Indiana Palladium, Volume 5, Number 32, Lawrenceburg, Dearborn County, 15 August 1829 — Page 1

EQUALITY OF RIGHTS IS NATURE'S PLAN AND FOLLOWING NATURE IS THE MARCH OF MAN. Barlow Volume V. LAWRENCEBURGH, INDIANA; SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1829. Number 32.

THE FIRST AND LAST KISS.

The following is an abridgment of a very striking article, full of pathos and o - .-1 . deep interest, which adorns the pages of Blackwood Tor the past month. David Morgan and his father, for some offence against the laws of their country, are condemned to transportation; the old man for the term of his natural life, and David for fourteen years. The latter is a man of morose, sullen and moo dy character. His misconduct involves a wife and child born during his impri sonment, in poverty and disgrace. On the day they are to leave their native country, David's wife seeks an interview with her husband with her infant in her arms. They meet in the couit-yard ol the prison. She could not speak. Old Morgan was silent. David, in a hard unfeeling tone, wmle not a leaturc cf his face relaxed from its rigid harshness, mere!) said, you have come at last, 1 thought you might have found your way here a little sooner. Hester could only reply by pointing to her baby, with a look of beseeching anguish, which seemed to say, do not upbraid me, you forget I have given birth to this innocent. The mule appeal appeared to touch him; for he took her hand, and gazing for a moment upon its thin white fingers, and the blue veins that were not used to be so vibible, till sickness had made them so, he kissed it. Hester drew nearer iearred against her husbaud's bosem and raising the infant towards his lips, wHose little sparkling eyes unclosed themselves, as if to look upon its father, ehe exclaimed, in a scarcely articulate voice, kies it too, David, kiss our son, and bless him. The felon father bowed hio head and kissed bis innocent child, while, with his unfettered arm, he clasped closer to his breast its weeping mother. Nature asserted her prerogative for an instant; the husband and father prevailed over the hardened criminal, and the heart of David owned that he was both. But the next instant he was neither. As if he thought it became him to play the churl, even at such a moment, or that he should lose character with his new companions, who were standing, round, witnesses of this scene, he put Hester coldly from him, and muttered as he turned away, there we have had enough of this nonsense. The child, born under such inauspicious circumstance, turns out a child of promise, ami becomes the pride and solace of Hester's widowhood. By the kindness of an eccentric, weallhv individ ual, Edmund, for such is her spu's name, is tent to the University, takes orders, and becomes the Minister of the parish in which he was born. The mystery of his birth, though frequently the subject of his secret thoughts, is never explained to him, his. mother from tender regard to his feelings, keeping concealed from him all knowledge of his father. This brief outline is sufficient to prepare the way for the remainder of the story, which we give. His reother entered his room one morning in extreme agitation. You have heard, said she with a faltering voice, of the dreadful business that took place last week; the murder, for eo it is considered, of one of the Duke of Beaufort's gamekeepers in a scuffle between him and the poacher, Edward Clark. I have, replied Edmund, and the wretched roaii will surely be hung if he is taken. He is taken, answered Mrs. Morgan, and lodged in Monmouth jail. h is the law of God and man, said Ed mund, that whoso sheddeth the blood of another, his own blood shall be the atone znent. This Edward Clark, moreover, is spoken ol as a culprit inured to many crimes; and who has walked in the paths of vice ail his life. But why this excessive agitation my dear mother? What is it that troubles you so grievously, and that has so long troubled you I You shall know, Edmund ; for it is better you should hear it from my lips than from those of others, and concealment is no longer possible. Edward Clark, is your father! My father I exclaimed Edmund; and he spoke not another word. His mother wept bitterly. For several minutes they sat in silence; the thoughts of Mrs. Morgan travelling through a miserable past, and those of her 6on absorbed in the conflict of present amazement and future suffering. He had found a father, hit the first impulse of his feelings was to bhsh at the discovery. He had learned the secret of his birth, and the knowledge of it tiuged his cheek with shame. He waited till his mother became more calm, and then prepared to

