 Chapter 10 of R. Nigg. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget Gage. R. Nigg. by Harriet E. Wilson. Chapter 10. Perplexities and Other Death. 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 DeCise, returned 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 sometime solicit entrance through the gate which leads to the celestial city. He acknowledged his two ready acquiescence with Mrs. B., and permitting Fredo to be deprived of her only religious privileges for weeks together. He accordingly asked his sister to take her to meeting once more, which she was ready at once to do. The first opportunity they once more attended meeting together. The minister conversed 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. Belmont would express on the subject. Mrs. Reed called, and informed Mrs. B., that her colored 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 Fredo, and the number of lashes set forth in plain Arabic numbers. 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 Fredo 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. Fredo 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. Belmont 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 whipping, to avoid it if she could. You are looking sick, he added. You cannot endure beating as you once could. It was not long before an opportunity offered of profiting by his advice. She was sent for wood, and not returning as soon as Mrs. B. calculated, she followed her, and snatching from the pile a stick, raised it over her. Stop! shouted Fredo, strike me, and I'll never work a mite more for you, and throwing down what she had gathered stood like one who feels the stirring of free and independent thoughts. By this unexpected demonstration, her mistress, in amazement, dropped her weapon, desisting from her purpose of chastisement. Fredo walked towards the house, her mistress following with the wood she herself was sent after. She did not know before that she had a power to ward off assaults. Her triumph in seeing her enter the door with her burden repaid her for much of her former suffering. It was characteristic of Mrs. B. never to rise in her majesty, unless she was sure she should be victorious. This affair never met with an after-clap, like many others. Thus passed a year, the usual amount of scolding, but fewer whippings. Mrs. B. longed once more for Mary's return, who had been absent over a year, and she wrote imperatively for her to come quickly to her. A letter came in reply, announcing that she would comply as soon as she was sufficiently recovered from an illness which detained her. No serious apprehensions were cherished by either parent, who constantly looked for notice of her arrival, by mail. Another letter brought tidings that Mary was seriously ill, her mother's presence was solicited. She started without delay. Before she reached her destination, a letter came to the parents, announcing her death. No sooner was the astounding news received than Fredo rushed into Aunt Abby's, exclaiming, "'She's dead, Aunt Abby.' "'Who?' she asked, terrified by the unprefaced announcement. "'Mary, they've just had a letter.' As Mrs. B. was away, the brother and sister could freely sympathize, and she saw him in this fresh sorrow, to communicate such solace as she could, and to learn particulars of Mary's untimely death, and assist him in his journey thither. It seemed a thanksgiving to Fredo. Every hour or two she would pop in into Aunt Abby's room with some strange query. She got into the river again, Aunt Abby, didn't she? The Jordan is a big one to tumble into anyhow. As soon as she goes to hell, she'll be as black as I am. Wouldn't Mistress be mad to see her a nigger? And others of a similar stamp. Not at all acceptable to the pious, sympathetic dame. But she could not evade them. The family returned from their sorrowful journey, leaving the dead behind. Nigg looked for a change in her tyrant. What could subdue her if the loss of her idol could not? There was Mrs. B. known to shed tears so profusely, as when she reiterated to one and another the sad particulars of her darling sickness and death. There was indeed a season of quiet grief. It was the lull of the fiery elements. A few weeks revived the former tempests, and so at variance did they seem, with chest-tiesment sanctified, that Fredo felt them to be unbearable. She determined to flee. But where? Who would take her? Mrs. B. had always represented her ugly. Perhaps everyone 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's power than ever. She remembered her victory at the woodpile. 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. We had learned how to conquer. She would not abuse the power while Mr. Belmont 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. Fredo's mind was busy for days and nights. She contemplated administering poison to her mistress, to rid herself and the house of so detestable a plague. But she was restrained by an overruling providence, and finally decided to stay contentedly through her period of service, which would expire when she was eighteen years of age. In a few months Jane returned home with her family, to relieve her parents, upon whom years and affliction had left the marks of age. The years intervening since she had left her home, had in some degree softened the opposition to her unsanctioned marriage with George. The more Mrs. B. had about her, the more energetic seemed her directing capabilities, and her fault-finding propensities. Her own she had full power over, and Jane, after vain endeavors, became disgusted, weary, and perplexed, and decided that, though her mother might suffer, she could not endure her home. They followed Jack to the west. Thus vanished all hopes of sympathy, or relief from this source to Fredo. There seemed no one capable of enduring the oppressions of the house but her. She turned to the darkness of the future, with the determination previously formed, to remain until she should be eighteen. Jane begged her to follow her so soon as she should be released. But so wearied out was she by her mistress. She felt disposed to flee from any and every one having her similitude of name or feature. