lieutenancy of their office, she marshals her annual grog-shops, and spreads them in tented array around the City Hall. Decanters and tumblers, sparkling with wine and brandy, and gin, glitter in the summer's sun, while pies and cakes, and fruit, sweetly melt and rot under the heat of 84°, all inviting to the palate! Here is seen the libertine splendour of the day, more than could appear if a mammoth flag begirted the iron railing all around the Park, or waved its long spirals from the City Hall to Chatham-Row. I know not exactly why it is, that our city authorities thus block up the public walks, and disfigure one of the fairest portions of our city, unless they imagine that twelve hundred licensed grog-shops will fail to administer the necessary drunkenness of the day. At any rate, this public arrangement has remarkable success. As early as eight o'clock might be seen the half drunk, with red faces, bloodshot eyes, and as occasion offered, (men half drunk cannot long want occasion,) getting up a quarrel on every hand;-the whole drunk, staggering, reeling, falling; and even the dead drunk, sleeping on the side walks, bedded in their filth. Whether all this drunkenness be due to the glory of the day; especially whether it should be officially got up, may be well worthy the consideration of our public functionaries. As it is, my fancy conceives the City Hall as a grand reservoir causing a thousand fountains to rush up around it, in sparkling beauty, to gladden every drunkard's eye; as for one day in the year helping forward the vice and folly, which it is her office, for the remaining three hundred and sixty-four, to punish and restrain. Truly on the 4th of July, the sculptured Justice, whom we daily see balancing the cause of truth and righteousness, and seeming with the majesty and mildness of her look, to hold in sway the wide spread population beneath her, ought to have, flung over her, the stripes and stars of liberty; and a reeling Bacchus, with a staggering tumbling train, (say half a dozen drunkards suitably dressed, and fastened with ropes to keep them from falling off,) should have the roof: fit emblem of the day's perversion, and the City Hall's degradation. As the glory of the day advances, drunkenness thickens upon the public eye; and among the crowd which rolls like a river along Broadway, and which fills the Park, the drunkards, by their noise, their ribaldry and their blasphemy, disgust and sadden the few sober and honest people, who mingle with the rabble to see the show and bustle. How the motley scene below looks to the crowd of beauty and fashion which fills doors, windows and piazzas, we cannot tell, but hope, for the comfort of our fair and gentle friends, that they are blind to all but the decent and respectable splendour which mottles the scene. Else surely they will feel themselves punished and not rewarded, for being elbowed, and jostled, and squeezed, by the crowd, and melted by the sun, before they attained their posts of observation. The great triangle of the Park, which is now full, must disembogue itself the great but artificial reservoir has gathered up the streams which would else have been confined to their own natural and secret courses, and by a thousand channels it will push its corruption through the city, until drunkenness, profanity and the worse, glare upon the eye, or lurk in chambers and corners, through all the streets, and lanes and gardens of our city. Until, while the bewildered city fills the air with music, and streaks the mantle of night with streams of liquid fire, the watching angels weep amid the revelry, that a city so blessed with liberty should show itself enslaved to vice, and drunkenness, and folly. Obituary. To the Editor of the Christian Herald. THE following narrative was sent to the Guardian in the month of April; nothing has been heard from it, only a simple notice in one of the numbers of that work, that it was received. The author of the narrative, and friends of the deceased, are dissatisfied with the long delay of this Editor; especially as they do not know whether he means to publish it or not. For these reasons, if you think proper, you are at liberty to publish the narrative in the Christian Herald. June. Your humble servant, THE AUTHOR. A Narrative of the last sickness and death of HARRIET NEWELL, only daughter of the Rev. JouN TRUAIR, late of Cherry Valley, New-York. Harriet was taken sick about the middle of December, 1821; but no apprebensions of danger were entertained concerning her for two or three weeks: her disease, however, terminated in a consumption of the scrofula kind, and soon blasted the hopes of recovery, and put a sudden period to her short life. Her first conversation on religion and death, was about two weeks before she died, with her adopted sister, who was older than she was. One evening seeing this sister, and another little girl whispering in her room, she wished to know what it was about. Being told that the little girl wished to know if she thought she should get well; she said she did not. The little girl then asked her, what she thought she should see when she died? She said, "I shall see angels in heaven if I go there; but I am afraid I shall not go to heaven, because I am a wicked girl;" and told the other girls that they were wicked, and that they must become good children, or else they could not go to heaven. The girls wept; she became much affected; and her sister ran and called her mother. As soon as her mother came in, she said to her, “Ma, I am afraid I shall die and go to hell." Being asked why; she said, "because I am a wicked girl; I have played on the Sabbath day, and done a great many naughty