Our Nig

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OUR NIG;

or,

Sketches from the
Life of a Free Black,
In A Two-Story White House, North.

SHOWING THAT SLAVERY'S SHADOWS
FALL EVEN THERE.

by "OUR NIG."

Dedicated to
Pauline Augusta Coleman Gates
and
Henry Louis Gates, Sr.

In Memory
of
Marguerite Elizabeth Howard Coleman,
and
Gertrude Helen Redman Gates

"I know
That care has iron crowns for many brows;
That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon
Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears
Draw guiltless blood; that sorrow sits and drinks
At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry;
That gentle spirits on the rack of pain
Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns;
That hell's temptations, clad in heavenly guise
And armed with might, lie evermore in wait
Along life's path, giving assault to all."--HOLLAND.

PREFACE.

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.

OUR NIG.

CHAPTER I.

MAG SMITH, MY MOTHER.

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
her simple heart had never dreamed of as hers.
She knew the voice of her charmer, so ravishing,
sounded far above her. It seemed like an an-
gel's, alluring her upward and onward. She
thought she could ascend to him and become an
equal. She surrendered to him a priceless gem,
which he proudly garnered as a trophy, with
those of other victims, and left her to her fate.
The world seemed full of hateful deceivers and
crushing arrogance. Conscious that the great
bond of union to her former companions was sev-
ered, that the disdain of others would be insup-
portable, she determined to leave the few friends
she possessed, and seek an asylum among strangers.
Her offspring came unwelcomed, and before its
nativity numbered weeks, it passed from earth,
ascending to a purer and better life.

"God be thanked," ejaculated Mag, as she saw
its breathing cease; "no one can taunt HER with
my ruin."

Blessed release! may we all respond. How
many pure, innocent children not only inherit a
wicked heart of their own, claiming life-long
scrutiny and restraint, but are heirs also of pa-
rental disgrace and calumny, from which only
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,
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
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. I washed 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 don'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! don'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
is ONE who isn'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.

This sudden expedient which he had uninten-
tionally disclosed, roused his thinking and invent-
ive powers to study upon the best method of
introducing the subject to Mag.

He belted his barrels, with many a scheme re-
volving in his mind, none of which quite satisfied
him, or seemed, on the whole, expedient. He
thought of the pleasing contrast between her fair
face and his own dark skin; the smooth, straight
hair, which he had once, in expression of pity,
kindly stroked on her now wrinkled but once
fair brow. There was a tempest gathering in his
heart, and at last, to ease his pent-up passion, he
exclaimed aloud, "By golly!" Recollecting his
former exposure, he glanced around to see if
Pete was in hearing again. Satisfied on this
point, he continued: "She'd be as much of a prize
to me as she'd fall short of coming up to the
mark with white folks. I don't care for past
things. I've done things 'fore now I's 'shamed
of. She's good enough for me, any how."

One more glance about the premises to be sure
Pete was away.

The next Saturday night brought Jim to the
hovel again. The cold was fast coming to tarry
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 INWARD
gratulation as before.

"Well, Mag," said Jim, after a short pause,
"you's down low enough. I don'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?"

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mag; "Nobody on earth
cares for ME--"

"I do," interrupted Jim.

"I can do but two things," said she, "beg my
living, or get it from you."

"Take me, Mag. I can give you a better
home than this, and not let you suffer so."

He prevailed; they married. You can philos-
ophize, gentle reader, upon the impropriety of
such unions, and preach dozens of sermons on the
evils of amalgamation. Want is a more power-
ful philosopher and preacher. Poor Mag. She
has sundered another bond which held her to her
fellows. She has descended another step down
the ladder of infamy.

CHAPTER II.

MY FATHER'S DEATH.

Misery! we have known each other,
Like a sister and a brother,
Living in the same lone home
Many years--we must live some
Hours or ages yet to come.
SHELLEY.

