what an aspect that lake could put on in a storm!

The sun went down. Neither moon nor stars were visible. The curtains of darkness were drawn closely around that whole world of waters that roared and dashed so fiercely. As I stood upon the upper deck, and looked out upon that scene of darkness and wild commotion, and heard the roar of the wind, and the dashing of the waves, and the hoarse rumbling breath of steam from the escapement pipe, like the suppressed growl of a lion, that told of mighty power to urge onward and to destroy, I felt, in a way I have seldom done before, my entire dependence on God. As I stood there on the deck, with the wind sweeping by me, the waves of the troubled lake rolling beneath me, and the blackness of darkness around me, interrupted and illumined only by the cloud of ignited sparks that streamed incessantly forth from the dark funnels of the steamer, I felt the force and meaning of the 93d Psalm, "The Lord reigneth, he is clothed with majesty. He is clothed with strength wherewith he hath girded himself. The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice: the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea. Thy testimonies are very sure." There I saw my safety. The testimonies of my covenant God were very sure, who had said, "when thou passest through the waters I will be with thee." I slept soundly that night. In the morning the sun shone brightly on us, and all appearance of a storm had gone by. In a few hours we were gliding over the surface of the beautiful St. Clair, and before evening, Detroit, with its neatly built streets, and its noble stream sweeping proudly by it, lay before us. It was with a grateful heart that I stepped on the shore, remembering the many mercies I had enjoyed, and anticipating much pleasure in the eight or ten days that I had purposed to spend in Michigan. I was not disappointed.