--------
- - -





P R. E. F. A C E .
IN offering to the public the following pages, the writer
confesses her inability to minister to the refined and culti-
vated, the pleasure supplied by abler pens. It is not for
such these crude narrations appear. Deserted by kindred,
disabled by failing health, I am forced to some experiment
which shall aid me in maintaining myself and child with-
out extinguishing this feeble life. I would not from these
motives even palliate slavery at the South, by disclosures
of its appurtenances North. My mistress was wholly
imbued with southern principles. I do not pretend to
divulge every transaction in my own life, which the
unprejudiced would declare unfavorable in comparison
with treatment of legal bondmen; I have purposely
omitted what would most provoke shame in our good
anti-slavery friends at home.
My humble position and frank confession of errors
will, I hope, shield me from severe criticism. Indeed,
defects are so apparent it requires no skilful hand to
expose them.
I sincerely appeal to my colored brethren universally
for patronage, hoping they will not condemn this attempt
of their sister to be erudite, but rally around me a faithful
band of supporters and defenders.
H. E. W.


O U R NIG .
C H A PTER I.
M A G SMITH, MY MO THE R.
Oh, Grief beyond all other griefs, when fate
First leaves the young heart lone and desolate
In the wide world, without that only tie
For which it loved to live or feared to die;
Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken
Since the sad day its master-chord was broken
MOORE.
LONELY MAG SMITH ! See her as she walks with
downcast eyes and heavy heart. It was not
always thus. She had a loving, trusting heart.
Early deprived of parental guardianship, far
removed from relatives, she was left to guide her
tiny boat over life's surges alone and inexperi-
enced. As she merged into womanhood, unpro-
tected, uncherished, uncared for, there fell on her
ear the music of love, awakening an intensity of
emotion long dormant. It whispered of an ele-
vation before unaspired to; of ease and plenty
1%


O U R N I G . 7
long years of patient endurance in paths of recti-
tude can disencumber them. -
Mag's new home was soon contaminated by
the publicity of her fall; she had a feeling of
degradation oppressing her; but she resolved to
be circumspect, and try to regain in a measure
what she had lost. Then some foul tongue would
jest of her shame, and averted looks and cold
greetings disheartened her. She saw she could
not bury in forgetfulness her misdeed, so she
resolved to leave her home and seek another in
the place she at first fled from.
Alas, how fearful are we to be first in extend-
ing a helping hand to those who stagger in the
mires of infamy; to speak the first words of hope
and warning to those emerging into the sunlight
Of morality Who can tell what numbers, ad-
vancing just far enough to hear a cold welcome
and join in the reserved converse of professed
reformers, disappointed, disheartened, have cho-
sen to dwell in unclean places, rather than en-
counter these “holier-than-thou” of the great
brotherhood of man!
Such was Mag's experience; and disdaining to
ask favor or friendship from a sneering world,


8 O U R N IG .
she resolved to shut herself up in a hovel she
had often passed in better days, and which she
knew to be untenanted. She vowed to ask no
favors of familiar faces; to die neglected and for-
gotten before she would be dependent on any.
Removed from the village, she was seldom seen
except as upon your introduction, gentle reader,
with downcast visage, returning her work to her
employer, and thus providing herself with the
means of subsistence. In two years many hands
craved the same avocation; foreigners who
cheapened toil and clamored for a livelihood,
competed with her, and she could not thus sus-
tain herself. She was now above no drudgery.
Occasionally old acquaintances called to be fa-
vored with help of some kind, which she was glad
to bestow for the sake of the money it would
bring her; but the association with them was
such a painful reminder of by-gones, she re-
turned to her hut morose and revengeful, re-
fusing all offers of a better home than she pos-
sessed. Thus she lived for years, hugging her
wrongs, but making no effort to escape. She
had never known plenty, scarcely competency;
but the present was beyond comparison with


O U R N I G . 9
those innocent years when the coronet of virtue
was hers.
Every year her melancholy increased, her
means diminished. At last no one seemed to
notice her, save a kind-hearted African, who often
called to inquire after her health and to see if
she needed any fuel, he having the responsibility
of furnishing that article, and she in return mend-
ing or making garments.
“How much you earn dis week, Mag?” asked
he one Saturday evening.
“Little enough, Jim. Two or three days with-
out any dinner. Iwashed for the Reeds, and did
a small job for Mrs. Bellmont; that’s all. I shall
starve soon, unless I can get more to do. Folks
seem as afraid to come here as if they expected
to get some awful disease. I do n’t believe there
is a person in the world but would be glad to
have me dead and out of the way.”
“No, no, Mag! do n’t talk so. You shan’t
starve so long as I have barrels to hoop. Peter
Greene boards me cheap. I’ll help you, if nobody
else Will.”
A tear stood in Mag's faded eye. “I’m glad,”
she said, with a softer tone than before, “if there


10 O U R N I G .
is one who is n’t glad to see me suffer. I b'lieve
all Singleton wants to see me punished, and feel
as if they could tell when I’ve been punished
long enough. It’s a long day ahead they’ll set
it, I reckon.”
After the usual supply of fuel was prepared,
Jim returned home. Full of pity for Mag, he set
about devising measures for her relief “By
golly!” said he to himself one day—for he had
become so absorbed in Mag's interest that he had
fallen into a habit of musing aloud—“By golly!
I wish she'd marry me.”
“Who?” shouted Pete Greene, suddenly start-
ing from an unobserved corner of the rude shop.
“Where you come from, you sly nigger!” ex-
claimed Jim.
“Come, tell me, who is't?” said Pete; “Mag
Smith, you want to marry?”
“Git out, Pete! and when you come in dis shop
again, let a nigger know it. Don’t steal in like
a thief.”
Pity and love know little severance. One
attends the other. Jim acknowledged the pres-
ence of the former, and his efforts in Mag's behalf
told also of a finer principle.


12 O U R N I G .
its apportioned time. Mag was nearly despairing
of meeting its rigor.
“How's the wood, Mag?” asked Jim.
“All gone; and no more to cut, any how,” was
the reply.
“Too bad!” Jim said. His truthful reply
would have been, I’m glad.
“Anything to eat in the house?” continued he,
“No,” replied Mag.
“Too bad!” again, orally, with the same in-
ward gratulation as before.
“Well, Mag,” said Jim, after a short pause,
“you’s down low enough. I do n’t see but I’ve
got to take care of ye. Sposin' we marry!”
Mag raised her eyes, full of amazement, and
uttered a sonorous “What?”
Jim felt abashed for a moment. He knew well
what were her objections.
“You’s had trial of white folks, any how. They
run off and left ye, and now none of 'em come
near ye to see if you’s dead or alive. I’s black
outside, I know, but I's got a white heart inside.
Which you rather have, a black heart in a white
skin, or a white heart in a black one?”


