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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

“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.

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?”

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

A MAN and his wife and their children were brought from Africa to America, and were sold as slaves. One little girl and her mother kept together, but the others were so far separated that they never met again. The little girl's name was Isabella; but when she grew to be a woman and became a Christian, she adopted the name of Sojourner Truth.

She told a lady, “I can remember, when I was a little thing, how my ole mammy would sit out of doors in the evenin', an' look up at the stars an' groan. She'd groan, an' groan, and says I to her:

“ ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’

“An' she'd say, ‘Matter enough, chile! I'm groaning to think of my poor children; they don't know where I be, and I don't know where they be; they looks up at the stars, an' I looks up at the stars, but I can't tell where they be.’

“ ‘Now,’ she said, ‘chile, when you be grown up, you may be sold away from your mother an' all your ole friends, an' have great troubles come on ye; an' when you has these troubles come on ye, ye jes go to God, an' He'll help ye.’ ”

Isabella was sold to a hard master and mistress. She thought she had got into trouble, and she wanted to find God; she prayed that He would make her master and mistress better, and as He did not do so, she concluded they were too bad to be made better, and that she might leave them. So she rose at three o'clock one morning, and travelled till late at night, when she came to a house and went in, “And,” she said, “they were Quakers, an' real kind they was to me. They jes took me in, an' did for me as kind as ef I had been one of 'em, an' I stayed an' lived with 'em two or three years. An' now, jes look here; instead o' keeping my promise an' being good, as I told the Lord I would, jest as soon as everything got agoing easy, I forgot all about God, an' I gin up praying.”

Sojourner did not long continue in this dark state, but she found the Lord Jesus, and she said, “I shouted and cried, Praise, praise, praise to the Lord; an' I began to feel such a love in my soul as I never felt before,—love to all creatures. An' then all of a sudden it stopped; an' I said, ‘There are the white folks, that have abused you, an' beat you, an' abused your people,—think o' them!’ An' then there came another rush o' love through my soul, an' I cried out loud, ‘Lord, Lord, I can love even the white folks. Jesus loved me! I knowed it, I felt it.’ ”

When slavery was abolished in the State of New York, Sojourner went back to her old mistress and demanded her son; he had been sent to Alabama. After some trouble and expense her son was brought back to her, though her mistress said to her:

ABOUT the year 1774, Katy Ferguson was born. Her mother was a slave, and was taken from her young child and sold to another master.

Uneducated and unaided in her parental duties, this poor Christian mother had been faithful to the extent of her abilities, and left upon the mind of her child indelible religious impressions. Katy, in speaking of this cruel separation, many years afterward, said: “Mr. B. sold my mother, and she was carried away from me; but I remember that before they tore us asunder, she kneeled down, laid her hand upon my head, and gave me to God.”

Katy's active mind sought every opportunity of acquiring knowledge. Her mother had taught her much that she herself remembered of the Scriptures. Other persons had taught her the catechism, and her retentive memory seldom lost what had been committed to it.

In her fifteenth year, the Holy Spirit applied to her conscience and heart the truths of Scripture which she had thus received. But when awakened to a perception of her sinfulness, she felt the need of some kind counsellor.

Neither master nor mistress had ever encouraged her to communicate her thoughts on religious subjects. The minister on whose services she attended, Dr. John M. Mason, was a man of such a commanding figure and bearing as to inspire her with fear, rather than confidence. Yet she knew he was a faithful servant of Christ, and that he would care for her soul. She accordingly ventured to call on him. She remarked afterward, “While I was standing at the door, after having rung the bell, my feelings were indescribable. And when the door was opened, and I found myself in the minister's presence, I trembled from head to foot. One harsh word or look would have crushed me.” But this faithful minister of Christ at once appreciated her solicitude, and in the gentlest manner inquired, “Have you come here to talk with me about your soul?” This kind reception at once relieved and encouraged her to open her whole heart. The interview was blessed of God to her conversion. And from that day, her course was remarkably direct and upward. She was, in a word, an earnest, self-denying follower of Christ.

At the age of eighteen, by the aid of friends, she was made a free woman; and very soon afterwards married; but her husband and children did not live long.

She lived in a part of the city where there were many very poor families, and many of both colored and white children who had none to care for their bodies or souls. Some of these she took to her own home and taught them to take care of themselves; and for others she found places, where they would be provided for. In this way, during her life, she secured homes for forty-eight of these neglected and suffering ones;—thus anticipating one of the benevolent movements of our time.

But her concern for the spiritual welfare of those around her was especially manifest, and in most appropriate ways. She invited the children to come into her house every Sabbath day, for religious instruction. Feeling her own incompetency to instruct them fully, especially as she was herself unable to read, she obtained the assistance of other Christian people in this work. The well-known Isabella Graham thus aided Katy by occasionally inviting her little flock to come to her own house.

Thus Katy's labor of love went on for some time, unobserved for the most part, even by Christian people, but not unnoticed by God. He smiled upon her, and as He often does in the case of humble efforts like hers, made her little school on the Sabbath the beginning of a great and good work in that city. It was about this time that the house of worship on Murray street, in which Dr. Mason preached, was built. This good man of God had not forgotten Katy, the trembling inquirer. Having heard of her Sabbath assembly of children, he went one day to see what she was doing. As he entered her lowly dwelling, and looked around upon the group of interested, happy-looking faces, he said, with his wonted kindness: “What are you about here, Katy? Keeping school on the Sabbath ? We must not leave you to do all this.” He immediately conferred with the officers of his church, telling them what he had seen, and advising that others should join Katy in this good work. Soon the lecture-room was opened for the reception and instruction of Katy's charge. This was the beginning of the Sabbath-school in the Murray Street Church; and KATY FERGUSON, the colored woman, who had been a slave, is believed to have thus gathered THE FIRST SABBATH SCHOOL IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK.

But Katy's benevolent heart was not satisfied with this effort for the good of children. She established and maintained, during the last forty years of her life, a weekly prayer-meeting at her house, and during the last five years of her life, when she could not attend the public services of divine worship, she made her own house a Bethel on Sabbath afternoons, by gathering the neglected children of the neighborhood, with such others as did not attend at any place of public worship, and obtaining some suitable person to lead in the services of prayer and praise.

The cause of foreign missions was also dear to Katy. On one occasion, a young man who was about to sail for Africa as a missionary, was invited to attend a meeting at her house. Three years afterwards, on speaking of this man and his associate missionaries, she said: “For these three years I have never missed a day but I have prayed for those dear missionaries.”

The question may occur to some persons, where did this poor woman procure the means of doing so much good—clothing children and assisting missionaries? Uneducated as she was, she possessed extraordinary taste and judgment. Of a truly refined nature, she appreciated the beautiful, wherever found. Hence a wedding, or other festival, in some of the best circles of New York, could scarcely be considered complete unless Katy had superintended the nicer provisions of the table. She was also uncommonly skilful in the cleaning of laces and other fine articles of ladies' dresses. This constant demand for her services must, however, be likewise traced, in part, to the great esteem in which she was held, and to the desire to furnish her the means of continuing her useful Christian labors.

She was a cheerful believer; occupied less in complaining of her own deficiencies and her troubles, or boasting of her attainments, than in commending her Redeemer to others, and in trying to imitate His active benevolence.

Thus was this beloved disciple ripening for heaven. And when death, in that fearful disease, the cholera, came for her, she was ready, and calmly expressed her Christian confidence by saying: “Oh, what a good thing it is to have a hope in Jesus!” Her last words were, “All is well.”

I was born in Africa, about the year 1789; the country of the Iboes was my home. My father's name was Durl, and mine, Ancass. My mother was my father's only wife, and she was the daughter of a great chieftain. Of four children I was the only son, and therefore my father's pet. He always liked to have me near him, and even when he went out to work he would take me along with him. In the midst of our ignorance we had a vague idea of the existence of a Supreme Being, which we know that every heathen can see from the works of creation. We called him ‘Thunderer,’ and appealed to him for aid in case of illness.

“A young man began to pay us frequent visits, under pretence of wishing to marry one of my sisters, but in reality, doubtless, with a view to getting possession of me, a growing, healthy boy, about twelve years old. One day my father had gone out, leaving me with my sisters, and the young man made use of the opportunity to persuade me to accompany him to a market in the vicinity, which he described to me in glowing colors. We walked all that day, and never reached the place; the night was spent with an acquaintance of my guide, and our journey continued all the next day. I was struck by the circumstance that persons who met us often asked the man what he was going to do with the boy be had with him, whether he was intending to sell him, etc. He invariably gave an assurance of the contrary, but I was soon to learn what his scheme really was.

“The end of the journey was reached at last, and proved to be a trading place on the coast. I lay down under a large tree, and gazed on the scene with delight.

“Suddenly a stranger appeared, and proposed that I should try a sail in his boat. I was frightened and refused: but found myself seized by the man's strong hand, and rapidly dragged away. Then I knew that I was being taken as a slave. The man who had brought me from home and sold me to the traders, looked on unmoved as I was hurried to the water's edge, and I could only implore him to take a last message to my dear father, letting him know what had become of me.

“There were several negroes already in the boat, bound with ropes, and others were added. When the boat put off for the ship I was so exhausted with crying, that the gentle rocking motion lulled me into a sound sleep, from which I awoke to find that we were being lifted into the vessel. The white color of the captain's face filled me with no less astonishment than his black, shining feet without toes, as I regarded his polished boots, which I now saw for the first time. The next morning I was horrified to see great numbers of people brought up from the hold on deck, to be fed with yams and rum. As for myself, I was heartily glad to be spared this confinement. I was at liberty to remain on deck with some other boys, slept in the captain's cabin, and was soon very happy.

“On reaching Kingston, in Jamaica, the slaves went ashore, and I looked with intense longing at the beautiful land, visible from the ship. I was kept on board for several weeks, and the captain told me I was destined to be his servant, and should not be allowed to go ashore. On my declaring, however, that I was resolved, at all hazards, to leave the vessel, and would leap overboard if he should try to prevent me, he changed his mind, and I was sent to a white man, who took me, with eleven others, into the yard adjoining his house. We were purchased for the owner of the estate Krepp, and thither we were taken without further delay. My companions were sent to work in the fields; I was retained as servant in the overseer's family, and called Toby. After the lapse of a year my master took me as servant into his own house, making me the companion and play-fellow of his children, and treating me with great kindness.

