I would make an excuse to stay with her. Sometimes I would cry and say I was sick. Then she would call me to her and let me lay my head in her lap; and there is no place on earth so sweet to a child as a mother's lap. I can almost feel the tender, warm, downy lap of my mother now as I write, for so it seemed to me. I loved my father, and thought he was the grandest man that ever lived. I was always the favorite of my father, and I was sorry enough when he was away, and when I saw my mother cry, I would cry, too. Ten days had passed, and father had not come yet.

Every day some of the good farmers around would call to see if “Sam” had got home yet. My father was much respected by all the best white people in that neighborhood, and many of them would not have said anything to him; but, “If nothing was said to Insor's Sam about going out of the state and staying over ten days, why all the niggers in the county would be doing the same thing!”

So this was the cause or the inquiry. Oh! no one knows the sadness and agony of my poor mother's heart. Finally the day came when father returned. Then the friends, white and black, who wished him well, advised him to leave as quickly as possible. And now the breaking up. We were doing well, and father and mother had all the work they could do. The white people in the neighborhood were kind, and gave my mother a good many things, so that we children always had plenty to eat and wear. We had a house, a good large lot, and a good garden, pigs, chickens, and turkeys. And then my mother was a great economist. She could make a little go a great ways. She was a beautiful washer and ironer, and a better cook never lifted a pot. I get my ability in that (if I have any) from my dear mother. Then withal she was an earnest Christian, and had strong faith in God, as did also my grandmother. She was deeply pious, and a woman of marvelous faith and prayer. For the reason stated my parents determined to move from Maryland, and so went to live on a farm owned by John Lowe, and situated on the Baltimore and York turnpike in the State of Pennsylvania.

My father and mother both could read. But I never remember hearing them tell how they were taught. Father was the better reader of the two. Always on Sunday morning after breakfast he would call us children around and read the Bible to us. I never knew him to sit down to a meal, no matter how scant, but what he would ask God's blessing before eating. Mother was very thoughtful and scrupulously economical. She could get up the best dinner out of almost nothing of anybody I ever saw in my life. She often cheered my father's heart when he came home at night and said: “Well, mother, how have you got on to-day?”

“Very well,” she would say. It was hard planning sometimes; yet we children never had to go to bed hungry. After our evening meal, so often of nice milk and mush, she would call us children and make us all say our prayers before we went to bed. I never remember a time when I went to bed without saying the Lord's Prayer as it was taught me by my mother. Even before we were free I was taught to say my prayers.

I first went to school at the age of eight years, to the daughter of an old Methodist minister named Henry Dull; my teacher's name was Isabel Dull. She taught a little private school opposite where my mother lived, in a private house belonging to Isaac Hendricks (Bishop Hendricks' grandfather). She was a great friend of my mother's, and was very pretty, and very kind to us children. She taught me my first spelling lesson. There was school only in the summer time. I had about six weeks of it. I first taught myself to read by cutting out large letters from the newspapers my father would bring home. Then I would lay them on the window and ask mother to put them together for me to make words, so that I could read. I shall never forget how delighted I was when I first read: “The house, the tree, the dog, the cow.” I thought I knew it all. I would call the other children about me and show them how I could read. I did not get to go to school any more till I was about thirteen years old. Then we had to go about five miles, my brother and myself. There were but few colored people in that part of the country at that time, to go to school (white school), only about five and they were not regular; but father and mother were so anxious for us to go that they urged us on, and I was anxious also. I shall never forget one cold winter morning. The sun was bright, the snow very deep, and it was bitterly cold. My brother did not go that day, but I wanted to go. Mother thought it was too cold; she was afraid I would freeze; but I told her I could go, and after a little discussion she told me I might go. She told me I could put on my brother's heavy boots. I had on a good thick pair of stockings, a warm linsey-woolsey dress, and was well wrapped up. Off I started to my two and a half mile school house,—John Rule's school house on the Turnpike. The first half mile I got on pretty well, a good deal up hill, but O how cold I began to get, and being so wrapped up I couldn't get on so well as I thought I could. I was near freezing to death. My first thought was to go back, but I was too plucky, I was afraid if I told mother she wouldn't let me go again, so I kept still and went. When I got to the school house door, I found I couldn't open it and couldn't speak, and a white boy came up and said, “Why don't you go in?” Then I found I couldn't speak, as I tried and couldn't. He opened the door and I went in and some one came to me and took off my things and they worked with me, I can't tell how long, before I recovered from my stupor. There were a great many farmers' daughters, large girls, and boys, in the winter time, so that the school would be full, so that after coming two and a half miles, many a day I would get but one lesson, and that would be while the other scholars were taking down their dinner kettles and putting their wraps on. All the white children had to have their full lessons, and if time was left the colored children had a chance. I received in all about three months' schooling.