O U R N T G . 19
“No !” screamed she ; and giving a sudden
jerk which destroyed Seth's equilibrium, left
him sprawling on the floor, while she escaped
through the open door.
“She’s a hard one,” said Seth, brushing his
patched coat sleeve. “I’d risk her at Bell-
mont’s.”
They discussed the expediency of a speedy
departure. Seth would first seek employment,
and then return for Mag. They would take
with them what they could carry, and leave the
rest with Pete Greene, and come for them when
they were wanted. They were long in arrang-
ing affairs satisfactorily, and were not a little
startled at the close of their conference to find
Frado missing. They thought approaching night
would bring her. Twilight passed into dark-
ness, and she did not come. They thought she
had understood their plans, and had, perhaps,
permanently withdrawn. They could not rest
without making some effort to ascertain her
retreat. Seth went in pursuit, and returned
without her. They rallied others when they dis-
covered that another little colored girl was miss-
ing, a favorite playmate of Frado's. All effort


22 O U R N I G.
epithet “she-devil,” as may be remembered.
John, the son, had not in his family arrange-
ments departed from the example of the father.
The pastimes of his boyhood were ever freshly
revived by witnessing the games of his own sons
as they rallied about the same goal his youthful
feet had often won; as well as by the amuse-
ments of his daughters in their imitations of
maternal duties.
At the time we introduce them, however,
John is wearing the badge of age. Most of his
children were from home; some seeking em-
ployment; some were already settled in homes
of their own. A maiden sister shared with him
the estate on which he resided, and occupied a
portion of the house.
Within sight of the house, Seth seated himself
with his bundles and the child he had been lead-
ing, while Mag walked onward to the house
leading Frado. A knock at the door brought
Mrs. Bellmont, and Mag asked if she would be
willing to let that child stop there while she
went to the Reed's house to wash, and when she
came back she would call and get her. It
seemed a novel request, but she consented.


24
CHA PTER III.
A N E W H O M E F O R. M. E.
Oh! did we but know of the shadows so nigh,
The world would indeed be a prison of gloom;
All light would be quenched in youth's eloquent eye,
And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb.
For if Hope be a star that may lead us astray,
And “deceiveth the heart,” as the aged ones preach;
Yet ’twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way,
Though its halo illumes where it never can reach.
ELIZA CoOK.
As the day closed and Mag did not appear,
surmises were expressed by the family that she
never intended to return. Mr. Bellmont was a
kind, humane man, who would not grudge hospi-
tality to the poorest wanderer, nor fail to sym-
pathize with any sufferer, however humble.
The child's desertion by her mother appealed to
his symathy, and he felt inclined to succor her.
To do this in opposition to Mrs. Bellmont's
wishes, would be like encountering a whirlwind


O U R N I G . 27
The imposition was not at all relished by Mrs.
B, or the pert, haughty Mary, who had just
glided into her teens.
“Show the child to bed, Jack,” said his mother.
“You seem most pleased with the little nigger,
so you may introduce her to her room.”
He went to the kitchen, and, taking Frado
gently by the hand, told her he would put her
in bed now; perhaps her mother would come the
next night after her.
It was not yet quite dark, so they ascended
the stairs without any light, passing through
nicely furnished rooms, which were a source of
great amazement to the child. He opened the
door which connected with her room by a dark,
unfinished passage-way. “Don’t bump your
head,” said Jack, and stepped before to open
the door leading into her apartment,- an unfin-
ished chamber over the kitchen, the roof slant-
ing nearly to the floor, so that the bed could
stand only in the middle of the room. A small
half window furnished light and air. Jack
returned to the sitting room with the remark
that the child would soon outgrow those quar-
terS.


28 - O U R N I G .
“When she does, she’ll outgrow the house,”
remarked the mother.
“What can she do to help you?” asked Mary.
“She came just in the right time, didn't she?
Just the very day after Bridget left,” continued
she.
“I’ll see what she can do in the morning,”
was the answer.
While this conversation was passing below,
Frado lay, revolving in her little mind whether
she would remain or not until her mother's
return. She was of wilful, determined nature,
a stranger to fear, and would not hesitate to
wander away should she decide to. She remem-
bered the conversation of her mother with Seth,
the words “given away” which she heard used
in reference to herself; and though she did not
know their full import, she thought she should,
by remaining, be in some relation to white
people she was never favored with before. So
she resolved to tarry, with the hope that mother
would come and get her some time. The hot
sun had penetrated her room, and it was long
before a cooling breeze reduced the temperature
so that she could sleep.


O U R N I G . 29
Frado was called early in the morning by her
new mistress. Her first work was to feed the
hens. She was shown how it was always to be
done, and in no other way; any departure from
this rule to be punished by a whipping. She
was then accompanied by Jack to drive the cows
to pasture, so she might learn the way. Upon
her return she was allowed to eat her breakfast,
consisting of a bowl of skimmed milk, with
brown bread crusts, which she was told to eat,
standing, by the kitchen table, and must not be
over ten minutes about it. Meanwhile the
family were taking their morning meal in the
dining-room. This over, she was placed on a
cricket to wash the common dishes; she was to
be in waiting always to bring wood and chips,
to run hither and thither from room to room.
A large amount of dish-washing for small
hands followed dinner. Then the same after tea
and going after the cows finished her first day's
work. It was a new discipline to the child. She
found some attractions about the place, and she
retired to rest at night more willing to remain.
The same routine followed day after day, with
slight variation; adding a little more work, and
3#


O U R N I G . 31
decided controversies at home. The word once
spoken admitted of no appeal; so, notwithstand-
ing Mary's objection that she would have to
attend the same school she did, the word became
law.
It was to be a new scene to Frado, and Jack
had many queries and conjectures to answer.
He was himself too far advanced to attend the
summer school, which Frado regretted, having
had too many opportunities of witnessing Miss
Mary's temper to feel safe in her company alone.
The opening day of school came. Frado
sauntered on far in the rear of Mary, who was
ashamed to be seen “walking with a nigger.”
As soon as she appeared, with scanty clothing
and bared feet, the children assembled, noisily
published her approach: “See that nigger,”
shouted one. “Look look l’ cried another.
“I won't play with her,” said one little girl.
“Nor I neither,” replied another.
Mary evidently relished these sharp attacks,
and saw a fair prospect of lowering Nig where,
according to her views, she belonged. Poor
Frado, chagrined and grieved, felt that her an-
ticipations of pleasure at such a place were far


32 O U R N I.G.
from being realized. She was just deciding
to return home, and never come there again,
when the teacher appeared, and observing the
downcast looks of the child, took her by the
hand, and led her into the school-room. All fol-
lowed, and, after the bustle of securing seats
was over, Miss Marsh inquired if the children
knew “any cause for the sorrow of that little
girl?” pointing to Frado. It was soon all told.
She then reminded them of their duties to the
poor and friendless; their cowardice in attack-
ing a young innocent child; referred them to
one who looks not on outward appearances, but
on the heart. “She looks like a good girl; I
think I shall love her, so lay aside all prejudice,
and vie with each other in shewing kindness
and good-will to one who seems different from
you,” were the closing remarks of the kind lady.
Those kind words! The most agreeable sound
which ever meets the ear of Sorrowing, griev-
ing childhood.
Example rendered her words efficacious. Day
by day there was a manifest change of de-
portment towards “Nig.” Her speeches often
drew merriment from the children; no one


