Review and Herald, Vol. 32, No. 12. (9/15/1868)

Review and Herald

Sep 15, 1868

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 15, 1868

FREEMASONRY.—IX

By C. G. Finney

The Argument that great and good Men have been and are Freemasons, Examined.

It is the universal practice of Freemasons to claim as belonging to their fraternity a great many wise and good men.

As I have shown in a former number, Masonry itself claims to have been founded by Solomon, and to have been patronized by St. John. Their lodges are dedicated to St. John and Zerubbabel, as I have shown; and Solomon figures more or less prominently in a great number of their degrees. Now it has already been shown by their highest authorities, that this claim of having been founded by Solomon and patronized by St. John, is utterly without foundation. Strange to tell, while it claims to have always been one and identical, and that it never has been changed, still on the very face of the different degrees it is shown that the great majority of them are of recent origin. If, as their best historians assert, Speculative Freemasonry dates no further back than the eighteenth century, of course, the claim of Freemasons that their institution was established and patronized by inspired men, can command no respect or confidence.

But, if this claim is false, what reason have we to have confidence in their assertions that so many great and good men of modern times were Freemasons? Investigation will prove that this claim is to a very great extent without foundation. It has been asserted here with the utmost confidence, over and over again, that Bishop McIlvaine was a Freemason. But, having recently been written to on the subject, he replied that he never was a Freemason.

Again, it is no doubt true that many men have joined them, and when they have taken a sufficient number of degrees to have the impression entirely removed from their minds that there is any secret in Freemasonry worth knowing, they have become disgusted with its shams, its hypocrisies, its falsehoods, its oaths and its ceremonies, its puerilities and blasphemies; and they have paid no further attention to it.

If it were suitable in a newspaper article, I might quote numerous instances in which good men have at first hesitated, and finally refused to go any further in Masonry, and have threatened to expose the whole of it to the world. Whoever will read Elder Stearns' little books on Masonry will find examples of this.

But why should Freemasons lay so much stress on the fact that many good men have been Freemasons? It has always been the favorite method of supporting a bad institution, to claim as its patrons the wise and good. This argument might have been used with great force, and doubtless was, in favor of idolatry in the time of Solomon and the prophets. Several of the kings of the Israelites were idolaters, as well as the queens and the royal family generally.

The great mass of the prophets, and religious teachers, and great men of the nation, lapse into idolatry. Nearly all the learning, and wealth, and influence of the whole nation could often with truth be quoted on the side of idolatry; and this was, no doubt, a cogent argument with the indiscriminating, the ignorant, and the masses. But what was its real value? It had no real value at all.

Again: So it was in the days of Christ. The high priest, nearly all the learned and influential, and, as the nation understood it, the most pious and godly part of the whole nation, rejected Jesus.

All the religious teachers, and all the influential people went in one direction.

The Pharisees, with all their zeal in religion, with all their apparent sanctity, with all their high reputation for most exalted piety, went almost to a man against Jesus, and declared him an impostor. They scoffed and railed at him, and finally murdered him. Those that received him were but a few fishermen, with some of the lowest of the people. Now what a powerful argument was this! If the argument of Masons be of any value, how overwhelming an argument must this have been against the claims of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Why, the rejecters of Jesus could quote all the great men of the nation, and the pious men, and the wise men, as decidedly opposed to his claims! The same was true after his death and resurrection for a great while. The question would often arise, “Do any of the rulers believe on him?”

An institution is not to be judged by the conduct of a few of its members, who might have been either worse or better than its principles. Christianity, e. g., is not to be judged by the conduct of particular professed Christians; but by its laws, its principles, by what it justifies and by what it condemns. Christianity condemns all iniquity. It abhors covering up iniquity. In the case of its greatest and most prominent professors, it exposes and denounces their sin, and never justifies it. But Masonry, on the other hand, is a secret work of darkness. It requires its members to take an oath to cover up each other's sins.

It requires them to swear, under the most awful penalties, that they will seek the condign punishment of every one who in any instance violates any point of their obligation. It therefore justifies the murder of those who betray its secrets.

Masons consistently justified the murder of Morgan, as everybody in this country knows who has paid any attention to the subject.