SOME few years since, a minister was preaching at Plymouth, when a request was sent to the pulpit to this effect: “The thanksgiving of this congregation is desired to Almighty God, by the captain, passengers and crew of a West Indiaman, for their merciful deliverance during the late tempest.”+

The following day the minister went on board, and entered into conversation with the passengers, when a lady thus addressed him: “O, Sir, what an invaluable blessing is personal religion! Never did I see it so exemplified as in my poor Ellen during the storm. When we expected every wave to entomb us all, my mind was in a horrible state—I was afraid to die. Ellen would come to me and say, with all possible composure: ‘Never mind, missie; look to Jesus Christ. He made—he rule the sea.’ And when we neared the shore, and were at a loss to know where we were, fearing every minute to strike on the rocks, Ellen said, with the same composure as before, ‘Don't fear, missie; look to Jesus Christ—He the Rock; no shipwreck on that Rock; He save to the uttermost. Don't fear, missie; look to Jesus Christ!’ ”

The minister wished to see this poor, though rich African. She was called, and, in the presence of the sailors, the following conversation took place:

Minister. “Well, Ellen, I am glad to find you know something of Jesus Christ.”

Ellen. “Jesus Christ, massa! Oh, He be very good to my soul! Oh! He be very dear to me.”

Minister. “How long since you first knew the Saviour?”

Ellen. “Why, some time ago me hear Massa Kitchin preach about the blessed Jesus. He say to us colored people—the Lord Jesus come down from the good world; He pity us poor sinners; we die, or He die; He die, but we no die. He suffer on the cross— He spill precious blood for us poor sinners. Me feel me sinner; me cry; me pray to Jesus, and He save me by His precious blood.”

Minister. “And when did you see Mr. Kitchin last ?”

Ellen. “Sir, the fever take him; he lie bed; he call us his children. He say, ‘Come round the bed, my children.’ He then say, ‘My children, I go to God; meet me before God;’ and then he fall asleep.”

THERE is a boy of tender years now in England, whose story beautifully illustrates the loving care of God for an affiicted heathen child. He is the son of an African chief, and two or three years since you might have seen him playing about his father's and mother's yard—as happy as the day was long—no kid frisked so merrily, no kitten was fuller of fun. But “little Wa” was deaf and dumb, and soon his mother, “Ti Bla,” was to die, and then his father, “Ta Qwia,” was to be laid by her side under the palmtree. God foreknew this, and see how graciously He provided for this helpless orphan.

Little Wa was very fond of wandering from home; and wherever he went, whether to the huts of the natives or the houses of the colonists, he was a great favorite, and everybody treated him kindly. He liked to sport about with those of his own age, and would amuse the tribes by the hour. Often he came to the mission station, and the missionary got quite attached to him, and encouraged him to stay, and gave him a white shirt—his first civilized suit. This delighted him, and kept him hovering around for a week together; then off he trotted to the town.

By-and-by he reappeared with his shirt dirty, and the missionary exchanged it for a clean one. “He seemed so pleased to be with us, and was such a good boy,” says the missionary, “that pitying his sad case, I thought I would try and get him into my family.” He asked his father, who was still an idolater, if he would let him keep him. His father said, “Yes, he might keep him if he could.” He meant that “Wa” was such a gad-about that no one could keep him. However, the missionary determined to try it. He had some new clothes made for him, bound with scarlet; he set him a stool to have his meals, and he had his own plate and fork, and a snug corner to sleep in at night, and a warm blanket to wrap himself in.

Now, do you suppose that “Wa” stayed with the missionary, or that he ran away? He stayed, and he grew fonder and fonder of the missionary and the missionary of him. Whenever he ate his meals, before tasting anything, he would bend his head and shut his eyes, and be still, as if he was saying grace. So also, night and morning, he would always drop on his knees, and for a time remain in the attitude of prayer. Occasionally he would go into the schoolroom, and sitting beside the girls, take a book, and make believe that he was studying his lessons. The missionary would frequently have him in his room, and kneel down with him, and pray God to teach him by His Holy Spirit, and deliver him from all evil. God did indeed watch over him, and preserve him from danger, to which he was exposed. No lion was permitted to terrify him; and no scorpion or serpent was allowed to bite his bare feet. The angels had charge of him.

When, on account of his bad health, the missionary had to leave Africa for a season, he much desired to bring “little Wa ”to England with him. He had a talk with his father (his mother was now dead) about it. He told him what Christian people had done in England for the deaf and dumb, what attention was paid to them, and how they were taught to write and read. He looked very serious, and shook his head. “I can't let him go;” he said, “I let his brother, ‘Wia,’ go to New York, and he is buried there. I can't let ‘Wa’ go.” But when he assured him that England had a milder climate than New York, and that he would be a parent to him, and that it was only the child's welfare he sought, “Well,” he said, “I will consider it.” Shortly after he called and said, “Take him; do with him what you choose. He is yours.” So the missionary began at once to get him ready for sea. He was fitted with red and yellow flannel smocks and trousers; and when he saw the preparations, and knew that he was going, he jumped for joy.

At length the steamer hove in sight. The captain agreed to charge a shilling a day for the “coal scuttle,” as he called him. So he was brought off with them in a boat through the surf, and he bade adieu to the scenes of his infancy, in better spirits than the missionary did; but soon the rocking of the ship upset him. He lay down sick on the deck. When he recovered, he became a great favorite with the passengers and crew. He had a wonderful power of mimicry, and he amused many with his imitations. Now he would act as he saw the monkeys or the chimpanzee act; now he would mock the way in which the gentlemen walked when the vessel rolled; now he would pretend to be preaching; now he would dance as his country people do; and now, when a lady would be moving about alone, he would run up to her and offer her his arm. The officers would feed him with good things, and let him sleep in their state-rooms, though he had a comfortable box of his own.

When the missionary arrived at Liverpool, “little Wa” was an object of curiosity to all. His dark skin and his flaming-colored dress made him ridiculously conspicuous. The children in the streets followed him, and gathered round the shop-doors pointing at him jeeringly; but whenever they were rude the missionary said to them, “He is deaf and dumb,” and then they would say, “Poor boy! poor little fellow!” You may be sure be was in ecstasies at the sights, such as he had never even dreamt of. Especially he noticed the horses, and tried to trot as they trot; and the sliders on the ice, and when one tumbled down he was convulsed with laughter. I have had him at my table, and he behaved himself like a gentleman, only he would open the whole plate of sandwiches to see which had least mustard on it; and when I presented him with a pear, he wanted to put it into his mouth whole.

It was decided that he should go into the Bath Deaf and Dumb Institution. The money, a large sum, was speedily raised by the ladies of Brighton. Far and wide contributions flowed in. “Little Wa” was loaded with presents beside; indeed, ladies began to be so kind to him that it was high time he was out of the way of being spoiled. News of his father's death reached England by the next mail; so now the missionary felt that “little Wa” was wholly his, and he took him to Bath without any further doubt as to its being God's will for him.

Before “little Wa” left London, he stole into the missionary's wife's sick chamber, and seeing that several persons were with her, he sat down quietly until they withdrew, then he quickly touched her; and then raising his eyes, he clasped his hands, and by other signs gave her to understand that he wished her to pray with him. She did so. On getting up, he looked into her face so bright and satisfied, and shook her hand to thank her. As he bade her goodbye, he signified that after two days and two nights he would come back to her. When the missionary was leaving him at the Institution, and broke the intelligence to him that he must stay there a long while, “little Wa” was downcast for a moment, but he did not cry; he nodded his head bravely, and stood watching him at the door till he turned the corner.

A recent letter informed us that at first he showed considerable self-will, but was daily improving. If we recollect how short a time he has been under control at all, we cannot but wonder that the wild African is as tractable as he is. When he saw the hand-writing of the missionary the tears started, and he pressed the envelope to his lips.

Now, my dear young readers, does not this narrative prove, that God thinks of children, and loves them, and cares for them? He is busy with the affairs of the universe, and yet He can turn from them to provide for a heathen mute. He dwells in the high and holy place, and yet He can stoop to be a friend to the fatherless African boy. Who is a God like unto Him? Oh, give your heart to Him, that you, too, may have His wing spread over you, and be able to confide in Him for whatever you want.

May “little Wa's” Almighty protector and all-loving provider be yours!—The Family Treasury.

DURING a residence of some years' continuance in the neighborhood of the sea, an officer in the navy called upon me and stated that he had just taken a lodging in the parish for his wife and children, and that he had an African whom he had kept three years in his service.

“Does he know anything,” I asked, “of the principles of the Christian religion?”

“Oh, yes, I am sure he does,” answered the captain; “for he talks a great deal about it in the kitchen, and often gets laughed at for his pains; but he takes it all very patiently.”

“Does he behave well as your servant?

“Yes, that he does: he is as honest and civil a fellow as ever came aboard a ship or lived in a house.”

“Was he always so well-behaved?”

“No,” said the officer; “when I first had him he was often very unruly and deceitful; but for the last two years he has been quite like another creature.”

“Well, sir, I shall be very glad to see him, and think it probable I shall wish to go through a course of instruction and examination. Can he read?”

“Yes,” replied his master; “he has been taking great pains to learn to read for some time past, and can make out a chapter in the Bible pretty well, as my maid-servant informs me. He speaks English better than many of his countrymen, but you will find it a little broken. When will it be convenient that I should send him over to you ?”

“To-morrow afternoon, sir, if you please.”

“He shall come to you about four o'clock, and you shall see what you can make of him.”

With this promise he took his leave. I felt glad to see him the next day, and asked:

WITH a companion I had descended a thousand feet perpendicularly, beneath the earth's surface, into one of the coal mines of East Virginia, called the MidLothian pit. As we were wandering through its dark passages—numerous and extensive enough to form a subterranean city—the sound of music at a little distance caught our ears. It ceased upon our approach; but we perceived that it was sacred music, and we heard the concluding sentiment of the hymn, “I shall be in heaven in the morning.”

A WORTHY old colored woman in the city of New York was one day walking along the street on some errand to a neighboring store, with her tobacco-pipe in her mouth, quietly smoking. A sailor, rendered mischievous by liquor, came down the street, and when opposite Phillis, crowded her aside, and with a wave of his hand knocked her pipe out of her mouth. He then halted to hear her fret at his trick, and to enjoy a laugh at her. But what was his astonishment when she meekly picked up the pieces of her broken pipe, without the least resentment in her manner, and giving him a look of mingled sorrow, kindness, and pity, said: “God forgive my son, as I do.” It touched a tender part of the young sailor's heart; he felt ashamed and repented; the tears started in his eyes. He confessed his error, and thrusting both hands into his two full pockets of change, forced her to take the handfuls of money, saying: “God bless you, kind mother, I'll never do so again.”

ONE dull night I sat by my window watching the people as they passed to and from the market. The wind blew hard, and the rain was beginning to patter against the window panes, and make large drops on the pavement.

