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disinherited by his stern and unrelenting parent. On the day after the funeral, the old man produced his brother's will, by which he became heir to all his property except an annuity to be paid to the natural heir, should he ever return. Some pitied the prodigal son who had been disinherit ed-some blamed the father-some envied the good fortune of those who had so ill borne adversity. But, in a short time, the death, the will, and the disin herited, were all forgotten, and the lost lands being redeemed, peace, comfort, and happiness were supposed 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 Providence had restored a gentle shelter to his declining years. When seen wandering through his fields at eventide, 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 regularity, I sometimes thought they were suddenly averted in conscious guilt; or closed in hypocritical devotion. I scarcely know if I 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 hidden 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 companions, now became dissolute and profligate; nor did he meet with any reproof from a father whose heart would once have burst asunder at one act of wickedness in his be loved child.

"About three years after the death of his father, the disinherited son returned to his native parish. He had been a sailor on board various ships on foreign stations -but hearing by chance of his father's death, he came to claim his inheritance. Having heard on his arrival that Iris uncle had succeeded to the property, he came to me 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 forgave him all his sins-at death would not defraud him of the pleasunt 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 I must first bring his gray head to the scaffold.'

"I accompanied him to the house of his uncle. It was a dreadful visit. The family had just sat down to their frugal. mid-day meal; and the old man, though for some years he could have had little heart to pray, had just lifted up his hand to ask a blessing. Our shadows, as we entered the door, fell upon the tableand, turning his eyes, he beheld before him on the floor the man whom he fear fully hoped had been buried in the sea, His face was, indeed, at that moment, most unlike that of prayer, but he still held up his lean, shrivelled, trembling hand. Accursed hypocrite,' 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 & loud stified 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 & firm step, my father could not-I alone am guilty-1 alone must die.' The wife soon recovered the power of speech, but it was so unlike 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 gray-headed man of three score and ten years!"

"The sailor stood silent and frowning. There seemed neither pity nor cruelty in his face; he felt himself injured; and looked resolved to right himself, happen what would. I say he has forged my fa ther's will. As to escaping, let him escape if he can. I do not wish to hang him; though I have seen better men run up to the fore-yard arm before now, for only ask. ing their own. But no more kneeling, woman.-Holla! where is the old man gone?'

"We all looked ghastly around, and the wretched wife and mother, springing to her feet, rushed out of the house. We followed, one and all. The door of the stable was open, and the mother and son entering, loud shrieks were heard. 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 pro truded eyes, till, in a few minutes, he raised himself up, and fixed them upon his wife, who, soon recovering from a fainting fit, came shrieking from the mire in which she had 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 croaked 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 conceal ment 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 had come moaning from that bowed-down figure 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 in as a sort of amusement to beguile their unhappy minds of ever-anxious thoughts, or perhaps as a solitary occupation, at which they could unburden their guilt to one another undisturbed. Here, no doubt, in silence and solitude, they often felt remorse, perhaps penitence. They chiselled out their names on that slab, as you per ceive; and hither, as duly as the morning and evening shadows, comes the ghost, whom we beheld, and, after a prayer for the souls of them so tenderly beloved in their innocence, and doubtless even more 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 dug by dearest hands, now mouldered away, both flesh and bone, into the dust."

After a moment's silence the old man continued-for he saw that I longed to hear the details of that dreadful catastrophe, and his own soul seemed likewise desirous of renewing its grief-"The prisoners 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, 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

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visited them in their cell. God forbid I should say that they were resigned. Human nature could not resign itself to such a doom; and I found the old man pacing up and down the stone floor, in his clank ing chains, with hurried steps, and à countenance of unspeakable horror. The son was lying on his face upon his bed of straw, and had not lifted up his head, as the massy bolts were withdrawn, and the door creaked sullenly on its hinges. The father fixed his eyes upon me for some time, as if I had been a stranger 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-I have brought my only son to the scaffold, and I 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 continues 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 he is all covered with blood. The old man then went up to his son, knelt down, and, putting aside the thick clustering hair from his forehead, continued kissing him for some minutes, with deep sobs, but eyes dry as dust.

"But why should I recall to my remembrance, 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 be fore their ghastly eyes-and 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 punishment. He never slept; but visions, terrible as those of sleep, seemed often to pass before him, till I have seen the gray hairs bristle horribly over his temples, and big drops of sweat plash 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 morning 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, I 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 misery, that so long had shone about their restless and wandering cyes, and they looked like men recovering from a long and

painful sickness. I almost thought I saw Something like a faint smile of hope.God has been merciful unto us,' said the father, with a calm voice. I must not think that he has forgiven my sins, but he 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, as 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 at last, and are prepared to die.'

"There were no transports of deluded enthusiasm in the souls of these unhappy men. They had never doubted the truth of revealed religion, although they had fatally 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 anew; and knowing 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 man ventured to ask for the mother of his poor unhappy boy. I told him the truth calmly, and calmly he heard it all. On the day of his condemnation, she had been deprived of her reason, and, in the house of a kind friend, whose name he blessed, now remained in merciful ignorance of all that had befallen, believing herself, indeed, to be a motherless widow, but one who had long ago lost her husband, and all her children, in the ordinary course of nature. At this recital his soul was satisfied. The 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 every 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 to be drawn up from before a most mournful tragedy.