This is not inconsistent with their principles. Indeed, it is the very thing demanded, the very thing promised under oath.

But again: This same argument, by which Masons are attempting to sustain their institution, was always resorted to to sustain the practice of slaveholding.

Why, how many wise and good men, it was said, were slaveholders. The churches and ecclesiastical bodies at the North were full of charity in respect to them. They could not denounce slaveholding as a sin.

They would say that it was an evil; but for a long time they could not be persuaded to pronounce it a moral evil, a sin. And why? Why, because so many doctors of divinity were slaveholders and were defending the institution. Because a large portion of the church, of nearly every denomination, were involved in the abomination. “They are good men,” it was said; “they are great men—we must be charitable.”

And so, when this horrid civil war came on, these great and good men, who had sustained the institution of slavery, sustained and stimulated the war.

Many of them took up arms, and fought with desperation to sustain the institution. But what is thought now—at least throughout all the North, and throughout all the Christian world—of the great and good men who have done this thing? Who does not now admit that they were deluded? that they had anything but the spirit of Christ? that they were in the hands of the Devil all along?

The fact is, this has always been the device of those who have sustained any system of wickedness. They have taken pains, in one way or another, to draw into their ranks men of reputation for wisdom and piety, men of high standing in church and state. A great many of those who are claimed by Freemasons to be of their number, never were Freemasons at all. Others were entrapped into it, and turned a “cold shoulder” upon it, and paid no more attention to it; but were ever after claimed as Freemasons.

There are great multitudes of Freemasons who have taken some of the degrees, and have become heartily disgusted with it; but, knowing that Freemasons are under oath to persecute and even murder them if they publicly renounce it and expose its secrets, they remain quiet, say nothing about it, and go no further with it; but are still claimed as Freemasons. As soon as public sentiment is enough aroused to make them feel safe in doing what they regard as their solemn duty, great numbers of them will no doubt publicly renounce it. At present they are afraid to do so. They are afraid that their business will be ruined, their characters assailed, and their lives at least put in jeopardy.

But it should be understood that, while it may be true that there are many pious and wise men belonging to the Masonic fraternity, yet there are thousands of learned and pious men who have renounced it, and

thousands more who have examined its claims, and who reject it as an imposture, and as inconsistent either with Christianity or good government.

It is sometimes said: “Those men that renounced Masonry in the days of Morgan are dead. There are now thousands of living witnesses. Why should we take the testimony of the dead instead of that of the living? The living we know; the dead we do not know.”

To this I answer, first: There are thousands of renouncing Masons still living who reiterate their testimony, on all proper occasions, against the institution. Many of them we know, or may know; and they are not dead witnesses, but living. Now, if it was wickedness that led those men to renounce Freemasonry and publish its secrets, how is it that no instance has ever occurred in which a seceding Freemason has renounced and denounced his renunciation, and gone back into the ranks of Freemasons? I have never heard of such a case. It is well for the cause of truth that this question has come up again before the Masons that renounced the institution in the days of Morgan were all dead. It is well that hundreds and thousands of them are still alive, and are still living witnesses, bearing their steady and unflinching testimony against the institution.

But again: The present living witnesses who testify in its behalf, let it be remembered, are interested witnesses. They still adhere to the institution. They are under oath not to speak against it, but in every way to support it. Of what value, then, is their testimony in its favor? The fact is, we have their secrets published, and these books speak for themselves. Let the living or the dead say what they may, the truth is established that these books truly reveal Masonry; and by this revelation let the institution stand or fall.

If anything can be established by human testimony, it is established that Bernard's “Light on Masonry” has revealed Masonry substantially as it is. Bernard is still living. He is an old man; but he has recently said: “What I have written I have written on this subject. I have nothing to add, and I have nothing to retract.” And there are still hundreds and thousands of men who know that he has published the truth. How vain and frivolous, then, is the inquiry, “Why should we not take the testimony of living rather than of dead witnesses?” The prophets and apostles are dead. Why not take the testimony of living skeptics that we know? Some of them are learned and respectable men. Alas! if dead men are not to be believed!—C. G. FINNEY, in N. Y. Independent.

THE LIVING WATER. JOHN IV, 10.