Soon I noticed two little colored girls hurrying past with an empty basket, and I heard one of them say: “Oh, be quick, for it is going to rain hard, and the chips will all be wet.”

“Yes, I'm coming in a minute,” said the other, who lingered behind—for what purpose, do you think?

Leaning against the lamp-post at the corner of the street was a poor old woman, bent with age and infirmities. In one hand was her market-basket, in the other a bundle, and she was trying to open an umbrella. The wind blew against her, the bundle slipped from her poor old fingers, rolling into the gutter, and the umbrella would not come open.

But the quick feet and fingers of this little girl soon set things all right. First she hastened to rescue the bundle, and restore it to its owner; then opened the umbrella and placed it securely in the old woman's hands. She waited for no more— hastening on after her companion; but, amid the falling rain, I heard the old woman say, “God bless you, my child!”

Ah! it was a little deed, but done so cheerfully and quickly that I knew the child had a kind heart. Was the act not seen and noticed by our Father in heaven, and will He not bless the child who helps the aged and infirm?

Dear little ones, do not let one chance of helping another, or of doing good, pass by.

If your eyes are open, you will see these opportunities every day, and oh, how happy you may make your own heart, and the heart of some other, while your dear Father in heaven will smile upon your efforts.—Angel of Peace.

“BLESS de Lord, I'm pretty well, and granny's no wuss.” I heard the voice below my window just as the dawn of a bright summer day was coloring the eastern horizon. Then another question was asked by the cook below, as she threw open the shutters, but I could only hear old Susan's reply: “No, I can't, come in; I'm up so airly to look for wood to bile the kittle. Granny'll be a-wantin' breakfast.”

IT was a comfortless morning in the month of March, 1814, when I first formed an acquaintance with the subject of the following sketch.

JOSEPH RACHEL resided in the island of Barbadoes. He was a trader, and dealt chiefly in the retail way. In his business, he conducted himself so fairly and complaisantly, that in a town filled with little peddling shops, his doors were thronged with customers. Almost all dealt with him, and ever found him remarkably honest and obliging.

If any one knew not where to obtain an article, Joseph would endeavor to procure it, without making any advantage for himself. In short, his character was so fair, and his manners so generous, that the best people showed him a regard which they often deny to men of their own color, because they are not blessed with the like goodness of heart.

In 1756, a fire happened, which burned down a great part of the town, and ruined many of the inhabitants. Joseph lived in a quarter that escaped the destruction, and expressed his thankfulness by softening the distresses of his neighbors. Among those who had lost their property by this heavy misfortune, was a man to whose family Joseph, in the early part of his life, owed some obligations.

This man, by too great hospitality, an excess very common in the West Indies, had involved himself in difficulties, before the fire happened; and his estate lying in houses, that event entirely ruined him. Amid the cries of misery and want, which excited Joseph's compassion, this man's unfortunate situation claimed particular notice. The generous and open temper of the sufferer, the obligations that Joseph owed to his family, were special and powerful motives for acting toward him the part of a friend.

Joseph had his bond for sixty pounds sterling. “Unfortunate man,” said he, “this debt shall never come against you. I sincerely wish you could settle all your other affairs as easily. But how am I sure that I shall keep in this in mind? May not the love of gain, especially when, by length of time, your misfortune shall become familiar to me, return with too strong a current, and bear down my fellow-feeling before it? But for this I have a remedy. Never shall you apply for the assistance of any friend against my avarice.”

He arose, and ordered a large account that the man had with him, to be drawn out; and in a whim that night have called up a smile on the face of Charity, he filled his pipe, sat down again, twisted the bond and lighted his pipe with it. While the account was drawing out, he continued smoking, in a state of mind that a monarch might envy, When it was finished, he went in search of his friend, with the discharged account and the mutilated bond in his hand.

On meeting him, he presented the papers to him with this address: “Sir, I am sensibly affected with your misfortunes: the obligations I have received from your family give me a relation to every branch of it. I know that your inability to pay what you owe gives you more uneasiness than the loss of your own substance.

“That you may not be anxious on my account in particular, accept of this discharge, and the remains of your bond. I am overpaid in the satisfaction that I feel from having done my duty. I beg you to consider this only as a token of the happiness you will confer upon me, whenever you put it in my power to do you a good office.”

The philanthropists of England take pleasure in speaking of him: “Having become rich by commerce, he consecrated all his fortune to acts of benevolence. The unfortunate, without distinction of color, had a claim on his affections. He gave to the indigent; lent to those who could not make a return; visited prisoners, gave them good advice, and endeavored to bring back the guilty to virtue. He died at Bridgetown, on that island, in 1758, lamented by all, for he was a friend to all.”

PAUL CUFFEE, the subject of this narrative, was the youngest son of John Cuffee, a poor African slave; but who, by good conduct, faithfulness, and a persevering industry, in time obtained his freedom. He afterward purchased a farm, and having married an Indian woman, brought up a family of ten children respectably, on one of the Elizabeth Islands, near New Bedford, Massachusetts.

In the year 1773, when Paul was about fourteen years of age, his father died, leaving a widow with six daughters to the care of him and his brothers. Although he had no learning except what he had received from the hand of friendship, yet by that means he advanced to a considerable degree of knowledge in arithmetic and navigation.

Of the latter, he acquired enough to enable him to command his own vessel in its voyages to many ports in the Southern States, the West Indies, England, Russia, and to Africa. The beginning of his business in this line was in an open boat; but by prudence and perseverance, he was at length enabled to obtain a good-sized schooner, then a brig, and afterward a ship. In the year 1806, he owned a ship, two brigs, and several smaller vessels, besides considerable property in houses and land.

Feeling in early life a desire of benefiting his fellow-men, he made use of such opportunities as were in his power for that purpose. Hence, during the severity of winter, when he could not pursue his usual business in his little boat, he employed his time in teaching navigation to his own family and to the young men of the neighborhood. Even on his voyages, when opportunity offered, he instructed those under his care in that useful art.

He was so conscientious that he would not enter into any business, however profitable, that might have a tendency to injure his fellow-men; and seeing the dreadful effects of drunkenness, he would not deal in ardent spirits on that account.

In the place where he lived, there was no school; and as he was anxious that his children should obtain an education, he built a house on his own land, at his own expense, and gave his neighbors the free use of it; being satisfied in seeing it occupied for so useful and excellent a purpose.

In many parts of his history, we may discover that excellent trait of character which rendered him so eminently useful—a steady perseverance in laudable undertakings. It is only by an honest, industrious use of the means in our power that we can hope to become respectable.

His mind had long been affected with the degraded and miserable condition of his African brethren, and his heart yearning toward them, his thoughts were turned to the British settlement at Sierra Leone. In 1811, finding his property sufficient to warrant the undertaking, and believing it to be his duty to use a part of what God had given him for the benefit of his unhappy race, he embarked in his own brig, manned entirely by persons of color, and sailed to Africa, the land of his forefathers.

After he arrived at Sierra Leone, he had many conversations with the governor and principal inhabitants, and proposed to them a number of improvements. Thence he sailed to England, where he met great attention and respect; and being favored with an opportunity of opening his views to the Board of Managers of the African Institution, they cordially united with him in all his plans. This mission to Africa was undertaken at his own expense, and with the purest motives of benevolence.

IN the narrative of his own life, Solomon Bayley says: “The Lord tried to teach me His fear when I was a little but I delighted in vanity and foolishness, and went astray; but He found out a way to overcome me, and to cause me to desire His favor and His great help; and although I thought no one could be more unworthy of His favor, yet He did look on me, and pity me in my great distress.

“I was born a slave in the State of Delaware, and was one of those that were carried out of Delaware into the State of Virginia; the laws of Delaware did say, that slaves carried out of that State should be free; and I asserted my right to freedom, for which I was put on board of a vessel and sent to Richmond, where I was put in jail, and in irons, and thence sent in a wagon back into the country.

“On the third day after we left Richmond, in the bitterness of my heart, I was induced to say, ‘I am past all hope;’ but it pleased the Father of mercy to look upon me, and He sent a strengthening thought into my heart—that He that made the heavens and the earth was able to deliver me. I looked up to the sky, and then on the trees and the ground, and I believed, in a moment, that if He could make all these, He was able to deliver me.

“Then did that Scripture come into my mind, ‘They that trust in the Lord shall never be confounded.’ I believed it, and got out of the wagon unperceived, and went into the bushes. There were three wagons in company: when they missed me, they looked round some time for me, but not finding me, they went on; and that night I travelled through thunder, lightning, and rain, a considerable distance.”

His trials and difficulties in getting along were many and various; but at Petersburg he met a man from his neighborhood, circumstanced like himself: they got a small boat, went down James River, and landed on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay, and travelled to Hunting Creek, where their wives were. “But,” says he, “we found little or no satisfaction, for we were hunted like partridges on the mountains.”

His poor companion, being threatened again with slavery, in attempting to escape, was pursued and killed; on which Solomon makes the following remarks: “Now, reader, you have heard of the end of my fellow-sufferer, but I remain as yet a monument of mercy, thrown up and down on life's tempestuous sea; sometimes feeling an earnest desire to go away and be at rest; but I travail on, in hopes of overcoming at my last combat.

“It being thought best for me to leave Virginia, I went to Dover, in Delaware, the distance of about one hundred and twenty miles.” By travelling in the night, and laying by in the day-time, he at length reached that place, but not without great difficulty, from being hunted and pursued.

In concluding this part of his narrative, he says, “Oh, what pains God takes to help His otherwise helpless creatures! Oh, that His kindness and care were more considered and laid to heart! and then there would not be that cause to complain that ‘the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's crib, but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider;’ but they would see that they are of more value than many sparrows; and that they are not their own, but bought with a price. Now, unto the King immortal, invisible, the only wise God, be glory and honor, dominion and power, now and forever. Amen.”

In the second part of his narrative, he proceeds by remarking “Seventh month, 24th, 1799, I got to Camden, where my master soon came from Virginia and found me, though he had not seen me since he put me on board the back-country wagon, nearly three or four hundred miles from Camden. Upon first sight, he asked me what I was going to do. I said, ‘Now, master, I have suffered a great deal, and seen a great deal of trouble; I think you might let me go for little or nothing.’ He said, ‘I won't do that; but if you will give me forty pounds bond and good security, you may free.’ ”

WHEN the Sierra Leone Company was first settled, they endeavored to bring over to their friendship all the petty African princes in their neighborhood. Among others, they applied to a chief of the name of Naimbanna, who was remarkable for a good disposition and an acute understanding. He easily saw that the intention of the company was friendly to Africa, and entered into amity with them.

