THE WINDING UP OF THE MATTER.
Nothing new under the sun.
SOLOMON.
A FEW years ago, within the compass of my narrative, there appeared
often in some of our New England villages, professed fugitives from
slavery, who recounted their personal experience in homely phrase, and
awakened the indignation of non-slaveholders against brother Pro. Such a
one appeared in the new home of Frado; and as people of color were rare
there, was it strange she should attract her dark brother; that he
should inquire her out; succeed in seeing her; feel a strange sensation
in his heart towards her; that he should toy with her shining curls,
feel proud to provoke her to smile and expose the ivory concealed by
thin, ruby lips; that her sparkling eyes should fascinate; that he
should propose; that they should marry? A short acquaintance was indeed
an objection, but she saw him often, and thought she knew him. He never
spoke of his enslavement to her when alone, but she felt that, like her
own oppression, it was painful to disturb oftener than was needful.
He was a fine, straight negro, whose back showed no marks of the lash,
erect as if it never crouched beneath a burden. There was a silent
sympathy which Frado felt attracted her, and she opened her heart to the
presence of love--that arbitrary and inexorable tyrant.
She removed to Singleton, her former residence, and there was married.
Here were Frado's first feelings of trust and repose on human arm. She
realized, for the first time, the relief of looking to another for
comfortable support. Occasionally he would leave her to "lecture."
Those tours were prolonged often to weeks. Of course he had little spare
money. Frado was again feeling her self-dependence, and was at last
compelled to resort alone to that. Samuel was kind to her when at home,
but made no provision for his absence, which was at last unprecedented.
He left her to her fate--embarked at sea, with the disclosure that he
had never seen the South, and that his illiterate harangues were humbugs
for hungry abolitionists. Once more alone! Yet not alone. A still newer
companionship would soon force itself upon her. No one wanted her with
such prospects. Herself was burden enough; who would have an additional
one?
The horrors of her condition nearly prostrated her, and she was again
thrown upon the public for sustenance. Then followed the birth of her
child. The long absent Samuel unexpectedly returned, and rescued her
from charity. Recovering from her expected illness, she once more
commenced toil for herself and child, in a room obtained of a poor
woman, but with better fortune. One so well known would not be wholly
neglected. Kind friends watched her when Samuel was from home, prevented
her from suffering, and when the cold weather pinched the warmly clad, a
kind friend took them in, and thus preserved them. At last Samuel's
business became very engrossing, and after long desertion, news reached
his family that he had become a victim of yellow fever, in New Orleans.
So much toil as was necessary to sustain Frado, 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 maintenance 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, pitying
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 merchandise; 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 accompanied 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 impaired, 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
Hampshire. 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 journey 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--suddenly and unexpectedly, and she saw him no more. Her efforts
were again successful in a measure in securing a meagre maintenance 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 without 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 writing 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 taken 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
indeed 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 educate 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 kindness 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 forgotten. 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 little 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
writer'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 Christians, 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.
* * * * *
Note of etext transcriber:
joined contractions where separated, e.g., "do n't" has become "don't,"
and omitted the accent on "protege" on page 42; in addition I have made
the following changes to the text:
PAGE LINE ORIGINAL CHANGED TO
11 1 uninten uninten 21 22 decrepid decrepit
44 4 Anut Aunt
47 9 Mrs, Mrs.
51 1 whipped;" whipped,"
51 5 "God;" "God,"
54 25 jumped one jumped to one
62 12 housekeper housekeeper
64 18 long, for? long for?
92 13 Why "Why
92 13 W at What
92 23 did want did not want
99 15 aunt Aunt
121 23 she shall shall
130 7 symyathy, sympathy,