Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998

LC Subject Headings:

• African Americans -- Biography.
• Blacks -- Biography.
• Slaves -- Biography.
• African Americans -- Social conditions -- 18th century.
• African Americans -- Social conditions -- 19th century.
• African Americans -- Social life and customs -- 18th century.
• African Americans -- Social life and customs -- 19th century.
• Slavery -- History -- 18th century.
• Slavery -- History -- 19th century.

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NARRATIVES
OF
COLORED AMERICANS.

God "hath made of one blood all nations of men for to
dwell on all the face of the earth."--ACTS xvii., 26.

PRINTED BY ORDER OF THE TRUSTEES OF THE RESIDUARY
ESTATE OF LINDLEY MURRAY.

NEW YORK:
WILLIAM WOOD& CO., 27 GREAT JONES STREET.
1875.

        LINDLEY MURRAY, the Grammarian, and author of several excellent School and Reading books, in his last Will bequeathed certain funds to Trustees in America, his native country, for several benevolent objects, including the gratuitous distribution of "books calculated to promote piety and virtue, and the truth of Christianity."

        The Trustees have had "The Power of Religion on the Mind, in Retirement, Affliction, and at the approach of Death," stereotyped, and several thousand copies printed and distributed.

        They also publish the following Narratives compiled by A. Mott, and M. S. Wood, believing they will prove acceptable reading to our Colored Americans.

JOHN F. TROW& SON, PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS,
205-213 East 12th St., NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

• AFRICAN SERVANT, THE. . . . . 88
• AFRICAN PRINCE, THE. . . . . 212
• AFRICAN SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK. . . . . 242
• AFRICANS, THE INJURED. . . . . 245
• ANCASS. . . . . 74
• ANECDOTE. . . . . 101
• ANECDOTE. . . . . 205
• AN INCIDENT. . . . . 62

• BANNEKER, BENJAMIN. . . . . 60
• BAYLEY, SOLOMON. . . . . 133
• BELL, LET ME RING THE. . . . . 53
• BENEZET, ANTHONY. . . . . 230
• BIBLE, LOVE FOR THE. . . . . 272
• BILLY AND JENNY. . . . . 182
• BOWEN, WILLIAM. . . . . 229
• BOYD, HENRY. . . . . 251
• BUCCAN, QUAMINO. . . . . 257

• CAREY, LOTT. . . . . 191
• CHRISTIAN, AN AGED. . . . . 45
• CHRISTIAN KINDNESS. . . . . 48
• CLARINDA, A PIOUS COLORED WOMAN. . . . . 143
• COFFIN. . . . . 210
• COSTON, EZEKIEL. . . . . 203
• CUFFEE, CAPTAIN PAUL. . . . . 126
• CHRISTMAS HYMN AT ST. HELENA'S ISLAND. . . . . 273

• DADDY DAVY. . . . . 37
• DERHAM, JAMES. . . . . 211

• EMANCIPATION IN NEW YORK. . . . . 263

• FAITH OF A POOR BLIND WOMAN. . . . . 241
• FERGUSON, KATY. . . . . 69
• FOUNDLING, THE COLORED. . . . . 206
• FREEDMEN OF AMERICA. . . . . 264

• GOOD MASTER AND HIS FAITHFUL SLAVE, THE. . . . . 200
• GRATITUDE IN A LIBERATED SLAVE. . . . . 225

• HAM, FALLACIES RESPECTING THE RACE OF. . . . . 14
• HARDY, GEORGE. . . . . 186
• HOSPITABLE NEGRO WOMAN. . . . . 222
• HYMN SUNG AT ST. HELENA'S ISLAND. . . . . 272

• INDIAN, THE GOOD OLD .......238

---

Page iv
• KINDNESS, A LITTLE ACT OF. . . . . 102

• LETTERS FROM A LADY IN RICHMOND, VA. . . . . 270
• LIBERTY, EXTRAORDINARY EXERTIONS TO OBTAIN. . . . . 228
• LIE, HE NEVER TOLD A. . . . . 37
• LION, DELIVERANCE FROM. . . . . 9
• LITTLE WA. . . . . 83
• LUCAS, BELINDA. . . . . 164
• LIBERTY TO THE CAPTIVE. . . . . 276

• MISSIONARY BOX, THE. . . . . 35
• MONTJOY, ZILPAH. . . . . 160
• MORRIS, AGNES. . . . . 226
• MUNIFICENCE, EXTRAORDINARY. . . . . 234

• NAIMBANNA. . . . . 150
• NEGRO, THE GENEROUS. . . . . 123
• NEGRO, THE GRATEFUL. . . . . 208
• NO-ACCOUNT JOHNNY. . . . . 18
• NURSE, THE FAITHFUL. . . . . 209

• OLD DINAH. . . . . 16
• OLD SUSAN. . . . . 103

• POOR POMPEY. . . . . 74
• POOR SARAH. . . . . 111
• PRAYER, ANSWER TO. . . . . 12
• PRAYER, THE AFRICAN SERVANT'S. . . . . 100
• PROVIDENCE, TRUST IN. . . . . 23

• REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT IN A COLORED SCHOOL. . . . . 62

• SAAT. . . . . 30
• SACRIFICE, THE LIVING. . . . . 27
• SLAVE, THE BLIND, IN THE MINES. . . . . 97
• SLAVE, FLIGHT OF A. . . . . 55
• SLAVE, THE PSALM OF THE. . . . . 34
• SLAVE SHOEMAKER, THE. . . . . 51
• SLAVES, GRATITUDE OF. . . . . 50
• STORM AT SEA, A. . . . . 81

• TEACHERS, A HOTTENTOT'S LOVE FOR HER. . . . . 26
• TEMPTATION RESISTED AND HONESTY REWARDED. . . . . 236
• TRUTH, SOJOURNER. . . . . 65
• TEMPERANCE MEETING IN AFRICA. . . . . 274

• UNCLE HARRY. . . . . 213
• UNCLE JACK. . . . . 46

• VASSA, GUSTAVUS. . . . . 169

• WHEATLEY, PHILLIS. . . . . 5
• WIFE, THE. . . . . 24

• ZACHARY AND THE BOY. . . . . 21

PHILLIS WHEATLEY.

        IN 1761 John Wheatley's wife went to the slave market in Boston, for a girl whom she might train to wait upon her in her old age. At that time ships were sent from Boston to Africa after cargoes of slaves, which were sold to the people of Massachusetts. Among a group of more robust and healthy children just imported from Africa, the lady observed one of slender form, suffering from change of climate and the miseries of the voyage. She, was interested in the poor little girl, bought her, and took her home. The child, who was named Phillis, was almost naked, her only covering being a strip of dirty carpet; but in a short time the effects of comfortable clothing and food were visible in her returning health.

        Phillis at the time of her purchase was between seven and eight years of age, and the intention of her mistress was to train her as a servant; but the intelligence which the young girl soon exhibited, induced her mistress's daughter to teach her to read. Such was the rapidity with which she learned, that in sixteen months from the time of her arriving in the family, the African child had so mastered the English

language, to which she was an utter stranger before, that she could read with ease the most difficult parts of the Bible. Her uncommon intellect altered the intentions of the family regarding Phillis, and she was kept about the person of her mistress, whose affection she won by her amiable disposition and pleasing manners. All her knowledge was obtained without any instruction, except what was given her in the family; and in four years from the time she was stolen from Africa, and when only twelve years of age, she was capable of writing letters to her friends on various subjects.

        The young colored girl became an object of very general attention and astonishment; and in a few years she corresponded with several persons in high stations. As she grew up to womanhood, her attainments kept pace with the promise of her earlier years; the literary people of Boston supplied her with books and encouraged her intellectual powers. This was greatly assisted by her mistress, who treated her like a child of the family, admitted her to her own table, and introduced her as an equal to the best society; but Phillis never departed from the humble and unassuming deportment which distinguished her when she stood a little trembling child for sale in the slave market. She respected the prejudice against her color, and, when invited to the tables of the great or wealthy, she chose a place apart for herself, that none might be offended at a thing so unusual as sitting at table with a woman of color.

        Such was the modest and amiable disposition of Phillis Wheatley. She studied Latin, and her translations show that she made considerable progress in it; and she wrote poetry. At the age of fourteen she appears to have first attempted literary composition, and by the time she was nineteen the whole of her printed poems appear to have been written. They were published in London in 1773 in a small volume of above 120 pages, containing thirty-nine pieces, which she dedicated to the Countess of Huntington. This work has gone through several editions in England and America.