They spoke to him about the slave trade, and gave him reasons for wishing to have it abolished. He was convinced of its wickedness, and declared that not one of his subjects should ever go into slavery again. By degrees, they began to talk to him about religion, but he was rather wary on that head. It seems he had formed some prejudices against Christianity.

Finding, however, that the Company's factory contained a very good sort of people, and that they lived happily among themselves, he began to think more favorably of their religion; but he was still backward either in receiving it himself, or in making it the religion of his country. He was well convinced of the barbarous state of his own people, on a comparison with Europeans, and he wished for nothing more than a reformation among them, especially in religion.

But as he found there were several kinds (or forms) of religion in the world, he wished to know which was the best before he introduced either of them. To ascertain this point as well as he could, he took the following method: He sent one of his sons into Turkey, among the Mohammedans; a second into Portugal, among the Papists; and the third he recommended to the Sierra Leone Company, desiring they would send him to England, to be there instructed in the religion of that country.

IN the year 1821, died, in the city of New York, an aged woman of color, named Zilpah Montjoy; whose pious circumspect life rendered her an object of peculiar interest to many of her acquaintances; to some of these, whose friendly notice she had experienced, she more than once related the following circumstance:—

Being a slave, inured to hard labor, she was brought up in such extreme ignorance as to have no idea that she was an accountable being—that there was a future state—not even that death was universal, until the sixteenth year of her age, when a girl of her own color dying in the neighborhood, she was permitted to attend the funeral.

The minister's text was, “Man that is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble: he cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not!” by which and subsequent remarks, she understood that all were to die; that there was a state of existence after death, a preparation for which was necessary while here.

She was much affected, and returned home in great agitation. Revolving these things in her mind for several days, she at length asked her mistress whether she had understood right, that all must die. The reply was, “Go to your work.” She continued thus exercised for a considerable time, earnestly desiring to know what she had to do, but had no one to give her instruction.

In this tried state, the Lord was pleased to reveal Himself, and impress on her untaught mind a belief in an omnipotent and omniscient Being, and that His law was written on the heart. Thus, gradually becoming calm and settled, her confidence was made strong in Him, who, hiding His counsels from the wise and prudent in their own eyes, “hath revealed them unto babes.” And it is believed she was from that time guarded and careful in her conduct.

She married, and had two daughters, one of whom was taken at an early age, and placed at so great a distance from her that she never saw her after. The other died when about grown, and being also bereaved of her husband, she was very lonely. But under these trials she appears to have been sustained, as was David when he could say, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

She was a member of the Methodist Church, and a diligent attender of their meetings as long as her strength permitted. When she was (as near as can be ascertained) about sixty-eight years old, the Clark- son Association for teaching colored women to read and write was established.

And when she received the information, she offered herself as a scholar, but the teachers endeavored to dissuade her, telling her she was too old to begin, as she did not know a letter, and her sight was so impaired as to require two pairs of spectacles; she however urged admittance, stating that her only motive was a desire to be able to read the Bible, and she believed “the Lord would help her,” adding, “We are never too old to do good.”

And being admitted, she was very diligent in her attendance, and by great perseverance became able to read a little in the New Testament; and one with large print being given her, she prized it very highly, and would frequently open it and read one of the chapters contained in Christ's sermon on the mount, calling it “the blessed chapter.”

But notwithstanding her great desire to learn, she did not allow her studies to interfere with her religious engagements; and the time for meeting with her class being fixed on one of the afternoons that the school was taught, it was inconvenient to her; but as the school commenced at three o'clock, and the meeting at four, the hour between she generally spent at the school, staying as long as it would do, and then going as quickly as she could, to be punctual to the time. Sometimes she has been seen running, when she heard the clock strike and found herself a little too late.

She was industrious and frugal, but liberated late in life, she barely procured a subsistence; and for the last two or three years, being nearly past labor, she was dependent on the benevolence of others: but at no time, however destitute and tried, did she lose her confidence in the power of Him “who provideth for the raven his food,” often saying at such seasons, “The Lord has been my helper, and I trust in Him.” And when any favor was conferred on her, she feelingly expressed her gratitude, yet mostly with reference to the Great Supreme, for giving her friends so kind.

At a certain time, a friend, being unusually thoughtful about her, went to see how she was situated, taking with her a loaf of bread. She found her unable to go out, and without provision; and querying with her, “Zilpah, art thou here alone?” she replied, “No, I am never alone; my Master is with me. When I awake in the night season he talks with me. He has promised to take care of me, and He has done it; He has now sent me that loaf of bread.” At another time, she said to a person who visited her, “How good the Lord is; I have always something to eat, for if I take my last morsel, some one comes and brings me more before I want again.”

Her understanding failed, so that for several weeks before her death she knew very little; but her conversation was innocent, sometimes saying, “If it is the Lord's will to take me, I am willing to go, but I must wait His time.” And He was pleased to release her, after a short confinement, without any apparent disease but the decline of nature, about the seventy-ninth year of her age.

A woman of color, living in Chrystie street, New York, is now, 1825, about one hundred years old. She retains her faculties remarkably well, and she recently gave the following account of herself: “When I was a small child in Africa, being one day at play in the woods, some people came along; one of whom catched me, and throwing me over his shoulder, ran away with me. After he bad gone some distance, he put me down and whipped me to make me run.

“When we came to the water, they put me into the ship and carried me to Antigua. Soon after, the captain of a vessel from New York, taking a liking to me, bought me, and brought me here. I was then so little, that I slept sometimes at my mistress's feet. I think there was only one house for worship in the city then; and I remember very well that up Broadway there were only a few small houses; and where the college (in Park Place) stands it was woods.

“I was sold several times, married twice, and had one child that died young. I was baptized in St. Paul's church, not long after it was built; and when I was about forty years old, I bought my freedom for twenty pounds. Not long after I married my last husband, I paid for his freedom, and we went to Charleston. After living there about seven years, he died; and knowing I had many friends and acquaintances in New York, I came back.

“I brought a hundred dollars with me, which I put into the church stock. From that I have received seven dollars every year, and with it I buy my winter firewood. By working early and late, besides my day's work, I earned money, and got a life lease of this spot of ground, and built this house; and in this room” (which is on the first floor) “I have lived many years.

“The upper part I rent; but sometimes the people have been poor, and could not pay me; then I lost it; but these people pay me very well. I have been asked many times to sell it, but I think it is much better for me to stay quietly here than to be moving about: and besides, I let Mr.—have fifty dollars, and when he failed, I lost it; and the bad folks have several times taken money out of my chest; and I was afraid, if I did sell, I should lose that also, and then I should be very bad off.

“As I have no relation of my own, when I am gone, and don't want these things any more, they are to be divided among my husband's folks.” A person present told her she should have a writing drawn, to tell how they should be divided; saying, “Perhaps they will quarrel about it.” She said, “I have told them if they did, them that quarrelled must not have anything.”

When asked if she could read, she answered, “Yes; when I was young I learned to spell a little, but I did not know how to put the words together, till I went to the Clarkson school. There I learned to read; and though I can't read all the hard words in the Bible, I can read Matthew and John very well.” A representation of the crucifixion of Christ hanging over the chimney-piece, she pointed to it, and explained it very intelligibly, remarking that, “To Mary, who was kneeling near the cross, it was said, ‘Woman, behold thy Son,’ and to one of those standing by, ‘Behold thy Mother.’ ”

This representation appeared to afford her much interest in contemplating it, though she looked only to the Lord for consolation, and several times, while giving this account, testified of His goodness and mercy to her; saying, “It is the Lord's will that I should be so comfortably provided for. When I was younger, and worked so steadily, the people used to say, ‘Belinda, what do you work so hard for, and lay up money? you have no children to take it when you are gone.’

“I did not know then, but the Lord knew that I was to live a great while, and He put it into my heart to do so, and now I have plenty, and trouble nobody for a living. I am unwell this morning, but by and by, when I feel better, I intend to clean up. I used to live very snug and comfortable; I can't get anybody now to put up my things for me so well as I can do it for myself.” Her bed had curtains, and appeared to have comfortable covering on it. She had a looking-glass, an arm-chair, a carpet on her floor, and other necessary furniture.

She further said, “When I was able, I went often to see the sick, and the suffering poor, and do something for them, and I sometimes prayed by their bedside;” and added, “I believe the Lord heard my prayers.” Placing her hands in an attitude of supplication, and turning her eyes upward, “I often pray now, and I leave it to Him, and He gives me what I pray for. If He thinks it best for me to live longer yet, I am willing to stay; and if He thinks best to take me away, I am ready to go.”

On being asked how old she was, she replied, “When Peter Williams was going to Hayti, and he came to see me and bid me farewell, he said, ‘Belinda, I have been calculating your age, as near as I can from circumstances, and I believe you are about a hundred years old.’ I thought I was older, but I suppose he must be correct.

“I used to work for the rich folks, and they seemed to love me, and treated me very kindly. Mrs. T—, and Mrs. H—, and many others, have been to see me a great many times. Mr. Livingston, the lawyer, who died at Washington, you remember —with his first wife's father, Mr. Kittletas, I lived, and of him I bought my freedom. And when I went to Mr. Livingston's, he would say, ‘Why, Belinda, you have a long life of it here.’ I would say, ‘Yes, master, the Lord knows, but I don't, why I stay so long'—but, dear man, he is gone!”

On being asked why she lived alone, she said, “If I have somebody with me, they will want other company, and that will make more noise than I like. I love to be still; then I can think. And when I am sick, the people up stairs are kind to me, and do what little I want done.”

When speaking of reading, she said, I met with a bad accident lately; I dropped my spectacles in the fire, and it spoiled them: when I can get into the Bowery, to Mr.—'s store, I can get another pair; but nobody can get them for me—they would not know how to suit my eyes—and then I always pay cash for what I get—I have found it the best way. In all my life long, there has never anybody had the scratch of a pen against me. I have been saving too: them plates there” (pointing to her closet), “I brought them with me from Charleston before Washington's war.”

In this unpolished narrative, we see the benefit of acquiring steady habits in early life—of honest, persevering industry—and frugality in the use of what was so obtained. From the one hundred dollars put into church stock, she has in fifty years received three hundred and fifty dollars; and in such a way as to be particularly useful to her. Her pious care of the sick; her quiet, decent, and comely way of living; and her exertion in learning to read, even at the advanced age of eighty years, are also worthy of particular notice.

“I OFFER here neither the history of a saint, a hero, nor a tyrant. I believe there are few events in my life, which have not happened to many; but when I compare my lot with that of many of my countrymen, I acknowledge the mercies of Providence in the occurrences that have taken place.