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XI. The hopes that cheered me, all that to the earth endeared me. Love of wealth and fame and power. Love. All have been crucified. CE. Darkness before day. Jane left, but Jack was now to come again. After Mary's death he visited home, leaving a wife behind. An orphan whose home was with a relative, gentle, loving, the true mate of kind, generous Jack. His mother was a stranger to her, of course, and had a perfect right to interrogate. Is she good-looking, Jack? asked his mother. Looks well to me, was the laconic reply. Was her father rich? Not worth the copper, as I know of. I never asked him, answered Jack. Hadn't she any property? What did you marry her for? asked his mother. 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 couldn'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 cordially, now he was to come with his wife. He was indignant at his mother's advice to desert her. It wrinkled bitterly in his soul, the bare suggestion. He had more to bring. He now came with the 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. Mrs. B. could never let Jack be with her alone without complaining of this or that deficiency in his wife. He cared not so long as the complaints were piercing his own ears. He would not have Jenny disquieted. He passed his time in seeking employment. A letter came from his brother, Lewis, then at the South, soliciting his services. Leaving his wife, they repaired thither. Mrs. B. felt that great restraint was removed, that Jenny was more in her own power. She wished to make her feel her inferiority, to relieve Jack of his burden if he would not do it himself. She watched her incessantly, to catch at some act of Jenny's which might be construed in conjugal unfaithfulness. Nearby were a family of cousins, one a young man of Jack's age, who from love to his cousin, proffered all needful courtesy to his stranger relative. Soon news reached Jack that Jenny was deserting her covenant vows, and had formed an illegal intimacy with his cousin. Meantime, Jenny was told by her mother-in-law that Jack did not marry her untrammeled. 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. Air-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 Louis was sent for, the brother by whom Jack was employed. The neighbors saw her fate in health and spirits. They found letters never reached their destination when sent by either. Louis 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 presentable to Baltimore society, and he should return without her, and she must stay till she was suitably attired. Miss Heartland, she rushed to her room, and after relief from weeping, wrote to Jack to come to have pity on her, and take her to him. No answer came. Mrs. Smith, a neighbor, watchful and friendly, suggested that she write away from home, and employ someone to carry it to the office, who would elude Mrs. B., who they very well knew, had intercepted Jenny's letter, and influenced Louis to leave her behind. She accepted the offer, and Frado succeeded in managing the affair, so that Jack soon came to the rescue, angry, wounded, and, forever after, alienated from his early home and his mother. Many times would Frado steal up into Jenny's room, when she knew she was tortured by her mistress's malignity, and tell some of her own encounters with her, and tell her she might be sure it wouldn't kill her, for she should have died long before at the same treatment. Susan and her child succeeded Jenny as visitors. Frado had merged into womanhood, and retaining what she had learned, in spite of the few privileges enjoyed formerly, was striving to enrich her mind. Her school books were her constant companions, and every leisure moment was applied to them. Susan was delighted to witness her progress, and some little book from her was a reward sufficient for any task imposed, however difficult. She had her book always fastened open near her, where she could glance, from toil to soul refreshment. The approaching spring would close the term of years which Mrs. B. claimed as the period of her servitude. Often as she passed the waymarks of former years, did she pause to ponder on her situation, and wonder if she could succeed in providing for her own wants. Her health was delicate, yet she resolved to try. Soon she counted the time by days which should release her. Mrs. B. felt that she could not well spare one, who could so well adapt herself to all departments—man, boy, housekeeper, domestic, etc.