At thirteen years of age I lived in Strausburg, sometimes it was called Shrewsbury, about thirteen miles from York, on the Baltimore and York turnpike. I lived with a Mrs. Latimer. She was a Southern lady, was born in Savannah, Georgia. She was a widow, with five children. It was a good place, Mrs. Latimer was very kind to me and I got on nicely. It was in the spring I went there to live, and sometime in the winter a great revival broke out and went on for weeks at the Allbright Church. I was deeply interested and impressed by the spirit of the meeting. It was an old-fashioned revival, scores were converted. No colored persons went up to be prayed for; there were but few anywhere in the neighborhood. One old man named Moses Rainbow, and his two sons, Samuel and James, were the only colored people that lived anywhere within three or four miles of the town. This meeting went on for four or five weeks. When it closed a series of meetings commenced at the Methodist Church.

One of the members was Miss Mary Bloser, daughter of George Bloser, well known through all that region of country for his deep piety and Christian character, as was Miss Mary, also. She was powerful in prayer. I never heard a young person who knew how to so take hold of God for souls. She was a power for good everywhere she went. How many souls I have seen her lead to the Cross!

One night as she was speaking to persons in the congregation, she came to me, a poor colored girl sitting away back by the door, and with entreaties and tears, which I really felt, she asked me to go forward. I was the only colored girl there, but I went. She knelt beside me with her arm around me and prayed for me. O, how she prayed! I was ignorant, but prayed as best I could. The meeting closed. I went to get up, but found I could not stand. They took hold of me and stood me on my feet. My strength seemed to come to me, but I was frightened. I was afraid to step. I seemed to be so light. In my heart was peace, but I did not know how to exercise faith as I should. I went home and resolved I would be the Lord's and live for him. All the days were happy and bright. I sang and worked and thought that was all I needed to do. Then I joined the Church. I don't remember the name of the minister, but I well remember the name of my class leader was Joshua Ludrick. I liked him for his lung power, for I thought then there was a good deal of religion in loud prayers and shouts. You could hear him pray half a mile when he would get properly stirred. He was leader of the Sunday morning class, which convened after the morning preaching. My father and mother, to encourage me in my new life, joined the Church and the same class, so as to save me from going out at night. Mrs. Latimer's children, three of them, went to the Sunday School, and I must get home so as to have dinner in time for the children to get off, but I was black, so could not be led in class before a white person, must wait till the white ones were through, and I would get such a scolding when I got home, the children would all be so vexed with me, and Mrs. Latimer, and my troubles had begun. I prayed and thought it was my cross. I thought I will change my seat in the class, maybe that will help me, and sat in the first end of the pew, as the leader would always commence on the first end and go down. When I sat in the first end, then he would commence at the lower end and come up and leave me last. Then I sat between two, thinking he would lead the two above me and then lead me in turn, but he would lead the two and then jump across me and lead all the others and lead me last. I told my father I got scolded for getting home so late and making the children late for school. Father said he would speak to Mr. Ludrick about it, but if he did, it made no change, and it came to where I must decide either to give up my class or my service place. We were a large family, and father and mother thought I must keep my situation, so I had to give up my class. It did not do me much good, anyhow, to be scolded every time I went, so I became careless and lost all the grace I had, if I really had any at all. I was light hearted and gay, but I always would say my prayers and read my Bible and good books and meant to get religion when I knew I could keep it. I wouldn't be a hypocrite, no, not I, so I went on, wrapped up in myself. Then I began to watch defects in professors, which is a poor business for any one. That is not the way to get near to God. I saw many things and heard many things said and done by professors that I would not do, I was much better than they were, so I went on in my own way for awhile.