listen to a talc which he knew must 1 " a . c 1

mict h,m- w,m 39 mucl composure as she could command, rela ted all the circumstances attending her marriage with David Morgan, and of the crime for which he was transported. But in what she further disclosed, Edmund at once discovered the cause of i hat ceaseless sorrow which ha'4 so long harassed her. The term of '..is sentence having expired, and his father being dead, David obtained a passage hock to England ; and it was in the summer of the year following that in which Edmund went to Oxford, that he re-appeared in his native place. He did not make himself known; and indeed his appearance was so altered in the seventeen years he had been absent, that no one could have recognised him at first sight. But he prowled about the neigh borhood; and one evening, when Hester was walKing out alone, he suddenl) presented himself before her. She was alarmed, thinking he was some man who intended to insult or perhaps rob her. lie called her by her name; his voice awakened the recollection of him iu her memory, and gzing at him for a momen!, she knew it was her husband. He made a lew enquiries about herself, her father, and her children, but told her he never infant to trouble her as his wife. I am poor enough, said he, and I suppose you are not over rich, but when I want a guinea, I shall not be particular in looking to you for it; and I expect you will not begrudge getting rid of me upon such easy term?. If you have any money inyour pocket now, it is more than I have in mine, and a few shillings will be acceptable to me. Hester gave him what she had; but before she could utter a word in reply, he had turned upon his heel and entered a coppice by the road side, observing as lie went awa, remember, if you wish to be free from David Morgan, you will not deny Ed ward Clark, whenever he sends or watch es for you. From that lime he had con tinued to persecute her, sometimes by threatening messages, and sometime by dogging her step?, so that she almost dreaded to leave the parsonage-house.' How he coutrived to live she could only surmise from what she had heard about him every now &thcn as Edward Clark, till at length the affray between him and one of the Duke cf Beaufort's game-keepers led to the fatal catastrophe which caused him lobe apprehended as a murderer. Then, too, it began to be whispered in Tinlern, that Edward Clark the poacher was no other than David Morgan, who had been transported upwaids of twenty years ago, and who was the father of that excellent young man, the Rv. Edmund Morgan. Edmund listened to this recital with deep attention : and, when it was concluded, he exrlaimed, after a short pause, mother, I w ill see my father. I can do nothing for him in this world, which he must soon leave;; but he is not prepared for the next, and his eternal soul must not perish. I will visit him in prison, talk with him, and if Almighty God bless my purpose, I may become an instrument in his hands for bringing him to the true repentance of a coi.tiite sinner. There was consolation to Hester's heart in these words of h?jr son, and her sorrow was not without gladness, when she thought of the good work which filial piety might accomplish. The very next day, Edmund went to Monmouth, and procured an interview with Edward Clark. He did not disclose himself, but assumed the character of a friend of Mrs. Morgan merely, sent by her to know if there were any ser vice which she could render him in his present situation. It may be imagined with what feelings he beheld, for the first time, him who was his father, in the degraded condition of a felon and a mur derer. His appearance was that of a man between filty and sixty, with a pow erful make of body, and a countenance which indicated a rough and daring spir it, rather than the prevalence of ferocious passions. His eye was dull and heavy, and sunk deep into his head, and on his right cheek there were the traces of a severe wound, which.it wa3 aunno sed, he had received in his desperate 2f riirrrrtrk . 1 1 U U 1 'I'!. . vmu jc game-Keeper. liif top of his head was entirely bald; and when his hat was off, the bold projection 01 nis lorehead gave a vigorous and de termined character to the general ex pression of his face. He scarcely look ed at Edmund while 6peaking to him; but once or twice their eye6 met, and k migiu be iancy but his manner seem e1 disturbed, as if some dimly remembered resemblance of features once familiar to him were suddenly awakened;