        Most of her poetry has a religious or moral bearing; all breathes a soft and sentimental feeling; many pieces were written on the death of friends. In a poem addressed to a clergyman on the death of his wife, some beautiful lines occur:

                         "O come away," her longing spirit cries,
                         "And share with me the rapture of the skies.
                         Our bliss divine to mortals is unknown,
                         Immortal life and glory are our own.
                         Here too may the dear pledges of our love
                         Arrive, and taste with us the joys above;
                         Attune the harp to more than mortal lays,
                         And join with us the tribute of their praise
                         To Him who died stern justice to atone,
                         And make eternal glory all our own."

        A poem on the Providence of God contains the following:

                         "All-wise, Almighty Providence, we trace
                         In trees, and plants, and all the flowery race,
                         As clear as in the nobler frame of man,
                         All lovely ensigns of the Maker's plan.
                         The power the same that forms a ray of light,
                         That called creation from eternal night."

        From a beautiful address and prayer to the Deity:

                         "Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
                         To sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
                         0 while we crave thine excellence to feel,
                         Thy sacred presence to our hearts reveal,
                         And give us of that mercy to partake,
                         Which Thou hast promised for the Saviour's sake."

        About the twenty-first year of her age Phillis was liberated; but she continued in her master's family, where she was much respected. Her health was delicate, and her physician having recommended a sea-voyage, it was arranged that she should visit England. She had not before been parted from her adopted mother, and the separation was painful to both of them.

        Phillis was received and admired in the first circles of English society, her poems published, and her portrait engraved. Her countenance appears to have been pleasing, and her head highly intellectual. The health of Mrs. Wheatley declined, and she longed for her beloved companion. On the first notice of her benefactress's desire to see her, Phillis, whose humility was not shaken by flattery and attention, re-embarked

for Boston. Within a short time after her return she stood by the dying bed of her mistress, mother, and friend, and Phillis Wheatley found herself alone.

        Shortly after the death of her friend she married a respectable man of her own color, named Peters. He was a remarkable person--of good character, a fluent writer, a ready speaker, and altogether an intelligent, educated man. He was a grocer by trade, and, as a lawyer, pleaded the cause of his brethren, the Africans, before the courts. Phillis was twenty-three at the time of her marriage. The connection did not prove a happy one, and she being of a susceptible mind and delicate constitution, fell into a decline, and died in 1780, about the twenty-sixth year of her age.

DELIVERANCE OF A HOTTENTOT FROM A LION.

        A METHODIST missionary named Kay, relates the following occurrence:

        I visited a poor sick Hottentot in the south of Africa, who recently experienced one of the most remarkable and providential deliverances I ever heard of. I found him in great pain, from the wounds he had received on that occasion. He gave me a description of his escape from the jaws of a lion, which he ascribes wholly to the gracious interposition of the Father of mercies.

        About a month ago he went on a hunting excursion, accompanied by several other natives. On an extensive plain they found an abundance of game, and discovered a number of lions, who appeared to be disturbed by their approach. A very large male lion began slowly to advance towards the party, many of whom were young and unaccustomed to such formidable animals. They all dismounted and prepared to fire, and, according to custom, began to tie their horses together by the bridles, with a view to keep them between themselves and the lion until they were able to take deliberate aim.

        Before the horses were properly fastened, the monster made a tremendous bound or two, and suddenly pounced upon the hind part of one of the horses, which plunged forward and knocked down the poor Hottentot. His comrades took flight, and ran off with all speed. He rose as quickly as possible to follow them; but no sooner had he regained his feet than the majestic beast stretched forth his paw, and, striking him behind the neck, brought him to the ground again. He then rolled on his back, and the lion set his foot upon his breast, and lay down upon him. The poor man now became almost breathless, partly from fear, but principally from the pressure of his terrific load. He moved a little to gain air, but, feeling this, the lion seized his left arm, close to the elbow, and amused himself with the limb for some time, biting it in different places, down to the hand.

        All this time the lion did not seem to be angry,

but merely caught at the arm as a cat sports with a mouse that is not quite dead, so that there was not a single bone broken, as there would have been if the lion had been hungry or irritated. While in great agony, and expecting every moment to be torn limb from limb, the sufferer cried to his companions for assistance, but cried in vain. On raising his head a little, the beast opened his dreadful jaws to receive it, but his hat only was rent, and points of the teeth only grazed his skull. The lion set his foot on the arm from which the blood was freely flowing, his paw was soon covered therewith, and he again and again licked it clean, and, with flaming eyes, appeared half inclined to devour the man.

        "At this critical moment," said the poor victim, "I recollected having heard that there is a God in heaven who is able to deliver at the last extremity, and I began to pray that He would save me, and not allow the lion to eat my flesh." While the Hottentot was thus engaged in calling on God, the animal turned himself completely round. On perceiving this, the man attempted to get from under him, but the lion became aware of his intention, and laid terrible hold of his right thigh, which gave excruciating pain. He again sent up his cry to God for help, nor were his prayers in vain. The huge creature rose from his seat, and walked majestically off about thirty or forty paces, and then lay down on the grass as if to watch his victim, who ventured to sit up, which attracted the lion's attention; he made no attack, but

rose, took his departure, and was seen no more. The man soon arose, took up his gun, and hastened to his terrified companions, who had given him up for dead. He was set upon a horse, and taken to the place where I found him.

        Dr. Gambier hastened to his relief, and thought the appearance of the wounds so alarming that amputation of the arm was absolutely necessary. To this, however, the man would not consent, as he had a number of young children, whose subsistence depended on his labor. "As the Almighty has delivered me," said he, "from that horrid death, surely He is able to save my arm also." Astonishing to relate, his wounds are healed, and there is now hope of his ultimate recovery.

ANSWER TO PRAYER.

        "I WELL remember," said the son of a Christian missionary, "hearing my mother speak in touching terms of the narrow escapes my father had during our sojourn in Jamaica. He endured five attacks of yellow fever, and on one occasion suffered so much that the medical attendant gave up all hopes of his recovery. For some time he lingered in a state of insensibility hardly to be described. My mother watched and wept; friends did the same; the faithful Christian colored people also wept as they saw life ebbing away. Death seemed just about to seize his prey.

        "Prayer-meetings were held, and at last some hundreds of negroes were assembled, earnestly beseeching Almighty God with tears to spare the life of their beloved missionary. Often had he stood up before judges in their defence. Often had he been cast into prison for protecting them from their tyrannical oppressors; and now, with a warmth of affection and intensity of feeling unknown amongst Christians in England, they cried mightily to God. Hour after hour passed by; messengers were passing from the chapel to the mission-house to obtain tidings of the sick man. At length, when his spirit appeared about to depart and to leave all earthly scenes, the pious negroes agreed to unite silently in one heartfelt petition to Him 'in whose hand our breath is;' and believing that 'man doth not live by bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord,' they thus silently, unitedly prayed. The multitude joined in one petition, ascending from their inmost souls; and at that very hour the shadow of death was removed at the rebuke of the Lord !

        "A change took place, signs of health appeared, and he for whom so many supplicants prayed was raised up from his bed of languishing, and that chapel did indeed become filled with songs of joy, praise, and thanksgiving. 'He lives! he lives!' was the joyful exclamation that ran from one to another through that congregation."

FALLACIES RESPECTING THE RACE OF HAM.

        IT is thought by some that the race of Ham, one of the sons of Noah, had a curse pronounced upon it at the beginning, whereby through all time this particular branch of the human family was to be kept in an inferior and servile condition. This is not correct. No curse stands recorded in the Bible against the race of Ham. The curse in question was pronounced upon Canaan, one of the four sons of Ham, whose descendants settled in the hill country, called after his name, along the east end of the Mediterranean Sea. There they dwelt for several centuries, and built up a corrupt and idolatrous nation, until they were dispossessed of their inheritance by the invading hosts of the Jews. By this invasion vast numbers of this Canaanitish race perished, and those who survived were brought into an abject, dependant, and servile condition.

        The perversion of the passage is the more noteworthy from the fact, that while Ham was the offender, on account of whose conduct the curse was pronounced--so that, the reader is naturally looking for some manifestation towards him personally--his name does not appear. The curse, though three times repeated, falls steadily upon Canaan, one of the four sons. When the three sons of Noah came forth with their father out of the ark, the historian simply says,

"And Ham is the father of Canaan." True, so he was, and was also the father of Misraim, and Cush, and Phut. Shem, too, was the father of five sons, and Japheth of seven ; but nothing is said at that time about all these, only, "Ham is the father of Canaan." And so also when Ham's irreverent wickedness is mentioned, it is "Ham the father of Canaan."

        What is perhaps still more noticeable, when the curse is passed, and the historian in the next chapter takes up the genealogy of the race after the flood, and shows us the first founders of kingdoms and nations, the only instance in all that long list, when he stops to give us the boundaries of any people, is in this case of Canaan. It seems as if God took especial pains to set the people who were to be cursed, apart from the rest, that there need be no doubt who they were, and where they lived.