—she begged Mrs. Smith to talk with her, to show her how ungrateful it would appear to leave a home of such comfort, how wicked it was to be ungrateful. But Frado replied that she had had enough of such comforts. She wanted some new ones. And as it was so wicked to be ungrateful, she would go from temptation. And Abby said, we mustn't put ourselves in the way of temptation. Poor little Fido, she shed more tears over him than over all beside. The morning for departure dawned, Frado engaged to work for a family a mile distant. Mrs. Belmont dismissed her with the assurance that she would soon wish herself back again, and a present of a silver half-dollar. Her wardrobe consisted of one decent dress, without any superfluous accompaniments. A Bible from Susan she felt was her greatest treasure. Now was she alone in the world. The past year had been one of suffering, resulting from a fall, which had left her lame. The first summer passed pleasantly, and the wages earned were expended in garments necessary for health and cleanliness. Though feeble, she was well satisfied with her progress. Shut up in her room after her toil was finished, she studied what poor samples of apparel she had, and for the first time prepared her own garments. Mrs. Moore, who employed her, was a kind friend to her, and attempted to heal her wounded spirit by sympathy and advice, burying the past in the prospects of the future. But her failing health was a cloud no kindly human hand could dissipate. A little light work was all she could accomplish. A clergyman, whose family was small, sought her, and she was removed there. Her engagement with Mrs. Moore finished in the fall. Fredo was anxious to keep up her reputation for efficiency, and often pressed far beyond prudence. In the winter she entirely gave up work, and confessed herself thoroughly sick. Mrs. Hale, soon overcome by additional cares, was taken sick also, and now it became necessary to adopt some measures for Fredo's comfort, as well as to relieve Mrs. Hale. Such dark forebodings as visited her as she lay, solitary and sad, no moans or sighs could relieve. The family physician pronounced her case one of doubtful issue. Fredo hoped it was final. She could not feel relenting that her former home was abandoned, and yet, should she be in need of sucker, could she obtain it from one who would now so grudgingly bestow it? The family were applied to, and it was decided to take her there. She was removed to a room, built out from the main building, used formerly as a workshop, where cold and rain found unobstructed access, and here she fought with bitter reminiscences and future prospects till she became reckless of her faith and hopes and person, and half wished to end what nature seemed so tardily to take. And Abby made her frequent visits, and at last had her removed to her own apartment, where she might supply her once, and minister to her once more and heavenly things. Then came the family consultation. What is to be done with her? asked Mrs. B., after she has moved there with Nab. Send for the doctor, your brother, Mr. B. replied. When? Tonight. Tonight and for her? Wait till morning, she continued. She has waited too long now. I think something should be done soon. I doubt if she is much sick, sharply interrupted Mrs. B. Well, we'll see what our brother thinks. His coming was longed for by Fredo, who had known him well during her long sojourn and the family, and his praise of her nice butter and cheese, from which his table was applied. She knew he felt as well as spoke. You're sick, very sick, he said quickly, after a moment's pause. Take good care of her, Abby, or she'll never get well. All broken down. Yes, it wasn't Mrs. Moors, said Mrs. B., all this was done. She did but little the latter part of the time she was here. It was commenced longer ago than last summer. Take good care of her. She may never get well, remarked the doctor. We shan't pay you for doctoring her. You may look to the town for that, sir, said Mrs. B., and abruptly left the room. Oh, dear, oh, dear! exclaimed Fredo, and buried her face in the pillow. A few kind words of consolation, and she was once more alone in the darkness which enveloped her previous days. Yet she felt sure they owed her a shelter and attention when disabled, and she resolved to feel patient and remain till she could help herself. Mrs. B. would not attend her, nor permit her domestic to stay with her at all. Aunt Abby was her sole comforter. Aunt Abby's nursing had the desired effect, and she slowly improved. As soon as she was able to be moved, the kind Mrs. Moor took her to her home again, and completed what Aunt Abby had so well commenced. Not that she was well, or ever would be, but she had recovered so far as rendered at hopeful she might provide for her own ones. The clergyman at whose house she was taken sick was now seeking someone to watch his sick children, and as soon as he heard of her recovery, again asked for her services. What seemed so light and easy to others was too much for Fredo, and it became necessary to ask once more where the sick should find an asylum. All felt that the place where her declining health began should be the place of relief, so they applied once more for a shelter. No, exclaimed the indignant Mrs. B., she shall never come under this roof again, never, never, she repeated, as if each repetition were a bolt to prevent admission. 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 disperses. Three years of weary sickness wasted her, without extinguishing a life apparently so feeble. 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 favour of filling her coffers by caring for the sick. The removal caused severe sickness. 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 improved 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 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 possession when she was startled by the announcement that Mrs. Hoggs had reported her to the physician and town officers as an imposter, 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 deprived her of it, and unlocked her heart to sympathies and favors she had never known while it lasted. Her husband, defrauded of his last means by a branch of the Belmont 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 shelter to one she knew to be worthy of a hospitable 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 informed of Fredo's helplessness, and pledged assistance. Here she remained till sufficiently restored to so again. Then came the old resolution to take care of herself, to cast off the unpleasant charities of the public. 