His mother 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 so it is considered, of one of the Duke of Beaufort's game-keepers, in a scuffle between him and the poacher, Isaac Price."

"I have," replied Edmund," and the wretched man will surely be hung, if he is taken."

"He is taken," answered Mrs. Morgan," and lodged in Monmouth jail.”

"It is the law of God and man," said Edmund, "that whoso sheddeth the blood of another, his own blood shall be the atonement. This Isaac Price, moreover, is spoken of as a culprit inured to many crimes; one who has walked in the paths of vice all 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?" "You shall know, Edmund; for it is better you should hear it from my lips than from those of others, and concealment is now no longer possible. Isaac Price is YOUR father!"

"My father!” exclaimed Edmund; and he spoke not another word. His mother wept bitterly. For several minutes they sate in silence; the thoughts of Mrs. Morgan travelling through a miserable past, and those of her son absorbed in the conflict of present amazement and future suffering. He had found a father, but the first impulse of his feelings was to blush at the discovery. He had learned the secret of his birth, and the knowledge of it tinged his cheek with shame. He waited till his mother became more calm, and then prepared to listen to a tale which he knew must deeply afflict him. She, with as much composure as she could command, related all the circumstances attending her marriage with David Morgan, and of the crime for which he was transported. But 39 ATHENEUM, VOL. 2, 3d series.

mund at once discovered the cause of that ceaseless sorrow which had so long harassed her. The term of his sentence having expired, and his father being dead, David obtained a passage back to England; and it was in the summer of the year following that in which Edmund went to Oxford, that he reappeared 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 neighborhood; and one evening, when Hester was walking out alone, he suddenly presented himself before her. She was alarmed, thinking he was some man who intended to insult, or perhaps rob her. He called her by her name; his voice awakened the recollection of him in her memory, and gazing at him for a moment, she knew it was her husband.

He made a few inquiries about herself, her father, and her children; but told her he never meant to trouble her by claiming 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 to get rid of me upon such easy terms. If you have any money in your 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 he went away, "Remember, if you wish to be free from David Morgan, you will not deny Isaac Price, whenever he sends or watches for you." From that time he had continued to persecute her; sometimes with threatening messages, and sometimes by dogging her steps, so that she almost dreaded to leave

the parsonage house. How he contrived to live she could only surmise from what she heard about him, every

now and then, as Isaac Price, till at length the affray between him and one of the Duke of Beaufort's game-keepers led to the awful catastrophe which caused him to be apprehended as a murderer. Then, too, it began to be whispered in Tintern, that Isaac Price the poacher, was no other than David Morgan who had been transported upwards of twenty years ago, and who was the father of that excellent young man, the Rev. Edmund Morgan.

Edmund listened to this recital with deep attention; and, when it was concluded, he exclaimed, after a short pause, Mother, I will see my father. I can do nothing for him in this world, which he must so 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 contrite sinner." There was consolation to Hester's heart in these words of her 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 Isaac Price. 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 service 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 murderer. His appearance was that of a man between fifty and sixty, with a powerful make of body, and a countenance which in dicated a rough and daring spirit, 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 was supposed, he had received in his desperate struggle with the game-keeper. The top of his head was entirely bald; and, when his hat was off, the bold

projection of his forehead gave a vigorous and determined character to the general expression of his face. He scarcely looked at Edmund while speaking to him; but once or twice their eyes met, and-it might be fancy-but his manner seemed 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, of which Edmund represented himself as the bearer, his answer was, that "he knew of no service which Mrs. Morgan, or anybody 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." Edmund, who felt deeply shocked at this reprobate speech, and 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 endeavored, 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 last, 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 understand he was indebted for this solicitude, on her part, to that which was the real cause. Edmund, at length, beheld the ripening harvest which was to reward his hallowed labors. Inspired with a holy ardor, beyond what even his sacred zeal in the cause of heaven could excite in ordinary circumstances; and

his fervent piety exalted by the consciousness that 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 regenerate the sinful nature, and touch the hardened bosom of the criminal. Much, he considered, was accomplished, when he had brought him into such a state of feeling, that he would listen patiently and attentively to his mild yet earnest exhortations, though they elicited no corresponding demonstrations of repentant sorrow. But most was he rejoiced, and most assured did he 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 in a voice of supplication almost, rather than of inquiry, said, "When shall I see you again, sir?" He had never before asked a similar question: he had never before manifested the slightest desire for his return; and his doing so now, was a grateful evidence to Edmund that his awakened heart began to hunger for the words of eternal life,—for the consolation of believing, with a devout and lively faith, that “if we confess our sins, God is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins, and make us clean from all wickedness." Nor was this a delusive promise. The seed of righteousness had been sown ; the tree had taken root; and the diligent laborer in the vineyard saw its green branches shoot forth, bearing goodly and pleasant fruit.

The day of trial came, and David was arraigned as a criminal before man; but stood before his judges as one who, having 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 sentence of death passed upon him. He heard it with an air of composure and resignation, which even they who knew not the conversion

that had been wrought within him, still recognised as the workings of a contrite 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 past, and you have taught my soul how to pray for mercy, and hope for happiness hereafter. The short interval that remained to him before he ascended the scaffold was so employed, and his demeanor such, that Edmund's heart yearned to receive a blessing from lips which were now washed pure from guilt. He could not endure the thought that his father should quit the world in ignorance that the son, whom 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 them back again to earth. was thus unresolved, and the fatal morning approached. Edmund passed the whole of the preceding night with his father, in 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, and from which he was reading such passages as were most appropriate to the situation of his father.