        But if we take the race of Ham generally, we shall find that for two thousand years after the flood it continued by far the most noticeable and conspicuous of the three branches. For some reason the early developments of civilization were almost entirely in this race. Egypt and Assyria, by far the grandest empires of antiquity, were both of this Hametic order. Misraim, the son of Ham, is the reputed father of the one, and Nimrod, the grandson, of the other. So obvious was this fact, at least as respects Egypt, that it is familiarly called in the Scriptures "the land of Ham." "Israel also came into Egypt , and Jacob sojourned in the land of Ham." And again, "He

sent Moses His servant, and Aaron whom He had chosen. They showed His signs among them, and wonders in the land of Ham."

OLD DINAH.

        DINAH was a slave. Her mistress was an Indian woman, into whose dark mind not a single ray of gospel light had ever penetrated. She lived among a small tribe on the borders of Tennessee, and although at the age of forty, or a little over, she was called Old Dinah. The Indian mistress and all her servants had been baptized by a Roman priest; but why, or wherefore, none of them knew. Dinah said, in relating the circumstance, "I allers thought the white folks had something to tell that we did not know about, and I used to think what could it be. When the missionaries come here with the Bible, then I know what it is."

        Her veneration for the "Good Book," as she always called it, was remarkable. Getting on a stool in her little cabin one day, I noticed on a shelf, far above the reach of her little ones, a pile of torn, dingy bits of paper. I said, "What have you here, Dinah?"

        "Oh, missus, don't mind them now. I picks 'em up when I come from the meeting. I spose the children throws 'em out of the school-house, but I thinks it may be they are pieces of the Good Book, and when I learns to read I can find 'em out."

        Dinah did learn to read. She had a family to provide for, and Saturday was the only day in the week allotted to her in which to look after her little patch of corn and potatoes, cook their food, and prepare her children for the Sabbath. The morning she gave to her farming in summer, then the washing and mending, and at night after the children were washed and stowed away for sleep, she would take the youngest on her back, and, tired as she often was, trudge away two miles to the mission station; and favored indeed was the teacher who could get rid of the earnest appeal, "Let me learn just a little more," before the morning dawned. Every Sabbath morning a little time was spent in imparting to her Daniel the lesson of the previous evening--his master living in a village some miles distant, so that he could not secure any other instruction; but Daniel soon outran his teacher, and having a warm Christian heart, learned to expound as well as read the Good Book, much to the edification of his colored friends. This was also an unfailing source of comfort and grateful recollection to Dinah. Once when listening to his fervent appeals, she said to me, while the big tears chased each other joyously down her cheeks, "Oh, missus, look at Daniel! I taught that man his a, b, c, and now he knows so much, and I can only pick out a little of the Good Book yet."

        In the preaching of the gospel she took great de- light, and never but once, during our nine or ten months among that people, do I remember her being

absent from our meetings on the Sabbath. It was in the female prayer-meeting that Dinah was invaluable. Here all her tenderness of conscience, her desire for instruction, her delicacy and tact in eliciting it, not only for herself but for the benefit of others whose spiritual wants she had made her study, and above all, her meek and earnest supplications, rendered her a helper never to be forgotten, and I loved her for the image of my Master shining in her face.

"NO-ACCOUNT JOHNNY."

BY M. E. SANGSTER.

        "NO-ACCOUNT JOHNNY" had had a hard time all his life. He was a poor boy, so homely, and dirty, and ragged, so nearly idiotic, that few people would look at him twice. He lived with a French dyer, who had taught him how to stir the vats at a certain time every day, and who gave him in return enough corn-bread and bacon to keep him alive. A damp, ill- smelling cellar was the place where he spent his days, and his nights were passed in an equally repulsive attic. To dodge a blow, to tell a lie, to eat, to sleep, to be glad in a vague sort of way when the sun shone on him warmly, these were all the accomplishments of poor "No-Account Johnny" Long.

        Christmas, with its green boughs and its gifts,

went by, and brought no gift to him. He did wish, as he heard the other boys tooting away on their tin horns, that he had one; but as he could not get one by wishing, he contented himself with turning somersaults on the pavement. By an unfortunate miscalculation, he lay bruised and unconscious at the foot of the cellar-steps.

        Aunt Lizzie, the washerwoman, at the end of the court, took him home to her poor little house, and took care of him till he was well again, for in the fall he had broken his arm. Her children went to Sunday-school, and one of them brought his teacher to see Johnny.

        "Well, my poor little fellow," said the gentleman, looking with pity on the thin face, clean now, through Aunt Lizzie's care, "I see you are sick; what's your name?"

        "No-Account Johnny!"

        "Johnny! well, Johnny, do you know that Jesus loves you ?"

        "Never hearn tell of the Mister, I'm no account. Reckon He don't know me! Missis says I'm no account nohow!"

        "But that is a mistake, my boy. You are of great account. You have a soul that can never die. Did you never know that?"

        "No," shaking his head; "I don't un'erstand, Mister."

        "Was anybody ever good to you, Johnny?"

        "Nobody but Aunt Liz. Aunt Liz been good."

        "Well, Jesus is better than Aunt Liz. Jesus is God. He died for you! He lives up there among the stars! He loves you, poor No-Account Johnny. Think of that."

        The teacher went away. At the door old Aunt Lizzie thanked him for coming, but said:

        "It's of no use, sir, to teach that boy. He a'nt right here," tapping her forehead.

        "Ah! Aunt Lizzie, our blessed Jesus can make him understand," said Mr. Allen, as he went away.

        After a few weeks Johnny was able to go back to the dyeing establishment. The first Sabbath after, however, he lost his place, for he refused to work, and astonished his master by saying that he was going to Sunday-school. Thither he went, and walking up to Mr. Allen said:

        "Here I am! Tell me more 'bout Jesus; I've found out a heap since you told me 'bout Him, and I'm going to be Jesus Christ's Johnny now. No-Account Johnny's gone off altogether."

        Nobody could tell how it happened, but that magic word, "Jesus," had done wonders for the little heathen. "He loves me," he had said to himself again and again, and then he had listened, with that unlocked heart, to every word he heard about Jesus, and had learned a great deal. "No-Account Johnny" became one of the best scholars in the little mission-school.

ZACHARY AND THE BOY.

        ZACHARY was an Indian of the Mohegan tribe, and belonged to the royal family of his people. He was one of the best of hunters, never returning empty-handed from the chase. But he was a poor, miserable drunkard. He had learned from the white man how to drink "fire-water," and had become so fond of it that he was drunk nearly all the time when he was not hunting. When he had reached the age of fifty years, several of his superiors in the tribe died, leaving only one person between him and the position of chief.

        One day Zachary was returning from hunting, and while on his way began to think of his past life and of his future prospects. "What a fool I have been," said he to himself, "having lived so long to act so foolishly. How can such a drunken wretch as I ever hope to be the chief of my tribe? What will my people think and say of me? I am not worthy to fill the place of the great Uncas. I will drink no more!"

        When he reached his wigwam, he told his wife and friends that he would never, as long as he lived, taste any drink but water. And he kept this resolution to the day of his death.

        Many of the whites who heard this story could not believe it. They said Zachary had been so long in the habit of drinking that he could not live without it, and they had no doubt that he often took a glass

slyly when no one was looking on. Among these was a young man, the son of the governor of one of the New England colonies; for this story I am telling you is about matters which took place many years ago, before America was a separate nation, and when what are now States were called colonies, and governed by rulers sent over from England.

        Zachary had by this time become the chief in his tribe, and the governor invited him one day to dine with him. While they were seated at the table the governor's son thought he would try the temperance principles of the old chief, and offering him a glass of beer, said: "Zachary, this beer is excellent, will you taste it?"

        The old man dropped his knife and fork, and leaning over the table, looked with a sharp eye upon the youth, and said: "John, you do not know what you are doing! Boy, you are serving the devil! Do you want to make me what I once was, a poor, miserable man, unfit to govern my tribe? John, the acorn grows into an oak; the cub becomes a bear; the brook swells into a river; and a single spark of fire will spread through a whole forest. So one drop of your beer would make me want more, and then I should want something stronger, and I would drink rum until I became as wretched as I once was. Do you not know that I am an Indian? I tell you that I am; and that if I begin to drink beer I cannot stop without tasting rum. John, while you live, never again tempt a man to break a good resolution."

        The young man knew not what to say. He felt that he had done a mean thing in trying to get old Zachary to break his pledge. His parents were deeply affected at the scene, and often reminded their son of it afterward, charging him never to forget it; and he did not. For years after the Indian chief died, John made frequent visits to his grave, repeating to himself the valuable lesson he had learned, never to tempt a man to break a good resolution.

