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.