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No. 36. VoL. 111.
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From Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.
Tllfc FORGERS.
“ Let us sit down on this slone seat,” said
my aged friend, the pastor, “ and 1 will tell
you a tale of tears, concerning the last in
habitants of yonder splitarv house, just visi
ble on the hill-side, through the gloom of
those melancholy pines. Ten years have
passed away since the terrible catastrophe
of which l am about to speak; and i know
not how it is, but mettiinks, whenever I
come into this glen, there is something
rueful in it* silence, while the common
sounds of nature seem to my mind dirge-like
and forlorn. Was not this very day bright
and musical as we walked across all the
other hills and valleys; but now a dim mist
overspreads the sky, and, beautiful as this
lonely place must in truth he, there is a
want of life in the verdure and the flowers,
as if they grew beneath the darkness of per
petual shadows”
As the old man was speaking, a female
figure bent with age and infirmity, came
slowiy up the bank below us with a pitcher
in her hand, and when she reached a little
well ilug out of a low rock all covered with
U)os9 and lichens, she seemed to fix her
eyes upon it as in a dream, and gave a long,
deep, broken sigh.
“ The names of her husband and her
only son, both dead, are chiselled by their
own hands on a smooth stone within the
arch of that fountain, and the childless wid
ow at this moment sees nothing on the face
of the earth but a few letters not yet over
grown with the creeping timestains. See!
her pale lips are moving in prayer, and,
old as she is, and long resigned in her utter
hopelessness, the tears are not yet all shed
or dried up within her broken heart, —a
few big drops are on her withered cheeks,
but she feels them not, and is unconsciously
weeping with fcye9 that old age has of itself
enough bedimmed.” (
The figure remained motionless beside
the well; and, though I knew not the his
tory of the griefs that stood all embodied so
mournfully before me, I felt that they must
have bifen gathering together for many
long years, and that such sighs as I had now
heard Came from the uttermost desolation
of the human heart. At last she dipped
herpitcher in the water, lifted her eyes to
heaven, and, distinctly saying, “0, Jesus,
Son Os God! whose blood was shed for sin
ners, be merciful to their souls!” she turn
ed away from the scene of her sorrow, and,
like one seen in a vision, disappeared.
“ I have heheld the childless widnW hap
py,” said the pastor, “ even her who sat
alone, with none to comfort her, on a floor
swept by the hand of death of all its blos
soms. But her Whom we have now seen I
dare not call happy, even though she puts
her trust in God and her Saviour. Her’s
is an affliction which faith itself cannot as
suage. Yet religion may have softened
even sighs like those, and, as you shall
THE MISSIONARY.
hear, it was religion that set her free from
the horrid dreams of madness, and restored
her to that comfort which is always found
in the possession of a reasonable being.”
There was not a bee roaming near us,
nor a bird singing in the solitary glen, when
the old man gave me these hints of a mel
ancholy tale. The sky was black and low
ering, as it lay on the silent hills, and en
closed us from the far-off world, in a sullen
spot that was felt to be sacred unto sorrow.
The figure which had come and gone with
a sigh was ts>e only dweller here ; and 1
was prepared to hear a doleful history of
one left alone to commune with a broken
Jieart in the cheerless solitude of nature.
“That house from whose chimnies no
smoke has, ascended, for teq long years,”
continued my friend, “once shewed its
windows bright with cheerful fires; and
her whom we now saw so woe-begone, 1
remember brought borne a youthful bride,
in all the beauty ofher joy and .innocence.
Twenty years beheld her a wife and a
mother, with all their most perfect happi
ness, and with some, too, of their inevitable
griefs. Death passed not by her door with
out his victims, and, of five children, all
but one died, in infancy, childhood, or
blooming youth. But they died in nature’s
common decay,—peaceful prayers were
said around the bed ofpeace;‘and when
the flowers grew upon their graves, the
mother’s eyes could bear to look on them,
as she passed on with uoaching heart into
the house of God. All but one died, —and
better had it been if that one bad never
been born.