By Vesta N. Cudworth

AIR—Belle Brandon.

Spring up, O thou life-giving water, Within let thy pure wavelets gush; 'Till the withering and thirsting are over, And its achings and murmurings are hushed, 'Till holy desires ever springing, Are as pure as the river above, Where angels in glory are singing, Around the rich fountain of love.

'Neath thy sheltering wing I am folded, Where sweet dews encircle my soul; But I thirst for the inward baptism, And I plead that my joy may be full. Entwine round thy poor child of sorrow, That robe which is whiter than snow; Then come thou within to the banquet, My star in this desert of woe. VESTA N. CUDWORTH. Springfield, Mass.

MINISTERS’ WIVES.

By N. Fuller

I know of nothing that more certainly affects the labors of ministers than the conduct and deportment of their wives.

That a minister should have a wife, I admit.
She should be the right kind of a wife, or his labors will be nearly a failure.
That such ministers’ wives are scarce, I assert.

In regard to the first point, I would say, Young ministers, and men who afterward become such, destroy themselves by a union with a woman entirely unsuitable for them.

I ask, Why? and the answer is, They will not take the advice of those of experience.

Love is blind. It has no eyes; and when men get blind, the Devil fastens his halter to their necks, and leads them to the gulf of ruin. Young men, beware! learn wisdom from the things others have suffered.

2. What is it to be a right kind of a wife? Paul has well described it in 2 Tim. iii, 11: “GRAVE, not slanderous, sober, faithful in all things.”

The pen that recorded these words was moved by the Spirit “of the Father of light, with whom is no variableness nor shadow of turning.” Now look at nine-tenths of the ministers’ wives of the nineteenth century. They are vain and frivolous, and you cannot distinguish them from other religionists of the day. Has God changed? He has not. This change is an apostasy from God. I do not mean to say there has not been as great a change in ministers. With shame I acknowledge there has been. Minister’s wives are called to be help-meets in the gospel, and their influence either serves to strengthen and encourage, or to pull down and destroy their husband’s usefulness.

Look around, and see how many you can find who are faithful in all things; faithful in all home duties, not only to the common household matters, but to having her husband’s toilet all neatly arranged, that he may appear before the people respectably, “in decency and in order,” and cheerfully trying to make home what it ought to be.

But, hark! what do I hear? Fault-finding, complaining, fretting. Their lot is so exceedingly hard. They would not do as their husband does, labor so hard for so little pay, and so few thanks; suffer so many privations and have so little for a reward. These things, and a thousand others like them, are all their husbands can hear when he returns from his labors, careworn and weary.

Home is everything but a desirable place to him on this account.

The frowns of Heaven are upon such companions. They will have their reward; and it will be said finally, “Depart from me, I never knew you.”

Now listen. What do you hear? Another class whose tongue it would seem must have been made of the most durable substance, and hung in the middle, on hinges that can never wear out. Then that unruly member was set on perpetual motion. That everlasting, unceasing rattle must be endured by all who chance to be the wretched victims. Offensive, disgusting, repulsive; and these words cannot express what I mean, only to those who have experienced it.

I have done this, I have done that. My husband could not have done it if it had not been for me.

Children squalling, house in disorder, everything out of repair; but self-praise, and talking about that brother, and this sister, must go on. It is the business of the morning, noon, and night.

The husband becomes disgusted, and frequently seeks society abroad, and sometimes finds sympathy among females, that prove, sooner or later, his utter ruin. Now the wife complains that she is abused and neglected by her husband!

Who is to blame? The answer comes, Whatever blame may attach to him, she also is to blame. She has ruined herself and family; and the cause of God has been disgraced in consequence.

I can call to mind three cases of apostasy of ministers, belonging to different denominations. They have violated the seventh commandment. What was the first moving cause? The wrong course of their wives. They are none the less guilty; but the wrath of God will burst forth upon the head of that woman, who may be justified by her friends, and perhaps many of her neighbors.

Selfishness has blinded the eyes of thousands who profess to be laboring for Christ. They make visiting excursions, instead of helping to bear the cross, and exhorting souls to come to Christ. They always find an excuse to be somewhere else than at the prayer-meeting. If they kneel beside their husbands in time of prayer, they will commence to gape and yawn, as though they had no interest in what was passing.