things; but I am sorry for it, and I want you should pray for me." Her mother told her that she did pray for her every day. "But ma," said she, "I want you should pray loud, so that I can hear you pray, for I am sick now, and I cannot pray." Her mother then asked her if she was not willing to die? To which she replied, "if I was not such a wicked girl I should be willing, but I am afraid to die now." She was asked if she did not remember, that when Christ was in the world, he took little children in bis arms, and blessed them, and loved them? She said she did; and remembered too, that it was said in the Testament, that he could raise up children from the stones. Her mother then tried to teach her about Christ, and what he had done to save sinners: old sinners, and young sinners; and told her that Christ was willing to save her if she would come to him, and trust him, and love him. She here interrupted, and asked, "if Christ is willing to save me, then God is willing, an't he ma, for they are both one?" If you will repent, my dear, replied her mother, and give yourself to Christ, God will be willing to save you, and will save you when you die; and give you a place in heaven with saints and angels. "Well ma," said she, if you will tell me how, I will repent to night." Her mother gave her the best instruction she could, by telling her how she should feel to repent, and the reasons for it, and directed her to Christ as well as she could for some time. The mother ceased: the child closed her eyes, and appeared absorbed in deep thought; for by occasional sighs, the mother observed she was not asleep. After she had opened her eyes, she asked her what she was thinking about just now? she replied, "I was repenting, giving myself to God, and asking him to forgive my sins, that I might not be afraid to die." This all passed in one evening; and she, being fatigued, had little more conversation that night. The next day, her mother wishing to know the state of her mind, and whether the conversation had any lasting impression, asked her, if she remembered what they talked about last night? She replied, that she remembered it, and added, "I am willing to die now ma;-I shall never get well." She seemed entirely resigned to the will of God, and with great propriety, and apparent understanding, expressed her love to, and confidence in the Lord Jesus Christ, as the only Saviour of sinners. A stranger to her called in the evening, and she wished to know if he was a minister? On being told that he was, she said, "I want he should pray for me." Not being called upon for prayer immediately she said to her mother," ma I want they should go out, (alluding to all in the room,) so that you can pray with me, and talk to me.' In this happy state of mind she remained, often requesting prayers, and sometimes desiring to read in her Testament. During prayer she was always remarkably still and attentive, even when she was in great pain; but as soon as prayer was over, she wanted all to leave the room but her mother and an attendant.* One day a young man living in the family, asked her the following, among other questions; "Harriet, are you not afraid to die and stand before God?" To which she replied, "no, I shall be better off when I am dead than I am now, because I shall be where Christ and angels are; I shall be where God is; I shall be in heaven; there is no sickness nor pain there, and then I shall praise God." He asked her if she did not wish to see her pa before she died? She replied, "yes, but I shall never see him in this world again, for I shall die soon; but I shall see him where God is." Her views of divine things seemed to brighten; the state of her mind to be more and more happy, and her confidence to be more steadfastly fixed in Christ, as she drew nearer to her final change. One day she said to her mother, "ma, I want you should get a book and read to me something about some little children that have died and gone to heaven." And often in her sickness, she spoke of the history of the cabin boy which she had read in the Guardian. The substance of the following conversation passed between her and her mother a few days before her death. "Harriet, do you think you shall ever get well? No ma; but I shall die soon. Are you willing to die? Yes ma. Where do you think you shall go when you die? I shall go to heaven if I be a good girl and love Christ. Yes my dear, so you will; but do you think you do love Christ? Yes ma, I love him because he is good and died for sinners. What do you think you shall see in heaven, Harriet? I shall see angels; and I shall be an angel too. Had you not rather get well and live here with pa and ma than to die? No, I had rather die and go where God is, and Christ, and angels. What will become of your body when you die? It will be buried up in the ground, and these little hands, (holding up her hands,) and all my body will be eaten up by worms;-but my soul won't die, will it ma? No my dear, your soul will not die, but live for ever. Ma, when I die my soul will go to heaven where God is, and there I shall see good folks. Who do you think you shall see there, Harriet? I shall see grandma and aunt H, if they are gone to heaven; and I shall see all good folks that go there." At another time she said to her mother, "ma, I want you to find that place in my Testament where Christ took little children in his arms and blessed them, for I want to read it." Not being able readily to find this passage, her nother gave her another of similar import, and by one of the evangelists connected with it. "Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God;" which she read with great carnestness and attention, and apparently