“ Father, mother, and son now come to
man’s estate, survived, and in the house
there was peace. But suddenly poverty
fell upon them. The dishonesty of a kins
man, of which I need not state the particu
lars, robbed them of their few hereditary
fields, which now passed into the possession
of a stranger. They, however, remained
as tenants in the house Which had been
their own; and for a while, father and son
bore the change of fortune seemingly un
dismayed, and toiled as common labourers
on the soil still dearly beloved. At the
dawn of light they went out together, and
at twilight they returned. But it seemed
as if their industry was in vain. Year after
year the old man’s face became more deep
ly furrowed, and more sfldqm was be seen
to smile ; and his son’s countenance, once
bold and open, was now darkened with an
ger and dissatisfaction. They did not at
tend publick worship so regularly, as they
used to do; when I met them in the fields,
or visited them in their dwelling, they look
ed on me coldly, and with altered eyes;
and I grieved to think how soon they both
seemed to have forgotten the blessings
Providence had so long permitted them to
enjoy, and how sullenly they now struggled
with its decrees. But something worse
than poverty was now disturbing both their
hearts.
“The unhappy old man had a bjpther
who at this time died, leaving an only son,
who had for many years abandoned his fa
ther’s house, and of whom all tidings had
long been lost. It was thought by many
that he had died beyond seas ; & none doubt
ed, that, living or dead, he had been disin
herited by his stern and nnretentibg jfkrent.
On the day after the funeral, the ld man
produced his brother’s will, by which he
became heir to all his property, except an
annuity to be paid to the natural
should he ever return. Some pitied the
prodigal son, who had been disinherited—
some, blamed the father—some envfed the
good fortune of those who had so ill borne
adversity. But in a short time, (be death,
the will, and the disinherited were all for
gotten, and the lost lands being redeemed,
peace, comfort, and happiness were sup
posed again to be restored to the dwelling
from which they had so long been banished.
“ But it was not so. If the furrows, on
the old man’s face were deep before, when
he had to toil from morning to night, they
seemed to have sunk into more ghastly
trenches, now that the goodness of Provi
dence had restored a gentle shelter to bis
declining years. When seen wandering
through his fields at even-tide, he looked
not like the Patriarch musing tranquilly on
the works and ways of God ; and when my
eyes met his during divine service, which
he now again attended with scrupulous reg
ularity, I sometimes thought they Were
suddenly averted in conscious guilt; or
closed in hypocritical devotion. I scarcely
know if ( had any suspicions against him in
my mind, or not; but his high bald head,
thin silver hair, and countenance with its
fine, features so intelligent, had no longer
the same solemn expression which they
once possessed, and something dark and hid
den seemed now to belong to them, which
withstood his forced and unnatural smile.
The son, who, in the days of their former
prosperity, had been stained by no vice,
and who, during their harder lot, had kept
himself aloof from all his former compan
ions, now become dissolute and profligate,
nor did he meet with any reproof from a
father whose heart would once have burst
asundet at one act of wickedness in his be
loved child.
“About three years after the death of
his father, the disinherited son returned,
to bis native perish. He hgd been sailor
* /
GO YE INTO ALL THE WORLD AND PREACH THE GOSPEL TO EVERY CREATURE.—Juvn Christ.
MOUNT ZION, (HANCOCK CO. GA) MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1822.
on board various ships on foreign stations—
but bearing by chance of bis father’s death,
he came to claim his inheritance. Having
heard on bis arrival, that his uncle bad suc
ceeded to the property, he came tome and
told me, that the night before he left his
home, his father stood by his bedside, kissed
him, and said, that never more would he
own such an undutiful son—but that he for
gave him all his sins—at death would not
defraud him of the pleasant fields that had
so long belonged to his humble ancestors —
and hoped to meet reconciled in heaven.
“My uncle is a villain,” said he, fiercely,
“and I will cast anchor on the green bank
where I played when a boy, even if 1 must
first bring his grey bead to the scaffold.”
“ I accompanied him to the house of his
uncle. It was a dreadful visit. The fami
ly had just sat down to their frugal midday
meal; and the old man, (though for some
years he could have had little heart to
pray, had just lifted np his hand to ask a
blessing. Our shadows, as we entered the
door, fell upon the table —and turning his
eyes, he beheld before him on the floor
the man whom he fearfully hoped had
been buried in the sea. His face was in
deed, at that moment, most unlike that of
prayer, but he still held up his lean, shriv
elled, trembling hand. “ Accursed hypo
crite,” cried the fierce mariner, “ dost
thou call down the blessing of God on a
meal won basely from the orphan? But,
lo ! God, whom thou hast blasphemed, has
sent me from the distant isles of the ocean,
to bring thy white head into the hangman’s
hands !”