Heaven pity such unfortunate men. Many of them have already fallen, and, no doubt, others will.

But where are the faithful ones? Those ready to bear the cross, to endure hardships without complaining; those who stand by their husband’s side ready to help, with modesty, sobriety, speaking evil of none—making it the chief object of life to persuade souls to Christ? They are scarce.

N. FULLER.

Wellsville, Aug. 12, 1868.

HOW A DRUNKARD WAS RECLAIMED.

By JAS. SAWYER

In conversation with several women not long since, the subject of the course a woman should pursue who had a drunkard for a husband was the topic of conversation.

It would be a hard fate to suffer the penalty which each passed upon the drunkard, provided he had been the husband of either of them. One said she would not live with a drunkard; another spoke of the plan of giving a flogging; while most of them would not consent to live the life of a drunkard's wife.

One lady told the following anecdote, which is certainly a good plan, when our confidence in God is strong.

There lived in the town of S—e a very patient woman. Her husband was a drunkard. He, too, was often very exacting, and came home at times in a state of intoxication. Sometimes he would put her to much trouble to get such food as would gratify his taste.

With all his requests she readily complied, and put forth her best efforts to meet his demands when it was possible for her to do so. She would often get up at night to prepare a warm supper for him. She murmured not at any of his exactions.

One night, after he had spent the evening in revelry with his companions, and was about to go home, he told his comrades that his wife was a remarkable woman. Says he, If you, my comrades, were to go home with me this night, and I should tell her to get up and dress some chickens, at midnight, she would do it without a murmur. His company would not believe him; so, to prove the thing, they went home with him, and got there about midnight. He called his wife up, and says, Wife, I want you to cook some chickens for us. She immediately arose from her bed, went out and caught a chicken, dressed, and cooked, and made ready a well-spread board for his company.

The guests were astonished. Turning to her they wanted to know why she was so ready to do such unreasonable bidding. She replied, All the enjoyment my husband will have must be taken in the present life, and I am willing and shall try to have him get all that he can. This is the reason I do this. In the future life he will have no enjoyment.

This was too much for the man to bear. His feet were turned that moment from the path of evil. The dart was thrust from the hand of the tormentor, and he became a reformed man.

Kindness is sometimes powerful. How many Christian men and women might have reclaimed their husbands and wives from sin on the same principle, had they not taken the rod of correction into their own hands, instead of leaving the chastisement in the hands of a merciful God. JAS. SAWYER.

SAD THOUGHTS.

By L. A. Cartwright

There are many ways to discourage and dishearten those who are weak in faith and hope, but none more common among professors of religion, than the lack of interest in attending meeting. How often do we hear these words of the apostle, “not forsaking the assembling of yourselves together as the manner of some is” without ever thinking they could apply to us. What little excuses keep us away. One feels dull and drowsy, so dozes away the Sabbath hours. Another has worked so hard during the week he does not feel like going. A third thinks the meeting will not be interesting and stays at home. This one fears a little rain or snow or cold, as the case may be. That one more regardless still, is visiting friends or relatives; while some alas! engage in the world's amusements; all making the few who do congregate, dispirited and sad.

Sometimes a little word from a well-meaning but harsh-spoken brother or sister, is enough to keep us away; or perchance we do not feel very well and cannot go. Others are offended because one who attends meeting has done wrong, so they must stay away. But “the sons of God presented themselves before the Lord” though “Satan came also.”

Is there not great reason to fear that none of these things are the real excuse? A friend once observed, “It is not the inclemency of the weather, but of the heart that's the trouble. Dear friends ought these things so to be? What is our influence? If we are not for Christ we are surely against him. The Saviour said “He that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad.”

How was it when we first felt the love of Christ? Did we not love the “House of prayer,” the songs of praise, and the ambassadors who besought us “in Christ’s stead to be reconciled to God?” Then our hearts overflowed with love to God, “Peace on earth good will to men.” Then we felt the truth that “as iron sharpeneth iron so a man sharpeneth the countenance

of his friend.” What pleadings for sinners to come and go with us. Then they were constrained to say, “How these Christians love one another.” They look on a few days a few months and what do they see? Vacant seats in the house of prayer! Oh where and what is our testimony now? Alas! for the weak in faith! Alas! for the perishing all around. Do they not understand us to say of the service of God “What a weariness it is.” Cain inquired “Am I my brother’s keeper?” and the Lord said “The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground!”