O U R N T G . 33
could do more to enliven their favorite pastimes
than Frado. Mary could not endure to see her
thus noticed, yet knew not how to prevent it.
She could not influence her schoolmates as she
wished. She had not gained their affections
by winning ways and yielding points of con-
troversy. On the contrary, she was self willed,
domineering; every day reported “mad” by
some of her companions. She availed herself
of the only alternative, abuse and taunts, as
they returned from school. This was not satis-
factory; she wanted to use physical force “to
subdue her,” to “keep her down.”
There was, on their way home, a field inter-
sected by a stream over which a single plank
was placed for a crossing. It occurred to Ma-
ry that it would be a punishment to Nig to
compel her to cross over; so she dragged her
to the edge, and told her authoritatively to go
over. Nig hesitated, resisted. Mary placed
herself behind the child, and, in the struggle
to force her over, lost her footing and plunged
into the stream. Some of the larger scholars
being in sight, ran, and thus prevented Mary
from drowning and Frado from falling. Nig


34 O U R N I G .
scampered home fast as possible, and Mary went
to the nearest house, dripping, to procure a
change of garments. She came loitering home,
half crying, exclaiming, “Nig pushed me into
the stream!” She then related the particulars.
Nig was called from the kitchen. Mary stood
with anger flashing in her eyes. Mr. Bellmont
sat quietly reading his paper. He had wit-
nessed too many of Miss Mary's outbreaks to
be startled. Mrs. Bellmont interrogated Nig.
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” answered
Nig, passionately, and then related the occur-
rence truthfully.
The discrepancy greatly enraged Mrs. Bell-
mont. With loud accusations and angry ges-
tures she approached the child. Turning to
her husband, she asked,
“Will you sit still, there, and hear that
black nigger call Mary a liar?”
“How do we know but she has told
the truth? I shall not punish her,” he re-
plied, and left the house, as he usually did
when a tempest threatened to envelop him.
No sooner was he out of sight than Mrs. B.
and Mary commenced beating her inhumanly;


36 O U R N I.G .
others say against your sister,” retorted his
mother, with flashing eye. “I think it is time
your father subdued you.”
“Father is a sensible man,” argued Jack.
“He would not wrong a dog. Where is Fra-
do?” he continued.
“Mother gave her a good whipping and
shut her up,” replied Mary.
Just then Mr. Bellmont entered, and asked if
Frado was “shut up yet.”
The knowledge of her innocence, the perfidy
of his sister, worked fearfully on Jack. He
bounded from his chair, searched every room
till he found the child; her mouth wedged
apart, her face swollen, and full of pain.
How Jack pitied her ! He relieved her jaws,
brought her some supper, took her to her room,
comforted her as well as he knew how, sat by her
till she fell asleep, and then left for the sitting
room. As he passed his mother, he remarked,
“If that was the way Frado was to be treated, he
hoped she would never wake again!” He then
imparted her situation to his father, who seemed
untouched, till a glance at Jack exposed a tear-
ful eye. Jack went early to her next morning.


38 O U R N IG .
“Old Granny Bellmont,” that it was not painful
to Nig or pleasurable to Mary. Her jollity was
not to be quenched by whipping or scolding.
In Mrs. Bellmont's presence she was under re-
straint; but in the kitchen, and among her
schoolmates, the pent up fires burst forth. She
was ever at some sly prank when unseen by her
teacher, in school hours; not unfrequently some
outburst of merriment, of which she was the
original, was charged upon some innocent mate,
and punishment inflicted which she merited.
They enjoyed her antics so fully that any of
them would suffer wrongfully to keep open the
avenues of mirth. She would venture far be-
yond propriety, thus shielded and countenanced.
The teacher's desk was supplied with drawers,
in which were stored his books and other et
celeras of the profession. The children observed
Nig very busy there one morning before school,
as they flitted in occasionally from their play
outside. The master came; called the children
to order; opened a drawer to take the book the
occasion required; when out poured a volume of
smoke. “Fire! fire !” screamed he, at the top of
his voice. By this time he had become suf-


O U R N I G . 41
plished too little for the Master, and sighs that
another day must so soon close. Innocent child-
hood, weary of its stay, longs for another mor-
row; busy manhood cries, hold! hold! and pur-
sues it to another's dawn. All are dissatisfied.
All crave some good not yet possessed, which
time is expected to bring with all its morrows.
Was it strange that, to a disconsolate child,
three years should seem a long, long time?
During school time she had rest from Mrs. Bell-
mont's tyranny. She was now nine years old;
time, her mistress said, such privileges should
Cea,Se.
She could now read and spell, and knew the
elementary steps in grammar, arithmetic, and
writing. Her education completed,as she said, Mrs.
Bellmont felt that her time and person belonged
solely to her. She was under her in every sense
of the word. What an opportunity to indulge
her vixen nature ! No matter what occurred to
ruffle her, or from what source provocation came,
real or fancied, a few blows on Nig seemed to
relieve her of a portion of ill-will.
These were days when Fido was the entire
confidant of Frado. She told him her griefs as
4%


42 O U R N IG .
though he were human; and he sat so still, and
listened so attentively, she really believed he
knew her sorrows. All the leisure moments she
could gain were used in teaching him some feat
of dog-agility, so that Jack pronounced him
very knowing, and was truly gratified to know
he had furnished her with a gift answering his
intentions.
Fido was the constant attendant of Frado,
when sent from the house on errands, going and
returning with the cows, out in the fields, to the
village. If ever she forgot her hardships it was
in his company.
Spring was now retiring. James, one of the
absent sons, was expected home on a visit. He
had never seen the last acquisition to the family.
Jack had written faithfully of all the merits of
his colored protegé, and hinted plainly that
mother did not always treat her just right.
Many were the preparations to make the visit
pleasant, and as the day approached when he
was to arrive, great exertions were made to
cook the favorite viands, to prepare the choicest
table-fare.
The morning of the arrival day was a busy


O U R N I G . 43
one. Frado knew not who would be of so much
importance; her feet were speeding hither and
thither so unsparingly. Mrs. Bellmont seemed
a trifle fatigued, and her shoes which had, early
in the morning, a methodic squeak, altered to an
irregular, peevish snap.
“Get some little wood to make the fire burn,”
said Mrs. Bellmont, in a sharp tone. Frado
obeyed, bringing the smallest she could find.
Mrs. Bellmont approached her, and, giving her
a box on her ear, reiterated the command.
The first the child brought was the smallest to
be found; of course, the second must be a trifle
larger. She well knew it was, as she threw it
into a box on the hearth. To Mrs. Bellmont
it was a greater affront, as well as larger wood,
so she “taught her” with the raw-hide, and sent
her the third time for “little Wood.”
Nig, weeping, knew not what to do. She
had carried the smallest; none left would suit
her mistress; of course further punishment await-
ed her; so she gathered up whatever came first,
and threw it down on the hearth. As she ex-
pected, Mrs. Bellmont, enraged, approached her,
and kicked her so forcibly as to throw her upon


