Our Nig

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So much toil as was necessary to sustain Fra-
do, was more than she could endure. As soon
as her babe could be nourished without his
mother, she left him in charge of a Mrs. Capon,
and procured an agency, hoping to recruit her
health, and gain an easier livelihood for herself
and child. This afforded her better mainten-
ance than she had yet found. She passed into
the various towns of the State she lived in, then
into Massachusetts. Strange were some of her
adventures. Watched by kidnappers, maltreated
by professed abolitionists, who didn't want
slaves at the South, nor niggers in their own
houses, North. Faugh! to lodge one; to eat
with one; to admit one through the front door;
to sit next one; awful!

Traps slyly laid by the vicious to ensnare her,
she resolutely avoided. In one of her tours,
Providence favored her with a friend who, pity-
ing her cheerless lot, kindly provided her with a
valuable recipe, from which she might herself
manufacture a useful article for her maintenance.
This proved a more agreeable, and an easier way
of sustenance.

And thus, to the present time, may you see
her busily employed in preparing her merchan-
dise; then sallying forth to encounter many
frowns, but some kind friends and purchasers.
Nothing turns her from her steadfast purpose of
elevating herself. Reposing on God, she has
thus far journeyed securely. Still an invalid, she
asks your sympathy, gentle reader. Refuse not,
because some part of her history is unknown,
save by the Omniscient God. Enough has been
unrolled to demand your sympathy and aid.

Do you ask the destiny of those connected
with her EARLY history? A few years only have
elapsed since Mr. and Mrs. B. passed into another
world. As age increased, Mrs. B. became more
irritable, so that no one, even her own children,
could remain with her; and she was accompa-
nied by her husband to the home of Lewis,
where, after an agony in death unspeakable, she
passed away. Only a few months since, Aunt
Abby entered heaven. Jack and his wife rest
in heaven, disturbed by no intruders; and Susan
and her child are yet with the living. Jane has
silver locks in place of auburn tresses, but she
has the early love of Henry still, and has never
regretted her exchange of lovers. Frado has
passed from their memories, as Joseph from the
butler's, but she will never cease to track them
till beyond mortal vision.

APPENDIX.

"TRUTH is stranger than fiction;" and whoever reads the
narrative of Alfrado, will find the assertion verified.

About eight years ago I became acquainted with the author
of this book, and I feel it a privilege to speak a few words
in her behalf. Through the instrumentality of an itinerant
colored lecturer, she was brought to W-----, Mass. This is
an ancient town, where the mothers and daughters seek, not
"wool and flax," but STRAW,--working willingly with their
hands! Here she was introduced to the family of Mrs.
Walker, who kindly consented to receive her as an inmate
of her household, and immediately succeeded in procuring
work for her as a "straw sewer." Being very ingenious,
she soon acquired the art of making hats; but on account
of former hard treatment, her constitution was greatly im-
paired, and she was subject to seasons of sickness. On this
account Mrs. W. gave her a room joining her own chamber,
where she could hear her faintest call. Never shall I forget
the expression of her "black, but comely" face, as she
came to me one day, exclaiming, "O, aunt J-----, I have at
last found a HOME,--and not only a home, but a MOTHER.
My cup runneth over. What shall I render to the Lord
for all his benefits?"

Months passed on, and she was HAPPY--truly happy.
Her health began to improve under the genial sunshine in
which she lived, and she even looked forward with HOPE--
joyful hope to the future. But, alas, "it is not in man that
walketh to direct his steps." One beautiful morning in the
early spring of 1842, as she was taking her usual walk, she
chanced to meet her old friend, the "lecturer," who brought
her to W-----, and with him was a fugitive slave. Young,
well-formed and very handsome, he said he had been a HOUSE-
servant, which seemed to account in some measure for his
gentlemanly manners and pleasing address. The meeting
was entirely accidental; but it was a sad occurrence for poor
Alfrado, as her own sequel tells. Suffice it to say, an
acquaintance and attachment was formed, which, in due time,
resulted in marriage. In a few days she left W-----, and
ALL her home comforts, and took up her abode in New Hamp-
shire. For a while everything went on well, and she dreamed
not of danger; but in an evil hour he left his young and
trusting wife, and embarked for sea. She knew nothing of
all this, and waited for his return. But she waited in vain.
Days passed, weeks passed, and he came not; then her heart
failed her. She felt herself deserted at a time, when, of all
others, she most needed the care and soothing attentions of
a devoted husband. For a time she tried to sustain HERSELF,
but this was impossible. She had friends, but they were
mostly of that class who are poor in the things of earth, but
"rich in faith." The charity on which she depended failed
at last, and there was nothing to save her from the "County
House;" GO SHE MUST. But her feelings on her way thither,
and after her arrival, can be given better in her own language;
and I trust it will be no breach of confidence if I here insert
part of a letter she wrote her mother Walker, concerning the matter.