for Edmund was exceedingly like his

mother. To the pretended message, ofl which Edmund represented himself as the bearer, his answer was, that he knew of no service which Mrs. Morgan, or any body else, could render him, unless she could save his neck from the halter; and, if she would supply him with money to pay the lawyers well, perhaps he might get off. Edmuud,who felt deeply shocked at this reprobate speech, at the reckless insensibility it evinced of the awful situation in which his father stood, said, he would undertake to promise for Mrs. Morgan, that whatever money might be required to obtain for him the utmost benefit of legal assistance, should be ready. He then endeavoured, indirectly, to lead him into a conversation upon the nature of the crime with which he was charged, and the certain consequences of his conviction; but he maintained a sullen silence; and, at la;t, manifested no equivocal symptoms of a determination to put an end to the interview. Edmund, therefore, took his leave. It wanted full two months of the time when the assizes would commence; and, during the whole of that period, Edmund sought frequent opportunities (sometimes twice or thrice in the course of a week) of visiting his father, as the messenger of Mrs. Morgan; but at none of these visits did David give him to un derstand he w as indebted for this solici tude, on her pail, to that which was the real cause., Edmund at length beheld the ripening harvest, which was to re ward his hallowed labors. lu&pired with a holy ardour, beyond what his sacred zeal in the cause of heaven could excite in ordinary circumstance, and his lei vent piety extited by the conscious ness thai it was a father's salvation he was seeking, every impulse of his heart and mind, every energy which religion could animate, was employed to regene rate the &ir.ful nature, and touch the Hardened bosom of the criminal. Much he considered, was accomplished, when lie had brought him into tuch a state ol feeling, that he would listen patiently and attentively to his mild vet earnest exhortations, though they elicited no cor responding demonstrations ol repentant sorrow But most was he rejoiced, and most assured did ha then feel of ultimate success, when, as he was one evening about to depart, after having enforced, with more than his usual eloquence, the great doctrine of a sincere repentance and a true reconciliation unto God, through the Redeemer, his father took him by the hand, and iu f. voice of supplication almost, rather than inquiry, said, when shall I see you again, Sir ? lie had never before asked a similar question, he had never before manifes ted the slightest desire for his return, and his doing so now, was a grateful eidence to Edmund that his awakened, heart began to hunger for the words of eternal hie, for the consolation of be-! lieving, with a devout and lively faith, that if we confess our sins, God is faithful and righteous to forgive usour errors, and to make us dean from all wicked ness. Nor was this a delusive promise. I he seed of righteousness had been sown, the tree had taken root, and the diligent laborer in the vineyard saw its green branches bhoot forth, bcaiing goodly and pleasant fruit. The day of tr ial came, and David was rraigned as a criminal before man, but stood before his judges as one who, hav ing made his peace with God, was prepared to atone for the life he had taken, by the just forfeiture of his own. He was convicted, and .entence of death passed upon him. He heard it with an air of composure and resignation, which even they who knew not the conviction thai had been wrought within him, still re cognized as the workings of a contiite heart, and not as the insensibility of an obdurate and callous one. He returned to his cell, and greeted Edmund, whom he found waiting for him, with a serene smile that seemed to say, the last mortal pang will soon be patst, and you have taught my soul how to pray for mercy, aud hope for happiness hereafter. I he short interval that remained to him be fore he ascended the scaffold was so em ployed and his demeanor such, that Ed mund's heart yearned to receive a bles sing from his lips which were now wash ed pure from guilt. He could not en dure the thought that his father should quit the world in ignorance that the son, w hom he knew not, had been a shining light to show him the path of salvation. And yet he feared lest the disclosure might discompose his thoughts, and bring him back again to earth. He was thus unresolved, and the fatal morning

approached. Edmund passed the whole of the preceding night with his father,

iu those solemn exercises of devotion which are the fitting preparations of an immortal soul for heaven. The dim light of a lamp fell upon his features as he bent over a bible which lay open before him, aud from which he was reading such passages as were most appro pnate to the situation of his father. David fixed his eyes upon hirn with sudden emotion, and exclaimed, it is very striking I Edmund looked up. I was thinking at that moment, he continued, of one w hom it would have delighted mo to see ere I die, though 1 have uuver mentioned her to you, sir, as my wife. But you are her friend, and I hope you have found cause to speak of me to her in such a way that I may feel assured of her forgiveness for all the misery 1 have occasioned her. My Mother, exclaimed Edmund, with an emphatic solemnity of voice, is on her knees this night, to pray for you, and to join her intercession with those of your son, David's breathing was quick, and his whole frame violently agitated, but he could not utter a word. Father! cried Edmund, and knelt before him. David took his son's hand?, and pressed them convulsively to his bosom, bui still ho could not speak, though he wept as a child. In a few minutes the struggle was over, aud he was able calmly to learn how mysteriously the will ol Gd had brought about his conversion by the holiness ot his own issue. The morning dawned, and only a few hours now remained before he would have to suffer the brief agony of a death which no longer appalled him by its terrors. Ho earnestly entreated Edmund to accompany him to the scaffold, that he might see with how much Christian fortitude he could meet his doom. It was a dreadful task, but he shiunk not from it. He' walked by his father's side. As they passed through one of the yards leading to the place of execution, David stopped and spoke to his son. it was on this very spot, said he, that I first looked upon you, then an infant in the arms el your mother; and she bHd 3011 to mt, and bade me kiss you: and 1 did so. it was my rnuT k.ss. Receive here my last; and, if I am w orthy to beg a bleing from heaxen upon you, may jour iife be spared till a child of your own shall smooth your path to the grave, as you have smoothed mine! So sujing, hebent forward, pressed his lips gently on the forehead of Edmund, then w alked on with a firm tep, and, in a few moments, David Motgan had satisfied alike (he laws of God and man, by rendering life for life. naturaTTiistoryEnivc'is at the Cope vf Uovd Hope. On the hill near Simon1 Tavern, at the Cape of Good Hope (gays Lieut. Sliipp, in his memoir?,) whole regiment of baboons assemble. Thise lascals. who stand six feet high, and are most abominable thieves, used to annoy us exceedingly. Our barracks were under the hills, and w hen we went to pa rade we wi ie invariably obliged to leave armed men for the protection of our pro perty : and even in spite o this they have frequently stolen our blankets aud great coats, or any thing else they could lay their claws on. A poor woman, a soldier's w ife, had washed her blanket, and' hung it out to dry, when some of these micieants, who were on the watch. stole it, and ran off w ith it into the hill?, which are high and woody. 1 his drew upon them the indignation of the regi ment, and we formed a strong party, armed with sUcks and stones to attack them, with a view of recovering the property, and lnlhcting such chastisement as might be a warning to them for the future. I was on the advance, with about twenty men, and I made a detour to cut them off from cavern?, to which they always fled for shelter. They observed my movement, aid immmediately detached about fifty to guard the entrance, while the others kept their post; and we could distinctly tee them collecting large 6toncs and other missiles. One old grey-headed one in particular, who often paid us a visit at the bauacke, and was known by the name of Father Murphy, was seen distributing his orders, and planning the attack with the judgment of one ot our best generals, t Hiding that my design was defeated, I joined the covp de main, and rushed on the attack, w hen a scream from Father Murphy , was a signal for a genera! encounter; and the host of baboons under his command rolled dowu enormous stow? upon us, so