JIM, proud of his treasure,--a white wife,--
tried hard to fulfil his promises; and furnished
her with a more comfortable dwelling, diet, and
apparel. It was comparatively a comfortable
winter she passed after her marriage. When
Jim could work, all went on well. Industrious,
and fond of Mag, he was determined she should
not regret her union to him. Time levied an
additional charge upon him, in the form of two
pretty mulattos, whose infantile pranks amply
repaid the additional toil. A few years, and a
severe cough and pain in his side compelled him
to be an idler for weeks together, and Mag had
thus a reminder of by-gones. She cared for him
only as a means to subserve her own comfort;
yet she nursed him faithfully and true to mar-
riage vows till death released her. He became
the victim of consumption. He loved Mag to the
last. So long as life continued, he stifled his
sensibility to pain, and toiled for her sustenance
long after he was able to do so.

A few expressive wishes for her welfare; a
hope of better days for her; an anxiety lest
they should not all go to the "good place;"
brief advice about their children; a hope ex-
pressed that Mag would not be neglected as she
used to be; the manifestation of Christian pa-
tience; these were ALL the legacy of miserable
Mag. A feeling of cold desolation came over
her, as she turned from the grave of one who
had been truly faithful to her.

She was now expelled from companionship
with white people; this last step--her union
with a black--was the climax of repulsion.

Seth Shipley, a partner in Jim's business,
wished her to remain in her present home; but
she declined, and returned to her hovel again,
with obstacles threefold more insurmountable
than before. Seth accompanied her, giving her
a weekly allowance which furnished most of the
food necessary for the four inmates. After a
time, work failed; their means were reduced.

How Mag toiled and suffered, yielding to fits
of desperation, bursts of anger, and uttering
curses too fearful to repeat. When both were
supplied with work, they prospered; if idle, they
were hungry together. In this way their inter-
ests became united; they planned for the future
together. Mag had lived an outcast for years.
She had ceased to feel the gushings of peni-
tence; she had crushed the sharp agonies of an
awakened conscience. She had no longings for
a purer heart, a better life. Far easier to
descend lower. She entered the darkness of
perpetual infamy. She asked not the rite of
civilization or Christianity. Her will made her
the wife of Seth. Soon followed scenes familiar
and trying.

"It's no use," said Seth one day; "we must
give the children away, and try to get work in
some other place."

"Who'll take the black devils?" snarled Mag.

"They're none of mine," said Seth; "what
you growling about?"

"Nobody will want any thing of mine, or
yours either," she replied.

"We'll make 'em, p'r'aps," he said. "There's
Frado's six years old, and pretty, if she is yours,
and white folks'll say so. She'd be a prize
somewhere," he continued, tipping his chair
back against the wall, and placing his feet upon
the rounds, as if he had much more to say when
in the right position.

Frado, as they called one of Mag's children,
was a beautiful mulatto, with long, curly black
hair, and handsome, roguish eyes, sparkling
with an exuberance of spirit almost beyond
restraint.

Hearing her name mentioned, she looked up
from her play, to see what Seth had to say of
her.

"Wouldn't the Bellmonts take her?" asked
Seth.

"Bellmonts?" shouted Mag. "His wife is a
right she-devil! and if--"

"Hadn't they better be all together?" inter-
rupted Seth, reminding her of a like epithet
used in reference to her little ones.

Without seeming to notice him, she continued,
"She can't keep a girl in the house over a
week; and Mr. Bellmont wants to hire a boy to
work for him, but he can't find one that will
live in the house with her; she's so ugly, they
can't."

"Well, we've got to make a move soon,"
answered Seth; "if you go with me, we shall go
right off. Had you rather spare the other
one?" asked Seth, after a short pause.

"One's as bad as t'other," replied Mag.
"Frado is such a wild, frolicky thing, and means
to do jest as she's a mind to; she won't go if
she don't want to. I don't want to tell her
she is to be given away."

"I will," said Seth. "Come here, Frado?"

The child seemed to have some dim fore-
shadowing of evil, and declined.

"Come here," he continued; "I want to tell
you something."

She came reluctantly. He took her hand and
said: "We're going to move, by-'m-bye; will
you go?"