44 O U R N IG .
the floor. Before she could rise, another foiled
the attempt, and then followed kick after kick in
quick succession and power, till she reached the
door. Mr. Bellmont and Anut Abby, hearing the
noise, rushed in, just in time to see the last of
the performance. Nig jumped up, and rushed
from the house, out of sight.
Aunt Abby returned to her apartment, fol-
lowed by John, who was muttering to himself
“What were you saying?” asked Aunt Abby.
“I said I hoped the child never would come
into the house again.”
“What would become of her ? You cannot
mean that,” continued his sister.
“I do mean it. The child does as much work
as a woman ought to; and just see how she is
kicked about !”
“Why do you have it so, John?” asked his
sister.
“How am I to help it? Women rule the
earth, and all in it.”
“I think I should rule my own house, John,”—
“And live in hell meantime,” added Mr.
Bellmont. -


O U R N I.G. . 47
serious, yet not stern, looked up confounded.
He was no stranger to his mother's nature; but
years of absence had erased the occurrences
once so familiar, and he asked, “Is this that
pretty little Nig, Jack writes to me about, that
you are so severe upon, mother?”
“I’ll not leave much of her beauty to be
seen, if she comes in sight; and now, John,”
said Mrs, B., turning to her husband, “you need
not think you are going to learn her to treat me
in this way; just see how saucy she was this
morning. She shall learn her place.”
Mr. Bellmont raised his calm, determined eye
full upon her, and said, in a decisive manner:
“You shall not strike, or scald, or skin her, as you
call it, if she comes back again. Remember!”
and he brought his hand down upon the table.
“I have searched an hour for her now, and she
is not to be found on the premises. Do you
know where she is? Is she your prisoner?”
“No ! I have just told you I did not know
where she was. Nab has her hid somewhere, I
suppose. Oh, dear! I did not think it would
come to this; that my own husband would treat
me so.” Then came fast flowing tears, which no


48 O U R N I G .
one but Mary seemed to notice. Jane crept
into Aunt Abby's room; Mr. Bellmont and
James went out of doors, and Mary remained to
condole with her parent. -
“Do you know where Frado is?” asked Jane
of her aunt.
“No,” she replied. “I have hunted every-
where. She has left her first hiding-place. I
cannot think what has become of her. There
comes Jack and Fido; perhaps he knows;” and
she walked to a window near, where James and
his father were conversing together.
The two brothers exchanged a hearty greet-
ing, and then Mr. Bellmont told Jack to eat his
supper; afterward he wished to send him away.
He immediately went in. Accustomed to all
the phases of indoor storms, from a whine to
thunder and lightning, he saw at a glance marks
of disturbance. He had been absent through
the day, with the hired men.
“What's the fuss?” asked he, rushing into
Aunt Abby's.
“Eat your supper,” said Jane; “go home,
Jack.”


O U R N I G . 51
“If I do, I get whipped;” sobbed the child.
“They won't believe what I say. Oh, I wish I
had my mother back; then I should not be
kicked and whipped so. Who made me so?”
“God;” answered James.
“Did God make you?”
* Yes.”
“Who made Aunt Abby ?”
* God.”
“Who made your mother?”
*GOd.”
“Did the same God that made her make
me?”
* Yes.”
“Well, then, I don’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he made her white, and me black.
Why didn't he make us both white?”
“I don’t know; try to go to sleep, and you
will feel better in the morning,” was all the re-
ply he could make to her knotty queries. It
was a long time before she fell asleep; and a
number of days before James felt in a mood to
visit and entertain old associates and friends.


54 O U R N I G .
none of the family around to be merry with,
she would amuse herself with the animals.
Among the sheep was a willful leader, who al-
ways persisted in being first served, and many
times in his fury he had thrown down Nig, till,
provoked, she resolved to punish him. The pas-
ture in which the sheep grazed was bounded on
three sides by a wide stream, which flowed on
one side at the base of precipitous banks. The
first spare moments at her command, she ran to
the pasture with a dish in her hand, and mount-
ing the highest point of land nearest the stream,
called the flock to their mock repast. Mr Bell-
mont, with his laborers, were in sight, though
unseen by Frado. They paused to see what she
was about to do. Should she by any mishap
lose her footing, she must roll into the stream,
and, without aid, must drown. They thought of
shouting; but they feared an unexpected salute
might startle her, and thus ensure what they
were anxious to prevent. They watched in
breathless silence. The willful sheep came furi-
ously leaping and bounding far in advance of
the flock. Just as he leaped for the dish, she
suddenly jumped one side, when down he rolled


O U R N I G . 55
into the river, and swimming across, remained
alone till night. The men lay down, convulsed
with laughter at the trick, and guessed at once
its object. Mr. Bellmont talked seriously to the
child for exposing herself to such danger; but
she hopped about on her toes, and with laugha-
ble grimaces replied, she knew she was quick
enough to “give him a slide.”
But to return. James married a Baltimorean
lady of wealthy parentage, an indispensable
requisite, his mother had always taught him.
He did not marry her wealth, though; he loved
her, sincerely. She was not unlike his sister
Jane, who had a social, gentle, loving nature,
rather too yielding, her brother thought. His
Susan had a firmness which Jane needed to
complete her character, but which her ill health
may in a measure have failed to produce. Al-
though an invalid, she was not excluded from
society. Was it strange she should seem a desir-
able companion, a treasure as a wife?
Two young men seemed desirous of possess-
ing her. One was a neighbor, Henry Reed, a
tall, spare young man, with Sandy hair, and blue,
sinister eyes. He seemed to appreciate her


56 O U R N I G .
wants, and watch with interest her improvement
or decay. His kindness she received, and by it
was almost won. Her mother wished her to en-
courage his attentions. She had counted the
acres which were to be transmitted to an only
son; she knew there was silver in the purse;
she would not have Jane too sentimental.
The eagerness with which he amassed wealth,
was repulsive to Jane; he did not spare his per-
son or beasts in its pursuit. She felt that to
such a man she should be considered an incum-
brance; she doubted if he would desire her, if
he did not know she would bring a handsome
patrimony. Her mother, full in favor with the
parents of Henry, commanded her to accept
him. She engaged herself, yielding to her
"mother's wishes, because she had not strength to
oppose them; and sometimes, when witness of
her mother's and Mary's tyranny, she felt any
change would be preferable, even such a one as
this. She knew her husband should be the man
of her own selecting, one she was conscious of
preferring before all others. She could not say
this of Henry.
In this dilemma, a visitor came to Aunt


