CHAPTER XII.

"I see, or think I seeA glimmering from afar,A beam of day that shines for me,To save me from despair."

We now rode on with speed, and were soon by the side of a log cottage. It was the very place which we had been seeking. All anxiety was now at an end, and the glad welcome so cordially tendered, and the well-known face glowing with looks of kind recognition, made all the care and toils of the evening appear as naught. Here was a family around me, consisting in all of some ten or twelve in number, apparently contented and happy in a log cabin. They had a single room below and a sort of garret above it. The last time that I saw them was in an elegant three story house, in East Broadway, in New York. I know not that they appeared more happy then than they did this evening. They expected soon to have a better and more commodious domicil, which they were erecting but even with their present dwelling place they were contented. Truly happiness is in the mind, and they whose hopes are on God, and who feel that they are in the path of duty can be happy in spite of all external circumstances.

The sun was shining brightly the next morning as we retraced our way, and joined our friends at the log tavern. Our course was then towards Pontiac, which we reached just at the close of the day. We passed through a beautiful country rendered truly picturesque and romantic by the chain of little lakes that stretch through this section of the state. The banks of these lakes are high and shaded, affording the most delightful spots for residence. The waters are pure and limpid, and filled with the finest fish. We must have passed during our journey at least twenty of these lakes. Pontiac is as beautiful a village for size as I saw in Michigan.

Friday, July 28th.

On our way to Detroit we stopped to-day at Troy, to visit our old friend, the Rev. Mr. H——, who is leading a little flock onward in their heavenly journey.

The Romanists—Miracles—Indians—Captain M—— The unhappy sailor—Toledo—Cleveland—Buffalo—Niagara Falls.

Detroit, Monday, July 31.

The Roman Church has been supposed to be very strong here, but from inquiries that I every where made, I am still more confirmed in the belief that the papists at the west are making very little impression upon the Protestant population. While they are attempting much, and with sinuous effort endeavoring to identify themselves with every interest, they in fact as yet, with all their marvellous reports to the Leopold Society, have done but very little. That system cannot bear the light. It flourishes best under arbitrary governments, and amid the thick darkness of ignorance. The experiment is now making in this country, whether it can live and flourish in Protestant and republican America without losing its essential and most obnoxious features. The remark was made to me by a highly intelligent man in Detroit, "that the absurdities that were swallowed ten years ago by the Catholics there would be hooted at now." In illustration of this remark, he went on to say, that about eleven years since he was present at the cathedral where the former bishop was preaching, andendeavoring to prove the doctrine of transubstantiation. Among other evidences to which he referred was the following: "A few years previous," said this mitred prelate, "in a certain city in Europe, a profane person procured one of the consecrated wafers, and with carnal curiosity, after leaving the church, broke it in two, when instantly a stream of blood issued forth, which ran down his clothes, and stained his apparel. He went home in great affright, but the stream of blood still flowed, and ceased not till in haste he returned to the priest, and confessed his sin; then the crimson stream was dried up, and its stain from his person removed." "This," said the bishop, "happened in such a city, and there is such an individual now present who lived in that city at the time, to whom you can refer for corroboration."

"It would be the utter ruin of their prospects," said my informant, "for a bishop or a Roman Catholic priest to make such an assertion at the present time. There is too much light now, even among the papists, to listen to such a ridiculous story for a moment."

