Gleanings by the Way Part 8

Memory loves to go back to the past. I well recollect a summer evening of 1820. The day had declined, and the curtains of night were drawn around the green earth. While twilight still lingered in the west, gently fading into darkness, the moon rose in full orbed splendour. I was returning, with a friend from a walk. Our course lay along on the margin of the lake. Never did I see a sweeter or lovelier scene, than was exhibited on the bosom of that lake, lit up with a flood of splendour streaming down from the bright orb of night. That beautifully-expanded sheet of water lay in unruffled smoothness. The lake seemed like a sea of gla.s.s. 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 rehea.r.s.e to this holy man my catechism. I well recollect the solemn tones of his voice, and the benignant look with which he p.r.o.nounced a blessing on our young heads. I can never forget the many kind, cordial welcomes I have received under the roof of the pastor of my childhood. The young man to whom I have referred was his eldest son. We were now far from the scene where had past the sports and frolics of childhood. The good hand of the Lord had shown me that there was something better than the fading vanities of this empty world to occupy and absorb the affections of an immortal being. Often had I tried to lead my young friend to see things as I saw them. When absent I had written to him; but though his affection for me seemed unchanged, he always evaded any coming to the point, in relation to his own personal salvation. Though amiable and moral, he was naturally gay and vivacious, and the world had still an unbroken hold upon his affections. On the evening to which I have referred, he seemed more than ordinarily pensive. In less than a year, though apparently full of vigour and health, he was suddenly laid upon a sick bed.

The last night of his life I was with him, and did not leave his room till the dawn of morning. At midnight when all was still, he called me close to his bed-side, and thanked me for my letters that I had formerly written to him, and all my solemn admonitions, and a.s.sured 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sociated with me in study.

The home of his childhood was amid the rugged hills of New England. He had contended with a long train of difficulties to push his way onward to the threshold of the sacred ministry. The last obstacles now seemed giving away. In about a year he would go forth as the accredited amba.s.sador 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 G.o.d."

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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sed, and _she 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 inst.i.tution 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 enable them to compete with any kindred inst.i.tutions 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 inst.i.tution that must very soon elevate it to a high rank among the inst.i.tutions 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 a.s.sumed the responsibilities of the sacred office. The place itself was unaltered, but the wors.h.i.+ppers--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 h.o.a.ry 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 turn and 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 wors.h.i.+pped with me that morning.

The day was bright and sunny. There seemed that morning to rest on the mind of the a.s.sembled wors.h.i.+ppers a sweet, holy calm, the emblem of that "rest which remaineth for the people of G.o.d." 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d, 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.

CHAPTER XIV.

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.

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

_Fairfield, N. Y., Sep. 21, 1838._

After having pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 has occurred here, which has upturned the very foundations upon which human nature was originally built?

Surely a G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 dest.i.tution 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 fair fields 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 be ashamed to speak of New York bay, even in connection with the bay of Naples, though the latter in the bold sh.o.r.es of Capri, the towering summit of Vesuvius, and the vast, extended, circling sweep of its waters has, doubtless, features of _sublimity_, which the former cannot claim.--As we pa.s.sed the _palisades_, 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 the _palisades_ that rise like a wall of masonry above the n.o.ble Hudson, a gentleman approached me and said, "I ought to know you; I think we were cla.s.s-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 our _Alma mater_ and to each other.

Our cla.s.s 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 a.s.sociations. We sat down and talked over college scenes, till the shades of evening gathered around us. I was astonished to find how many of our cla.s.s were already numbered with the dead: and how many among the most gifted and talented of our old a.s.sociates had fallen victims to intemperance. During the fifteen years since we last met, we ourselves had pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 celebration of 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sed 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 wors.h.i.+p, they seldom visited the house of G.o.d, 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 situation of 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d, me am a poor sinner, but ma.s.sa 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 ma.s.sa 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 to thee?" 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 G.o.d 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 superst.i.tious 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 G.o.d and to _depart 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 gra.s.s has for 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 gra.s.s-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 sh.o.r.e moving up State street. * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

THE IRISH COUPLE.

Albany--The Irish mother--Incidents that occured five years ago--The disappointed emigrants--The Little Falls--Rural retirement.

_Fairfield, N. Y., Sept. 22._

Our stopping place in Albany was at CONGRESS HALL, which we reached some time before the sun sent his resplendent beams abroad: the morning was damp and hazy, and upon the whole every thing looked dull and gloomy around us.