* * * "The evening before I left for my dreaded jour-
ney to the 'house' which was to be my abode, I packed my
trunk, carefully placing in it every little memento of affection
received from YOU and my friends in W-----, among which
was the portable inkstand, pens and paper. My beautiful
little Bible was laid aside, as a place nearer my heart was
reserved for that. I need not tell you I slept not a moment
that night. My home, my peaceful, quiet home with you, was
before me. I could see my dear little room, with its pleasant
eastern window opening to the morning; but more than all, I
beheld YOU, my mother, gliding softly in and kneeling by my
bed to read, as no one but you CAN read, 'The Lord is my
shepherd,--I shall not want.' But I cannot go on, for tears
blind me. For a description of the morning, and of the scant
breakfast, I must wait until another time.

"We started. The man who came for me was kind as he
could be,--helped me carefully into the wagon, (for I had no
strength,) and drove on. For miles I spoke not a word.
Then the silence would be broken by the driver uttering some
sort of word the horse seemed to understand; for he invariably
quickened his pace. And so, just before nightfall, we halted
at the institution, prepared for the HOMELESS. With cold
civility the matron received me, and bade one of the inmates
shew me my room. She did so; and I followed up two flights
of stairs. I crept as I was able; and when she said, 'Go in
there,' I obeyed, asking for my trunk, which was soon placed
by me. My room was furnished some like the 'prophet's
chamber,' except there was no 'candlestick;' so when I could
creep down I begged for a light, and it was granted. Then I
flung myself on the bed and cried, until I could cry no longer.
I rose up and tried to pray; the Saviour seemed near. I
opened my precious little Bible, and the first verse that caught
my eye was--'I am poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh
upon me.' O, my mother, could I tell you the comfort this
was to me. I sat down, calm, almost happy, took my pen and
wrote on the inspiration of the moment--

"O, holy Father, by thy power,
Thus far in life I'm brought;
And now in this dark, trying hour,
O God, forsake me not.

"Dids't thou not nourish and sustain
My infancy and youth?
Have I not testimonials plain,
Of thy unchanging truth?

"Though I've no home to call my own,
My heart shall not repine;
The saint may live on earth unknown,
And yet in glory shine.

"When my Redeemer dwelt below,
He chose a lowly lot;
He came unto his own, but lo!
His own received him not.

"Oft was the mountain his abode,
The cold, cold earth his bed;
The midnight moon shone softly down
On his unsheltered head.

"But MY head WAS SHELTERED, and I tried to feel thankful."

***

Two or three letters were received after this by her friends in
W-----, and then all was silent. No one of us knew whether
she still lived or had gone to her home on high. But it seems
she remained in this house until after the birth of her babe;
then her faithless husband returned, and took her to some town
in New Hampshire, where, for a time, he supported her and his
little son decently well. But again he left her as before--sud-
denly and unexpectedly, and she saw him no more. Her efforts
were again successful in a measure in securing a meagre main-
tenance for a time; but her struggles with poverty and sickness
were severe. At length, a door of hope was opened. A kind
gentleman and lady took her little boy into their own family,
and provided everything necessary for his good; and all this with-
out the hope of remuneration. But let them know, they shall
be "recompensed at the resurrection of the just." God is not
unmindful of this work,--this labor of love. As for the
afflicted mother, she too has been remembered. The heart of a
stranger was moved with compassion, and bestowed a recipe
upon her for restoring gray hair to its former color. She availed
herself of this great help, and has been quite successful; but
her health is again falling, and she has felt herself obliged to
resort to another method of procuring her bread--that of writ-
ing an Autobiography.

I trust she will find a ready sale for her interesting work;
and let all the friends who purchase a volume, remember they
are doing good to one of the most worthy, and I had almost
said most unfortunate, of the human family. I will only add
in conclusion, a few lines, calculated to comfort and strengthen
this sorrowful, homeless one. "I will help thee, saith the
Lord."

"I will help thee," promise kind
Made by our High Priest above;
Soothing to the troubled mind,
Full of tenderness and love.

"I will help thee" when the storm
Gathers dark on every side;
Safely from impending harm,
In my sheltering bosom hide.