There is one point of view in which it is infinitely important that Detroit, and many other towns situated similar with it, should have pervading it a high sense of religious feeling. I speak with reference to the influence which the tone of its morals must, and does exert upon the many hundreds of Indians that annually visit it. These red men of the woods are forming their opinions of Christianity from what they see at Detroit, and St. Louis, and many of our western towns. They see among the white population every thing to lead them to turn away with disgust from a religion, professed to be drawn fromthe Bible. Their depraved natures readily lead them to lay hold of the vices that abound among us, and they go back to their tribes, carrying the impression that these are among the fruits of Christianity. It is painful to see how degraded many of them become in their intercourse with what is called civilized society. Intemperance is the vice which they most readily fall into. Under its baneful influence they seem to lose all the natural and noble traits of their character. I saw in Detroit a stout built Indian playing themerry Andrewthrough the streets, hawking about a lump of ice, as though it were a loaf of sugar, and calling for the highest bidder. As he staggered by I could not but think how different he appeared from the native son of the forest; that manly and noble bearing, that graceful and elastic step, that grave, serious, and dignified look which sat so well upon the native Indian's brow, and marked him as one of nature's true noblemen, was gone and he had become a poor, degraded, drunken outcast and was trying to pick up a few pennies by making himself a laughing stock to a crowd of idle boys! What formidable barriers do the vices that still remain incorporated with Christian communities present, to hinder the progress and extension of the Redeemer's kingdom!

While at Detroit I met with two incidents, which I noted down at the time, and which it may not be improper to record here. The one was an interview with Captain M——, the popular author of several recent novels who is now making the tour of the lakes. The gentleman whose kind hospitalities I was sharing, had met with him on his way from Buffalo, and had also after his arrival at Detroit, called to pay him his respects. It was certainlycivil in the captain to have returned the call, but it was shocking to the feelings of Christian sensibility, that the time selected for this reciprocation of civility, was during the sacred hours of the Sabbath. Capt. M—— could not attend the place of public worship, for the day was to be employed in returning his calls. He appeared to be addressing himself to this in a business-like way. With a friend as his guide, and a carriage to convey him, he was proceeding from street to street, carrying with him his long list of names, and a bundle of visiting cards. All this was done, of course, to show that he appreciated the attentions and civilities he had received. When will men show as much respect to God and his institutions, as they do to the worms of the dust around them?