that we were obliged to give up the contest, or some of us must inevitably have baeu killed. They actually followed us to our very doors, ehoutiog in indication of victory, and during the whole night we hoard dreadful yells and screaming so much so that we expected a night attack. In the morning, however, we found that all this rioting bad been created by disputes about the division of the blanket, for we saw eight or ten of theno with pieces of it upon their backs, as old women wear their cloaks. Among the number strutted Father Murphy. These rascals annoyed us day and night and we dared not venture cut uuless a party of five or six went together. Ode morn ing Father Murphy had the consummate impudence to walk straight into the grenadier barrack?, and he was in the very act of purloining a Serjeant's regimental coat, when a corporal's guard, which bad

just been relieve.d, toek th liberty of stopping the gentleman at the door, and secured him. He was u most powerful brute, and, I am persuaded, too much for any single man. Notwithstanding tfis frequent misdemeanors, we did not like to kill the poor creature; so, first having taken the precaution of muzzling him, we determined on shaving his head and face, and then turned him loose. To this ceremony, 6trange to say, he submilted very quietly, and when shaved, he was really an exceedingly good-looking fellow, and I have 6een roany'a blood in Bond street riot half so prepossessing in his appearance. We then started bins up the hill, though he seemed rather reluctant to leave us. Seme of his com panions came down to meet him, but from the alteration which shaving his head and face bad made in him, they did not know him again, and accordingly pelted him with stones and beat him with sticks in so mmerciful a manner, that poor Father Murphy actually sought protection from his unemies, and he in time became quite domesticated and tame. There are many now alive in his Majesty's 2-d regiment of foot, who can vouch for the truth of this anecdote. Litdkron Scene, In a case uhich occurred iu the Crown Court durirc the late Gloucester Assizes, a countryman who had been subpoenaed as a witness on the part of a prisoner, set the whole Court in a roar of laughter. Matters proceeded very smoothly during his direct examination, and he made no objections to answer any question which was put to him on behalf of his friend i& the dock; but ifter he had been subjected for some time to the galling fire of & cioss-ersamination by the counsel forth prosecution, he became restive, and at length findtug Lis stock of patience completely exhausted, he expressed his determination to answer no more questions from that quarter, in the following ternns: ul wunt say no more be domM if 1 do Fse told you all I knows about it -and thctt's all I got to say, by Gr-;" When the Counsel for the prisoner again addressed him he said "Aye, I can speak; to thees mon, but its uopossible vor I to answer so mony on )e, at once as to the Lord he up there pointing to the Bench let un axe me as money ques tions as un like?, and 111 answer un, but Pse can't folk 10 a lot of fellow ail at one time." Cheltenham Chronicfe I was reading covernor sace to my uncle Toby, and when I had rot through that part where he sneaks of the evil effects of employing money at our elections, the old gentleman smiled, and related the following anecdote: 'Hit puts me in mind,' said he, 'of a young clergyman 1 once knew , many years ago, who preached an eloquent sermon, iu the coune of which he took occasion to re mark on the impropriety of spending the evenings of the Sabbath in social visits: a custom he said very common among young men. You remember the sermon, Trim?" "0 yee, your honor, perfectly well," said the corporal, "and the clergyman too; he was a sedate looking man, and wore spectacles." "Well, as I was saying, continued my uncle, he had been preaching against the evil of going to see the girls on Sunday evening when after service he took me bv the arm pome,' says he, 'let us go ta the Deacon'j, and tpend the evening with his daughtei V "How,1 cried I, vilh much suipiisc, 4is it possible you can make such a proposal to me, after the sermon you have just concluded t r?imaw!' say a he, 4I only made those remarks in order that we might have the better chance ourselves." 'Vflf. Advocate Major John Biddle has been elected delegate to Oongrew from Michigan Iff,