"I will help thee," weary saint,
Cast thy burdens ALL ON ME;
Oh, how cans't thou tire or faint,
While my arm encircles thee.

I have pitied every tear,
Heard and COUNTED every sigh;
Ever lend a gracious ear
To thy supplicating cry.
What though thy wounded bosom bleed,
Pierced by affliction's dart;
Do I not all thy sorrows heed,
And bear thee on my heart?
Soon will the lowly grave become
Thy quiet resting place;
Thy spirit find a peaceful home
In mansions NEAR MY FACE.

There are thy robes and glittering crown,
Outshining yonder sun;
Soon shalt thou lay the body down,
And put those glories on.

Long has thy golden lyre been strung,
Which angels cannot move;
No song to this is ever sung,
But bleeding, dying Love.

ALLIDA.

Having known the writer of this book for a number of years,
and knowing the many privations and mortifications she has had
to pass through, I the more willingly add my testimony to the
truth of her assertions. She is one of that class, who by some
are considered not only as little lower than the angels, but far
beneath them; but I have long since learned that we are not
to look at the color of the hair, the eyes, or the skin, for the
man or woman; their life is the criterion we are to judge by.
The writer of this book has seemed to be a child of misfortune.

Early in life she was deprived of her parents, and all those
endearing associations to which childhood clings. Indeed, she
may be said not to have had that happy period; for, being tak-
en from home so young, and placed where she had nothing to
love or cling to, I often wonder she had not grown up a MONSTER;
and those very people calling themselves Christians, (the good
Lord deliver me from such,) and they likewise ruined her
health by hard work, both in the field and house. She was in-
deed a slave, in every sense of the word; and a lonely one, too.

But she has found some friends in this degraded world, that
were willing to do by others as they would have others do by
them; that were willing she should live, and have an existence
on the earth with them. She has never enjoyed any degree of
comfortable health since she was eighteen years of age, and a
great deal of the time has been confined to her room and bed.
She is now trying to write a book; and I hope the public will
look favorably on it, and patronize the same, for she is a worthy
woman.

Her own health being poor, and having a child to care for,
(for, by the way, she has been married,) and she wishes to edu-
cate him; in her sickness he has been taken from her, and sent
to the county farm, because she could not pay his board every
week; but as soon as she was able, she took him from that
PLACE, and now he has a home where he is contented and happy,
and where he is considered as good as those he is with. He is
an intelligent, smart boy, and no doubt will make a smart man,
if he is rightly managed. He is beloved by his playmates, and
by all the friends of the family; for the family do not recognize
those as friends who do not include him in their family, or as
one of them, and his mother as a daughter--for they treat her
as such; and she certainly deserves all the affection and kind-
ness that is bestowed upon her, and they are always happy to
have her visit them whenever she will. They are not wealthy,
but the latch-string is always out when suffering humanity needs
a shelter; the last loaf they are willing to divide with those more
needy than themselves, remembering these words, Do good as
we have opportunity; and we can always find opportunity, if we
have the disposition.

And now I would say, I hope those who call themselves
friends of our dark-skinned brethren, will lend a helping hand,
and assist our sister, not in giving, but in buying a book; the
expense is trifling, and the reward of doing good is great. Our
duty is to our fellow-beings, and when we let an opportunity
pass, we know not what we lose. Therefore we should do with all
our might what our hands find to do; and remember the words
of Him who went about doing good, that inasmuch as ye have
done a good deed to one of the least of these my brethren, ye
have done it to me; and even a cup of water is not forgot-
ten. Therefore, let us work while the day lasts, and we shall in
no wise lose our reward.

MARGARETTA THORN.
MILFORD, JULY 20th, 1859.

Feeling a deep interest in the welfare of the writer of this
book, and hoping that its circulation will be extensive, I wish to
say a few words in her behalf. I have been acquainted with her
for several years, and have always found her worthy the esteem
of all friends of humanity; one whose soul is alive to the work
to which she puts her hand. . Although her complexion is a lit-
tle darker than my own, I esteem it a privilege to associate with
her, and assist her whenever an opportunity presents itself. It is
with this motive that I write these few lines, knowing this book
must be interesting to all who have any knowledge of the wri-
ter's character, or wish to have. I hope no one will refuse to
aid her in her work, as she is worthy the sympathy of all Chris-
tians, and those who have a spark of humanity in their breasts.

Thinking it unnecessary for me to write a long epistle, I will
close by bidding her God speed.

C. D. S.

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