The other incident was of a still more painful character. On the same Sunday, just at the close of the day, there passed my window, a face that called up the recollection of one whom I supposed had long since been numbered with the dead. My first acquaintance with him was at the commencement of my ministry. His father's residence occupied one of the loveliest spots I had ever beheld on the bank of Lake Ontario. The house and garden, and court yards, all indicated ease and opulence. This young man was then a youth, the only son of his father, and cherishing large expectations in relation to future wealth. He had been reared up under the eye of a fond mother, who "would not let the winds of heaven blow too roughly" upon him. His disposition was naturally amiable and vivacious, and there were many to admire and caress him. But suddenly his prospects were darkened. It was discovered that his father's estate wascovered with mortgages, and his affairs embarrassed beyond redemption. One piece of property went after another, till the beautiful family residence was alienated, and bankruptcy and poverty seemed now staring them in the face. Mr. —— had reserved a single farm unencumbered, which he now promised to give his son. The young man, with a truly noble spirit, determined to accommodate himself to the circumstances around him, and entered with hearty zeal upon the cultivation of his farm with his own hands. He had just become acquainted with some of the more common agricultural operations and began to look forward to humble independence, when the astounding fact was disclosed, that this farm too was under a heavy mortgage. In the straitened circumstances in which Mr. —— found himself, he had been led to forget his promise to his son, and to alienate his last acre of land. The young man's spirit seemed broken. He had unhappily contracted the habit of moderate drinking. On his father's sideboard, while he was yet a boy, there always stood a decanter of brandy, and every visitor who made a morning, afternoon, or evening call, was urged to drink. The father and son, to encourage their guests always drank with them. Thus this young man contracted a love for ardent spirits. It was now the season of darkness and depression with him. The mother who had watched over his childhood, had gone down to the grave. The riches in which they once rolled, had taken to themselves wings and flown away. The fond hopes he had cherished of rising by his own industry, had been crushed. Poverty was staring them in the face. This young man was without employment. Several years passed by, andthe prospects of this family did not brighten in a single particular. At length the father went abroad. His family were left behind to shift for themselves. He never returned. The son became more and more dissipated, till in a fit of desperation he went to New York, and embarked on board of a ship as a common sailor. Many a father and mother who knew this promising young man, and witnessed his career up to this point, when they looked around upon their own infant band, sighed and shook their heads, painfully feeling that they could not tell what their children would come to. Young ---- went to the East Indies, and, it was said, was lost during the voyage. I had never heard of him since. But as I sat by the window at this time, the countenance and form of one that passed by, so strongly reminded me of him, that I sent out a young lad to overtake him, and invite him to come in. There soon entered one in complete sailor's dress, with loose pantaloons, round-about coat, and tarpaulin hat, swaggering along, evidently under the influence of intoxicating drink. He looked at me for a moment, and then uttered my name! What was my astonishment and amazement! Was this the gifted and talented young ——, whom I had first met in the dwelling of courtly splendor—from whose father's hands I had received so many expressions of kindness and acts of hospitality—over whose pleasure-grounds, amid delightful shade and shrubbery, I had so often roamed? Was this that noble, gifted boy, in relation to whom such high hopes were formed, and who had naturally such generous and kind feelings? I had thought the waves of the deep had long since rolled over him! But no, there he stood, a perfect wreck ofwhat he once was. His eye was glassy, and his breath fetid and offensive beyond endurance. He seemed to be conscious of the degradation he had brought upon himself, and by an evident struggle and effort of will, did succeed in throwing off the symptoms of present inebriety. I found that he had visited every part of the world, and had suffered every thing but death. He had been imprisoned in Chili, and cast away on the shores of western Africa. I spoke to him about his soul. He seemed much affected, and shed tears. After a few moment's pause, he said, "I have been a very wicked fellow, but I have never lost the early impressions I had in relation to my responsibility to God. The little Testament my sister gave me, I have kept when stript of every thing else. I have read it when the other sailors around me were asleep. I knew they did'nt understand my feelings, and they would only laugh at me. I have often prayed, but then I would soon become as wicked as ever. I have thought of you, sir, often, and of the sermons I used to hear. When I sat naked on the burning sand in Africa, I thought of many serious things, which I had heard from your lips, and I tried to pray. Yes, that was an awful time! We were cast away—our vessel was lost—three or four of us got ashore and were saved. But we were immediately stript of every rag of covering, and for three months I wandered over the sands of Africa, naked as when I came into the world, and living as I could snatch a little fruit here and there. I at length found my way to Liberia, and was sent to America by the Governor of that colony."

He then told me that for several years past, he had been on the lakes. I asked him if he was happy. He said"No, never, except in a storm, when every thing around me seems going to destruction. Then I become excited and feel a sort of mad happiness." I entreated him to bethink himself of his ways, and turn unto the Lord. He said he did not think it would do any good; that he was too far gone, and that if he prayed ever so much, or made ever so many resolutions, in a few days he was as bad as ever. I endeavored to point out where the difficulty lay. He went to church with me that evening, and seemed solemn and affected. Poor fellow, I know not what will be his end! I fear there are many youths of our land going on just in this same path.

Cleveland, August 2d.

Yesterday I took leave of Detroit on board the steamboat "United States" for this place, which we reached this morning. On our way here, we visited Toledo, in Ohio, which stands on the Maumee River, about ten miles from its mouth. This is a place of some notoriety, but although we stopped there several hours, I found very little to interest me. There were not a few indications that it was a place where iniquity abounded. Though a place of considerable size, the institutions of the gospel have found very little foothold as yet. I was told, though I cannot vouch for the correctness of the account, that some time ago, when an effort was about being made to establish some religious society here, a public meeting was called, and they voted that they would have no such thing in their town. I hope they have come to a better mind before this.