        Men, and children too, who are trying to become better, ought to be helped, not hindered. Kind words and kind deeds will greatly encourage them; but to frown upon them, to sneer at them, or to make sport of them, is often a sure way of making them as bad as ever.--The Christian.

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.

                         ON a bridge I was standing one morning,
                         And watching the current roll by,
                         When suddenly into the water
                         There fell an unfortunate fly.

                         The fishes that swam to the surface,
                         Were looking for something to eat,
                         And I thought that the hapless young insect
                         Would surely afford them a treat.

                         "Poor thing," I exclaimed with compassion,
                         "Thy trials and dangers abound,
                         For if thou escap'st being eaten,
                         Thou canst not escape being drowned."

                         No sooner the sentence was spoken,
                         Than lo, like an angel of love,
                         I saw, to the waters beneath me,
                         A leaflet descend from above.

                         It glided serene on the streamlet,
                         'Twas an ark to the poor little fly;
                         Which, soon to the land reascending,
                         Spread its wings to the breezes to dry.

                         Oh, sweet was the truth that was whispered,
                         That mortals should never despair,
                         For He that takes care of an insect,
                         Much more for His children will care.

                         And though, to our short-sighted vision,
                         No way of escape may appear,
                         Let us trust, for when least we expect it,
                         The help of our Father is near.

THE WIFE.

        DR. LIVINGSTONE, in his travels in Africa, came one night to the house of Mozinkwa, a friendly man, with a pleasant-looking wife and fine family of children, very "black, but comely." Perhaps their hospitable, kind ways made them look handsome to the lonely missionary, so far from home and friends. He was caught in a heavy rain, but he and his companions received a warm welcome and plenty of food from this friendly couple, till they were able to proceed.

        They had a large garden, cultivated by the wife, with yams, sweet potatoes, and other vegetables growing in it, and all surrounded by a fine hedge of the banian tree. Under some larger trees, in the middle of the yard, stood the huts in which they lived, and no doubt the fine-looking little children played many happy days under their mother's care in the shade.

        When Dr. Livingstone took his leave of this interesting family, the wife asked him to bring her some cloth from the white man's country. When he returned, after a long journey, he was surprised to find the pleasant home silent and deserted; the garden given up to wild weeds, and the huts in ruins, and no sign of life in the spot where he last saw a large family of frolicking children. Poor Mozinkwa's wife was dead and in her grave under the large trees, while the huts, garden, and hedge, of which she had been so proud, were fast going to ruin; for, according to the custom of that heathen country, a man can never continue to live where a favorite wife has died. He is so lonely and sorrowful when he thinks of the happy times they have had together, that he cannot stay where everything reminds him of his loss. If ever he visits the spot again, it is to pray to his dead wife and make some offering. So for want of a knowledge of the Friend of Sinners, who binds up the wounded heart, they must move from place to place, and can never have any settled villages in that part of the country.

        How different would the scene have been on Dr.

Livingstone's return, if poor Mozinkwa and his wife had been Christians. Then he might have been happy even in his loneliness, for he would have prayed to God for strength to bear his loss, and read the Bible, and taught his children to live so as to meet their mother in heaven. Instead of flying from place to place to forget their troubles, those poor Africans might have permanently happy homes, if they knew the peace the gospel gives.

A HOTTENTOT'S LOVE FOR HER TEACHERS,
AND THE POWER OF PRAYER.

        DURING the persecution to which the Moravian missionaries in South Africa were exposed some years ago, a woman, living about an hour's walk from the mission house, had a daughter who attended the school, and had become a Christian. One day this girl returned home in terror, bringing her little sister. Her mother inquired the reason; she replied: "We and our teachers are all to be shot dead, and I have brought my sister back, that you may at least keep one child; but as for me, I will return to my teachers and suffer with them."

        "What!" said her mother, "do you mean to go and be killed?"

        "Yes," replied the poor girl; "for it is written in the Bible, 'Whoever will lose his life for my sake, shall find it.' "

        Her mother was much affected, and taking up her younger daughter, said, "My child, where you are there will I be."

        The party then set off for Bavian's Kloof, weeping all the way. When they had arrived at the top of the hill which commanded a view of the settlement, they saw a number of the natives approaching it, as if to attack the missionaries. The Hottentot woman and her children fell upon their knees and cried fervently to God, beseeching Him to prevent the enemy from hurting their beloved teachers. When they again looked up, they saw the men going towards another plantation, at some distance from the mission. The woman and children went to Bavian's Kloof, and found the Hottentots there all in tears, some kneeling, some prostrate on their faces, crying to God, and their most urgent prayers seemed to be, "Preserve the teachers whom Thou hast sent us."

THE LIVING SACRIFICE.

                         AMID the forest's silent shades
                         Where nature reigns supreme,
                         A little band had met to hear
                         The glorious gospel theme.

                         I gazed upon the dusky forms
                         Of Indians gathered there,
                         And thought how once the red man owned
                         Those lands so rich and fair.

                         But now he roams throughout the plains
                         Where once his fathers dwelt,
                         A poor heart-stricken wanderer,
                         For him none pity felt.

                         But hark! the preacher's solemn tone
                         My wand'ring thoughts recall;
                         He preaches Jesus crucified,
                         Jesus who died for all.

                         He tells, with simple eloquence,
                         How the Good Shepherd came
                         To save the erring sheep He loved,
                         From ruin and from shame.

                         He speaks of sad Gethsemane,
                         Then tells the eager crowd,
                         How Jesus Christ was crucified
                         By cruel men and proud.

                         And at his words like forest trees
                         Moved by the rushing blast,
                         O'er the proud hearts of those dark men
                         A wondrous change then passed.

                         They wept--nature's lone children wept
                         At that sweet tale of love--
                         To think that Jesus died that they
                         Might dwell with Him above.

                         And one of that wild forest's sons,
                         Of tall and noble frame.
                         While tears bedewed his manly cheek,
                         Towards the preacher came.

                         "What? did the blessed Saviour die
                         And shed His blood for me?
                         Was it for my sins Jesus wept
                         In dark Gethsemane?

                         "What can poor Indian give to Thee,
                         Jesus, for love like thine?
                         The lands my fathers once possessed
                         Are now no longer mine;

                         "Our hunting-grounds are all upturned
                         By the proud white man's plough,
                         My rifle and my dog, alas!
                         Are my sole riches now.

                         "Yet these I fain would give to Him
                         On Calvary's cross who bled;
                         Will Christ accept so mean a gift?"--
                         The stranger shook his head.

                         The Indian chief a moment paused,
                         And downward cast his eyes:
                         Then suddenly from round his neck
                         His blanket he unties.

                         "This, with my rifle and my dog,
                         Are all I have to give;
                         Yet these to Jesus I would bring;
                         He died that I might live!

                         "Stranger! will Jesus Christ receive
                         These tokens of my love?"
                         The preacher answered, "Gifts like these
                         Please not the God above."

                         The humble child of ignorance
                         His head in sorrow bent;
                         Absorbing thought unto his brow
                         Its saddening influence lent.

                         He raised his head, a gleam of hope
                         O'er his dark features passed,
                         As when on some deep streamlet's breast
                         The sun's bright beams are cast.

                         His eyes were filled with glistening tears,
                         And earnest was his tone;
                         "Here is poor Indian! Jesus, take,
                         And make him all thine own."

                         A thrill of joy passed through the crowd,
                         To see how grace divine
                         Could cause the heart of th' Indian chief
                         With heav'nly love to shine;--

                         Such love as made him yield with joy
                         Body and soul to Him
                         Whose watchful care can never fail,
                         Whose love can ne'er grow dim.

SAAT.

        SIR SAMUEL BAKER and his wife made a dangerous and toilsome journey into the burning regions of Central Africa. From a book of travel and adventure published by him we glean such portions as relate to their faithful servant, Saat, the African boy.

        When a child of six years old, minding his father's goats in the desert, Saat was captured by a hostile Arab tribe, and thrust into a sack, which was placed on a camel's back, and thus he was carried hundreds of miles from home. Every time that the poor child screamed or offered resistance he was threatened that he would be killed by his cruel captors. Saat shortly found himself in the hands of a slave-dealer, by whom he was offered to the Egyptian government as a drummer-boy, but being too small was rejected. A fellow slave told little Saat of an Austrian mission-house in the very town in which they were, that would protect and care for him if he could escape to it. Thither the little boy fled, and found shelter for some time, gaining such instruction as his mind could receive, together with other little waifs and strays, which the missionaries had received at different times.