“ For a moment all was silent—then a
loud stifled gasping was heard, and she
whom you saw a little while ago, rose
shrieking from her seat, and fell down on
her knees at the sailor’s feet. The terror
of that unforgiven crime, now first revealed
to her knowledge, struck her down to the
floor. She fixed her bloodless face on his
before whom she knelt—but she spoke not
a single word. There was a sound in her
convulsed throat like the death-rattle. “ I
forged the will,” said the son, advancing
towards his cousin with a firm step, “my
father could not—.! alone am guilty—l
alone must die.” The wife soon recover
ed the power of speech, but it was so un
like her usual voice, that I scarcely
thought, at first, the sound proceeded from
her white quivering lips. “As you hope
for mercy at the great judgment day, let
the old man make his escape—hush, hush,
hush—till in a few days he has sailed away
in the hold of some ship to America. You
surely will not hang an old grey-headed
man of threescore and ten years!”
“ The sailor stood silent and frowning.
There seemed neither pity nor cruelty in
his face; he felt himsllf injured; and look
ed resolved to right himself, happen what
would. “ I say he has forged my father’s
will. As to escaping, let him escape if he
can. Ido not wish to hang him; though I
have seen better men run up the fore-yard
arm before now, for only asking their own.
But no more kneeling, woman—Holla!
where is the old man gone?”
“We all looked ghastily around and the
wretched wife and mother, springing to her
feet, Pushed out of the house. We follow
ed, one and all. The door of the stable
was open, and the mother and son entering,
loud shrieks were beard. The miserable
old man had slunk out of the room unob
served during the passion that had struck
all our souls, and had endeavoured to com
mit suicide. His own son cut him down,
as he hung suspended from a rafter in that
squalid place, and, carrying him in his arms,
laid him down upon the green bank in front
of the house. There he lay with his livid
face, and blood-shot protruded eyes, till, in
a few minutes, he raised himself up, and
fixed them upon his wife, who, soon recov
ering from a fainting fit, came shrieking
from the mire in which she bad fallen
down. “ Poor people!” said the sailor
with a gasping voice, “you have suffered
enough for your crime. Fear nothing; the
worst is now past; and rather would I sail
the seas twenty years longer, than add
another pang to that old man’s heart. Let
us be kind to the old man.”
“ But it seemed as if a raven had croak
ed the direful secret all over the remotest
places among the hills; for, in an hour,
people came flocking in from all quarters,
and it was seen, that concealment or escape
was no longer possible, and that father and
son were destined to die together a felon’s
death.”
Here the pastor’s voice ceased; and I
had heard enough .to understand the long
deep sigh that bad come moaning from that
bowed-down figare beside the solitary well.
“That was the last work done by the
father and son, and finished the day before
the fatal discovery of their guilt. It had
probably been engaged so as a sort of
amusement to beguile tbeir ( unhappy minds
of ever-anxious thoughts, of perhaps as a
solitary occupation, at which they could
unburthen their guilt to one another undis
turbed. Here, no doubt, in the silence and
solitude, they often felt remorse, perhaps
penitence. They chiselled out their names
on that slab, as you perceive; and hither,
as duly as the morning and eveping shad
ows, comes the ghost whom we beheld,
and, after a prayer for the soul# of (hem so
tenderly “beloved in their guilt and in their
graves, she carries to her lonely hut the
water that helps to preserve her hopeless
life, from the well dog by dearer hands, 1
now mouldered away, both flesh and bone, i
into the dust.” j
After a moment’s silence the old man i
continued,—for he saw that I longed to i
hear the details of that dreadful catastro- i
phe, and his own soul seemed likewise de
sirous of renewing its grief,—“ The pris
oners were condemned. Hope there was
none. It was known, from the moment of
the verdict—guilty,—that they would be
executed. Petitions were, indeed, signed
by many thousands; but it was all in vain,
and the father and the son had to prepare
themselves for death.