Just before we entered the Maumee River, we passeda light house that had been erected on a bare and barren bank of sand, of about an acre in extent, which had risen up in the midst of the surrounding waters. On this barren spot there is a solitary dwelling, the residence, I presume, of the keeper of the light-house. There is something very striking in this lonely residence, pitched in the midst of a wild waste of waters, and forcibly reminded me of the state of the Christian in this life, whose habitation is often in some desolate place, some lonely spot amid a surrounding moral desert, but always where he can answer some useful end, can tend upon some light-house to direct the path of tempest-tost mariners towards the haven of rest.

We also touched in our way to Cleveland at Sandusky City and Huron. It was my original intention to stop at one of these places, and make an excursion through the northern part of Ohio, taking Gambier in my circuit. I felt an increased desire to visit that place, after learning as I did in Michigan, the important influence the institution there is silently exerting upon the west, but I found it necessary to deny myself this pleasure for the want of time. From what I heard of Kenyon College, I should think that the standard of attainment there was very high, and that they had wisely guarded against the custom too common in the west of hurrying the student through a rapid and superficial course of studies, and conferring upon him a degree at a time when he ought to be regarded as asophomore. The course of studies at this institution is very thorough, and the faculty able and talented. Kenyon College cannot fail to prove a most powerful auxiliary to the cause of learning and religion in the west, and its influence for the interests of the Episcopal Church will bemore extended than any of us of the present generation can compute.

With Cleveland I have been decidedly pleased. It is principally built on a high table of land, that looks boldly off upon the far-stretching and majestic waters of Erie. It has a population of about eight thousand; its houses are generally handsome and well built. It is separated from Ohio City by the Cuyahoga river, a stream into which the steamboats run up, which stop at Cleveland. Ohio City is a pleasant town, having between two and three thousand inhabitants. They are here erecting a fine stone edifice for an Episcopal Church. This place appears to bear the same relation to Cleveland that Brooklyn does to New York. Unhappily there is no small jealousy between the two places, which it is hoped the experience of a few years will cure. Some of the streets in the eastern part of Cleveland, looking off upon the lake, are beautiful beyond the power of description.

Niagara Falls, August 3d.

In passing from Cleveland to Buffalo over Erie's green waters, we touched at several interesting points, but I omit any description of them or of Buffalo, which has grown up into a large and beautiful city. I have spent the day most delightfully here, silently musing on these vast waters that leap with giant stride over this mighty precipice of rock. I had thought that these falls, when I first gazed upon them from Table Rock, some four years since, possessed all the conceivable elements of sublimity, but I never understood their full grandeur and majesty till I looked at them to-day, and remembered that the water of all those lakes upon which I had travelled more than a thousand miles, waspouring in one gathered column over that precipice! Then, immediately, I felt that the tremendous roar, that rose deafening around me, was the voice of God! I saw that it was His hand that had gathered those waters, and poured them with such resistless force over that vast precipice, and the thought then flashed upon my mind, "How will he speak to impenitent sinners when he riseth up to judgment? How will they escape from his mighty hand when he poureth out his fury like fire?"

Just then a rainbow met my eye that lay beautifully pencilled on the foaming flood below. I remembered it was the bow of promise; and new emotions of gratitude were waked up in my heart, when, at the very moment I was surrounded with such demonstrations of almighty power, and such vivid proof that God could with the breath of his mouth hurl the guilty down to bottomless perdition, I was reminded by the bow that lay on the bosom of the foaming gulf, that through the mercy of God in Christ there was a way for poor sinners to escape! Oh that they might be prevailed upon to lay hold of the hope set before them, and not rush madly on to the precipice of eternal death!

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

Geneva, Aug. 9th.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last in that group which sat and conversed so delightfully together on the evening to which I have adverted, was one who bore to me a dearer and more sacred relation than any or all of these. Can I ever forget the kindliness of that eye that beamed with such sweet affection on me? Can I ever forget the soft velvet pressure of that hand, which when I was sick was laid so gently on my burning,feverish brow? Can I ever forget that cradle hymn, that calmed my infant fears, and hushed all my troubles to repose? Can I ever forget the tones of that sweet voice that first breathed into my infant ear the name of Jesus? Can I ever forget the appearance of that dear form, the heavenliness of that look, or even the seat in which she sat, when I was first taught to kneel down by her side, and say "Our Father who art in heaven?" No! Every other image may fade from my memory, but my mother's will be there for ever!