        Sickness reduced the number of the good men who had cared for and taught the children, and they found it necessary to turn adrift the friendless little ones, who apparently without result had been watched and tended, and little Saat, "the one grain of gold," was a second time without a home. But God guided him on a good way.

        One evening Sir Samuel Baker and his wife were sitting in their courtyard on the Nile, when a starved, miserable boy crept up to them, and crouching in the dust, begged to be allowed to live with them and be their boy. They did not take him then, and he came again the next day, praying them to allow him to

serve them. They endeavored to discourage him by telling of the long and dangerous journey they were about to take. Saat was firm; he would go with them to the end of the world. Touched by the boy's story they went to the mission to inquire the truth of it. There an excellent character was given of him, with the remark that he must have been turned out by mistake. This determined the traveller to adopt him. A good washing and a new suit of clothes made Saat quite respectable, and being well-disposed he soon made himself useful. Mrs. Baker taught him to sew, and Sir Samuel gave him lessons in shooting. When his day's work was done, he was allowed to sit by his mistress while she told him stories from the Bible and from the history of Europe. There was plenty of time for such talk, the long, weary journey in the Nile boat, which they had just commenced, enabling that gentle lady to instruct the poor ignorant boy thrown on her hands. Their native servants robbed, betrayed, and deserted the travellers at every turn, but among them little Saat shone as a bright star, honest, truthful, and devoted to those who had rescued him from starvation, and he daily won their love. To him they most probably owed their lives, as he detected and exposed to them a plan their servants had agreed on, to seize their master's arms and leave him in the desert, or murder him and his wife if they met with resistance.

        This child of the sun seemed to have all the best points of a happy English boy; he delighted in active

sports and shooting with his light gun. Through dangers and distresses he was always bright and cheerful. Saat was sometimes in mischief, too, and he spoilt two watches by trying to examine their inside works. He was very fond of a drum; but a camel which carried it rolled over and spoilt that musical instrument; then he destroyed a tin kettle and a tin cup by drumming on them. Neither watch nor tin-ware could be replaced when shops were thousands of miles away. Once, when he was not well, a powder was given him to take, and he asked if he should eat the paper it was in.

        Sir Samuel followed his plans for his journey through all obstacles, and Saat's name is never mentioned, except in praise. He endured hunger and thirst, and rejoiced with his kind protectors in the success of their undertaking. During these years of travel, sickness and death had visited their little band, but as yet the boy had been spared; but on the homeward journey his time came,--that fearful sickness, the plague, attacked the vessel in which the party journeyed: first one was smitten, then another, and then it was Saat. Mrs. Baker herself nursed the sick boy with tender care, but he lay day and night in delirium. At last came a calm; he was gently washed and dressed in clean clothes, and laid to rest. He slept; his mistress hoped it was the sleep of recovery; but a kind servant presently covered the boy's face while tears ran down her cheeks. Saat was dead. The boat was stopped, and

the faithful boy was sadly buried beneath a tree, the wonderful river Nile rolling by his grave.

        Saat was converted from Paganism to Christianity, and reached his home and rest in heaven.

THE PSALM OF THE SLAVE.

        God heard it; and he is free.

                         LOUD he sang the Psalm of David,
                         He a negro and enslaved,
                         Sang of Israel's victory;
                         Sang of Zion bright and free.

                         In that hour when night is calmest,
                         Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
                         In a voice so sweet and clear,
                         That I could not choose but hear--

                         Songs of triumph and ascription,
                         Such as reached the swarth Egyptian,
                         When upon the Red-Sea coast
                         Perished Pharaoh and his host.

                         And the voice of his devotion,
                         Filled my soul with strange emotion;
                         For its tones by turns were glad,
                         Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

                         Paul and Silas in their prison,
                         Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen;
                         And an earthquake's arm of might
                         Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

                         But, alas! what holy angel
                         Brings the slave this glad evangel?
                         And what earthquake's arm of night
                         Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? Longfellow.

THE MISSIONARY BOX.

        A FEW years ago two young Africans went to England to obtain an education, and then return to Africa to teach their countrymen the gospel of Jesus Christ. One of them, George Nicol, while staying near London, walked a considerable distance. In his walk he came to Hampstead Heath, from which he could see the city of London before him. The principal buildings attracted his attention. A laborer who was breaking stones on the other side of the road kept looking at him; no doubt it seemed strange to him to see a colored man looking at the view he had himself seen every day for many years past; and in his eyes, perhaps, the wonder would be increased by seeing the African dressed like a respectable Englishman.

        While George Nicol stood gazing on the scene the laborer kept peeping at him from time to time, but never thought of speaking. Presently George Nicol turned to him, and asked in good English, what a certain building was which he saw in the distance. The laborer answered civilly that it was St. Paul's Church; and then replied to several other questions, till he had

pointed out the chief buildings of the great city, which could be seen from the hill on which they were standing.

        When this was done, after a short pause the African said: "Well, my friend, you have here a very large and magnificent city; but, after all, it is not to be compared to the city of God, the heavenly Jerusalem, which I hope you and I will both see one day."

        If the honest laborer was surprised before, his astonishment was much greater now.

        "Why," said he, "do you know anything about such things?"

        "Yes, thank God," replied the African, "I am happy to say I do. It was not always so. I was once in darkness, and knew nothing of the true God; but good missionaries from England came, and taught me about Jesus Christ; and now I live in hope of one day seeing Him in that beautiful city, the heavenly Jerusalem, where I shall dwell with Him forever."

        By this time the good Englishman had thrown down the hammer with which he had been breaking stones. He came across the road, and grasping Nicol's hand exclaimed, "Why, then, you are one of them that I have been praying for these twenty years. I never put a penny into the missionary box without saying, 'God bless the colored man.' "

        It rejoiced the heart of the good African not a little to find in the humble stone-breaker a friend who had taken such a deep interest in the people of Africa.

And if his pleasure was so great, the laborer's was not less, for he saw in George Nicol an answer to his prayers, and a sure proof that his missionary money had not been spent in vain. He felt the truth of the words, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days."

HE NEVER TOLD A LIE.

        MUNGO PARK, in the account of his African travels, relates that a negro youth was killed by a shot from a party of Moors. His mother walked before the corpse, as it was carried home, frantic with grief, clapping her hands, and declaring her son's good qualities. "He never told a lie," cried the bereaved mother; " he never told a lie; no, never."

DADDY DAVY.

        ONE winter evening, when a little orphan in my seventh year, I climbed upon my grandfather's knee, and begged that he would "tell me a story." The candles were not yet lighted in the parlor, but the glowing fire sent forth its red blaze, and its cheering heat seemed more grateful from a fall of snow, which was rapidly collecting in piles of fleecy whiteness on the lawn.

        I had taken my favorite seat on the evening I have mentioned, just as a poor negro with scarcely any covering appeared at the window, and supplicated charity. His dark skin was deeply contrasted with the unblemished purity of the falling snow, whilst his trembling limbs seemed hardly able to support his shivering frame; and there he stood, perishing in the land of boasted hospitality and freedom!

        With all the active benevolence which my grandfather possessed, he still retained the usual characteristics of the hardy seaman. He discouraged everything which bore the smallest resemblance to indolence. The idle vagrant dared not approach his residence; but he prized the man of industrious habits, however lowly his station; and his influence was ever extended to aid the destitute and to right the injured.

        On his first going to sea he had been cabin-boy on board a Liverpool ship; he afterwards lived several years in the island of Trinidad, in the West Indies, where the slaves were rigorously treated. He there became well acquainted with the colored people, and now he no sooner saw the dark face of the poor perishing creature at his window, than he hastily rang the bell, and a footman entered.

        "Robert," said he, "go and bring that poor fellow in here."

        "Poor fellow, did you say ?" inquired Robert.

        "Yes, yes," replied my grandfather, "yonder man, fetch him here to me."

        The servant quitted the room, and it was not without

some feelings of fear, as well as hopes of amusement that, a few minutes afterwards, I saw the poor African stand bowing before the parlor door. The twilight had faded away, and except the reflection from the snow, night had thrown its sable shadows on the scene; but as the bright gleam of the fire shed its red hue upon the features of the negro, and flashed upon his rolling eyes, he presented rather a terrific appearance to my young mind.

        "Come in!" exclaimed my grandfather in a shrill voice; but the poor fellow stood hesitatingly on the border of the carpet till the command was repeated with more sternness than before, and then the trembling African advanced a few steps towards the easy-chair in which the veteran was sitting.

        Never shall I forget the abject figure which the poor creature displayed. He was a tall, large-boned man, but was evidently bent down under the pressure of sickness and of want rather than of age. A pair of old canvas trowsers hung loosely on his legs, but his feet were quite naked. On the upper part of his body was a striped flannel shirt, one of the sleeves of which was torn away. He had no covering for his head; and the snow which had fallen on it having melted in the warmth of the room, large, transparent drops of clear water hung glistening on his thick woolly hair.