“That part of Africa known by the name of Guinea, to which the trade for slaves is carried on, extends along the coast above 3,400 miles, from Senegal to Angola, and includes a variety of kingdoms. The most considerable of these is Benin, as it respects its extent, wealth, and richness of soil. It is bounded on the sea 170 miles, and its interior seems only terminated by the empire of Abyssinia, near 1,500 miles from its first boundaries.

“In one of the most remote and fertile provinces of this kingdom I was born, in the year 1745. As our country is one where nature is prodigal of her favors, our wants, which are few, are easily supplied. All our industry is turned to the improvement of those blessings, and we are habituated to labor from our early years; and by this means we have no beggars.

“Our houses never exceed one story, and are built of wood, thatched with reeds, and the floors are generally covered with mats. The dress of both sexes consists of a long piece of calico or muslin, wrapped loosely round the body; our beds are also covered with the same kind of cloth; this the women make when they are not engaged in labor with the men. Our tillage is in a large common, and all the people resort thither in a body and unite in the labor.

“My father being a man of rank, had a numerous family; his children consisted of one daughter, and a number of sons, of which I was the youngest. As I generally attended my mother, she took great pains in forming my mind, and training me to exercise. In this way, I grew up to about the eleventh year of my age, when an end was put to my happiness in the following manner:

During the winter of 1832, the writer of the narrative of which this account is an abridgment, became acquainted with Hannah Hardy, an interesting old colored woman, and her son George. They were the suffering tenants of a miserable garret, lighted only by a few panes of glass, and ill-secured from the inclemencies of the weather.

Hannah had been an industrious woman, who supported herself comfortably for many years, until her sight, which had long been declining, so nearly left her as to disqualify her for all kinds of work. George, who was her youngest son, disclosed in his earliest years great quickness of discernment and readiness of apprehension. He could read the Bible when only four years old; and he continued to be remarkable for docility, and for preferring his books and other profitable employments to the idle sports of children.

When about eleven years old, he was placed from home, where he remained until four years since, when he became so much diseased with scrofula as to make it necessary for him to return to his mother. From that time, she became his constant and only nurse, and evinced, through numberless privations and difficulties, the most unwearied attention and patient endurance.

When he was able to sit up and use his arms, he made rope-mats; by which, with casual help from his friends, he supported his mother and paid her rent. He always mended his own and her clothes, and allowed no time to pass away in idleness, which he was able to employ; and so cheerful, so thankful, and so happy did this interesting couple appear, that it afforded a lesson of instruction to be with them.

THIS interesting individual was born a slave, on the estate of William A. Christian, in Charles City county, about thirty miles below Richmond. In 1804, he was sent to that city, and hired out by the year as a common laborer at the Shockoe warehouse, At that time, and for two or three years after, he was excessively profane, and much addicted to intoxication.

But God, who is rich in mercy, was pleased to awaken him to a sense of his lost estate; and in the year 1807, he made open profession of his faith in the Saviour. A sermon which he heard about that time, founded on our Lord's interview with Nicodemus, awakened in him so strong a desire to be able to read and write, that he obtained a Testament, and commenced learning his letters, by trying to read the chapter in which that interview is recorded.

He was occasionally instructed by young gentlemen at the warehouse, though he never attended a regular school. In a little time, he was able to read and write, so as to make dray tickets, and superintend the shipping of tobacco. In this business, and in overseeing the labor of the other hands in the warehouse, he was particularly useful; so much so, that he received 800 dollars salary in 1820, the last year he remained there; and he could have received a larger sum, if he would have continued.

In the year 1813, he bought himself and his two little children (his wife being dead) for 850 dollars, and thus became free. The manner in which he obtained this sum of money to purchase himself and his children, reflects much credit on his character. It will be seen from the salary he received after he was free, and which he relinquished for the sake of doing good in Africa, that his services at the warehouse were highly estimated; but of their real value, no one except a dealer in tobacco can form an idea. Notwithstanding the hundreds of hogsheads that were committed to his charge, he could produce any one the instant it was called for; and the shipments were made with a promptness and correctness, such as no person has equalled in the same situation. For this correctness and fidelity, he was highly esteemed, and frequently rewarded by the merchant with a five-dollar note. He was allowed also to sell for his benefit many small parcels of waste tobacco. It was by saving the little sums obtained in this way, with the aid of a subscription by the merchants to whose interests he had been attentive, that he procured these 850 dollars which he paid for the freedom of himself and children. When the colonists were fitted out for Africa, he defrayed a considerable part of his own expense. With a design to improve his condition, he emigrated to Africa among the first settlers of Liberia, where he was the means of doing much good to both colonists and natives.

In reply to one of his friends, who desired to know what inducement he had for going to Africa, when he was already so comfortably situated, he said, “I am an African; and in this country, however meritorious my conduct and respectable my character, I cannot receive the credit due to either. I wish to go to a country where I shall be estimated by my merits, not by my complexion. And I likewise feel bound to labor for my suffering race.”

AGED upwards of eighty-three years, related to Samuel Canby, of Wilmington, Delaware, in 1825, the following circumstances of his freedom from his master, the late Warner Mifflin, a Quaker: and it may be observed, that he always supported an unblemished character:

That he was born a slave in the family of Daniel Mifflin, of Accomack county, Virginia, with whom he lived until about twenty years of age; about which period Warner Mifflin (son of Daniel) married a daughter of John Kensey's, of West River, Maryland, and settled near Camden, in the State of Delaware. Ezekiel, and five other slaves, were given him by his father; there were also a number of slaves belonging to his wife brought into the family.

He lived with Warner Mifflin about eighteen months, when he put him on a plantation of his to work it, about six miles from his residence, where he continued about four years a slave. At this period Ezekiel was informed by his master that he had concluded to set his slaves free; and very soon after his master came to his residence, and calling him from the field where he was ploughing, they sat down together, when he told Ezekiel his mind had long been uneasy with holding slaves, and that he must let him go.

Ezekiel was so well satisfied with his present situation, that he told his master he could not leave him. Their conversation on the subject produced such feelings of tenderness that they both wept much. Finally, as an inducement to comply, his master told him he might remain on the farm, and they entered into a mutual engagement, which was carried into effect, and Ezekiel continued to live on the farm fourteen years, when his master gave him a piece of land, upon which he built a house, where he remained until he came into the neighborhood of Wilmington, where and in that town he has resided until the present time.

After relating the foregoing narrative, he was inquired of respecting the account entitled “The Good Master and his Faithful Slave”—a circumstance which took place about the time of his being liberated, and in the same family—to which he bore the following testimony, shedding many tears while the reader was pursuing the theme, saying, “It is just so, poor Jem and I lived together with master, and worked together in harmony. How well I remember when Jem told me that Master Mifflin had done the same by him as he had done for me.

“It is all true—mistress brought a number of slaves with her into the family, after master married her—one of them was my wife—all the rest of us, making, I suppose about thirty, were given by old master to Master Warner, who is now an angel in heaven. Oh, how it comforts me to believe that, after suffering a few more pains, I shall live with him for ever in communion sweet! We were brought up children together, slept together, eat at the same table, and never quarrelled.”

The dear old man seems indeed like one waiting with Christian resignation for an entrance into the heavenly kingdom. I have no doubt of the correctness of his testimony. He appears to have as perfect a recollection of the days of his childhood as though they had just passed.

A POOR, but honest and respectable old man, whose name was Hector, resided in Philadelphia. He and his wife lived on the scanty earnings of their own hands, in a very small cottage. One evening, at a late hour, a woman of their own color, with an infant, stopped at their dwelling and asked for a night's lodging, to which his wife answered, “We can't lodge you, we got but one bed.” “Oh,” said the old man, seeing her a stranger and in difficulty, “let her tag [stay], she sleep in de bed with you, I go make a bed on de floor—must not turn her out o' doors.”

The woman accordingly stayed; and in the night, Hector was awakened by the cries of the child. He arose to ascertain the cause of it, and found the mother was gone; on which he aroused his wife, saying, “Well, Sukey, you see de woman has gone off and lef' de child for you.” “Oh,” said his wife, “what shall we do now ? She never come again.” “Well,” returned Hector, “then you must take care of him: who knows God Almighty send him here for something—may be to take care of us in our old age—must not turn him out o' doors.”

So they fed and nourished it with milk from the market—the old man going regularly to procure it, No one appearing, the child became their adopted. When he had attained the age of eight or nine years, proving an active lad, they put him to a chimney sweeper, as the most likely way for him to become early useful, and he soon contributed a little to his guardian's subsistence.

They at length grew quite infirm, and the wife died. After which, the neighbors, thinking it too much for the lad to have the whole care of the old man, prevailed on him to go to the Bettering House. When there the boy did not forsake but frequently visited him, and continued to add to his support until he died; a few days after which the lad died also, having grown up beloved and respected.

IN the dreadful earthquake which made such ravages in the island of St. Domingo, in the year 1770, a colored nurse found herself alone in the house of her master and mistress, with the youngest child, which she nursed. The house shook to its foundation. Every one had taken flight; she alone could not escape, without leaving her infant charge in danger.

She flew to the chamber, where it lay in the most profound sleep. At the moment the walls of the house fell in, anxious only for the safety of her foster child, she threw herself over it, and serving as a sort of arch, saved it from destruction, The child was indeed saved; but the unfortunate nurse died soon after, the victim of her fidelity.

LATE in the last autumn it was my privilege (says the author) to spend a few hours in the hospitable mansion of the Rev. S. B. W., of F. I arrived at his house very early in the morning, just before the family assembled to perform their customary devotions. On the signal being given, the children and domestics came into the room where we were sitting.

Among the latter, there was a very aged colored man, whom every one called Uncle Harry. As soon as he entered, I observed that Mr. W. and his lady treated him with marked attention and kindness. The morning was sharp and frosty, and Uncle Harry had a chair in the corner, close to the fire.

The portion of Scripture selected for the service was the second chapter of Luke. I observed that the attention of Harry was deeply fixed, and he soon began to manifest strong emotions. The old man's eye kindled as the reader went on, and when he came to the tenth verse, Harry appeared as though his heart was tuned to the angelic song, and he could hardly help uttering a shout of triumph.

There was, not, however, the smallest ostentation of feeling, or endeavor to attract attention. He only, in a gentle manner, turned his face upward, strongly clasping his hands as they lay on his lap, and expressing by his countenance the joy of his heart. By this time he had interested me so highly that I could not keep my eyes from him.