O U R N I G. 59
his manner or appearance; that she was under
no obligations which forbade her receiving let-
ters from him as a friend and acquaintance.
George was puzzled by the reply. He wrote to
Aunt Abby, and from her learned all. He
could not see Jane thus sacrificed, without mak-
ing an effort to rescue her. Another visit fol-
lowed. George heard Jane say she preferred
him. He then conferred with Henry at his
home. It was not a pleasant subject to talk
upon. To be thus supplanted, was not to be
thought of He would sacrifice everything but
his inheritance to secure his betrothed.
“And so you are the cause of her late cold-
ness towards me. Leave I will talk no more
about it; the business is settled between us;
there it will remain,” said Henry.
“Have you no wish to know the real state of
Jane's affections towards you?” asked George.
“No ! Go, I say! go!” and Henry opened
the door for him to pass out.
He retired to Aunt Abby's. Henry soon fol-
lowed, and presented his cause to Mrs. Bellmont.
Provoked, surprised, indignant, she summoned
Jane to her presence, and after a lengthy tirade


62
C H A P T E R W I.
V A. R. I. ET I E S .
“Hard are life's early steps; and but that youth is buoyant, con-
fident, and strong in hope, men would behold its threshold and
despair.”
THE sorrow of Frado was very great for her
pet, and Mr. Bellmont by great exertion obtained
it again, much to the relief of the child. To be
thus deprived of all her sources of pleasure was a
sure way to exalt their worth, and Fido became,
in her estimation, a more valuable presence than
the human beings who surrounded her.
James had now been married a number of
years, and frequent requests for a visit from the
family were at last accepted, and Mrs. Bellmont
made great preparations for a fall sojourn in
Baltimore. Mary was installed housekeper — in
name merely, for Nig was the only moving power
in the house. Although suffering from their joint
severity, she felt safer than to be thrown wholly


O U R N I G . 67
No one now stood between herself and Frado,
but Aunt Abby. And if she dared to interfere
in the least, she was ordered back to her “own
quarters.” Nig would creep slyly into her
room, learn what she could of her regarding the
absent, and thus gain some light in the thick
gloom of care and toil and sorrow in which she
was immersed.
The first of spring a letter came from James,
announcing declining health. He must try
northern air as a restorative; so Frado joyfully
prepared for this agreeable increase of the family,
this addition to her cares.
He arrived feeble, lame, from his disease, so
changed Frado wept at his appearance, fearing
he would be removed from her forever. He
kindly greeted her, took her to the parlor to see
his wife and child, and said many things to kindle
smiles on her sad face.
Frado felt so happy in his presence, so safe
from maltreatment! He was to her a shelter.
He observed, silently, the ways of the house a
few days; Nig still took her meals in the same
manner as formerly, having the same allowance


68 O U R N I G.
of food. He, one day, bade her not remove the
food, but sit down to the table and eat.
“She will, mother,” said he, calmly, but impera-
tively; I’m determined; she works hard; I’ve
watched her. Now, while I stay, she is going to
sit down here, and eat such food as we eat.”
A few sparks from the mother's black eyes
were the only reply; she feared to oppose where
she knew she could not prevail. So Nig's stand-
ing attitude, and selected diet vanished.
Her clothing was yet poor and scanty; she was
not blessed with a Sunday attire; for she was
never permitted to attend church with her mis-
tress. “Religion was not meant for niggers,” she
said; when the husband and brothers were
absent, she would drive Mrs. B. and Mary there,
then return, and go for them at the close of the
service, but never remain. Aunt Abby would
take her to evening meetings, held in the neigh-
borhood, which Mrs. B. never attended; and im-
part to her lessons of truth and grace as they
walked to the place of prayer.
Many of less piety would scorn to present so
doleful a figure; Mrs. B. had shaved her glossy
ringlets; and, in her coarse cloth gown and an-


O U R N I G. 69
cient bonnet, she was anything but an enticing
object. But Aunt Abby looked within. She
saw a soul to save, an immortality of happi-
ness to secure.
These evenings were eagerly anticipated by
Nig; it was such a pleasant release from labor.
Such perfect contrast in the melody and pray-
ers of these good people to the harsh tones which
fell on her ears during the day.
Soon she had all their sacred songs at com-
mand, and enlivened her toil by accompanying
it with this melody.
James encouraged his aunt in her efforts. He
had found the Saviour, he wished to have Frado's
desolate heart gladdened, quieted, sustained, by
His presence. He felt sure there were elements
in her heart which, transformed and purified by
the gospel, would make her worthy the esteem
and friendship of the world. A kind, affection-
ate heart, native wit, and common sense, and
the pertness she sometimes exhibited, he felt if
restrained properly, might become useful in
originating a self-reliance which would be of ser-
vice to her in after years.


O U R N I G. 71
table discipline, and would often tarry in the
dining-room, to see Nig in her new place at the
family table. As he was thus sitting one day,
after the family had finished dinner, Frado seated
herself in her mistress' chair, and was just
reaching for a clean dessert plate which was on
the table, when her mistress entered.
“Put that plate down; you shall not have a
clean one; eat from mine,” continued she. Nig
hesitated. To eat after James, his wife or Jack,
would have been pleasant; but to be command-
ed to do what was disagreeable by her mistress,
because it was disagreeable, was trying. Quickly
looking about, she took the plate, called Fido to
wash it, which he did to the best of his ability;
then, wiping her knife and fork on the cloth, she
proceeded to eat her dinner.
Nig never looked toward her mistress during
the process. She had Jack near; she did not
fear her now.
Insulted, full of rage, Mrs. Bellmont rushed to
her husband, and commanded him to notice
this insult; to whip that child; if he would not
do it, James ought.
James came to hear the kitchen version of the


74 O U R N IG .
“Just what I am longing to do, Aunt Abby.
Susan is just of my mind, and we intend to take
her; I have been wishing to do so for years.”
“She seems much affected by what she hears
at the evening meetings, and asks me many
questions on serious things; seems to love to
read the Bible; I feel hopes of her.”
“I hope she is thoughtful; no one has a kinder
heart, one capable of loving more devotedly.
But to think how prejudiced the world are to-
wards her people; that she must be reared in
such ignorance as to drown all the finer feelings.
When I think of what she might be, of what she
will be, I feel like grasping time till opinions
change, and thousands like her rise into a noble
freedom. I have seen Frado's grief, because she
is black, amount to agony. It makes me sick to
recall these scenes. Mother pretends to think
she don't know enough to sorrow for anything;
but if she could see her as I have, when she sup-
posed herself entirely alone, except her little dog
Fido, lamenting her loneliness and complexion, I
think, if she is not past feeling, she would retract.
In the summer I was walking near the barn, and
as I stood I heard sobs, ‘Oh! Oh! I heard,


