Our Nig

by Harriet E. Wilson

  She learned that in some towns in Massachusetts, 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, simple woman, who could see merit beneath a dark skin ; and when the invalid mulatto told her sorrows, 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 experienced 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-improvement, and a devout and Christian exterior invited confidence from the villagers. Thus she passed months of quiet, growing in the confidence of her neighbors and new found friends.

  CHAPTER XII.

  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 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, 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 symyathy, 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 clays 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 mo. 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.

  TO THE FRIENDS OF OUR DARK-COMPLEXIONED BRETHREN AND SISTERS, THIS NOTE IS INTENDED.

  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.

  B
ut 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.