He

David fixed his eyes upon him with sudden emotion, and exclaimed, "It is very striking!" Edmund looked up. "I was thinking at that moment," he continued, "of one whom it would have delighted me to see ere I die, though I have never 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 I 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 intercessions with those of your son.

David's breathing was quick, and

task, but he shrank not from it. He walked by his father's side. As they

David took his son's hands and pressed them convulsively to his bosom, but still he could not speak, though he wept as a child. In a few minutes the struggle was over, and he was able calmly to learn how mysteriously the will of God had brought about his conversion by the holiness of 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. He 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

"It

ing to the place of execution, David stopped and spoke to his son. was on this very spot," said he, "that I first looked upon you, then an infant in the arms of your mother; and she held you to me, and bade me kiss you; and I did so. It was my FIRST kiss. Receive here, my son, my LAST; and, if I am worthy to beg a blessing from heaven upon you, may your life be spared till a child of your own shall smooth your path to the grave, as you have smoothed mine!” So saying, he bent forward, pressed his lips gently on the forehead of Edmund, then walked on with a firm step, and, in a few moments, David Morgan had satisfied alike the laws of God and man, by rendering life for life.

"GREAT events sometimes spring from trivial causes." Of the truth of this adage, no man is, I think, so great a heretic, as to express any doubt; -were such the case, it would be by no means difficult to conjure up a host of evidence, in support of our proposition; but, seeing that "such things are," let us at once to the point.

The present age is so rife in whims and proposals, that I am rather apprehensive some may doubt the feasibility of the following. Nevertheless, it is, methinks, quite as good as many others which were recently strangled, in struggling for existence.

In looking over some old pamphlets the other day, I met with the following "true and particular account” of Mr. Peter Pounce, Postmaster of Petersham, and his horse Prance.

Now, according to my author (of whose veracity I entreat the reader to use his own discretion) it seems this Mr. Pounce was an exceedingly good kind of man, and that his horse, Prance, was also an exceedingly good kind of horse; moreover, when the postmaster travelled, he usually put

up at the George, where there was exceedingly good entertainment for both man and horse. Upon one occasion, being in great haste, Mr. Pounce directed the ostler not to put Prance into the stable, but to tie him to the brew-house door. Now, as cruel-fate would have it, there was just within the nag's reach a tub full of wine lees, which, luckless moment for him, (being thirsty) he unceremoniously quaffed off in a trice.

The consequence was, Prance fell down dead drunk; nay, he acted death so much to the life, that his master, reckoning him absolutely defunct, had him flayed, and sold his skin to a tanner, who happened to be drinking in the ale-house kitchen. Mr. Pounce then walked in a solitary mood to his home, and communicated the melancholy affair to his good lady, who wept bitterly at Prance's untimely fate.

But leaving her to dry her eyes, we return to the nag. The weather being cold, he was, by the loss of his skin, &c. quite sobered, and prudently trotted to his master's door, at which he

whinnied with much clamor for admission.

Bless me, my dear, exclaims Mrs. P. our nag's ghost is at the door-I know him by his whinnies; upon which Mr. Pounce runs with alacrity to the door, and sure enough there he was no ghost-but in propriâ personâ except his skin. In this exigence, the gentleman had four sheep killed forthwith, and covered the nag with a woollen garment. To make short of it, the horse rapidly recovered, and bore two tods of wool every year.

From this narration it is proposed to embrace the manifest advantages which offer themselves for improving the woollen trade-that great staple of Britain's wealth, in manner following:

First, then, let an accurate estimate be taken of the number of sheep annually slaughtered in these kingdoms.

Secondly. Let proper officers be appointed to collect the skins into commodious warehouses.

Lastly. Let such a number of horses, mares and geldings as the said skins will conveniently cover, be flayed (without fear of Mr. Martin!) and their backs forthwith enveloped in fleece.

By this arrangement the following benefits will arise to the government and community :

1. Every horse whose hide was formerly only useful after death, will then afford an annual profit by producing two tods of wool yearly, without any loss to the tanner or shoemaker, who will still necessarily have as many hides as heretofore.

2. The health of that useful animal the horse, which is probably liable to more disorders than any other (the human species excepted) will be much better preserved by a woollen than a hairy covering.

3. There will be little occasion for saddles, &c. as the fleece will afford a very easy seat, much softer than leather, and well adapted for ladies and invalids.

Lastly. There will be an annual acquisition of about 40 millions sterling, from this novel mode of procedure, of which please to accept the following algebraical demonstration :—

Let x be the unknown quantity; a, the horses; b, the sheep: then per simple equations x, plus a, plus b, minus tods, plus sheepskins, equal one thousand-then minus sheep, plus horses, minus wool, plus tods, equal one million. Lastly, horses plus sheep, minus hides, plus fleeces, in all equal forty millions.

Quod erat demonstrandum. There, reader, if you are still a sceptic, I cannot help it.

EURIPIDES is with me as one of the graven names in our old Harrow Hall, -one of those sweet and sunny memories to which my heart returns, as a village child to the green nest it hath marked long ago in its roamings, hoping to find the quiet music that used to dwell there. I attribute much of the charm which the poetry of the Greeks has ever possessed over my mind, to the power of association. From the day I was able to under

stand a Greek play I studied it for itself alone, blending, as I proceeded, all my boyish hopes and feelings, all my thoughts and affections, until the sweet breathing recollections of Sophocles and Euripides were bound up in the sheaf of all that is bright and beautiful in my heart, of all that is pure and hallowed in my imagination. The Hecuba was the first Greek play I read. My memory goes back to that time with a joy it rarely feels in