O U R N I G . 75
‘why was I made? why can’t I die? Oh, what
have I to live for ? No one cares for me only to
get my work. And I feel sick; who cares for
that? Work as long as I can stand, and then
fall down and lay there till I can get up. No
mother, father, brother or sister to care for me,
and then it is, You lazy nigger, lazy nigger — all
because I am black Oh, if I could die!’
“I stepped into the barn, where I could see
her. She was crouched down by the hay with
her faithful friend Fido, and as she ceased speak-
ing, buried her face in her hands, and cried bit-
terly; then, patting Fido, she kissed him, saying,
‘You love me, Fido, don’t you? but we must go
work in the field. She started on her mission;
I called her to me, and told her she need not go,
the hay was doing well.
“She has such confidence in me that she will
do just as I tell her; so we found a seat under
a shady tree, and there I took the opportunity to
combat the notions she seemed to entertain
respecting the loneliness of her condition and
want of sympathizing friends. I assured her that
mother's views were by no means general; that
in our part of the country there were thousands


O U R N I G . 77
addition to her daily toil she was often deprived
of her rest at night.
Yet she insisted on being called; she wished
to show her love for one who had been such a
friend to her. Her anxiety and grief increased
as the probabilities of his recovery became
doubtful.
Mrs. Bellmont found her weeping on his ac-
count, shut her up, and whipped her with the
raw-hide, adding an injunction never to be seen
snivelling again because she had a little work to
do. She was very careful never to shed tears on
his account, in her presence, afterwards.
7:


O U R N I G . 79
aid. But, alas ! it was not in his power; so,
after listening to his wishes and arrangements
for his family and business, he decided to return
home.
Anxious for company home, he persuaded his
father and mother to permit Mary to attend him.
She was not at all needed in the sick room; she
did not choose to be useful in the kitchen, and
then she was fully determined to go.
So all the trunks were assembled and cram-
med with the best selections from the wardrobe
of herself and mother, where the last-mentioned
articles could be appropriated.
“Nig was never so helpful before,” Mary re-
marked, and wondered what had induced such a
change in place of former sullenness.
Nig was looking further than the present, and
congratulating herself upon some days of peace,
for Mary never lost opportunity of informing
her mother of Nig's delinquincies, were she
otherwise ignorant.
Was it strange if she were officious, with such
relief in prospect?
The parting from the sick brother was tearful
and sad. James prayed in their presence for


80 O U R N I G.
their renewal in holiness; and urged their im-
mediate attention to eternal realities, and gained
a promise that Susan and Charlie should share
their kindest regards.
No sooner were they on their way, than Nig
slyly crept round to Aunt Abby's room, and tip-
toeing and twisting herself into all shapes, she
exclaimed, –
“She’s gone, Aunt Abby, she’s gone, fairly
gone;” and jumped up and down, till Aunt
Abby feared she would attract the notice of her
mistress by such demonstrations.
“Well, she's gone, gone, Aunt Abby. I hope
she’ll never come back again.”
“No 1 no! Frado, that's wrong! you would
be wishing her dead; that won't do.”
“Well, I'll bet she’ll never come back again;
somehow, I feel as though she wouldn't.”
“She is James's sister,” remonstrated Aunt
Abby.
“So is our cross sheep just as much, that I
ducked in the river; I’d like to try my hand at
curing her too.”
“But you forget what our good minister told
us last week, about doing good to those that
hate us.”


O U R N I G . 81
“Didn't I do good, Aunt Abby, when I washed
and ironed and packed her old duds to get rid
of her, and helped her pack her trunks, and run
here and there for her ?”
“Well, well, Frado; you must go finish your
work, or your mistress will be after you, and
remind you severely of Miss Mary, and some
others beside.”
Nig went as she was told, and her clear voice
was heard as she went, singing in joyous notes
the relief she felt at the removal of one of her
tormentors.
Day by day the quiet of the sick man's room
was increased. He was helpless and nervous;
and often wished change of position, thereby
hoping to gain momentary relief. The calls
upon Frado were consequently more frequent,
her nights less tranquil. Her health was im-
paired by lifting the sick man, and by drudgery
in the kitchen. Her ill health she endeavored
to conceal from James, fearing he might have
less repose if there should be a change of at-
tendants; and Mrs. Bellmont, she well knew,
would have no sympathy for her. She was at
last so much reduced as to be unable to stand


O U R N I G . 85
As James approached that blessed world, she
felt a strong desire to follow, and be with one
who was such a dear, kind friend to her.
While she was exercised with these desires
and aspirations, she attended an evening meet-
ing with Aunt Abby, and the good man urged
all, young or old, to accept the offers of mercy,
to receive a compassionate Jesus as their Sa-
viour. “Come to Christ,” he urged, “all, young
or old, white or black, bond or free, come all to
Christ for pardon; repent, believe.”
This was the message she longed to hear; it
seemed to be spoken for her. But he had told
them to repent; “what was that?” she asked.
She knew she was unfit for any heaven, made
for whites or blacks. She would gladly repent,
or do anything which would admit her to share
the abode of James.
Her anxiety increased; her countenance bore
marks of solicitude unseen before; and though
she said nothing of her inward contest, they all
observed a change. -
James and Aunt Abby hoped it was the
springing of good seed sown by the Spirit of
God. Her tearful attention at the last meeting
8


O U R N I G . 87
shedding tears over the Bible. She ordered her
to put up the book, and go to work, and not be
snivelling about the house, or stop to read
again. *
But there was one little spot seldom penetra-
ted by her mistress watchful eye: this was her
room, uninviting and comfortless; but to her-
self a safe retreat. Here she would listen to the
pleadings of a Saviour, and try to penetrate the
veil of doubt and sin which clouded her soul,
and long to cast off the fetters of sin, and rise
to the communion of Saints.
Mrs. Bellmont, as we before said, did not trou-
ble herself about the future destiny of her ser-
Vant. If she did what she desired for her bene-
fit, it was all the responsibility she acknowledged.
But she seemed to have great aversion to the
notice Nig would attract should she become
pious. How could she meet this case? She re-
solved to make her complaint to John. Strange,
when she was always foiled in this direction, she
should resort to him. It was time something
was done; she had begun to read the Bible
openly.
The night of this discovery, as they were


O U R N I G . 89
would have been killed long ago. There was
never one of my girls could do half the work.”
“Did they ever try?” interposed her husband.
“I think she can do more than all of them
together."
“What a man!” said she, peevishly. “But I
want to know what is going to be done with her
about getting pious?”
“Let her do just as she has a mind to. If it
is a comfort to her, let her enjoy the privilege of
being good. I see no objection.”
“I should think you were crazy, sure. Don’t
you know that every night she will want to go
toting off to meeting? and Sundays, too ? and
you know we have a great deal of company
Sundays, and she can’t be spared.”
“I thought you Christians held to going to
church,” remarked Mr. B.
“Yes, but who ever thought of having a nig-
ger go, except to drive others there? Why,
according to you and James, we should very
soon have her in the parlor, as Smart as our
own girls. It’s of no use talking to you or
James. If you should go on as you would like,
it would not be six months before she would be
8:


