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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.