        His look was inclined downwards, as if fearful of meeting the stern gaze of my grandfather, who scanned him with the most minute attention, not unmingled with agitation. Every joint of the poor

fellow's limbs shook as if struck with ague, and the cold seemed to have contracted his sinews; for he crouched his body together, as if to shrink from the keen blast. Tears were trickling down his cheek, and his spirit seemed bowed to the earth by distress.

        "Tell me," said my grandfather, "what brought you to England, and what you mean by strolling about the country here as a beggar ? I may order you to be put in the stocks."

        " Ah, massa," replied the negro, "buckra never have stocks in dis country; yet he die if massa neber give him something to fill hungry stomach."

        While he was speaking my grandfather was restless and impatient. He removed me from his knee, and looked with more earnestness at the poor man, who never raised his head. "We have beggars enough of our own nation," said my grandfather.

        "Massa speak true," replied the African, meekly; "distress live everywhere; come like race-horse, but go away softly, softly."

        Again my grandfather looked sharply at the features of the man and showed signs of agitation in his own. "Softly, softly," said he, "that's just your cant. I I know the whole gang of you, but you are not going to deceive me; now wouldn't you sacrifice me and all I am worth for a bunch of plantains ? "

        "Massa have eat the plantains, den," said the man, "and yet massa think hard of poor negur who work to make them grow. God Almighty send rain--God Almighty send sun--but God Almighty send negur too."

        "Well, well," said my grandfather, softening his voice, "God is no respecter of colors, and we must not let you starve, daddy; so, Robert, tell the cook to get some warm broth, and bid her bear a hand about it."

        "God forever bless massa," exclaimed the poor man, as he listened to the order, and keenly directed his eye towards the person who had issued it; but my grandfather had turned his head toward me, so his face was not seen by the grateful man.

        "So I suppose you are some runaway slave?" said my grandfather, harshly.

        "No, massa," rejoined the African, "no, massa; never run away--I free man. Good buckra give freedom; but then I lose kind massa, and"--

        "Ay, ay," replied my grandfather, "but what about Plantation Joseph, in Trinidad?"

        "Ky!" responded the man, as his eyes were bent upon his questioner, who again hid his face; "de buckra knows ebery ting; him like the angel of light to know the secret of the heart."

        "Come nearer to the fire, Daddy Davy," said my grandfather, as he bent down to stir the burning coals with the poker.

        Never shall I forget the look of the African; joy, wonder, and admiration were pictured in his face, as he exclaimed, while advancing forward--

        "De buckra know my name too!--how dis?"

        My grandfather having kindled a bright flame that illuminated the whole room, turned his face towards

the African; but no sooner had the poor fellow caught sight of his features than, throwing himself at his feet, he clasped the old sailor's knees, exclaiming, "My own massa!--what for you give Davy him freedom? and now do poor negur die for want! but no, neber see de day to go dead, now me find my massa."

        "Willie, my boy," said my grandfather, turning to me, "fetch my pocket-handkerchief off the sofa."

        I immediately obeyed, but I used the handkerchief two or three times to wipe the tears from my eyes before I delivered it to him.

        At this moment Robert opened the door, and said the broth was ready, but stood with amazement to see the half-naked man at his master's feet.

        "Go, Davy," said my grandfather, "go and get some food; and, Robert, tell the cook to have a warm bath ready, and the housemaid must run a pan of coals over the little bed in the blue room, and put some extra blankets on. You can sleep without a nightcap, I dare say, Davy. There, go along, Davy, go along;" and the gratified negro left the room with unfeigned ejaculations of "Gor Amighty for eber bless kind massa!"

        As soon as the door was closed, and I was once more seated on my grandfather's knee, he commenced his usual practice of holding converse with himself. "What could have brought him here?" said he. "I gave him his freedom, and a piece of land to cultivate. There was a pretty hut upon it, too, with a double row of cocoa-nut trees in front, and a garden of

plantains behind, and a nice plot of guinea-grass for a cow, and another of buckwheat--what has become of it all I wonder? Bless me, how time flies! it seems but the other day that I saved the fellow from a couple of bullets, and he repaid the debt by rescuing my Betsy--ah, poor dear! She was your mother, William, and he snatched her from a dreadful and terrific fate. How these things crowd upon my mind! The earthquake shook every building to its foundation --the ground yawned in horrible deformity, and your poor mother--we can see her gravestone from the drawing-room window, you know, for she died since we have been here, and left her old father's heart a dreary blank. Yet not so either, my child," pressing me to his breast and laying his hoary head on mine, "not so either, for she bequeathed you to my guardian care, and you are now the solace of my gray hairs."

        I afterwards learned that Davy had rescued my dear mother from destruction, at the risk of his own life, during an earthquake in Trinidad, for which my grandfather had given him his freedom, together with the hut and the land. But he had no protector in the west: the slaves plundered his property ; sickness came, and no medical attendant would minister to his wants without the accustomed fee; he contracted debts, and his ground was sold to the estate on which it was situated, to pay the lawyers. He quitted the island of Trinidad to go to Berbice; but, being wrecked near Mahaica Creek, on the east coast of

Demerara, he lost his free papers, was seized by the government, and sold as a slave, to pay the expense of advertising and his keep. He fortunately fell into the hands of a kind master, who at his death once more set him at liberty, and he had come to England in the hope of bettering his condition. But here misfortune still pursued him: the gentleman whom he accompanied died on the passage; he could obtain no employment on his landing; he had been plundered of what little money he possessed, and had since wandered about the country till the evening that he implored charity and found a home.

        My worthy grandfather is now numbered with the dead; and I love to sit upon his gravestone at the evening hour; it seems as if I were once more placed upon his knee, and listening to his tales of bygone years. But Daddy Davy is still in existence, and living with me. Indeed, whilst I have been writing, I have had occasion to put several questions to him on the subject, and he has been fidgeting about the room to try and ascertain what I was relating respecting him.

        "I am only giving a sketch of my grandfather, Davy," said I.

        "Catch, massa! what he call catch?"

        "About the schooner, and Trinidad, and the earthquake, Davy."

        "And da old massa what sleep in de Werk-en-rust?"

        "Yes, Davy, and the snow-storm."

        "Ah, da buckra good man! Davy see him noder time up dare," pointing toward the sky. "Gor Amighty for eber bless kind massa!"

AN AGED CHRISTIAN.

        "ONE afternoon," writes an American missionary in Africa, "I went to see old Father Scott, an aged dying African. He sent me word he would like to see me. He is in an old dilapidated shanty. A few boards knocked together, raised about a foot from the floor, served as a bedstead. The straw bed we made for him on our first arrival. A little bench, on which were two Bibles and an earthen jar for water, was all the furniture he possessed. He is dependent for food and care on his neighbors, as he is perfectly helpless.

        A woman who was near brought me a stool, and I sat down beside him. He was delighted to see me; he told me he had served the Lord for forty years. He had been a Methodist preacher for many years, and had often preached three times a day, though he could never read a word. He would get some boy to read to him several chapters in the Bible, till he got hold of just the text that would suit him. I was very much surprised at his familiarity with the Bible. He could tell me where to find almost any passage.

        I could not but look at that poor old man, with his few privileges, and compare them with those of our more favored people. As I looked at him in his

penury, witnessed his happiness and his implicit faith, and saw how near home he was, I felt that he was really to be envied. Who can doubt the power of Divine grace? I read to him, and talked to him on the glories of the resurrection, and the mansions our Saviour has prepared for those who love Him; and then I left him with the promise of soon seeing him again. He is almost blind. He begged me not to forget him in my prayers. He is dying of old age, yet no one knows how old he is.

UNCLE JACK.

        HE was a remarkable African slave of Virginia. It is probable he was brought to James River in the last slave-ship that brought slaves to that State. Such was the regard in which he was held that, on the death of his master, several benevolent persons subscribed a sufficient sum to purchase his freedom.

        Uncle Jack's talents were of a high order, and his knowledge of human nature very remarkable. Dr. Rice, of Richmond, said of him, "The old man's acquaintance with the Scriptures is wonderful. Many of his interpretations of obscure passages are singularly just and striking." He spoke pure English. A few anecdotes will convey a good idea of his ready and apt mode of illustration. A person addicted to horse-racing and card-playing, stopped Uncle Jack on

the road and said, "Old man, you Christians say a great deal about the way to heaven being narrow. Now if this is so, a great many who profess to be travelling it will not find it half wide enough."

        "That's very true," was the reply, "of all that have merely a name to live, and all like you."