I watched the varying expressions of his countenance, and saw that every word seemed to strike on his heart, and produce a corresponding emotion. I thought I would give the world, if I could read the Bible just as Harry heard it. While I was thinking, and looking on with intense interest, the reader came to the passage where old Simeon saw the infant Saviour, took him in his arms, blessed God, and said. “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”

Harry's emotion had become stronger and stronger, until the words just quoted were read, when he was completely overpowered. Suddenly turning on his seat, to hide as much as possible his feelings, he bent forward and burst into a flood of tears; but they were tears of joy. He anticipated his speedy peaceful departure and his final rest. This state of feeling continued during the remainder of the service, and when we rose from our knees, Uncle Harry's face seemed literally to have been bathed in tears.

As soon as we had risen, the old man came toward me with a countenance beaming with joy. “This,” said Mr. W., addressing me, “is Uncle Harry.” He reached out his hand and said: “Oh, why did my God bring me here to-day, to hear what I have heard and see this salvation?” I asked: “Are you as ready to depart, Uncle Harry, as good old Simeon was, of whom we read in this chapter?” I shall never forget his look of humble, joyful submission, when he replied, “Just when it shall please my blessed Lord and Master.” “You hope to go to heaven?” “Through divine mercy, I do.” “What is the foundation of that hope?” “The righteousness of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”

On perceiving that I wished to converse with the old man, Mr. W. said, with a kindness which showed that he recognized Harry as a Christian brother, and respected his age: “Come, take your seat again, Uncle Harry, and sit up near the fire.” He accepted the invitation, and I entered into conversation, which afforded me higher pleasure than I ever enjoyed in the circles of fashion, beauty, wit and learning. I here send you some of the most interesting particulars.

“How old are you, Uncle Harry?” “Why, as nigh as I can tell, I am eighty-nine or thereabout.” “Where were you born?” “At Port Tobacco, in Maryland.” “And who had you to preach the gospel to you there?” “Ah, we had no preacher of the gospel there at that time.” “Then it was after you left Port Tobacco that you embraced religion, was it?” “No, sir, it was while I lived there, and I will tell you how it was: A great many years ago there was one Dr. Whitefield, that travelled all through this country, preaching the gospel everywhere; I dare say you have heard of Dr. Whitefield, he was a most powerful preacher.

Well, as I was saying, he went through Maryland, but his place of preaching was so far off that I did not hear of it until he was gone. But not long afterwards I met a man, an acquaintance of mine, who did hear him. He told me about the sermon; and what I heard opened my eyes to see that I was a poor lost sinner; and ever since that time I have been determined to seek Jesus as my Saviour, and to spend my life in His service.”

Happy Whitefield! thought I, and greatly honored of thy Master, who has used thee as His instrument in saving so many souls. “But,” said I, “how old were you then?” “Why, as nigh as I can guess, I was somewhere about sixteen or seventeen years old.” “And have you never repented of this resolution?” “No, indeed, master; I have never repented of any thing, but that I have served my blessed Saviour so poorly.”

“But have you not met many trials and difficulties by the way?” “Yes, indeed, master; but out of them all the Lord has delivered me; and having obtained help of God, I continue to this day: blessed be His name; He never will leave me or forsake me; I have good hope of that.”

“Well, how did you obtain religious instruction where you lived, as you say there was no preacher of the gospel in the neighborhood?” “Why, by the mercy of my God, I learned to read the Bible; and that showed me the way to Jesus. But now I think of it, when the Roman Catholics heard that I was concerned about my soul, they sent for me, and tried hard to get me to join them.

“There was a priest at Port Tobacco, whose name was Mr. O'Neal; he talked to me a great deal. I remember he said to me one day, ‘Harry, now you are concerned about your soul, you must come and join the Catholic church.’ ‘What for,’ said I, ‘Mr. O'Neal?’ ‘Because,’ said he, ‘it is the true church.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘if the Catholic church will lead me to Jesus, I will join it with all my heart, for that is all I want;’ and Mr. O'Neal said, ‘If you will join the church, I will warrant that you shall go to heaven.’ ‘How can you do that, Mr. O'Neal?’ said I.

“Then he told me that a great many years ago our Saviour came into the world, and He chose twelve apostles, and made St. Peter their head; and the Pope succeeded St. Peter; and so all that join the Pope belong to the true church. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘why, how do you know that, Mr. O'Neal?’ ‘Because,’ said he, ‘our Saviour told Peter, I give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatsoever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.’

“And I said, ‘The Lord knows how it is, Mr. O'Neal; I am a poor ignorant creature, but it always did seem to me that Peter was nothing but a man, like the other apostles;’ but Mr. O'Neal said, ‘No, he was the head and chief of the apostles; for our Saviour said again, Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build My church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ And I asked him, ‘Now, do you think Peter was that rock, Mr. O'Neal?’ He answered, ‘To be sure he was;’ and I said again, ‘The Lord knows how it is; but it never did seem so to me.

“‘Now I think it was just so—when Peter said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God, our Saviour told him, Thou art Peter,’ ” (while the old man repeated the words, Thou art Peter, he pointed his finger at me, and looked me directly in the face, but as soon as he began the following part of the quotation he brought his hand briskly down to his knee, saying with emphasis, as he looked at himself), “ ‘and upon this rock will I build My church; and that rock was Christ; for it is written in another place, Behold, I lay in Zion a chief corner-stone, elect, precious; and he that believeth on Him shall not be confounded; and that corner-stone is Christ.’

“Then Mr. O'Neal said to me, ‘Why, Harry, where did you learn that?’ I said, ‘From my Bible.’ ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘you have no business with the Bible; it will confuse and frustrate you.’ But I said, ‘It tells me of my Saviour.’ Then a gentleman, who was sitting by, said, ‘Oh! you might as well let him alone, Mr. O'Neal; you cannot make anything of him;’ and from that time I never had any desire to join the Roman Catholics.”

The narrative, of the truth of which I could not entertain a moment's doubt, showed a promptness of reply and an acquaintance with the Scriptures which truly surprised me, and I remarked, “I suppose, Uncle Harry , you take great pleasure in reading the Bible?” “Ah, master! when I could read, it was the pleasure of my life. But I am old now; and my book is so rubbed that the print is dim, and I can scarcely make out to read a word.”

On this, Mr. W. said, “Well, Uncle Harry, you shall have a new Bible. Do you call on Mr.—, when you go down town, and he will give you a new one from the Bible Society.” Harry bowed, and expressed gratitude for the kindness, but did not manifest as much pleasure as I expected, considering how highly he professed to value the Bible. While I was wondering, and rather sorrowing on the account, I observed the old man to be feeling, with an air of embarrassment, in his pocket.

At length he pulled out an old tattered case, which appeared to have been long in use, and observed, “This new Bible will not be of much use to me, because my spectacles are so bad that they help me very little in reading.” With that he opened his case, and showed a pair of spectacles of the cheapest sort, of which one glass was broken, and the other so scratched, that it was wonderful that he could see through it at all.

Mr. W. no sooner observed this than he said, “Well, Uncle Harry, you must have a new pair; do call at Mr.—'s store, and tell him to let you have a pair suited to your age, and I will settle with him about it.” On hearing this, Harry's eyes gleamed with joy, and he exclaimed, “Thank God! God bless you, master! Now I shall have comfort again in reading the Bible.” And I never saw a happier, or a more grateful countenance.

Presently, he said the wagon would soon call for him to take him home, and he must go down town, and be getting ready: on which he again thanked his friend, and invoked a blessing on him and his family. He then affectionately and respectfully took me by the hand, and said, “I never saw you before, and I never shall see you again in this world; but I love you as a minister of my blessed Lord and Master, and I hope that I shall meet you in the house above. Remember and pray for poor old Harry.”

I squeezed his hand, and assured him of my affectionate remembrance, and requested that he would pray for me, and for the preachers of the Gospel generally. “Oh!” said he, “may God Almighty bless all the dear ministers of Christ, and enable them to call many poor sinners to the dear Saviour! Oh! I do love to hear of souls coming to Christ; and it is my daily prayer—Thy kingdom come, and Thy will be done on earth, as it is done in heaven!” With that the old man took leave.

I confess that I have often since wished to see him and hold communion with him. There was about him a spirit of piety and benevolence, of humble zeal and fervent hope, of meekness and submission, which I have rarely seen equalled. At the same time, there was a degree of intelligence, an extent of religious knowledge, which, in his condition, really surprised and delighted me.

I saw here one of the triumphs of divine grace. I was made to appreciate the value and the excellence of that religion which could take a poor slave, and so transform him, that he was well nigh fitted to be a companion of saints in light, and of just men made perfect. And since I saw him, I have often prayed that after the days of my wandering shall be over, and all the sufferings of my life shall be endured, I may obtain a share in the rest, and a lot in the inheritance, which I have no doubt are prepared for Uncle Harry.

THE enterprising traveller, Mungo Park, was employed by the African Association to explore the interior regions of Africa. In this hazardous undertaking, he encountered many dangers and difficulties. His wants were often supplied, and his distress alleviated, by the kindness and compassion of negroes. He gives the following lively and interesting account of the hospitable treatment he received from a poor negro woman:

“Being arrived at Sego, the capital of the kingdom of Bambarra, situated on the banks of the Niger, I wished to pass over to that part of the town in which the king resides; but from the number of persons eager to obtain a passage, I was under the necessity of waiting two hours. During this time the people who had crossed the river carried information to Mansong, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming over to see him.

”He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into this country, and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge, for that night, in a distant village, to which he pointed, and said that in the morning he would give me further instruction how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village; where I found, to my great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house.

“From prejudices infused into their minds, I was regarded with astonishment and fear; and I was obliged to sit the whole day without victuals, in the shade of a tree. The night threatened to be very uncomfortable; the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain. The wild beasts too were so numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up a tree, and resting among the branches.

“About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose, that he might graze at liberty, a negro woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to observe me; and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, she inquired into my situation. I briefly explained it to her; after which, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night.

“Finding I was very hungry, she went out to procure me something to eat; and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused it to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed toward a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress (pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension), called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton; in which they continued to employ themselves a great part of the night.

“They lightened their labor by songs, one of which was composed extempore; for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these: ‘The winds roared, and the rain fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn.’ Chorus: ‘Let us pity the white man; no mother has he to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn.’*

“Trifling as these events may appear to the reader, they were to me affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning, I presented to my compassionate landlady two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat; the only recompense it was in my power to make her.”

SOME time in the year 1790 a member of the Manumission Society, residing on Golden Hill (now called John Street) in New York, observed, for a considerable time, his front porch to be scrubbed and sanded, every Seventh-day morning before the family were up. He ordered a servant to watch, and ascertain to whom he was indebted for this singular mark of kindness.