There is certainly serious cause for alarm when we unnecessarily absent ourselves from the place “where prayer is wont to be made.” Our actions, if they do not speak louder, very often speak truer, than words, that we are losing interest in the cause of Christ. And we see clearly from both the Old and New Testaments that God will not accept of a divided heart, nor can we secure our own salvation without laboring for the good of others. And while I write the Spirit brings these words home to me, “Happy is he that condemneth not himself in that thing which he alloweth.”

L. A. CARTWRIGHT.

Lincklaen, N. Y., August, 1868.

Across the Sierra Nevada.

THE FIRST RAILWAY PASSENGER TRAIN FROM SACRAMENTO OVER THE MOUNTAIN.

[Everything pertaining to the progress of that great national work, the Pacific Railroad, will be of interest to our readers. The crossing of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the most difficult portion of the western division, has been accomplished, and the following is a thrilling description of the first passage of the passenger train over the route. California will soon be within five days of the Atlantic States.]

The Alta Californian gives the following description of the passage of the first railroad passenger train over the Sierra Nevada:

Desiring to be among the first to cross the Sierra Nevada by through train, the writer left San Francisco at 4, P. M., on Wednesday, June 17, by the steamer Yo Semite, in company with several friends, bound for Silver Land. It was long past midnight when the heavily laden steamer reached Sacramento, and tied up at the landing.

The train moves out of the town of Sacramento, across “the Slough,” past the unfinished round house and immense machine shops of the Central Pacific Railroad Company—in which an army of workmen will be employed at no distant day—up the valley, along the northern outskirts of the rambling town, and then by a long bridge across the American river. As we emerge from the trees and shrubbery along the American into the open plain, which stretches away to the eastward toward the foot-hills, the mighty Sierra Nevada looms up, like a gigantic cloud-bank, against the eastern horizon. The mountains, for a long way upward from their base, are enveloped in a dim, blue haze, which contrasts beautifully with the snow-fields on their summits, flashing against the blue sky, and lighted up by the glory of the summer morning sun. One distant peak sparkles like an iceberg, with all the hues of the opal; another is tinged with delicate pink, like the inner surface of a sea-shell; and a third is of a pure brilliant white, like frosted silver. The country at one point is open and treeless, like a Western prairie, and at another dotted with wide-spreading trees, like the “oak openings” of Michigan; but the soil is poor, and a few herds of horses, and now and then the residence of some small ranchman or herder, are the only signs of life we see for miles and miles. The country is poor, uncultivated, and, for the most part, unfenced, and uninhabited.

At the Junction, eighteen miles from Sacramento, a branch road leading toward Marysville takes away a portion of our passengers, and four miles further on we come to Rocklyn, where are the immense granite quarries, from which an unlimited supply of building material for Sacramento and San Francisco is obtained, with simply the trouble of quarrying.

Now we enter the foot-hills, and as we commence to ascend more rapidly, the great mountains before us seem to sink down until we lose sight of them altogether, and we do not see the snow-fields again for a long time. The sun is shining down upon us from an unclouded sky, and the heat is such as to drive us all to the shady side of the cars. Luscious strawberries, ripe pears, cherries, and other summer fruits, are brought through the cars for sale—everything around speaks of midsummer.

UP THE MOUNTAINS.

The engine blows and wheezes with short, sharp aspirations, and the feeling of weight, as we lean back on the seat, tells us that we are ascending a steep and increasing grade. Newcastle, Auburn—a pretty little village, and somewhat active place—Clipper Gap, and New England Mill, all more or less important mining and trading posts, are passed, and at 9:50, A. M., we have ascended two thousand four hundred and forty-eight feet, and reached Colfax, fifty-four miles from Sacramento, where stage roads from Grass Valley, Nevada, and other rich mining towns, branch off. The town is built of slight materials, and does not look as if made for all time. Here we should meet and pass the down train from the summit, but snow-slides beyond the great Summit Tunnel have delayed the train between that point and Reno, away down on the Truckee, beyond the Sierra, and after waiting a few minutes, just long enough to partake of a capital cup of coffee, and a nice spring chicken on toast at the depot, we move on.