        "Why refer to me," said the man; "if the road is wide enough for any, it is for me."

        "By no means," said Uncle Jack. "You will want to take along a card-table, or a race-horse or two. Now there is no room along this way for such things."

        A man who prided himself on his morality said to Uncle Jack: "Old man, I am as good as I need to be. I can't help thinking so, because God blesses me as much as he does you Christians; and I don't know what more I want than He gives me."

        To this the old preacher replied, with great seriousness, "Just so with the hogs. I have often looked at them, rooting among the leaves in the woods, and finding just as many acorns as they needed; and yet I never saw one of them look up to the tree from whence the acorns fell."

        On one occasion some unruly persons undertook to arrest and whip him, and also several of his hearers, for holding religious meetings. After the arrest one of the men thus accosted Uncle Jack, "Well, old fellow, you are the ringleader of these meetings, and we have been anxious to catch you; now what have you to say for yourself?"

        "Nothing at all, master," was the reply.

        "What! nothing to say against being whipped! how is that?"

        "I have been wondering a long time," said the old Christian, "how it was that so good a man as the Apostle Paul should have been whipped three times for preaching the Gospel, while such an unworthy man as I am should have been permitted to preach twenty years without getting a lick." The young men immediately released him.

        Uncle Jack died in 1843, aged one hundred years.

        --Blake's Biographical Dictionary.

CHRISTIAN KINDNESS.

        IN one of my early journeys, says Moffat, with some of my companions, we came to a heathen village on the borders of Orange River, South Africa. We had travelled far, and were hungry, thirsty, and fatigued. From the fear of being exposed to lions, we preferred remaining at the village to proceeding further during the night. The people of the village rather roughly directed us to halt at a distance. We asked for water, but they would not supply it. I offered the three or four buttons which still remained on my jacket for a little milk; this also was refused. We had the prospect of another hungry night at a distance from water, though within sight of the river.

We found it difficult to reconcile ourselves to our lot; for in addition to repeated rebuffs, the manner of the villagers excited suspicion.

        When twilight drew on, a woman approached from the height beyond which the village lay. She bore on her head a bundle of wood, and had a vessel of milk in her hand. The latter, without opening her lips, she handed to us, laid down the wood, and returned to the village. A second time she approached with a cooking-vessel on her head, a leg of mutton in one hand, and water in the other. She sat down without saying a word, prepared the fire, and put on the meat. We asked again and again who she was. She remained silent until affectionately entreated to give us a reason for such unlooked-for kindness to strangers. A tear stole down her sable cheek as she replied: "I love Him whose servants you are; and surely it is my duty to give you a cup of cold water in His name. My heart is full; therefore I cannot speak the joy I feel to see you in this out-of-the-way place."

        On learning a little of her history, we found she was a solitary light burning in a dark place. I asked her how she kept up the life of God in her soul, in the entire absence of the communion of saints. She drew from her bosom a copy of the Dutch New Testament, which she had received from brother Helm when in his school several years since, before she had been compelled by her connections to retire to her present seclusion. "This," she said, "is the fountain whence I drink: this is the oil which makes my lamp burn."

        I looked on the precious relic, and the reader may imagine how I felt, and my companions with me, when we met with this disciple, and mingled our sympathies and prayers together at the throne of our heavenly Father.

GRATITUDE OF SLAVES.

BY DR. LETTSOM.

DR. LETTSOM was born in the West Indies, and inherited fifty slaves, which was all the property his father left him. He gave freedom to his slaves; and during a long life, with a large practice as a physician in London, he kept up a correspondence with some of those who were indebted to him for their liberty. When he went to the West Indies to settle his father's estate, he made a visit to Tortola, and wrote to a friend as follows:

        "I frequently accompanied Major John Pickering to his plantations, and as he passed his numerous negroes saluted him in a loud song, which they continued as long as he remained in sight. I was also a melancholy witness to their attachment to him after his death. He expired suddenly, and when few of his friends were near him. I remember I held his hand when the final period arrived, but he had scarcely breathed his last breath before it was known to his slaves, and instantly about five hundred of them surrounded the house and insisted on seeing their master.

        "They commenced a dismal and mournful yell, which was communicated from one plantation to another, till the whole island of Tortola was in agitation, and crowds of negroes were accumulating around us. Distressed as I was by the loss of my relation and friend, I could not be insensible to the danger of a general insurrection; or, if they entered the house, which was constructed of wood, and mounted into his chamber, there was danger of its falling by their weight and crushing us in its ruins.

        "In this dilemma I had resolution enough to secure the doors, and thereby prevent sudden intrusion. After this precaution I addressed them through a window, assuring them that if they would enter the house in companies of only twelve at a time, they should all be admitted to see their deceased master, and that the same lenient treatment of them should still be continued. To this they assented, and in a few hours quiet was restored. It affected me to see with what silent, fixed melancholy they departed from the remains of this venerable man."

THE SLAVE SHOEMAKER.

        A LADY, who was a Quaker, travelled several years ago through some of the Southern States on a gospel mission. When near the borders of North Carolina, while the horses were being fed, she walked towards a poor hut, and on entering it saw an aged

man engaged in making shoes. He was very black, but his hair was white and his countenance thoughtful; he looked up surprised, and when she asked if she might come in and sit down, he replied, "Will mistress sit with me?" She inquired if he was a slave, and if he had a wife and children. He said, "If mistress will hear me I will tell her. I have a wife and four children, but massa sold them into Georgia." Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he continued, "I am a slave, but, mistress, ever since I got religion God has sweetened my bitter cup, and made smooth my rough path; my bitter cup was parting with my wife and children--my rough path is slavery."

        She asked him how he got religion. He replied, "My massa let me go to hear preaching, and I remember what the minister said."

        "Can thou read ?"

        "No, mistress, but God helps me remember; fourteen years ago I got religion; I was bad before; massa bad too. When I got religion, I was good; massa was kind too; hard things were made easy; bitter cups were sweetened. Mistress knows what that means (looking at her earnestly). I know you do. Massa gives me work, and I must do it; nobody comes here, but overseer walks by once a day to see if I at work; then the rest of the time is my own; I have one and sometimes two hours."

        "How does my Christian brother employ his own time?" asked the lady.

        "I will tell you, mistress: I shut the door, then sit down on that bench and wait upon God; and what good times I have! Sometimes I go to prayer, and God puts words into my mouth; then other times something here (laying his hand upon his breast) tells me not to pray, but to be still--wait upon God in silence; and did my massa and the white people know how good I felt, they would be glad to come and sit with me. In heaven, mistress, God makes no difference--massa and slave all one."

        The lady's companions now called for her, and put an end to this very interesting conversation. His parting address was: "Farewell, mistress, till we meet again in heaven. God bless you." With tears they parted.

LET ME RING THE BELL.

                         A MISSIONARY far away,
                         Beyond the Southern sea,
                         Was sitting in his home one day,
                         With Bible on his knee,

                         When suddenly he heard a rap
                         Upon the chamber door,
                         And opening, there stood a boy,
                         Of some ten years or more.

                         He was a bright and happy child,
                         With cheeks of dusky hue,
                         And eyes that 'neath their lashes smiled
                         And glittered like the dew.

                         He held his little form erect,
                         In boyish sturdiness,
                         But on his lip you could detect
                         Traces of gentleness.

                         "Dear sir," he said, in native tongue,
                         "I do so want to know,
                         If something for the house of God
                         You'd kindly let me do."

                         "What can you do, my little boy?"
                         The missionary said,
                         And as he spoke he laid his hand
                         Upon the youthful head.

                         Then bashfully, as if afraid
                         His secret wish to tell,
                         The boy in eager accents said,
                         "Oh, let me ring the bell!

                         "Oh, please to let me ring the bell
                         For our dear house of prayer;
                         I'm sure I'll ring it loud and well,
                         And I'll be always there!"

                         The missionary kindly looked
                         Upon that upturned face,
                         Where hope, and fear, and wistfulness
                         United, left their trace.

                         And gladly did he grant the boon:
                         The boy had pleaded well,
                         And to the eager child he said,
                         "Yes, you shall ring the bell!"

                         Oh, what a pleased and happy heart
                         He carried to his home,
                         And how impatiently he longed
                         For the Sabbath-day to come!

                         He rang the bell, he went to school,
                         The Bible learned to read,
                         And in his youthful heart they sowed
                         The gospel's precious seed.

                         And now to other heathen lands
                         He's gone, of Christ to tell;
                         And yet his first young mission was
                         To ring the Sabbath bell.

THE FLIGHT OF A SLAVE.