We were, however, occupying one of the most delightful positions in the place--our inn being located on one corner of the beautiful enclosure in front of the capitol or state-house, whence we could overlook almost the entire city. As I sat down by a window which commanded a view of the state-house park, or square, my travelling companion directed my attention to a female, who with tattered vestments and feeble steps, was pacing backwards and forwards one of the gravelled walks in the verdant enclosure before us. She was carrying in her arms a sickly looking infant, some nine or ten months old, and the whole appearance both of the mother and child, seemed to indicate that they were houseless wanderers, and had pa.s.sed the night without a shelter. As in her continued walks up and down the gravelled avenue, she occasionally approached near the window where we sat, I saw that she was about middle aged, and had evidently once had a fine and expressive countenance, though the traces of sorrow and grief were now deeply worn there.

We were called to our breakfast: as soon as it was dispatched we hurried away from our hotel to the grand railroad depot, whence we were to take our departure westward. On our way we pa.s.sed directly by the gravelled walk, where we had seen the poor woman, who had so much excited our sympathy. She now sat on the ground, her infant sleeping in her lap, and herself apparently absorbed in melancholy. She was evidently of Irish extraction, and though her appearance bore evidence of extreme poverty, there were no indications about her of intemperance. I could not but think what a tale of sorrow, of disappointed hopes, and perhaps of cruelly blighted innocence, would that Irish mother's history, if recorded, unfold. My thoughts immediately went back to that beautiful Emerald Isle, over whose green fields I had so recently roamed. Though I had seen some misery there, I had seen much happiness and contentment. I verily believe there is often to be found more real happiness in the mud cottage than in the gilded palace. The Irish have strong and generous feelings, and strong family affection. As I saw that poor Irish mother sitting there upon the ground, so forlorn and desolate, my imagination pictured to me her early home, where she pa.s.sed her childhood beneath the glad eye of her affectionate parents. They saw her grow up, the pride of their heart, and thought that she would be the solace of their declining years. But the tempter came--she was lured from her home--she pa.s.sed over the deep waters, and found herself in a foreign land. Her base husband soon showed himself the degraded victim of intemperance, and after a few years deserted her--leaving her houseless, homeless, in poverty, and broken-hearted sorrow. Perhaps in point of fact there were no lines in the history of that poor Irish mother in correspondence with this picture, but I believe, if the real history of many an emigrant from that green isle were known, we should feel more kindly to that people, and the heart and hand of Christian charity would be more frequently open to relieve the dest.i.tute among them. I know not where we shall find on earth such n.o.ble elements of character as in the Irish race. I confess I have been charmed and filled with admiration with some specimens I have met of Irish Christian gentlemen. I cannot turn my face away from any poor Irishman who asks alms at my door, unless he be manifestly the victim of intemperance, and begs to procure the means of indulgence in this sin. It is true we are sometimes liable to be deceived.

Clothes and money are sometimes procured under false pretexts. But even then they may minister to the comfort of the dest.i.tute, and if we have given for Christ's sake, we shall not lose our reward.

I do not mean by these remarks to intimate that I regard it as a Christian duty to give to all without discrimination who ask alms at our hands--but simply to say, that I think it better to give to twenty undeserving objects than to turn our face away from one who is Christ's representative here on earth. (Mat. xxv. 35-46.) Neither do I mean to affirm, that there is not danger of being deceived by some who make large demands upon us for a.s.sistance. In such cases we should undoubtedly proceed with great caution: and even then, after all, we may be beguiled. A case in point now occurs to me.

