The grief of her parents was very great when they knew that she had left them, and they anxiously waited for some tidings of her whereabouts, but no tidings came. For a time remittances of money came regularly, but these suddenly stopped, and their only means of subsistence was gone.
The articles of furniture were disposed of one by one, to supply the cravings of appetite, but they were soon exhausted, and one morning saw them placed in a cart and taken to the workhouse. They had both been gradually sinking since Sally’s flight, and it was but a short time after the removal from their home, that the parish hearse removed them to the last home of all flesh in this world. The fact of their ever having existed seemed to be almost forgotten, when a painful tragedy revived it in the minds of those who had known them. When newspapers gave the distressing account of a young woman having leaped from London Bridge into the river, bearing in her arms a little babe. They were taken out quite dead, and on being searched, a piece of paper with the following words written upon it was all that was found.
’Let my dreadful fate be a warning to the young. I was young and beautiful,—I became proud and ambitious,—I ceased to lend an ear to the kind counsel of my parents,—I ceased to look upon sin with abhorence,—I sought pleasure in iniquity,—the torments of hell can be no worse than those I have endured, my seducer lives to make other victims,—my babe dies with me, lest it should ever live to know its parent’s shame,—I go to meet my God,—a Murderess and a Suicide. My only hope is in His unbounded mercy, and the intercession of His Son. SALLY GREEN.
Reader, does not this little story teach a moral? I think it does. Be not proud of the personal attractions with which nature has blessed you. Shun evil company,—obey your parents, and fear God always. Sally Green’s case is not an isolated one. There are thousands at the present moment, who are pressing on in the same path that terminated so dreadfully for her. Watch and pray, lest it should be your unhappy lot to be described in old Tip’s expressive words, as ‘One amang th’ rest.’
What’s yor Hurry?
Ther’s nowt done weel ’ud’s done in a hurry, unless its catchin a flea, aw’ve heeard sed, but Joa Trailer wod’nt ha believed ’at that should be done in a hurry, for he hurried for nowt. It wor allus sed ’at he wor born to th’ tune o’th’ Deead March, an suckled wi’ Slowman’s Soothin Syrup. His mother declared a better child nivver lived, for he hardly ivver cried, net even for his sops, for if he showed signs o’ startin, ther wor allus time enuff to get’ em made befoor he’d getten fairly off. He began cuttin his teeth when he wor six months old, an’ he’d nobbut getten two when his birthday coom, an’ when th’ old wimmen used to rub his gums wi ther fingers he used to oppen his een an’ stare at ’em as if he wondered what they wor i’ sich a hurry for. His mother wor forty-five year old when he wor born, an’ shoo anlls sed he wor born sadly too lat, an’ if that’s th’ case ther’s noa wonder ’at he’s allus behund hand, for ther’s nowt can ivver mak him hurry to mak up for lost time.