WESTERN NEW YORK.
Niagara Falls--Rochester--Canandaigua--Geneva--Seneca
Lake--The moonlit heavens--Departed friends--The
clergyman's son--The candidate for the ministry--A
beloved brother--My departed mother--Geneva
College--The Sabbath.
_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 laid a 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 on _Friday 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, see the 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 some fifty 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
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 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 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 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 obstacles now 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, 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 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 enable them 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 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 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.