The hour was faintly heard through the thick prison walls by us, who were together for the last time in the condemned cell. I had administered to them the most awful rite of our religion, and father and son sat together as silent as death. The door of the dungeon opened, and several persons came in. One of them, who had a shrivelled bloodless face, and small red gray eyes, an old man, feeble and tottering, but cruel in his decrepitude, laid hold VOL. V.

of the son with his palsied fingers, and began to pinion his arms with a cord. No resistance was offered; but, straight and untrembling, stood that tall and beautiful youth, while the fiend bound him for exe cution. At this mournful sight, how could I bear to look on his father's face? Yet thither were mine eyes impelled by the agony that afflicted my commiserating soul. During that hideous gaze, he was insensible of the executioner's approach towards himself; and all the 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.

"I darkly recollect a long dark vaulted passage, and the echoing tread of footsteps 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, and a psalm was sung, in which their voices were heard to join, with tones that wrung out tears from the hardest or the most careless heart. Often had I heard those voices singing in my own peaceful church, before evil had disturbed, or misery broken them-but the last word of the psalm was sung, and the hour of their departure was come.

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"They stood at last upon the scaffold. That long street, that seemed to stretch away interminably from the old prisonhouse, was paved with uncovered heads, for the moment these ghosts appeared, that mighty crowd felt reverence for human nature so terribly tried, and prayers and blessings, passionately ejaculated, or convulsively stifled, went hovering over all the multitude, as if they feared some 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 heavens. It seemed a day made for happiness or for mercy. But no pardon dropt down from these smiling skies, and

the vast multitude were not to be denied the troubled feast of death Many who now stood there wished they had been in the heart of some far-off wood, or glen there was shrieking and fainting, not only among maids, and wives, and matrons, who had come there in the mystery of their hearts, but men fell down in their strength -for it was an overwhelming thing to be hold a father and his only son now haltered for a shameful death. Is my father with me on the scaffold?-give me his hand, for I see him not. I joined their hands together, and at that moment the great bell in the Cathedral tolled, but

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am convinced neither of them heard the sound. For a moment there seemed to be no such 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."

Protestant Episcopal Church in Ohio. THE attention of the friends of religion, and particularly of the Protestant Episcopal Church, is solicited to the following documents.

New-York, October 20, 1821.

I am so deeply impressed with the want of missionary labours in this diocess, particularly in those new settlements where there are many individuals and congregations who are desirous, but unable to procure the services of our Church, that I have uniformly thought it was the duty of the Episcopalians of this state to confine their bounty within its limits. But I feel it impossible to resist the affecting and forcible appeal from the diocess of Ohio, the distressed condition of which, as detailed in the annexed interesting documents, will, I trust, excite the sympathy and benevolence of the friends of religion and of the Protestant Episcopal Church.

JOHN HENRY HOBART, Bishop of
the Protestant Episcopal Church
in the State of New-York.

To the Right Reverend the Bishops of the
Protestant Episcopal Church in the
United States of America-
Their Friend and Brother, the Bishop of the
Diocess of Ohio, sendeth greeting :--
RIGHT REVERend and Dear Brethren,

I address you on a subject of no common interest; it is that of the prosperity, and, perhaps, the existence of our Church in the state of Ohio, and in the country generally west of the Alleghany mountains.

That it is now my duty to address you 1 am persuaded by a consideration of my pastoral vows, and by referring to the recommendatory resolution of the last Convention of the diocess over which divine Providence has placed me.

The latter is in the words following:"Whereas there are many vacant congregations of the Church in this state which are unable to support ministers, and -numerous members of our communion, scattered over an extensive country, destitute of the ministrations of the word and sacraments; therefore,

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Resolved, by this Convention, That the Right Rev. the Bishop be requested to prepare and transmit, to the Bishops of the respective diocesses in the United States, an address, setting forth the great necessities of the Church within the dio

cess of Ohio: and soliciting their aid and assistance in procuring Missionaries to reside therein.

"Resolved further, That, should a Missionary Society be organized upon the plan proposed by this Convention, the Bishop is respectfully requested to communicate the fact and object of such Society to the several Bishops of the United States, and request their aid in furthering and promoting the object thereof, in such manner as shall be deemed most expedient."

In compliance with the latter of the above resolutions, I beg leave to state, that the Missionary Society therein named was formed by the members of our Convention during their last session; and, that it meets with the hearty approbation and best endeavours of all the diocess, so far as we have as yet been able to learn. The object of this Society, as may be seen by perusing their Constitution, inserted on the Journals of the Convention, is to con centrate the means of our own scattered people in one united effort; thereby ma. nifesting that we are not wanting in our own exertions, however feeble, to found and build up the Church of God among us.

It is also the object of the Society, by constituting a Treasury under the guardianship and good faith of the whole dio. cess, to give a pledge that the donations made from abroad will be applied in the best manner possible, and that by persons on the spot, who know the necessities of our people, and the means of effecting the most good.