On that evening to which I have referred, no one appeared more cheerful or happy, and no circumstance added more enjoyment to that hour than the presence and conversation of my dear and beloved mother. But a few years only had elapsed, and the charm of our home was gone! Well do I recollect that night when I was called from my bed, and saw the last breath trembling on her quivering lips. Well do I recollect how that brother of whom I have just spoken, as we stood silent around that bed from which a departing saint was about to go up to glory, took her dying hand, and as the last pang was ended, said in the deep solemn stillness that pervaded the weeping group, "The bitterness of death is passed, andshe is at rest!" Her grave is in the burying ground. Of all that company that sat and talked and looked out on that moonlight scene I only am left. Oh what reason have I to praise the Lord! What reason to die daily!

The commencement of Geneva College had occurred a few days previous to my arrival. This institution had been struggling for many years with a series of difficulties, most of which are now happily overcome. The corporation have recently received an endowment that will enablethem to compete with any kindred institutions in the country. They have an able and well-organized faculty, at the head of which is President Hale, a man not only of varied and large acquirements, but of most bland manners and devoted piety. There is an influence now gathered around this institution that must very soon elevate it to a high rank among the institutions of our country. It gives fair promise at present of being what one of its originators toiled and prayed and spent many anxious days and nights to make it. Though he has gone to his rest and though he saw gathering over it during his life nothing but clouds and darkness, he will reap the fruits of his labours in eternity.

I spent a Sunday here that strikingly reminded me of former days. The congregation were already gathered. I went in, and sat in the same pew I used to occupy long before I assumed the responsibilities of the sacred office. The place itself was unaltered, but the worshippers—what a change had come over them! Here and there was a well-known countenance, but how many pews were occupied with those who were strangers to me! And then, where was that venerable father—that promising young jurist—that physician rising rapidly to eminence—that blooming, beautiful young bride, that drew all eyes towards her? Where was that mother in Israel—that much respected and hoary headed man, whose voice used to give such deep emphasis to the responses? Where were a hundred others, whose images came up fast before me? Ah! the grave, the grave had swallowed them up! And where too was the pastor whose voice used to echo through this temple? He too was gone! That voice which had so often called upon sinners to turnand flee to calvary, and urged the heaven-bound pilgrim onward towards the goal, was now hushed in death! On a tablet near the pulpit I saw his name inscribed, but I believe it was written in deeper and more durable characters upon the hearts of some who worshipped with me that morning.

The day was bright and sunny. There seemed that morning to rest on the mind of the assembled worshippers a sweet, holy calm, the emblem of that "rest which remaineth for the people of God." The deep, solemn tones of the service, came that morning with unwonted power on my ear. Every sentence of the liturgy, fraught as it is with the richest vein of evangelical piety, seemed particularly on that occasion to give wings to my devotion, and to bear my soul upward to the very courts of the most high God. It was a sacramental season. The sermon was appropriate, faithful, solemn, and affecting. The communion service began. The bread was broken and the wine poured out. As I went forward to kneel at that altar, I could not but call to remembrance my feelings eighteen years before, when I first bowed there to vow a vow unto God, and receive a token of the Saviour's dying love. The thoughts and feelings of that hour I will not presume to obtrude upon you. There was a rush of sensibilities and recollections that quite overcame me for the moment.

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.

The sketches contained in the three following chapters were written in 1838.

Fairfield, N. Y., Sep. 21, 1838.