“ About a.week after condemnation I vis
ited them in their cell. God forbid, i
should say that they were resigned. Hu
man nature could not resign itself to such a
doom; and ( found the old man pacing up
and down the stone floor, in his clanking 1
chains, with* hurried steps, and a counte
nance of unspeakable horrour. The son
was lying on bis face upon his bed of straw,
and had not lifted up his head, as the mas
sy bolu were withdrawn, and the door
ereaked sullenly on its hinges. The father
fixed his eyes upon me for some time, as if
I had been a straoger intruding upon his
misery; and, as soon as he knew me, shut
them with a deep groan, and pointed to his
son. “I have murdered William—l have
brought my only son to the scaffold, and l
am doomed to hell!” I gently called on the
youth by name, but he was insensible—he
was lying in a fit. “ I fear he will awake
out of that fit,” cried the old man with a
broken voice. “ They have come upon
him every day since our condemnation, and
sometimes during the night. It is not fear
for himself that brings them on—for my
boy, though guilty, is brave—but he con
tinues looking on my face for hours, till at
last he seems to lose all sense, and falls
down in strong convulsions, often upon the
stone-floor, till be is all covered with
blood.” The old man then went up to his
son, knelt down, and, putting aside the thick
clustering hair from Lis forehead, continued
kissing him for some minutes, with deep
sobs, but eyes dry as dust.
“ But why should I recall to my remem
brance, or describe to you, every hour of
anguish that I witnessed in that cell. For
several, weeks it was all agony and despair
—the Bible lay unheeded before their
ghastly eyes—arid for them there was no
consolation. The old man’s soul was filled
but with one thought—that he had deluded
his son into sin, death, and eternal punish
ment. He never slept; but visions, terri
ble as those of sleep, seemed often to pass
before him, till I have spen the grey hairs
bristle horribly over his temples, and big
drops of sweat splash down upon the floor.
I sometimes thought, that they would both
die before the day of execution ; but their
mortal sorrows, though they sadly changed
both face and frame, seemed at last to give
a horrible energy to life, and every morn
ing that I visited them, they were stronger,
and more broadly awake in the chill silence
of their lonesome prison-house.
“ I know not how a deep change was
at last wrought upon their souls; but two
days before that of execution, on entering
their cell, 1 found them sitting calm and
composed by each other’s side, with the
Bible open before them. Their faces,
though pale and haggard, had lost that
glare of mispry, that so long had shoDe
aboot their restless and wandering eyes,
and they looked like men recovering from
a long and painful sickness. I almost
thought I saw something like a faint smile
of hope. “Godehas been merciful unto
us,” said the father, with a calm voice.
“ 1 must not think he has forgiven my sins,
but be has enabled me to look on my poor
son’s face—to kiss him—to fold him in my
arms—to pray for him—to fall asleep with
him in my bosom, a9 I used often to do in
the days of his boyhood, when, during the
heat of mid-day, I rested from labour below
the trees of my own farm. We have found
resignation nt last, and are prepared to
die.”
“ There were no transports of deluded
enthusiasm in the souls of these unhappy
men. They bad oevtr doubted (he truth
of revealed religion, although they had fa
tally disregarded its precepts ; and now
that remorse had given way to penitence
and nature had become reconciled to the
thought of inevitable death, the light that
had been darkened, but never extinguished
in their hearts, rose up auew ; and know
ing that their souls were immortal, they
humbly put their faith in the mercy of their
Creator and their Redeemer.
“ It was during that resigned and serene
hour, that the old maD ventured to ask for
the motheP of his poor unhappy boy. I
told him the truth calmly, and calmly he
heard it all. On the day of his condemna
tion, she had been deprived of her reason,
and, in the house of a kind friend, whose
name he blessed, now remained in merci
ful ignorance of all that had befallen, be
lieving herself indeed, to be a motherless
widowj but one whp had long ago lost her
husband, and all her children, in tbe ordina
ry course of nature. At tbit recital his
Price, \ £.*> pr. urn. or, J
( $3,00 in advance. %
soul was satisfied. Tbe son said nothing,
but wept long and bitterly.