Soon after leaving Colfax the cars pass on a high embankment around Cape Horn, and nervous passengers begin to look around anxiously, peering with evident trepidation down into the depths below. Around the edge of a canon the train whirls steadily along, a branch of the American river lying like a yellow ribbon hundreds on hundreds of feet below. Eight miles from Colfax we pass the mining camp of Secret Town, and look back into the valley from an elevation of 2,985 feet—something greater than that of Mount Tamalpais. Up, up and onward, ever climbing steadily skyward. Through the openings in the mountains we begin to see other mountains beyond, whose peaks are covered with snow, and the hot air of the valleys reaches us no longer, the breezes now being tempered by the snow-fields above. The atmosphere is gloriously exhilarating, and our spirits rise as our corporeal substance ascends heavenward.

At sixty-seven miles from Sacramento, we look down upon the well-nigh exhausted placers and town of Dutch Flat; flat enough the town appears at this time. Two miles further on, we reach Alta at an elevation of 3,625 feet above the sea, almost the height of the summit of Mount Diablo. Here we expected to, but did not, meet the descending train, which had been delayed by an accident on the other side of the summit, by which the cars between Reno and Coburn’s, or Truckee, had been thrown off the track and smashed up, making it impossible for the passengers to reach the summit by stage in time to connect with the regular train on the western side of the mountain. Here, the roofs of the houses begin to pitch sharply, after the style of the Alpine cottages—an indication that the snows fall heavily here in the winter. The mountain sides are covered with magnificent pines, which increase in size as we ascend to a point some distance above here.

The stream, far down at the bottom of a deeper canon, is now a saffron-colored thread, and we cling to the side of the mountain as a swallow clings to a cliff. Snow now appears on the heights, but a little above us, and at intervals along the road where there are deep cuts, long, sharp-roof sheds of heavy timbers, to ward off the snow-drifts, rise over the track. Passing Shady Run station, we reach the first tunnel, 500 feet in length, 75 miles from Sacramento, and 4,500 feet above the sea. The mountains are growing more rugged, and the snow fields come down to a level with the road.

THE HEART OF THE SIERRA.

Still up, up; the trees grow smaller; cedars, tamaracs, and firs, take the place of the noble pines, and we no longer see the red earth of the gold-belt below. Gray granite rocks are growing plentier, and the small mountain peaks on either side of the road begin to show bald heads. We are in the heart of the Sierra—a barren, dreary, desolate country. It is not at all like the heart of the Andes—as Church paints it.

At Emigrant Gap, 84 miles above Sacramento, we meet the down train at last, and the road is open before us. Another tunnel, 300 feet in length. We pass Crystal Lake, and are at Cisco, a town of shanties, which was for a long time the terminus of the road.

We are 5,900 feet above the sea, and still ascending. The pines have almost entirely disappeared, and we pass through many long cuts blasted through the solid granite spurs of the mountains. We traverse continuous snow-fields and immense drifts, through which the road has been cut with shovels for the passing of the trains. A few hours since, we were among the flowers, ripe fruits, and singing birds of the valley, sweating under the summer sun; now, we are in the midst of dazzling snow-fields, and the atmosphere and aspects of the scene are such as we might find in the mountains of New England on any fine, winter’s day. The streams which come down the sides of every precipice, and dash in foamy torrents down every canon, are cold as ice from the melting snows. Chinamen are swarming all along the road. They have nearly finished their work in this vicinity, and are packing up their traps preparatory to passing on over the summit into the great interior basin of the continent. One hundred and two miles from Sacramento, we reach Summit Valley, and stand 6,800 feet above the level of the sea. Lift Mount Tamalpais bodily from its base and place it on the summit of Mount Diablo, and we could still look down by hundreds of feet on the double mountain height. The snow-banks rise high above the road on either side. Two miles more, and the cars reach the entrance of the great tunnel, 1659 feet in length.

THE SUMMIT OF THE SIERRA.

