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 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 has occurred 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
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 shores 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 passed 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 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 our _Alma mater_ and 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 and talked 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
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 grass 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
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. * * * *