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.