O U R N I G . 95
the family were at tea. It was usual to sum-
mon Aunt Abby to keep company with her, as
his death was expected hourly.
As she took her accustomed seat, he asked,
“Are you afraid to stay with me alone, Frado?”
“No,” she replied, and stepped to the window
to conceal her emotion.
“Come here, and sit by me; I wish to talk
with you.”
She approached him, and, taking her hand, he
remarked:
“How poor you are, Frado ! I want to tell
you that I fear I shall never be able to talk with
you again. It is the last time, perhaps, I shall
ever talk with you. You are old enough to
remember my dying words and profit by them.
I have been sick a long time; I shall die pretty
soon. My Heavenly Father is calling me home.
Had it been his will to let me live I should take
you to live with me; but, as it is, I shall go and
leave you. But, Frado, if you will be a good
girl, and love and serve God, it will be but a
short time before we are in a heavenly home to-
gether. There will never be any sickness or
sorrow there.”


98 O U R N I G.
Jack it was not thought best to send for, as
the season would not allow them time for the
journey. Susan provided her with a dress for
the occasion, which was her first intimation
that she would be allowed to mingle her grief
with others.
The day of the burial she was attired in
her mourning dress; but Susan, in her grief,
had forgotten a bonnet.
She hastily ransacked the closets, and found
one of Mary's, trimmed with bright pink ribbon.
It was too late to change the ribbon, and
she was unwilling to leave Frado at home;
she knew it would be the wish of James she
should go with her. So tying it on, she said,
“Never mind, Frado, you shall see where our
dear James is buried.” As she passed out, she
heard the whispers of the by-standers, “Look
there ! see there ! how that looks,— a black
dress and a pink ribbon l’
Another time, such remarks would have
wounded Frado. She had now a sorrow with
which such were small in comparison.
As she saw his body lowered in the grave
she wished to share it; but she was not fit to


O U R N I.G. 99
die. She could not go where he was if she
did. She did not love God; she did not serve
him or know how to.
She retired at night to mourn over her
unfitness for heaven, and gaze out upon the
stars, which, she felt, studded the entrance of
heaven, above which James reposed in the
bosom of Jesus, to which her desires were has-
tening. She wished she could see God, and
ask him for eternal life. Aunt Abby had taught
her that He was ever looking upon her. Oh,
if she could see him, or hear him speak words
of forgiveness. Her anxiety increased; her
health seemed impaired, and she felt constrained
to go to aunt Abby and tell her all about her
conflicts.
She received her like a returning wanderer;
seriously urged her to accept of Christ; ex-
plained the way; read to her from the Bible,
and remarked upon such passages as applied
to her state. She warned her against stifling
that voice which was calling her to heaven;
echoed the farewell words of James, and told
her to come to her with her difficulties, and


100 O U R N IG .
not to delay a duty so important as attention
to the truths of religion, and her soul's interests.
Mrs. Bellmont would occasionally give in-
struction, though far different. She would tell
her she could not go where James was; she
need not try. If she should get to heaven at
all, she would never be as high up as he.
He was the attraction. Should she “want
to go there if she could not see him?”
Mrs. B. seldom mentioned her bereavement,
unless in such allusion to Frado. She donned
her weeds from custom; kept close her crape
veil for so many Sabbaths, and abated nothing
of her characteristic harshness.
The clergyman called to minister consolation
to the afflicted widow and mother. Aunt Abby
seeing him approach the dwelling, knew at once
the object of his visit, and followed him to the
parlor, unasked by Mrs. B! What a daring
affront! The good man dispensed the conso-
lations, of which he was steward, to the appar-
ently griefsmitten mother, who talked like one
schooled in a heavenly atmosphere. Such resig-
nation expressed, as might have graced the trial
of the holiest. Susan, like a mute sufferer,


C H A PTE R X.
P E R P L E X IT I E. S. – A NOT H E R D E A T H .
Neath the billows of the ocean,
Hidden treasures wait the hand,
That again to light shall raise them
With the diver's magic wand.
G. W. COOK.
THE family, gathered by James' decease, re-
turned to their homes. Susan and Charles
returned to Baltimore. Letters were received
from the absent, expressing their sympathy
and grief. The father bowed like a “bruised
reed,” under the loss of his beloved son. He
felt desirous to die the death of the righteous;
also, conscious that he was unprepared, he
resolved to start on the narrow way, and some
time solicit entrance through the gate which
leads to the celestial city. He acknowledged his
too ready acquiescence with Mrs. B., in permit-
ting Frado to be deprived of her only religious
privileges for weeks together. He accordingly


O U R N I G . 103
asked his sister to take her to meeting once
more, which she was ready at once to do.
The first opportunity they once more at-
tended meeting together. The minister con-
versed faithfully with every person present.
He was surprised to find the little colored girl
so solicitous, and kindly directed her to the
flowing fountain where she might wash and
be clean. He inquired of the origin of her
anxiety, of her progress up to this time, and
endeavored to make Christ, instead of James,
the attraction of Heaven. He invited her to
come to his house, to speak freely her mind
to him, to pray much, to read her Bible often.
The neighbors, who were at meeting-among
them Mrs. Reed, – discussed the opinions Mrs.
Bellmont would express on the subject. Mrs.
Reed called and informed Mrs. B. that her col-
ored girl “related her experience the other
night at the meeting.”
“What experience?” asked she, quickly, as
if she expected to hear the number of times
she had whipped Frado, and the number of
lashes set forth in plain Arabic numbers.


104 O U R NIG .
“Why, you know she is serious, don't you ?
She told the minister about it.”
Mrs. B. made no reply, but changed the
subject adroitly. Next morning she told Frado
she “should not go out of the house for one
while, except on errands; and if she did not
stop trying to be religious, she would whip
her to death.”
Frado pondered; her mistress was a professor
of religion; was she going to heaven? then she
did not wish to go. If she should be near James,
even, she could not be happy with those fiery
eyes watching her ascending path. She resolved
to give over all thought of the future world,
and strove daily to put her anxiety far from
her.
Mr. Bellmont found himself unable to do what
James or Jack could accomplish for her. He
talked with her seriously, told her he had seen
her many times punished undeservedly; he did
not wish to have her saucy or disrespectful, but
when she was sure she did not deserve a whip-
ping, to avoid it if she could. “You are look-
ing sick,” he added, “you cannot endure beating
as you once could.”