“The day of execution came at last
The great city lay still as on the morning
of the Sabbath-Day; and all the ordinary
business of life seemed by one consent of
the many thousand hearts beating there, to
be suspended. But as the hours advanced,
the frequent tread of feet was heard in eve
ry avenue; the streets began to fill with
pale, anxious, and impatient faces ; and
many eyes were turned to the dials on the
steeples, watching the silent progress of
the finger of time, till it should reach the
point at which the curtain was !o be- drawn
up from before a mot mournful tragedy.
“ The hour was faintly heard through
the thick prison walls by us,who were toge
ther for the last time in the condemned cell,
t bad administered to them the most awful
rite of our rejigioo, and father and son sat
together as silent as death. The door of
the duogeon opened, and several persons
came in. Oneof them who had a shrivel
led, bloodless face, and small red grey eyes,
an old man, feeble and tottering, but cruel
iq his decrepitude, laid hold of the son with
his palsied fingers, and began to pinion his
arms with a cord. No resistance was offer
ed; but, straight and untrembling, stood
that tall and beautiful youth,while the fiend
bound him for execution. At this mournful
sight, how could I bear to look on his fath
er’s face ? Yet thither were my eyes im
pelled by the agony that afflicted my com
miserating soul. During that hideous
gaze, he was insensible of the executioners
approach towards himself; and all tbe time
that the cords were encircling his own
arms, he felt them not, —he saw nothing
but his son standing at last before him,
ready for* the scaffold.
j
“ 1 darkly recollect a long dark vaulted
passage, anil the echoing tread of footstep',
till all at once we stood in a crowded hall,
with a thousand eyes fixed on these two
miserable men. How unlike were they to
all beside! They sat down together within
the shadow of death. Prayers were said,
i and a psalm was sung, in which their voice*
were heard to join, with tones that wrung
I out tears from the hardest or the most care
, les3 heart. Often had 1 heard those
voices singing in my own peaceful church,
before evil had disturbed, or misery brok
r en them; —but the last word of the psaljn
. was sung, and the hour of their departure
was come
, “ They stood at last upon the scaffold.
( That long street, that seemed to stretch
I away interminately from the old Prison-
I house, was paved with uncovered beads,
for the moment these ghosts appeared,
that mighty crowd felt reverence for hu
man nature so terribly tried, and prayers
and blessings, passionately ejaculated, or’
convulsively stifled, went hovering over all
the multitude, as if they feared seme great
| calamity to themselves, and felt standing
, on the first tremor of an earthquake.
. “It was a most beautiful summer’s day
on which they were led out to die; and as
the old man raised his eyes, for the last
time, to the sky, the clouds lay motionless
] on that blue translucent arch, and the sun
shone joyously over the magnificent heav
ens. It seemed a day made for happiness
5 or for mercy. But no pardon dropt down
* from these smiling skies, and the vast mill*
> titude were not to be denied the troubled
* feast of death. Many who'now stood there
! wished they had been in rhe heart of soma
i far off wood or glvo ; there was shrieking
1 and tainting, not only among maids and
wives, and matrons, who had come there
in the mystery of their hearts, but men fell
dowu in their strength,—for it was an
overwhelming thing to hehold a father and
his only son now haltered for a shameful
death. “Is my father with me on the “<;af
fold ?—give me his hand, for I see him
not.” I joined their hands together, and
at that moment the great bell in the Cathe
dral tolled, but I am convinced neither of
them heard the sound.—For a moment
there seemed to be no surh thing as sound
in the world; —and then all at once the
multitude heaved like the sea, and uttered
a wild yelling shriek.—Their souls were
in eternity—and i fear not to say, not an
eternity of grief.”
* * * * *
American Indian Missions.
Extracted from the Report of the Prudential Com
mittee of the American Board of Commiasion
ers for Foreign Mission:.
* In turning to the exertions of the Board,
among the Aborigines of our western wil
derness, there is much to excite gratitude
for the past, to inspire hope for the future,
and to impel forward iu an enterprise,
which has received signal tokens of the di
vine approbation. It is now the universal
ly admitted duty of American Christians to
send the knowledge of Christianity to (lie
scattered tribes within’ our own borders.
The missions, already undertaken among
them by this Board, have obtained favour
with the government of the U. States,with
the Christian community,& with the people,
fur whose bene# they were primarily in
tended’ Perseverance, an attentive obser
vation of Providence, an unshaken reliance
the power and promises ofood, and ft