While residing in New England, on a dull, cold, rainy Sat.u.r.day afternoon, some five years ago, I heard a ring at my door. As the servant did not immediately appear to answer the call, I myself went to the door, where I found two persons in shabby and tattered dress, standing on the steps, with their clothes dripping with rain. The female was the first to speak, inquiring if I would not render some a.s.sistance to a distressed couple, who were extremely dest.i.tute, and far from country and home. The tones of her voice were so sweet and gentle, her manners so modest and un.o.btrusive, and the language which she used so well chosen, and even elegant, I felt convinced that they had indeed seen better days, and I should have done the greatest violence to my feelings, and every better principle of my nature, had I not opened my door and bid them enter. After they had dried themselves by the fire, and partaken of some refreshment, I asked them to tell me their history. The outline of it was as follows:--They were both natives of Ireland, where they had always resided till about four years since. Mrs. S----, the name of this female, and the wife of the man who accompanied her, was the daughter of a clergyman of the Established Church, who was vicar of a parish in Ireland, the name of which I do not now recollect. She was brought up in great tenderness and highly educated, as she was an only daughter. Being a novel reader and full of romantic ideas, she took it into her head to fall in love with a young bricklayer, who was engaged in working upon a house that was building near the vicarage. She found means of meeting him unknown to her parents, and they were soon engaged to be married. At the appointed time she stole away secretly from home, met her lover at a specified spot, and then they went together to a distant part of the country, where they were married. She then sent home to her parents, confessing the whole affair. They were very indignant, and returned so severe an answer, that she and her husband concluded to embark at once for America.--They soon put their resolution into execution, and after a very long voyage found themselves at Montreal, without any means of subsistence. Her husband succeeded in obtaining some employment, so that they lived along comfortably for nearly a year. About this time she became the mother of a little daughter; and accidentally hearing that the Rev. Mr.

----, who was a brother of her mother's, and had been in this country several years, was residing at Troy, she persuaded her husband to go with her in quest of her uncle. When they reached Troy, they found that there was no Rev. Mr. ---- residing there. Here they lived for some time, Mr.

S---- hiring himself out to a builder, who was carrying on a large business there. After S---- had earned about one hundred dollars besides his living, this builder unexpectedly failed, and absconded without paying off any of his hands. S---- was again left in poverty, and without employment. A few months before, their little babe had sickened and died. They had recently heard that their relative resided in Boston. They therefore started off with the hope of finding him: having at length reached Northampton in great dest.i.tution, they made known their situation to the Rev. Dr. P----, who relieved them from present distress, and informed them that the clergyman whom they were seeking lived in Philadelphia. With a view of going thither they had come to the place where I resided. The whole story appeared natural, and though they told it to a number of different individuals, they never contradicted themselves. Mr. S---- was rough and uncultivated--just such a man as a bricklayer would be. On the other hand Mrs. S---- was evidently an accomplished lady. She was acquainted with books, played on the piano forte, and sung beautifully. A clergyman bearing the name of the one whom she claimed as her uncle, actually resided in Philadelphia, and had not long since visited England and Ireland, as she said. I could detect no incongruity in any part of the narrative. They remained with us a week--during which time a number of our friends fitted them both out with new apparel, and procured for them the means of travelling with comfort to Philadelphia. I have seldom known so much sympathy to be awakened for dest.i.tute strangers as there was in their case. Several individuals accompanied them to the steamboat when they left, and wished them G.o.d speed. I sent by them a letter to the Rev. Mr. ---- informing him of the facts above related. This was the last I ever heard of them! I saw the Rev.

Mr. ---- in a few months; he informed me he had never received the letter, that he had no relatives in Ireland, and that so far as he was concerned it must have been a sheer fabrication. My friends and myself, when these facts came to our knowledge, had a hearty laugh over this affair, and though we regretted that this Irish couple had used such deception, at least in one particular we did not regret that we had fed the hungry, clothed the naked, and sent them on their way with solemn admonitions about the salvation of their souls.

Very little of interest is to be seen on the way between Albany and Schenectady across those sandy plains, save the distant tops of the Cattskill to the south, and the misty summits of the Green mountains to the north. Our course from Schenectady up the valley of the Mohawk was very delightful. The beautiful sylvan scenery up this valley, with its broken sheets of water, and dark rich verdure, reminded me of some scenes in England, which I can never forget. I need not describe the grand and rugged mountain scenery which nature has thrown up in forms of singular wildness around the _Little Falls_, nor the upland and undulating country through which one has to pa.s.s to reach the spot whence I write.

Here then, I am, far away from the strife of tongues, the agitations of business, and the dust and din of the city. The green hills are all around me, presenting a coat of dark rich verdure, which shows that they have not this season felt the blight of the withering and far-spread drought. All amid these retired hills appears full of quietness and repose--a fit place in which to study one's own heart and try to get nearer to heaven. I attended the other evening, what in England would be denominated _a cottage meeting_. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood were gathered together in a private house, and after suitable devotions conducted by the pastor, the people were familiarly and solemnly addressed on the subject of their immortal interests. These meetings, I understand, are held weekly in different parts of the village, and will, I doubt not, carry salvation to many a house. What an inexpressible blessing is a faithful pastor, who cares for the flock, and uses every means in his power to guide them in the way everlasting!