After having passed a day or two in the country, or gone along some two or three hundred miles by stages, steamboats, and railroad cars, in looking back upon the scenes through which you have passed, the company you have met, and the different individuals with which you have been brought in contact, one feels almost astonished to reflect how many touching incidents of human woe have been brought to his notice during this short period. Sorrow and sadness seem to lie every where on the surface of society. You cannot enter a steamboat, or walk through the streets of a large town, or mingle at all in the circles of the living, without meeting with something to remind you, and that most painfully, "that man is born to trouble." Does not this show that ours is a world full of disorder and sin? Does it not show that some great moral convulsion hasoccurred here, which has upturned the very foundations upon which human nature was originally built? Surely a God of order and of benevolence would never have created such a world as ours now is! Surely this world is not now what it was when upon its original creation, "the morning stars sang together, and the sons of God shouted aloud for joy!" I do not see how any one can prosecute an investigation upon the subject of moral philosophy, and not come to the conclusion that the Bible is the only book in the world that gives any satisfactory account of the origin and history of man.

It was a bleak and dreary morning upon which we left Philadelphia. The wind blew fiercely, and the waters of the Delaware seemed stirred the very bottom as we entered the steamboat. Notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, and the roughness of the weather, a great crowd was rushing on board. Among the number was the Bishop of Illinois. The last time I had seen him to have any continued conversation with him, was more than a year since, near the banks of the Mississippi, in the extreme northwest corner of his extensive diocese. I was sorry to find on the present occasion, that the bishop seemed a good deal depressed in reference to the prospects of the Church in his diocese, though still looking to the Lord and trusting in his wise government. I could in some measure enter into his feelings, as I had travelled over the vast field of destitution in the midst of which he is placed. Being entrusted with the interests of the Church in the vast and powerful state of Illinois, without funds, without a salary adequate to his own support, with only here and there a single labourer to co-operate with him, how can he carry out the designs of his office? Though a thousand fairfields lie blooming before him, all promising a rich and luxuriant harvest, how, with his present means, can he take possession of them? He wants a vast increase of missionary men, and pecuniary means to sustain them. The discouragements around him are innumerable. What can be done for the West? What can be done for Illinois? I believe if three or four of our eastern clergy, who have acquired character and standing in the Church, were to go into each of the western dioceses, and there co-operate together, determined to stand by the Church, to sink or swim with it, determined never to leave the ground till the whole western wild should blossom as the rose, this would do more for the cause of religion than any other measures that could be adopted. Are there not in the length and breadth of our Church a dozen men of this character, who will make this sacrifice for Christ and for undying souls? If we had the spirit, and the faith, and the self-sacrifice of Paul, is it not probable that we should see, if not in divine visions, yet in many of our waking hours, and perhaps in the dreams of the night, imploring thousands standing on the banks of the Wabash, the Illinois, and the Mississippi, stretching forth their hands and saying, "Come over and help us!"

Our sail up the Delaware was characterized with nothing new or unusual. The cars took us on at their usual rate. And in due time we were safely landed at the battery in New York. At five o'clock, P. M., we found ourselves again embarked on board one of the North river steamers. As we pushed out from the wharf and gazed over the beautiful bay that stretched around us, studded with islands and whitened with a hundred sails, the thought most forcibly pressed itself upon my mind, that Americans need not beashamed to speak of New York bay, even in connection with the bay of Naples, though the latter in the bold shores of Capri, the towering summit of Vesuvius, and the vast, extended, circling sweep of its waters has, doubtless, features ofsublimity, which the former cannot claim.—As we passed thepalisades, and began to approach the mountain scenery of the highlands, I was more than ever impressed with an idea which I embraced while in Europe, that, take it all in all, there is no river scenery in the world comparable with that of our own Hudson.

While I stood upon the deck of our steamboat, gazing upon the precipitous and rugged sides of thepalisadesthat rise like a wall of masonry above the noble Hudson, a gentleman approached me and said, "I ought to know you; I think we were class-mates in college. My name is W——."

