"Trifling as these events may appear to the reader, they were to me affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning, I presented to my compassionate landlady two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat; the only recompense it was in my power to make her." FOOTNOTE: [1] These simple and affecting sentiments have been very beautifully versified. 1. The loud wind roar'd, the rain fell fast, The white man yielded to the blast. He sat him down beneath the tree, For weary, sad, and faint was he: And ah! no wife's or mother's care, For him the milk or com prepare. CHORUS. The white man shall our pity share-- Alas! no wife's or mother's care For him the milk or corn prepare. 2. The storm is o'er, the tempest past, And Mercy's voice has hush'd the blast; The wind is heard in whispers low, The white man far away must go; But ever in his heart will bear Remembrance of the negro's care. CHORUS. Go, white man, go; but with thee bear The negro's wish, the negro's prayer, Remembrance of the negro's care. GRATITUDE IN A LIBERATED SLAVE. Some time in the year 1790 a member of the Manumission Society, residing on Golden Hill (now called John Street) in New York, observed, for a considerable time, his front porch to be scrubbed and sanded, every Seventh-day morning before the family were up. He ordered a servant to watch, and ascertain to whom he was indebted for this singular mark of kindness. At an early hour in the morning a colored woman was observed with her pail, brush, cloth, soap and sand, carefully performing her accustomed task. The domestic who had been on the watch followed her home, and requested to know her inducements for performing this service. Her reply was, "Massa got me free, and I can do no less than scrub off the stoop." A gratitude so genuine and untainted is rarely found among the most polished and refined minds. AGNES MORRIS. Another narrative, respecting a dying woman, displays a faith so strong, a hope so full of immortality, as may lead the Christian reader to exclaim, "Let my last hours be like those of this poor slave." Agnes Morris, a poor negro woman, sent a pressing request to Mrs. Thwaites, a lady residing in Antigua, to visit her: she was in the last stage of dropsy. This poor creature ranked among the lowest class of slaves. Her all consisted of a little wattled[2] hut and a few clothes. Mrs. Thwaites, finding her at the commencement of her illness in a very destitute condition, mentioned her case to a friend, who gave her a coat. When she paid her last visit, on her entering the door, Agnes exclaimed, "Missis! you come! This tongue can't tell what Jesus do for me! Me call my Saviour day and night; and He come"--laying her hand on her breast--"He comfort me here."