"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
proved unavailing. Mag felt sure her fears
were realized, and that she might never see her
again. Before her anxieties became realities,
both were safely returned, and from them and
their attendant they learned that they went to
walk, and not minding the direction soon found
themselves lost. They had climbed fences and
walls, passed through thickets and marshes, and
when night approached selected a thick cluster
of shrubbery as a covert for the night. They
were discovered by the person who now restored
them, chatting of their prospects, Frado attempt-
ing to banish the childish fears of her com-
panion. As they were some miles from home,
they were kindly cared for until morning. Mag
was relieved to know her child was not driven
to desperation by their intentions to relieve
themselves of her, and she was inclined to think
severe restraint would be healthful.

The removal was all arranged; the few days
necessary for such migrations passed quickly,
and one bright summer morning they bade fare-
well to their Singleton hovel, and with budgets
and bundles commenced their weary march.
As they neared the village, they heard the
merry shouts of children gathered around the
schoolroom, awaiting the coming of their teacher.

"Halloo!" screamed one, "Black, white and
yeller!" "Black, white and yeller," echoed a
dozen voices.

It did not grate so harshly on poor Mag as
once it would. She did not even turn her head
to look at them. She had passed into an insen-
sibility no childish taunt could penetrate, else
she would have reproached herself as she passed
familiar scenes, for extending the separation
once so easily annihilated by steadfast integrity.
Two miles beyond lived the Bellmonts, in a
large, old fashioned, two-story white house, en-
vironed by fruitful acres, and embellished by
shrubbery and shade trees. Years ago a youth-
ful couple consecrated it as home; and after
many little feet had worn paths to favorite fruit
trees, and over its green hills, and mingled at
last with brother man in the race which belongs
neither to the swift or strong, the sire became
grey-haired and decrepit, and went to his last
repose. His aged consort soon followed him.
The old homestead thus passed into the hands
of a son, to whose wife Mag had applied the
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.
Why the impetuous child entered the house,
we cannot tell; the door closed, and Mag
hastily departed. Frado waited for the close of
day, which was to bring back her mother. Alas!
it never came. It was the last time she ever
saw or heard of her mother.

CHAPTER III.

A NEW HOME FOR ME.

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 sympathy, and he felt inclined to succor her.
To do this in opposition to Mrs. Bellmont's
wishes, would be like encountering a whirlwind
charged with fire, daggers and spikes. She was
not as susceptible of fine emotions as her spouse.
Mag's opinion of her was not without founda-
tion. She was self-willed, haughty, undisciplined,
arbitrary and severe. In common parlance, she
was a SCOLD, a thorough one. Mr. B. remained
silent during the consultation which follows,
engaged in by mother, Mary and John, or Jack,
as he was familiarly called.

"Send her to the County House," said Mary,
in reply to the query what should be done with
her, in a tone which indicated self-importance in
the speaker. She was indeed the idol of her
mother, and more nearly resembled her in dis-
position and manners than the others.

Jane, an invalid daughter, the eldest of those
at home, was reclining on a sofa apparently un-
interested.

"Keep her," said Jack. "She's real hand-
some and bright, and not very black, either."

"Yes," rejoined Mary; "that's just like you,
Jack. She'll be of no use at all these three
years, right under foot all the time."

"Poh! Miss Mary; if she should stay, it
wouldn't be two days before you would be telling
the girls about OUR nig, OUR nig!" retorted Jack.

"I don't want a nigger 'round ME, do you,
mother?" asked Mary.

"I don't mind the nigger in the child. I
should like a dozen better than one," replied her
mother. "If I could make her do my work in
a few years, I would keep her. I have so much
trouble with girls I hire, I am almost persuaded
if I have one to train up in my way from a
child, I shall be able to keep them awhile. I
am tired of changing every few months."

"Where could she sleep?" asked Mary. "I
don't want her near me."

"In the L chamber," answered the mother.

"How'll she get there?" asked Jack. "She'll
be afraid to go through that dark passage,
and she can't climb the ladder safely."

"She'll have to go there; it's good enough
for a nigger," was the reply.

Jack was sent on horseback to ascertain if
Mag was at her home. He returned with the
testimony of Pete Greene that they were fairly
departed, and that the child was intentionally
thrust upon their family.

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 quarters.

"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.

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