with much satisfaction. Some time before her death, her mind seemed to be turned towards the state of heathen children, who have no means of knowing the way to Christ and salvation. The anxiety she felt on this subject, first showed itself by her asking money of almost every person that came in. At first she would accept even of a cent without saying any thing about it; but after a little while, she seemed not satisfied * During her sickness and death. her father was at New-York. with so small a portion, and would tell the donor that she wanted more ;-that she wanted all they had in their pockets. This prompted her mother to ask what she meant to do with it? She said, "lay it up for me." But Harriet, said her mother, you will not live long, and you will not want money when you are dead. "I know it," she replied, "but when I am dead, I want you to send it to the heathen, to teach their little children about Christ and salvation, that they may go to heaven when they die." For this purpose, she collected in a little while seventyfive cents, which may in the hand of divine Providence be the instrument of the salvation of at least one heathen child. The day before her death, she wanted to be carried to the glass, that she might see how she looked. After seeing herself a moment or two, she said, "ma, I am dying, and I want you to call the children." They came in; and as soon as she saw her little brother, who is younger than herself, she said to him, "Galitzin, Harriet is dying; but I am not afraid; I am willing to die." Observing her mother to weep, she said to her, "ma, don't cry: grandpa, you must dig ny grave; ma, fix the table and lay me on it now to die." This she said, in allusion to an impression she had received, that when she was dead she should be laid out, and put on the table. During the night following she got a little sleep. A little before morning she said to the watchers, "call ma, for I am dying;-call her now." Her mother soon came in, and she said to her, "O ma, what shall I do, I can't breathe?" Well, my dear, said her mother, you will not breathe long, for you must soon die and be here no more. She again expressed her willingness and desire to die and to be at rest, in the Lord Jesus Christ. She wished as soon as it was light, to be carried to the window, that she might look out, and it was done: but in a little she said, "carry me away now, for things do not look natural as they did." She was carried away, and at seven o'clock A. M. she expired, without a struggle, a groan, or a sigh; Jan. 17th, 1822; aged six years, four months, and two days. Besides the evidence of her piety contained in the above narrative, there were many little incidents which cannot be told: such as her actions, her looks when expressing herself as above. These, in many instances, expressed more than words can do. Her particular patience under all her pains; her cheerful submission to the judgment of her mother, in things that were unpleasant to her; her tender concern for her mother, and her little brothers; her calmness about death. In all of which, mature piety, seemed most conspicuously to shine. Although she seemed to understand the nature and importance of death and eteraity; yet she seemed perfectly undismayed at their approach, and would speak of them with as much composure as she would about going to sleep. It was evident to all who saw her, at least so far as their feelings have been expressed, that to her, death had no sting, and her hope was seen full of immortality. "Death and the grave" to her were not "doleful themes," for they appeared to her only as the gateway to a heaven of unclouded joy and never ending peace, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are for ever at rest. Dear reader, are you a parent? Let this little narrative become a powerful motive to you, to be faithful, constant, feeling, and fervent, in all your labours for the salvation of your children. God is faithful. Are you a child? You must be a good child, so that you may die as happy as little Harriet did, and be as much comfort to your parents as she was. To be good, you must repent of your sins. Ask your parents how to repent, and to teach you how to pray, if you do not know how. You must love God. You must believe in Christ and love him. You must pray to Christ every day. You must love and obey your parents. You must not keep company with bad children; but always choose and go with good children, to church, to the Sabbath school, and always try to teach others the way to be good; and then God will love you; Christ will pardon your sins, and when you die, you will go to that heaven, where little Harriet said she should go, and then you will be happy along with her, in the presence of God and the Lamb for ever. The following lines appeared in the Cherry Valley Gazette, shortly after the decease of the subject of the above narrative. Sing how dear Harriet fled from earth, But stop my muse-suspend thy lyre ; I heard her notes, and sweet they were; But list her voice! to earth it comes; "Weep not that I your world have left, Your pond'rous earth-your isles, your sea; If loss to you my early 'scape, Your carly loss, is gain to me. "Your tender hands have gently laid, "There let it lay--and softly sleep; "In regions of eternal bliss, Then shall I shine, than stars more bright; Fill'd with immortal joys within, Clad with immortal robes of light. "But list ye what my present state, "But let my voice once more be heard, "My hand is waiting yours to touch, "These flow'ry meads we here will tread, "Our hallelujahs here renew, While twice ten thousand ages die; Around the starry throne of God, We still will hallelujah cry." |