At an early hour in the morning a colored woman was observed with her pail, brush, cloth, soap and sand, carefully performing her accustomed task. The domestic who had been on the watch followed her home, and requested to know her inducements for performing this service. Her reply was, “Massa got me free, and I can do no less than scrub off the stoop.” A gratitude so genuine and untainted is rarely found among the most polished and refined minds.

ANOTHER narrative, respecting a dying woman, displays a faith so strong, a hope so full of immortality, as may lead the Christian reader to exclaim, “Let my last hours be like those of this poor slave.” Agnes Morris, a poor negro woman, sent a pressing request to Mrs. Thwaites, a lady residing in Antigua, to visit her: she was in the last stage of dropsy.

This poor creature ranked among the lowest class of slaves. Her all consisted of a little wattled* hut and a few clothes. Mrs. Thwaites, finding her at the commencement of her illness in a very destitute condition, mentioned her case to a friend, who gave her a coat. When she paid her last visit, on her entering the door, Agnes exclaimed, “Missis! you come! * Plaited twigs. This tongue can't tell what Jesus do for me! Me call my Saviour day and night; and He come”—laying her hand on her breast—“He comfort me here.”

On being asked if she was sure of going to heaven when she died, she answered, “Yes, me sure. Me see de way clear, and shine before me”—looking and pointing upward with a smiling face. “If di dis minute, Jesus will take me home, me ready.” Some hymns being sung, she was in a rapture of joy; and in reference to the words of one of them, exclaimed, “For me—for me—poor sinner!”—lifting up her swelled hands—“what a glory! what a glory!”

Seeing her only daughter weeping, she said, “What you cry for? No cry—follow Jesus—He will take care of you.” And turning to Mrs. Thwaites, she said, “Missis, show um de path: ” meaning the path to heaven. Many other expressions fell from her of a similar nature, to the astonishment of those who heard her. It was understood she continued praying and praising God to her latest breath.

This poor creature was destitute of all earthly comforts. Her bed was a board, with a few plantain leaves over it. How many of these outcasts will be translated from outward wretchedness to realms of glory, there to mingle with the blessed, and sing praises to Him who lives for ever!

DIED, near Mount Holly, New Jersey, 12th of sixth month, 1824, in the 90th year of his age, William Bowen, a man of color. The deceased was one of those who have demonstrated the truth of that portion of Scripture that, “in every nation, he that feareth God and worketh righteousness is accepted with Him.”

He was concerned in early life to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with his God; and by closely attending to the light of Christ, and faithfully abiding under the operation of that blessed spirit of Divine Grace in his soul, he was enabled not only to bear many precious testimonies, through his life, but to bring forth those fruits of the Spirit which redound to the glory of God and to the salvation of the soul.

He was an exemplary member of the religious Society of Friends. As he lived so he died, a rare pattern of a self-denying follower of Jesus Christ. He had no apparent disease either of body or mind; and as he expressed himself, but a short time before his death, “he felt nothing but weakness,” which continued to increase until he gently breathed his last, and no doubt entered into his Heavenly Father's rest. “Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace.”

DIED, on the 3d of fifth month, 1784, Anthony Benezet, aged 71 years, a member of the Society of Friends. It was a day of sorrow. The afflicted widow, the unprotected orphan, and the poor of all descriptions, had lost the sympathetic mind of Benezet. Society lamented the extinguishment of the brilliant light of his philanthropy.

The wandering tribes in the American wilderness, and the oppressed Africans, were indeed bereft; for his willing pen and tongue had ceased forever to portray the history of their injuries, or plead for the establishment of their rights, before the sons of men.

At internment of his remains, in Friends' burial ground in Philadelphia, was the greatest concourse of people that had ever been witnessed on such an occasion; being a collection of all ranks and professions among the inhabitants; thus manifesting the universal esteem in which he was held.

Among others who paid that last tribute of respect were many hundred colored people, testifying, by their attendance and by their tears, the grateful sense they entertained of his pious efforts in their behalf. Having no children, by his will he bequeathed his estate to his wife during her natural life. At her decease, he directed several small sums to be paid to poor and obscure persons.

The residue he devised in trust to the overseers of the public school, “to hire and employ a religious-minded person or persons to teach a number of negro, mulatto or Indian children to read, write, arithmetic, plain accounts, needle-work, etc. And it is my particular desire, founded on the experience I have had in that service, that, in the choice of such tutor, special care may be taken to prefer an industrious, careful person, of true piety, who may be or become suitably qualified, he would undertake the service from a principle of charity, to one more highly learned not equally disposed.”

A POOR chimney sweeper's boy was employed at the house of a lady of rank to sweep the chimney of the room in which she usually dressed. When finding himself on the hearth of a richly-furnished dressing. room, and perceiving no one there, he waited a few moments to take a view of the beautiful things in the apartment.

A gold watch, richly set with diamonds, particularly caught his attention, and he could not forbear taking it in his hand. Immediately the wish rose in his mind, “Ah! if you had such a one!” After a pause, he said to himself, “But if I take it I shall be a thief; and yet,” continued he, “nobody would know it; nobody sees me—nobody! Does not God see me, who is present everywhere?” Overcome by these thoughts, a cold shivering seized him. “No,” said he, putting down the watch, “I would much rather be poor, and keep my good conscience, than rich and become a rascal.” At these words he hastened back into the chimney.

CAPTAIN JAMES SMITH relates, that he was taken prisoner by the Indians in the year 1755, and lived several years among them. At one time, he lived with an old man named Tecaughretanego, and his little son, Nunganny; they were quite alone, and there were not any inhabitants for many miles around. The old man was too lame to go out hunting; it was winter; they had no victuals; the snow was on the ground, and so frozen as to make a great noise when walked on, which frightened away the deer, and the captain could not shoot anything for some time.

He says: “After I had hunted two days without eating anything, and had very short allowance for some days before, I returned late in the evening faint and weary. When I came into our hut, the old man asked what success. I told him not any. He asked me if I was not very hungry. I replied that the keen appetite seemed in some measure abated, but I was both faint and weary.

“He commanded his little son to bring me something to eat; and he brought me a kettle with some bones and broth. After eating a few mouthfuls my appetite violently returned, and I thought the victuals had a most agreeable relish, though it was only fox and wildcat bones, which lay about the ground, which the ravens and turkey-buzzards had picked; these Nunganny had collected, and boiled until the sinews that remained on them would strip off. I speedily finished my allowance, and when I had ended my sweet repast the old man asked me how I felt. I told him I was much refreshed.

“He then handed me his pipe and pouch, and told me to take a good smoke. I did so. He then said he had something of importance to tell me, if I was now composed and ready to hear it. I told him I was ready to hear him. He said, ‘The reason why I deferred my speech till now is because few men are in a right humor to hear good talk when they are very hungry, as they are then generally fretful and discomposed; but as you now appear to enjoy calmness and serenity of mind, I will communicate to you the thoughts of my heart, and those things I know to be true.

“ ‘Brother, as you have lived with the white people, you have not had the same advantage of knowing that the great Being above feeds His people, and gives them their meat in due season, as we Indians have, who are frequently out of provisions, and yet are wonderfully supplied, and that so frequently that it is evidently the hand of the Great Spirit that does this; whereas, the white people have commonly large stocks of tame cattle, that they can kill when they please; and they also have barns and cribs, filled with grain, and therefore have not the same opportunity of seeing that they are supported by the Ruler of heaven and earth.

“ ‘Brother, I know you are now afraid that we will all perish with hunger, but you have no just reason to fear this. I have been young, but I am now old. I have been frequently under the like circumstances that we now are, and some time or another in almost every year of my life; yet I have hitherto been supported, and my wants supplied in time of need. “ ‘Brother, the Good Spirit sometimes suffers us to be in want, in order to teach us our dependence on Him, and to let us know that we are to love and serve Him; likewise to know the worth of the favors that we receive, and also to make us thankful.

“ ‘Brother, be assured that you will be supplied with food, and that just in the right time: but you must continue diligent in the use of means: go to sleep, and rise early in the morning, and go a hunting —be strong, and exert yourself, like a man, and the Great Spirit will direct your way.’ ”

The captain was thus encouraged to try again the next morning, though much disheartened and extremely hungry. He went a great distance before he could shoot anything; but at length he shot a buffalo cow; thus finding, as the good old Indian had said, that the Great Spirit had enabled him to provide for them just at the time of their distress.

A PERSON going to see a very aged woman of color, found a respectable-looking white girl sitting by her, reading the Bible for her. On inquiring of the old woman whether she could ever read, the visitor was answered, “Oh, yes, mistress, and I used to read a great deal in that book (pointing to a Bible very much worn that lay on the table), but now I am most blind, and the good girls read for me; but by and by, when I get on Zion's hill, I shall then see as well as anybody.”

The poor of this world are often found rich in faith, and their confidence in the wisdom and goodness of a bountiful Creator, strong. How frequently, on visiting the abodes of the aged and the infirm, do we find this verified: one saying, when something is handed her, “The Lord has sent me this;”—another, “The Lord put it into my heart to be industrious, and lay up something for old age,” etc.

THE Clarkson Association, for instructing adult females of color, commenced in the spring of 1811, and was conducted ten or twelve years by a number of young ladies of the Society of Friends. This was the first institution that came under the appellation of Sabbath-school in this city, where there are now so many.

It was taught on that day, because those people had generally more leisure to attend than on other days of the week; but these benevolent ladies soon appropriated also one afternoon in the middle of the week, for such as were at liberty to attend. There were a considerable number of aged women, as well as those in the prime of life, who learned to read, and rejoiced greatly in the acquisition. There were also schools kept by young men, for adults of color of the other sex.

“There is one remarkable fact connected with the effects of this excellent school upon the moral condition of the colored people. At every term of the Court of Sessions in this city, there are many colored persons convicted of crimes, and sent to the State prison or penitentiary. This school has now been in operation a number of years, and several thousands of scholars have received the benefits of a good thorough English education, and but three persons who have been educated here have been convicted in our criminal courts.”

Several girls, who have received their education at this school, have gone with their parents to Hayti, where they will be capable of teaching schools, and may be of singular benefit. Two interesting letters, written in a very fair intelligible hand, by one of these girls about fourteen years old, have been received by E. J. Cox; extracts from which are here subjoined.

HENRY BOYD was born a slave in Kentucky. Of imposing stature, well-knit muscles, and the countenance of one of nature's noblemen. At the age of eighteen he had so far won the confidence of his master, that he not only consented to sell him the right and title to his freedom, but gave him his own time to earn the money.

With a general pass from his master, Henry made his way to the Kenhawa salt works, celebrated as the place where Senator Ewing, of Ohio, chopped out his education with his axe! And there, too, with his axe, did Henry Boyd chop out his liberty. By performing double labor, he got double wages. In the daytime he swung his axe upon the wood, and for half the night he tended the boiling salt-kettles, sleeping the other half by their side.