To fulfil the former of these resolutions, I have now, Right Reverend Brethren, to lay before you our condition, our necessi ties, our fears, our hopes, and our prayers,

The Map of Ohio will show you the extent of our charge. Our extreme parishes, as those of Cincinnati and Ashtabula, are distant, each from the other, rising three hundred miles. In other directions their distance is not much less. On this vast surface our settlements are thinly scattered; and among these settlements are mingled the members of our primitive Church. Having emigrated from places where the pleasant things of our Zion were freely and in abundance ministered, they remember their past enjoyments as hungry persons think on their former feasts of plenty. They are, both from reading and experience, too well informed to enjoy the crude things of modern date which are offered to them in place of their former delights; and they are too pious not to hope, trust, and believe that they shall have the good things of the Gospe! Kingdom extended to them. In this situation they sit, like the captive Israelites by the muddy waters of Euphrates' stream, waiting, with sighs and tears, for redemption to the Church of God; for that

blessed time when the word and sacraments can, with any thing like constancy, be ministered among them. Besides innumerable individuals dispersed through out our state, there are forty-eight places, containing our little flock, mostly in circumstances similar to the above. These I have hitherto visited once a year. I have witnessed their joy at meeting, and their grief at parting. Their passionate inquiries, prompted by their love of Zion, and especially by the danger of the rising generation's being enticed every day from her order and beauty into the paths of sin, schism, and infidelity; their passionate inquiries for some prospects of relief in the enjoyment of faithful Missionaries, almost every where repeated, have sunk deep into my heart, and caused my tears to mingle with theirs. "While all others," say they, "enjoy these blessings, why are we deprived of them? Has that Church, which we deem emphatically primitive, no zeal to assist their distressed brethren in the wilderness; while all others, of modern date, compass sea and land to make proselytes?"

Our parishes and places of holding di, vine service are mostly distant from each other from fifteen to sixty miles; and the amount of parochial services is hardly so much as of five clergymen to supply them all. Though these are faithful, I fear, be yond their strength, yet what are they among so many congregations, and at such distances? To keep, from Ecclesiastical extinction, the little flocks already form ed, they have, in many instances, encompassed so great a field of duty that, before they have finished their circuit, their former labours are no more seen; their fences against error are thrown down, the weeds of sin are grown, and their whole ground is laid waste. Too often have I witnessed this with mine own eyes-too often have I seen the lambs of the fold devoured, because a shepherd was too far distant to hear their cries. What must be my feelings under such circumstances, the beatings of your own bosoms, as you read this, can best express.

In doing the duty above alluded to, I have found the labours of a Missionary inseparable from those of the Episcopate; and, to a person of my age, this assemblage of fatigue is more than can be borne. In cessant speaking in private as well as in public, in teaching the rudiments of Christianity to the young, in explaining and defending the first principles of our religion to the ignorant opposer, have already much impaired my voice and my general health; and, should this state of things continue, to all human view, my strength will soon be brought down in my journey, and my days will be shortened.

So circumstanced, where can I, under divine Providence, look for aid in the ar

duous work assigned me, but to you, my Brethren in the Lord? Think not, I entreat you, that I do this without due con. sideration. By what is in print I am apprised of your wants among your own flocks. I see the need you have to apply your own resources at home. But wants as well as riches are relative. They are small or great only by comparison. A family may be in want, and charity should begin at home; but if a neighbour be dying for want of relief, who can refuse that relief and be innocent?

This, in the eyes of all reflecting persons, is our case. Our parishes and people are too dismembered and too poor to maintain qualified ministers of the word and sacraments. They have made their efforts according to their utmost ability, and they find all is insufficient. Should they be suffered to fail in this diocess, what will remain of the Church in the west? They will soon disperse. No funds -no clergy—and soon no people. Thus, even should prosperous days return, thero will be no foundation on which to build a future superstructure.

Seeing so little hopes of fostering our little flocks which we had formed in the wilderness, even the clergy we had, some of them, began to think of removing to more flourishing regions, and leaving the rest to mourn out their days in useless ef forts and hopeless solitude. But the Lord hitherto hath helped. Their faith in the expected relief, which this instrument implores, has as yet bore up their spirits.-"We will make this last effort, say we, and God in his mercy will smile upon us. This shall occupy our nightly dream and daily prayer. The fathers of our common Church, the chief labourers in Christ's vineyard, will not suffer this rose in the west, which God's own right hand hath planted, to be blasted in its bud, its beauty to fade thus untimely, and its fragrance to cease from us for ever. They will, under God, send forth labourers, faithful minis. ters; they will incite their people to give liberally of their abundance; and we yet shall see the prosperity of our beloved Zion."

Right Reverend Brethren,

I have now, surrounded by my manifold cares, finished my address to you on this, of all others dwelt upon through my whole life, the most important and momentous subject; and thus, according to my weak ability, have done my duty. With prayers the most sincere, I commit the event of it to the wisdom, the goodness and mercy of him who, to found and erect a Kingdom here on earth, shed his precious blood for us. Whatever this event may be, whether prosperous or adverse, I humbly implore his divine grace to make me submissive to his holy will and pleasure. The person who is the bearer of this to

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