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 anyone 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, Fredo soon equalled her instructress, and she saw also to teach her the value of useful books, and while one read aloud to the other of deeds historic and names renowned, Fredo 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 newfound friends. CHAPTER XII. 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 Fredo. 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 Fredo felt attracted her, and she opened her heart to the presence of love, the arbitrary and inexorable tyrant. She removed to Singleton, her former residence, and there was married. Here were Fredo'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. Fredo 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 could 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 Fredo was more than she could endure. As soon as her baby 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, male treated by professed abolitionists, who didn't want slaves at the south, nor niggers in their own houses north. Faw, 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 salient 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 sympathy, gentle reader. Refuse not, because some part of her history is unknown, saved 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 Louis, where after an agony and 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. Fredo has passed from their memories, as Joseph from the butlers. But she will never cease to track them till beyond mortal vision. End of CHAPTER XII Appendix of R. Nigg. Truth is stranger than fiction, and whoever reads the narrative of Alfredo will find the assertion verified. About eight years ago I became acquainted with the author of this book, and I feel a privilege to speak a few words on her behalf. Through the instrumentality of an itinerant color lecturer, she was brought to W. Massachusetts. 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 sower. 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 Jay, 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 Alfredo, 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 days she left W, and all her home comforts, and took up her abode in New Hampshire. For a while everything went unwell, 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 were 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 hear 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 and W, among which was the portable ink stand, 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 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 show 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 me. 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 Savior 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. Oh, my mother, could I tell you the comfort this was to me. I sat down, calm, almost happy, took my pen, and row on the inspiration of the moment. Oh, Holy Father, by thy power, thus far in life I'm brought, and now in this dark, trying hour, oh God, forsake me not. Didst 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 low, 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 seemed 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 meager 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 the 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 and 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 sayeth 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, and my sheltering bosom hide. I will help thee, weary saint, cast thy burdens all on me. O how can'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 finds 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. Alita 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, and 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 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. And now I would say I hope those who call themselves friends of our dark-skinned brethren will lend a helping hand, and assist our sister, not in giving, but in buying a book. The expense is trifling, and the reward of doing good is great. Our duty is to our fellow beings, and when we let an opportunity pass, we know not what we lose. Therefore we should do with all our might what our hands find to do, and remember the words of him who went about doing good, that inasmuch as ye have done a good deed to one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it to me, and even a cup of water is not forgotten. Therefore let us work while the day lasts, and we shall in no wise lose our reward. Feeling a deep interest in the welfare of the writer of this book, and hoping that its circulation will be extensive, I wish to say a few words in her behalf. I have been acquainted with her for several years, and have always found her worthy the esteem of all friends of humanity, one whose soul is alive to the work to which she puts her hand. Although her complexion is a little darker than my own, I esteem it a privilege to associate with her, and assist her whenever an opportunity presents itself. It is with this motive that I write these few lines, knowing this book must be interesting to all who have any knowledge of the writer's character, or wish to have. I hope no one will refuse to aid her in her work, as she is worthy the sympathy of all Christians, and those who have a spark of humanity in their breasts. Thinking it unnecessary for me to write a long epistle, I will close by bidding her Godspeed. C. D. S. End of Appendix. End of Appendix. End of Arnegg by Harriet E. Wilson.