After having accumulated a sufficient sum, he returned to his master and paid it over for his freedom. He next applied himself to learn the trade of a carpenter and joiner. Such was his readiness to acquire the use of tools, that he soon qualified himself to receive the wages of a journeyman. In Kentucky prejudice does not forbid master mechanics to teach colored men their trades.

He now resolved to quit the domains of slavery and try his fortunes in a free State, and accordingly directed his steps to the city of Cincinnati. The journey reduced his purse to the last quarter of a dollar; but, with his tools on his back and the consciousness of his ability to use them, he entered the city with a light heart. Little did he dream of the reception he was to meet. There was work enough to be done in his line, but no master workman would employ a colored man.

Day after day did Henry Boyd offer his services from shop to shop, but as often was he repelled, generally with an insult, and once with a kick. At last, he found the shop of an Englishman, too recently arrived to understand the grand peculiarity of American feeling. This man put a plane into his hand, and asked him to make proof of his skill. “This is in bad order,” said Boyd, and with that he gave the instrument certain nice professional knocks with the hammer, till he brought it to suit his practised eye.

“Enough,” said the Englishman; “I see you can use tools.” Boyd, however, proceeded to dress a board in a very able and workmanlike manner, while the journeymen from a long line of benches gathered around with looks that bespoke a deep personal interest in the matter. “You may go to work,” said the master of the shop, right glad to employ so good a workman. The words had no sooner left his mouth than his American journeymen, unbuttoning their aprons, called, as one man, for the settlement of their wages.

“What! what!” said the amazed Englishman, “what does this mean?” “It means that we will not work with a nigger,” replied the journeymen. “But he is a first-rate workman.” “But we won't stay in the same shop with a nigger; we are not in the habit of working with niggers.” “Then I will build a shanty outside, and he shall work in that.” “No, no; we won't work for a boss who employs niggers. Pay us up, and we'll be off.” The poor master of the shop turned with a despairing look to Boyd— “You see how it is, my friend; my workmen will all leave me. I am sorry for it, but I can't hire you.”

Even at this repulse our adventurer did not despair. There might still be mechanics in the outskirts of the city who had few too journeymen to be bound by their prejudices. His quarter of a dollar had long since disappeared, but, by carrying a traveller's trunk or turning his hand to any chance job, he contrived to exist till he had made application to every carpenter and joiner in the city and its suburbs. Not one would employ him. By this time, the iron of prejudice, more galling than anything he had ever known of slavery, had entered his soul.

He walked down to the river's bank below the city, and throwing himself upon the ground, gave way to an agony of despair. He had found himself the object of universal contempt; his plans were all frustrated, his hopes dashed, and his dear-bought freedom made of no effect! By such trials, weak minds are prostrated in abject and slavish servility, and stronger ones are made the enemies and depredators of society; it is only the highest class of moral heroes that come off like gold from the furnace.

Of this class, however, was Henry Boyd. Recovering from his dejection, he surveyed the brawny muscles that strung his Herculean frame. A new design rushed into his mind, and new resolution filled his heart. He sprang upon his feet and walked firmly and rapidly towards the city, doubtless with aspirations that might have suited the words of the poet:

The first object which attracted his “eagle eye,” on reaching the city, was one of the huge river boats laden with pig iron, drawn up to the landing. The captain of this craft was just inquiring of the merchant who owned its contents for a hand to assist in unloading it. “I am the very fellow for you,” said Boyd, stripping off his coat, rolling up his sleeves, and laying hold of the work. “Yes, sure enough, that is the very fellow for you,” said the merchant.

The resolution and alacrity of Boyd interested him exceedingly, and during the four or five days in which a flotilla of boats were discharging their cargoes of pig iron with unaccustomed despatch, he became familiar with his history, with the exception of all that pertained to his trade, which Boyd thought proper to keep to himself. In consequence, our adventurer next found himself promoted to the portership of the merchant's store, a post which he filled to great satisfaction.

He had a hand and a head for everything, and an occasion was not long wanting to prove it. A joiner was engaged to erect a counter, but failing, by a drunken frolic, the merchant was disappointed and vexed. Rather in passion than in earnest, he turned to his faithful porter: “Here, Henry, you can do almost anything, why can't you do this job?” “Perhaps I could, sir, if I had my tools and the stuff,” was the reply. “Your tools!” exclaimed the merchant in surprise, for till now he knew nothing of his trade.

Boyd explained that he had learned the trade of a carpenter and joiner, and had no objection to try the job. The merchant handed him the money, and told him to make as good a counter as he could. The work was done with such promptitude, judgment and finish that his employer broke off a contract for the erection of a large frame warehouse, which he was about closing with the same mechanic who had disappointed him in the matter of the counter, and gave the job to Henry.

The money was furnished, and Boyd was left to procure the materials and boss the job at his own discretion. This he found no difficulty in doing, and what is remarkable, among the numerous journeymen whom he employed, were some of the very men who took off their aprons at his appearance in the Englishman's shop! The merchant was so much pleased with his new warehouse, that he proceeded to set up the intelligent builder in the exercise of his trade in the city.

Thus Henry Boyd found himself raised at once almost beyond the reach of the prejudice which had well-nigh crushed him. He built houses and accumulated property. White journeymen and apprentices were glad to be in his employment, and to sit at his table. He is now a wealthy mechanic, living in his own house in Cincinnati; and his enemies who have tried to supplant him have as good reason is his friends to know that he is a man of sound judgment and a most vigorous intellect.

Without having received a day's schooling in his life, Henry Boyd is well read in history, has an extensive and accurate knowledge of geography, is an excellent arithmetician, and is remarkable for his morality, generosity, and all those traits which mark a noble character.

THE period fixed by law for the termination of slavery in the State of New York was the 4th of July, 1827. According to the census of 1820, there were 20,279 free persons of color, and 10,092 slaves in the State; making in all 30,371.

“IN my jaunt to Deep Creek, and to the poor cabins in Dismal Swamp, I helped mend six bridges before our horse could cross, borrowing nails from the fence. It was a very hard trip—no chance for a single dinner while gone—but it paid. The same night I mended bridges, I found work of a different kind. Going on business to the Bute Street Church, I found a love-feast under full headway: about two hundred were present; the excitement terrible among the young converts, who, in their frantic leaps, broke lamps and windows, and filled the house with perfect uproar. I found the new pastor dared not risk his popularity by checking it. Courage was given me to make my way to the pulpit, when I at once had permission to speak. All was still as need be, while I appealed to their judgment, and the teachings of the Bible. I saw I had the sympathy of most, and when at last, I said, ‘wait till the wind, and the earthquake, and the fire have all passed by, and then go to your homes and listen to the still small voice by which God himself will teach you; and oh, remember, my young sisters, that the proof of your growth in grace is not the feelings you have here tonight, but the life you will lead to-morrow.’ There was such an earnest ‘amen,’ all over the house, as gave me hope again that they will rise above this great delusion. Many came to thank me. ‘It was just what we needed, and they will hear it from you.’ ”

“Deeply impressed with the moral wants of these poor creatures, especially the women, and their need of friendly counsel in their new position, I have opened Mother's meetings—now held weekly, in each of our three-school districts—where they are invited to come with their work and their babies. I talk familiarly with them about their household matters, the cheapest and most wholesome food, the best ways of cooking it, and the right care of their children, and their duties to their husbands—often being greatly helped out in my own stock of knowledge by the practical experience of some nice old aunty, who tells how she manages, till the whole group is at ease and can confide their troubles and trials. Then I read, teach, or talk to them. Finally, all lay aside their work, and the babies are hushed up, while they listen to a chapter from the Bible; and the devotional pause at the close is solemn and impressive. Those who cannot spare two or three hours, hurry in at the last, and I hear them saying ‘I'se just goin' over to prayers, 'pears like it gives me such a lift.’

AT a great fire in the city of New York a hundred houses had been burned. Dr. Ely overtook a colored woman who was carrying under one arm a bundle of wood, and under the other a large Bible.

“Poor woman,” said he, “have you been burnt out too?” “Yes, sir,” said she, “but blessed be God, I'm alive.” “You are very old to be turned out of house and home.” “I'm well stricken in years, but God does it.” “Have you saved nothing but the Bible?” “Nothing,” said she, “but one trunk of things; but this blessed Book is worth more than all the rest; it makes me feel better than all the rest. So long as I keep this, I am content.”

JAMES BACKHOUSE, an English Friend and a minister, published a journal of his mission in Africa, in which he says, under date of December 1st, 1838—

This is the memorable day in which slavery ceased in Cape Colony, South Africa. We arrived at Hankey in time to join a considerable congregation of those who had been in bondage—natives of Madagascar and Mozambique, as well as home-born slaves; they had come from the surrounding country to unite with those on the mission station in praising God for their deliverance from bondage. In the evening a meeting was held, when several Hottentots (natives of South Africa) and freedmen addressed the congregation. The next day was “a Sabbath day,” and truly “a high day.” About five hundred freed slaves and Hottentots assembled early in the morning; they held a prayer-meeting, in which the language of thanksgiving was held forth by one lately in slavery, and appropriate hymns were sung. I exhorted the liberated to seek, through Jesus Christ, deliverance from that worst of bondage—slavery to sin. In the evening of the third day a temperance tea-meeting was held in the chapel. A suspended wheel-tire was struck for a bell, to call them to assemble. The men sat at the tables on one side of the chapel, and the women at the other side; tea and cakes were dealt out by some of the women. All were remarkably clean, and conducted themselves with sober cheerfulness and looks full of interest. After the Missionary had returned thanks and made a brief address, it was my privilege to follow him in recommending total abstinence from intoxicating liquors. Several Hottentots and freed slaves then addressed the meeting, which afterwards adjourned for a short interval at milking time. On re-assembling, George W. Walker spoke at some length, and several others.

At half-past ten the Missionary suggested that it would be unseasonable to continue the meeting longer; he therefore opened a book of signatures to the total-abstinence pledge, and one hundred and sixty new names were received. As neither my companion, G. W. Walker, nor I had hitherto signed such a pledge, we also added our names. A sweet sense of the love of God overshadowed this meeting.

Some attention had been paid to temperance from the early institution of this settlement. The children have so little idea of what drunkenness is, that in 1842, when an Englishman appeared in a state of intoxication, some of them ran away, thinking he was mad; others thought he must be ill because he staggered, but others feared he was blind, and offered to lead him.

At the expiration of a year from this period, only one of the persons who signed the pledge on this day, was known to have broken it, and that only to the amount of taking a single glass of wine.