        JAMES --was born a slave in the State of Maryland. He was so useful as a blacksmith that his value was at least one thousand dollars. He was brought up in total ignorance of letters or of religion, but he always aimed to be trustworthy. He sought to distinguish himself in the finer branches of the business, by invention and finish, making fancy hammers, hatchets, etc. One day his master thought James was watching him improperly, and fell into a panic of rage. "He came down upon me with his cane," said James, "and laid over my shoulders, arms, and legs about a dozen severe blows, so that my flesh was sore for several weeks." He felt the

disgrace of the beating so acutely that he determined to abscond, and if possible reach the free soil of Pennsylvania.

        One Sunday night, in November, he stole away into the woods, with only half a pound of Indian corn-bread to sustain him on his journey, which would take several days. At three o'clock in the morning his strength began to fail, his scanty supply of food afforded poor nourishment, and the only shelter he could find, without risking travelling by daylight, was a corn-shock but a few hundred yards from the road, and there he passed his first day out. As night came on he pursued his journey; it was cloudy, and he could not see the north star, which was his only guide to freedom. His bread was all eaten, he felt his strength failing, and his mind was filled with melancholy.

        In this condition he travelled all the night, and just at the dawn of day he found a few sour apples, and took shelter under the arch of a bridge, where he lay in ambush through the day. Night came on, and he once more proceeded on his wearisome journey. Frequently he was overcome with hunger and fatigue, and sat down and slept a few minutes. At dawn of day he saw a toll-bar, and here he ventured to ask the best way to Philadelphia, and set off in the right direction. His taking the open road was fatal. He was observed by a man, and ordered to give an account of himself. After a parley, James took to his heels; but a hue and cry being raised he

was speedily captured. Led to a tavern as a prisoner, he was questioned. He persisted in saying he was a free man, but he had no free papers. Though his story was false, we must remember that he knew not the wickedness of a lie, for he knew nothing of God and our Saviour.

        Toward night, being watched only by a boy, he contrived to slip away, and again took to the woods.

        Wandering in darkness, the north star being covered with clouds, he was at a loss as to what course to pursue. "At a venture," says he, "I struck northward in search of a road. After several hours of laborious travel, dragging through briers and thorns, I emerged from the woods and found myself wading through marshy ground and over ditches, and came to a road about three o'clock in the morning.

        "It so happened I came where there was a fork in the road of three prongs. Which was the right one for me? After a few moments' parley with myself, I took the central prong of the road, and pushed on with all my speed. It had not cleared off, but a fresh wind had sprung up; it was chilly and searching. This, with my wet clothes, made me very uncomfortable."

        He saw a farm with a small hovel-like barn; into this he went and buried himself in the straw. Here he lay the whole day; his only danger was from the yelping of a small dog, and the noise of horsemen who passed in search of him. He heard them say they were after a runaway negro, who was a blacksmith,

and that a reward of two hundred dollars was offered for his recovery. Night came, and he was again on his way, but all he could do was to keep his legs in motion. There came a heavy frost, and he expected every moment to fall to the ground and perish.

        Coming to a corn-field covered with heavy shocks of corn, be gathered an ear and then crept into one of the shocks; he ate as much as he could, expecting to travel on, but fell asleep, and when he awoke the sun was shining. He was obliged to conceal himself as well as he could through the day; he began again to eat the hard corn, and it took all the forenoon to eat his breakfast. Night came, and he sallied out, feeling much better for the corn he had eaten.

        He now believed himself near to Pennsylvania, and under this impression, skipped and danced for joy. He says: "A little after the sun rose I came in sight of a toll-gate; for a moment I felt some hesitation, but on arriving at the gate I found it attended by only an elderly woman, whom I afterwards heard was a widow and an excellent Christian. I asked her if I was in Pennsylvania. On being informed that I was, I asked if she knew where I could get employment. She said she did not, but advised me to go to W. W., a Quaker, who lived about three miles from her, and whom I would find to take an interest in me. In about half an hour I stood at the door of W. W. After knocking, the door opened upon a comfortably spread table. Not daring to enter, I said I had been sent to him in search of employment.

        " 'Well,' said he, 'come in, and take thy breakfast and get warm.'

        "These words made me feel, in spite of all my fear and timidity, that I had, in the providence of God, found a friend and a home. He at once gained my confidence, and from that day to this, whenever I discover the least disposition in my heart to disregard poor and wretched persons with whom I meet, I call to mind these words: 'Come in, and take thy breakfast and get warm.'

        "I was a starving fugitive, without home or friends, and no claim upon him to whose door I went. Had he turned me away I must have perished. Nay, he took me in, and gave of his food, and shared with me his own garments."

        By W. W. the wretched wanderer was fed, clothed, and employed, and not only so, but he was instructed in reading, writing, and much useful knowledge. Here, for the first time, did he learn one word of the truths of religion.

        James resided with the benevolent Quaker for six months, when it became necessary for him to depart and go elsewhere. He found employment on Long Island, opposite New York. By the kindness of his friends he was educated, and became a Christian minister and pastor of a colored congregation in connection with the Presbyterian Church.

BENJAMIN BANNEKER.

        HE was born in Baltimore County, Maryland, in the year 1732. There was not a drop of white man's blood in his veins. His father was born in Africa, and his mother's parents were both natives of Africa. What genius he had must be credited to that race. Benjamin's mother was a remarkable woman. Her name was Morton before marriage, and her nephew, Greenbury Morton, was gifted with a lively and impetuous eloquence which made its mark in his neighborhood. Her husband was a slave when she married him, but she soon purchased his freedom. Together they bought a farm of two hundred acres, which though but ten miles from Jones' Falls, was at that time a wilderness.

        When Benjamin was approaching manhood he attended an obscure country school, where he learned reading and writing, and a little arithmetic. Beyond these rudiments he was entirely his own teacher.

        Perhaps the first wonder among his neighbors was when, at thirty years of age, he made a clock. It is probable that this was the first clock of which every portion was made in America. He had seen a watch, but never a clock; and it was as purely his own invention as if none had ever been made before.

        The clock attracted the attention of the Ellicott family, well educated men, and Quakers. They gave him books and astronomical instruments. From this

time astronomy became the great object of Benjamin's life. He remained unmarried, and lived in a cabin on the farm his father left him; he still labored for a living, but his wants were few and simple. He slept much in the day, that he might observe at night the heavenly bodies, whose laws he was studying. The first almanac prepared by Banneker was for the year 1792, when he was fifty-nine years old, and he continued to prepare almanacs till 1802.

        He had become known and respected by scientific men, and received tokens of regard from many of them. The Commissioners to run the lines of the District of Columbia invited Banneker to assist them, and treated him in all respects as an equal.

        A gentleman writes of Banneker: "When I was a boy I became very much interested in him, as his manners were those of a perfect gentleman--kind, generous, hospitable, humane, dignified, and pleasing --and he abounded in information on all the various subjects of the day." His head was covered with thick white hair, which gave him a dignified and venerable appearance. His dress was uniformly of superfine drab broadcloth, made with straight collar, a long waistcoat, and broad-brimmed hat. In size and personal appearance the statue of Franklin, in the Library of Philadelphia, as seen from the street, is a perfect likeness of him.

REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT IN A
COLORED SCHOOL AT CHRISTIANSBURG.

        TWO days since, one of my boys had been behaving badly all the afternoon. I think I spoke to him three times during the session, and it seemed to have no effect; so when five o'clock came, I told him I would see him after school. When the other scholars had left, I went and sat down by him, and talked to him a short time. Among other things, I told him that I could not teach a boy who would do so badly, and that I wanted him to kneel down with me, and I would ask the Lord to watch over him after I had to give him up. He was crying very hard, and we knelt down together. When I came to that part of my prayer, he screamed out, "O Lord! don't let Miss Lucy turn me out of school. Please, Lord, don't let her! I know I have been a bad boy, but I won't do so any more. Oh! help her to forgive me. O Jesus! I love to come to school! do forgive me for being so wicked!" Of course I forgave him. He has given me no trouble since, and I do not think he will. - Am. Freedman.

AN INCIDENT.

        DURING the late rebellion the Confederate army burnt the town of Hampton, Va., as they left it, to prevent the Union troops, who were approaching,

taking possession of the houses for winter-quarters. Soon afterwards a gentlemen was riding through the deserted streets and heard the voices of children, but saw no one; all the white inhabitants of the town had fled with the Confederate army, and the colored people were employed around the camp beyond the town. He stopped his horse and listened, then advanced in the direction from which the voices seemed to come, and looked within the four blackened walls and half-burnt wood-work of what had been a lordly mansion. There he saw forty colored children seated on heaps of stones and charred wood, rejoicing and singing "The Christian's Home." They added the last verse.

                         I have a home above,
                         From sin and sorrow free;