When I first looked at the speaker, the remembrance of him as an old college acquaintance, was like the faded and indistinct recollections of a forgotten dream. But as one and another particular was mentioned, the picture of the past gathered fresh brightness, and stood before my mind's eye with all the vividness of an occurrence of yesterday. More than fifteen years had elapsed since we bid adieu to ourAlma materand to each other. Our class at the time we graduated, consisted of about eighty; my acquaintance with W. during our college course was slight, and as his residence was in one of the remote southern states, I had never met with him before since the day of our graduation. We, however, immediately upon this unexpected meeting, felt our hearts strongly drawn towards each other, by the power of old associations. We sat down andtalked over college scenes, till the shades of evening gathered around us. I was astonished to find how many of our class were already numbered with the dead: and how many among the most gifted and talented of our old associates had fallen victims to intemperance. During the fifteen years since we last met, we ourselves had passed through a variety of scenes, and had each tasted of the cup of sorrow. I became deeply interested in my friend's history, and though the dark summits and lofty mountain peaks of the highlands were around and above us, and at this time rendered still more wild and romantic by the partial darkness in which they were enwrapped, I had no eye nor ear for any thing but the touching tale to which I listened. The outlines of the story were as follows:—

While young W. was still in college, he had formed an acquaintance with Mr. Y——, who then resided in a neighbouring city, and filled one of the highest offices in the state. Mr. Y's. family, for several generations back, had been regarded among the most respectable in the land. Young W. was often invited to share the hospitalities of his house, and soon became a frequent visiter there. There were in this family three young ladies, daughters of Mr. Y., all of them accomplished and interesting. Jane, the youngest, was particularly beautiful and attractive. To her W. felt his heart drawn with resistless power. Himself belonging to a distinguished and wealthy family in Georgia, he did not hesitate to aspire to the hand of the lovely Jane Y. His suit was successful. After having passed through a course of law studies, the happy hour arrived in which he was permitted to stand up and claim Jane as his wedded bride. The evening of the celebrationof their nuptials, witnessed a scene of most brilliant festivity in the old family mansion of Mr. Y. All the gaiety, and splendour, and luxury which are found in the brightest paths and most resplendent saloons of fashion, were that night there. When the next morning dawned, and the family gathered around the table for breakfast, there was an occasional cloud of gloom that every now and then came over the mother's countenance: for that day she was to part with her daughter! Jane was now the wife of a planter in Georgia, and upon that distant plantation was to be her future home. Her young and joyous heart, though for a moment depressed, as she gave the parting kiss to each of the family, soon recovered its wonted buoyancy. Her presence flung an immediate sunshine around the habitation to which she was conducted, and her happy husband thought again and again that he had never before known half her worth. Years passed on, and Jane had now become the mother of two beautiful children. This couple were as happy as this world could make them. They had health and wealth, ease, family distinction, and promising children, and yet they lacked one thing absolutely essential to their happiness. They were strangers to the transforming power of divine grace. Living remote from any place of divine worship, they seldom visited the house of God, and were becoming each year more indifferent to divine things.