108 O U R N I G .
able. She determined to flee. But where?
Who would take her? Mrs. B. had always repre-
sented her ugly. Perhaps every one thought
her so. Then no one would take her. She was
black, no one would love her. She might have
to return, and then she would be more in her
mistress' power than ever.
She remembered her victory at the wood-pile.
She decided to remain to do as well as she could;
to assert her rights when they were trampled
on; to return once more to her meeting in
the evening, which had been prohibited. She
had learned how to conquer; she would not
abuse the power while Mr. Bellmont was at
home.
But had she not better run away? Where?
She had never been from the place far enough
to decide what course to take. She resolved to
speak to Aunt Abby. She mapped the dangers
of her course, her liability to fail in finding so
good friends as John and herself. Frado's mind
was busy for days and nights. She contem-
plated administering poison to her mistress, to
rid herself and the house of so detestable a
plague.


112 O U R N I G .
“Oh, she's worth a million dollars, mother,
though not a cent of it is in money.”
“Jack! what do you want to bring such a
poor being into the family, for ? You'd better
stay here, at home, and let your wife go. Why
could n’t you try to do better, and not disgrace
your parents?”
“Don’t judge, till you see her,” was Jack's
reply, and immediately changed the subject.
It was no recommendation to his mother, and
she did not feel prepared to welcome her cor-
dially now he was to come with his wife. He
was indignant at his mother's advice to desert
her. It rankled bitterly in his soul, the bare
suggestion. He had more to bring. He now
came with a child also. He decided to leave the
West, but not his family.
Upon their arrival, Mrs. B. extended a cold
welcome to her new daughter, eyeing her dress
with closest scrutiny. Poverty was to her a
disgrace, and she could not associate with any
thus dishonored. This coldness was felt by Jack's
worthy wife, who only strove the harder to
recommend herself by her obliging, winning
ways.


114 O U R N I G.
He had another love whom he would be glad,
even now, if he could, to marry. It was very
doubtful if he ever came for her.
Jenny would feel pained by her unwelcome
gossip, and, glancing at her child, she decided,
however true it might be, she had a pledge
which would enchain him yet. Ere long, the
mother's inveterate hate crept out into some
neighbor's enclosure, and, caught up hastily,
they passed the secret round till it became none,
and Lewis was sent for, the brother by whom
Jack was employed. The neighbors saw her
fade in health and spirits; they found letters
never reached their destination when sent by
either. Lewis arrived with the joyful news
that he had come to take Jenny home with
him.
What a relief to her to be freed from the
gnawing taunts of her adversary.
Jenny retired to prepare for the journey, and
Mrs. B. and Henry had a long interview. Next
morning he informed Jenny that new clothes
would be necessary, in order to make her pre-
sentable to Baltimore society, and he should
return without her, and she must stay till she
was suitably attired.


O U R N I G . 119
built out from the main building, used formerly
as a workshop, where cold and rain found unob-
structed access, and here she fought with bitter
reminiscences and future prospects till she be-
came reckless of her faith and hopes and person,
and half wished to end what nature seemed so
tardily to take.
Aunt Abby made her frequent visits, and at
last had her removed to her own apartment,
where she might supply her wants, and minister
to her once more in heavenly things.
Then came the family consultation.
“What is to be done with her,” asked Mrs. B.,
“after she is moved there with Nab?” .
“Send for the Dr, your brother,” Mr. B. re-
plied.
“When 2”
“To-night.”
“To-night! and for her! Wait till morning,”
she continued.
“She has waited too long now; I think some-
thing should be done soon.”
“I doubt if she is much sick,” sharply inter-
rupted Mrs. B.
“Well, we’ll see what our brother thinks.”


122 O U R N IG .
One only resource; the public must pay the
expense. So she was removed to the home of
two maidens, (old,) who had principle enough to
be willing to earn the money a charitable public
disburses.
Three years of weary sickness wasted her,
without extinguishing a life apparently so fee-
ble. Two years had these maidens watched and
cared for her, and they began to weary, and
finally to request the authorities to remove her.
Mrs. Hoggs was a lover of gold and silver, and
she asked the favor of filling her coffers by caring
for the sick. The removal caused severe sick-
In eSS.
By being bolstered in the bed, after a time
she could use her hands, and often would ask for
Sewing to beguile the tedium. She had become
very expert with her needle the first year of her
release from Mrs. B., and she had forgotten none
of her skill. Mrs. H. praised her, and as she im-
proved in health, was anxious to employ her.
She told her she could in this way replace her
clothes, and as her board would be paid for, she
would thus gain something.
Many times her hands wrought when her


O U R N I G . 123
body was in pain; but the hope that she might
yet help herself, impelled her on. -
Thus she reckoned her store of means by a
few dollars, and was hoping soon to come in pos-
session, when she was startled by the announce-
ment that Mrs. Hoggs had reported her to the
physician and town officers as an impostor. That
she was, in truth, able to get up and go to work.
This brought on a severe sickness of two
weeks, when Mrs. Moore again sought her, and
took her to her home. She had formerly had
wealth at her command, but misfortune had de-
prived her of it, and unlocked her heart to sym-
pathies and favors she had never known while it
lasted. Her husband, defrauded of his last
means by a branch of the Bellmont family, had
supported them by manual labor, gone to the
West, and left his wife and four young children.
But she felt humanity required her to give a
shelter to one she knew to be worthy of a hospit-
able reception. Mrs. Moore's physician was
called, and pronounced her a very sick girl, and
encouraged Mrs. M. to keep her and care for her,
and he would see that the authorities were in-


124 O U R N IG .
formed of Frado's helplessness, and pledged as-
sistance.
Here she remained till sufficiently restored to
sew again. Then came the old resolution to take
care of herself, to cast off the unpleasant chari-
ties of the public.
She learned that in some towns in Massachu-
setts, girls make straw bonnets — that it was
easy and profitable. But how should she, black,
feeble and poor, find any one to teach her. But
God prepares the way, when human agencies
see no path. Here was found a plain, poor, sim-
ple woman, who could see merit beneath a dark
skin; and when the invalid mulatto told her sor-
rows, she opened her door and her heart, and
took the stranger in. Expert with the needle,
Frado soon equalled her instructress; and she
sought also to teach her the value of useful
books; and while one read aloud to the other of
deeds historic and names renowned, Frado expe-
rienced a new impulse. She felt herself capable
of elevation; she felt that this book information
supplied an undefined dissatisfaction she had
long felt, but could not express. Every leisure
moment was carefully applied to self-improve-


O U R N I G . 125
ment, and a devout and Christian exterior in-
vited confidence from the villagers. Thus she
passed months of quiet, growing in the confi-
dence of her neighbors and new found friends.
11:


128 O U R N I G.
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 compan-
ionship would soon force itself upon her. No
one wanted her with such prospects. Herself
was burden enough; who would have an addi-
tional 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. Recov-
ering from her expected illness, she once more
commenced toil for herself and child, in a room
obtained of a poor woman, but with better for-
tune. One so well known would not be wholly
neglected. Kind friends watched her when Sam-
uel was from home, prevented her from suffering,
and when the cold weather pinched the warmly
clad, a kind friend took them in, and thus pre-
served 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.


O U R N I G. 129
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 did n’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





APPENDIX. 139
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