We have scaled the great Sierra at last, and ne plus ultra might be written on the granite walls of the great tunnel before us. We are 7,043 feet above the sea. The air feels cold and damp, but not oppressive, and we experience no inconvenience from its rarefaction at this great elevation.

The ice, snow, rocks, and white, fleecy, curling clouds, are all here, but there is not a shadow of a tempest; and if there were, why should he face it, bald-headed? We will not stop to discuss that question, but merely ask it as we pass, and reserve the point for future discussion. The snow lies piled in immense banks, with sheer, precipitous sides, on either side of the track. A swarm of Chinamen are busy at the other end of the tunnel shoveling away the snow, which has come down in great slides, bringing with it huge, granite rocks, upon the track. The water pours down in torrents from numberless crevices and seams in the granite walls and roof of the long, dark, cavernous tunnel, but we struggle through on foot, and anxiously inquire after the prospect of getting the train across the mountain.

Two or three hours will clear the track. We wait with what patience we may, and at last, at four o’clock, the prolonged whistle of the good locomotive, “Antelope,” which has drawn us to the summit of the Sierra, is heard. “All aboard,” shouts the conductor, George Wood, who has the honor of taking the first passenger train across the mountains, and the train moves slowly on. A halt for another slide; another start, another halt, and so on, slowly and carefully. The snow-banks come down so close to the track that the eaves of the cars rake them on either side. It is the closest fit imaginable. Six more tunnels, ranging from one hundred to eight hundred and sixty-three feet each in length, in many of which we see great masses of solid blue ice hanging down from the wall like stalactites and stalagmites in the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, are slowly passed through. We have descended six hundred feet already, and as we emerge from the last tunnel, the conductor exclaims, “Gentlemen, we are over the mountains! This is a new road finished this summer, and we shall have no more snow-slides!” It is true, indeed, the mighty task is accomplished, after many years of toil and the expenditure of millions of money. Words fail us to describe our sensations; we will not attempt it.

DOWN THE EASTERN SLOPE.

And now the train, with accelerated speed, moves steadily downward towards the Valley of the Truckee. The steam is shut off, the brakes put down, and as the eagle sets his wings afloat noiselessly down, down, down, through the realms of air toward the earth from his eyrie among the clouds, we slide swiftly and smoothly down the declivities of the mountains into the Great Basin of Nevada. Donner Lake, as lovely a sheet of water as is to be found on earth, lies far below us among the pine-clad hills, its bosom unruffled by a breath of breeze, and as calm and blue as the heavens above it. The road winds round the precipitous mountain sides, almost encircling Donner Lake as it descends, and following round a long canon, making a circuit of seven miles to gain an advance of no more than a quarter of a mile, we reach the outlet of the Lake, a swift, rushing stream of blue, cold water. We have traveled nine and a half miles and descended seven hundred and eighty-three feet since leaving the summit.

Now we descend rapidly on one of the most beautifully-smooth and solid roads on the continent, into the romantic valley of the Truckee, whose mountain torrents come rushing and roaring out of the mountain from the southward, hidden in which lies the loveliest sheet of water on the earth, Lake Tahoe. The timber here is immense, and from this source the supplies for building the road for hundreds of miles eastward are to be drawn. Sawmills by the dozen, driven by the rushing river, line the banks of the stream for miles and miles, and the hills swarm with laborers of every nationality and hue—Europeans, Americans, Africans, and Asiatics (the latter immensely preponderating in numbers)—engaged in cutting down and preparing the timber for the road.

As the first through passenger train sweeps down the eastern slope of the Sierra, John, comprehending fully the importance of the event, loses his natural appearance of stolidity and indifference, and welcomes with the waving of his broad-brimmed hat, and loud uncouth shouts, the iron horse and those he brings with him. Well may he shout. Millions of his ancestors toiled for years on years to erect against the barbarian Tartar a barrier over which he should never break; the Tartar wave broke over it, and inundated his land at a single surge. Nature erected between the East and the West a barrier such as in other lands divides countries and makes enemies of nations, and John, with his patient toil, directed by American energy and backed by American capital, has broken it down at last, and opened over it the greatest highway yet created for the march of commerce and civilization around the globe.

Continue reading: THE CAMP-MEETING AT WRIGHT