At length the following incident awakened Mrs. W—— to a consideration of the things of eternity. There was a female slave on the plantation advanced in years, who was very ill. Mrs. W—— had an amiable and tender heart, and never failed to do all in her power to render the situationof their slaves comfortable. She visited them in sickness and did every thing to minister to their wants and to alleviate their sufferings. Hearing of the illness of old Peggy she hastened to the cabin to see what she could do to relieve her. As she stood on the threshold of the door, just ready to enter, she heard the voice of this old negro woman lifted up in prayer. She immediately stopped, feeling that it would be wrong to interrupt any human creature while communing with God. The words which this old female slave uttered were very simple, but full of pious sentiment. As Mrs. W—— listened she heard her say, "Oh Lord God, me am a poor sinner, but massa Christ died for sinners, therefore, good Lord, do have mercy upon me, poor dying cretur, for Jesus' sake. My sins many, oh do blot them all out—make me, poor slave, holy—make me fit to enter heaven—and oh bring massa and missa and the little babies there. Save us all for Jesus' sake." As Mrs. W—— listened to these simple words, her heart was touched—the tear fell upon her cheek. She entered the cabin, and found old Peggy stretched on a couch, and evidently struck with death. In haste and with agitation she asked what she could do for her. The old servant replied, "Nothing, nothing—I am now going home." As Mrs. W—— appeared distressed and anxious to do something for her, Peggy said, "Dear missa, don't be troubled about me—you have always been good to we poor blacks. The Lord bless you. You can do no more for me, I shall be gone soon." But, said Mrs. W——, "Are you not afraid to die?" Upon this inquiry, the did woman raised herself up, and clasping her hands, looked towards heaven and said in the most plaintive, touching tone, "Oh Jesus, should me be afraid to come tothee?" And then her eye sparkling with joy, as she turned to Mrs. W——, she said, "Me love Jesus—me give him my heart; Jesus knows me, and therefore me no fear to go through the dark valley to him: for he says in the good book, 'I know my sheep and they follow me, and I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'" The old woman was exhausted by this effort and fell back upon the bed with her eyes closed, apparently dying. One or two coloured persons who were in the room, now gathered around the bed, expecting every moment to see her breathe her last. After ten or fifteen minutes she again opened her eyes, and fixing an intense look upon Mrs. W——, said, "Dear missa, do you not love Jesus?" * * * She would have said more, but her tongue was already palsied in death—the muscles around her mouth quivered—her eye seemed glazed—her breath was gone: her soul was in eternity!

Mrs. W—— went home serious and thoughtful. She retired to her chamber and took down her long neglected Bible. She perused the sacred page for a long time. She knelt down and tried to pray. She found her heart was cold, and that there was no love to Jesus there. She called upon God for mercy. The deep fountains of sensibility in her heart were at length broken up, and she wept in agony of spirit over her impenitence and hardness of heart. When her husband came in, he found her bathed in tears and instantly demanded the cause. She told him of Peggy's death, and of the solemn impression made upon her mind, adding, "I have a presentiment that I shall not live long, and I am determined no longer to neglect the salvation of my soul." "Oh," said W——,who at that time was rather inclined to be skeptical, "do not indulge in such gloomy and nervous feelings or think about such superstitious matters."

Mrs. W——, however, remained steadfast to her purpose. From this time she daily read the sacred Scriptures, and sought divine illumination at the mercy-seat. The Methodist ministers who had officiated on the plantation among the slaves, and by whose instruction old Peggy had been taught the way to heaven, were invited to visit Mr. W——'s house. The voice of prayer was now frequently heard in that dwelling. Mrs. W—— had already become a decided Christian, and was leading her husband on in the same path, when she was suddenly attacked with a violent fever. From the very commencement she felt that this sickness would be unto death. When it was evident that she was rapidly sinking and could survive but a few hours, she begged her husband to sit down at her bed-side and the children to stand by their father, and then calmly addressed him in substance as follows: "Charles, I told you a year ago I had a strong presentiment that I should not live long. Ever since that time I have been looking forward to this hour. I have a hope in Jesus, which is 'as an anchor to my soul.'—Though I love you and these dear children above all earthly things, I am willing to leave you all in the hands of God and todepart and be with Christ which is far better. But, dear husband, will you not join me in yonder heaven? Will you not bring these dear, precious ones with you there? Oh! then seek the salvation of your soul in the atoning blood of Christ, and train up these children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." These were her last dying words. The green grass hasfor more that two years waved over her grave. Before her death the decease of her father had thrown a vast increase of wealth into her husband's hands. But that bereaved husband with all his vast wealth, as he looks upon his motherless children, and upon Jane's grass-covered grave, feels that this world is all an empty show, that we look for happiness in vain beneath the skies.

This was the outline of W——'s story. The hour had already become late before our conversation drew to a close. We each sought our respective berths in the cabin below. When we awoke in the morning, we found ourselves in the immediate vicinity of Albany. We were soon on shore moving up State street. * * * *

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