It has been years ago. While living at Black's hotel, in Columbia, I remember reading a book. I forget the title of it, but it was an argument between an infidel and a Christian minister. As I went on reading I became very much interested. “Oh,” I thought to myself, “I know the Christian minister will win.” It starts with the infidel asking a question. The minister's answer took two pages, while the question asked only took one page and a half. As they went on the minister gained three pages with his answer; and the infidel seemed to lose. And then it went on, and by and by the minister began to lose, and the infidel gained. So it went on till the infidel seemed to gain all the ground. His questions and argument were so pretty and put in such a way that before I knew it I was captured; and by the time I had got through the book I had the whole of the infidel's article stamped on my memory and spirit, and the Christian's argument was lost; I could scarcely remember any of it. Well, I was afraid to tell any one. Oh, if any one should find out that I did not believe in the existence of God. I longed for some one to talk to that I might empty my crop of the load of folly that I had gathered. And I read everything I could get my hands on, so as to strengthen me in my new light, as I thought. Yet I wanted to forget it, and get out of it. But it was like a snare; I could not. A year had gone. I talked big and let out a little bit now and then. How beautiful the old hymn:

Some time, about three or four months after this, along in the fall, we were sleeping upstairs. One night about twelve o'clock a knock came on the fence. My father answered and went down and opened the door. Mother listened and heard them say “runaway nigger.” She sprang up, and as she ran downstairs she snatched down father's cane, which had a small dirk in it; she went up and threw open the door, pushed father aside, but he got hold of her, but O, when she got through with those men! They fell back and tried to apologize, but she would hear nothing.

“I can't go to my bed and sleep at night without being hounded by you devils,” she said.

Next morning father went off to work, but mother dressed her self and went to New Market; as she went she told everybody she met how she had been hounded by these men. Told all their names right out, and all the rich respectable people cried shame, and backed her up. Dr. Bell, the leading doctor in New Market, who himself owned three or four slaves, stood by my mother and told her to speak of it publicly; so she stood on the stepping stone at Dr. Bell's, right in front of the largest Tavern in the place. There were a lot of these men sitting out reading the news. The morning was a beautiful Fall morning, and she opened her mouth and for one hour declared unto them all the words in her heart. Not a word was said against her, but as the spectators and others looked on and listened the cry of “Shame! Shame!” could be heard; and the men skulked away here and there. By the time she got through there was not one to be seen of this tribe. That morning, as mother went to New Market, this same blood-hound of Bell Crout's was lying on the sidewalk, and as mother went on a lady she used to work for, a Mrs. Rutlidge, saw the dog and saw mother coming. She threw up her hand to indicate to her the dangerous animal. They generally kept her fastened up, but this morning she was not. Mother paid no attention but went on. Mrs. R. clasped her hands and turned her back expecting every moment to hear mother scream out. She looked around and mother was close by the dog and stepped right over her. She was so frightened she said: “O, Mary, how did you get by that dreadful dog of Ben Crout's?”

Mother was wrothy, and said, “I didn't stop to think about that dog,” and passed on. And this was the wonder to everybody around. It was the great talk of the day all about the country, how that Sam Berry's wife had passed Ben Crout's blood-hound and was not hurt. Then they began to say she must have had some kind of a charm, and they were shy of her. Ever after that nobody, black or white, troubled Sam Berry's wife. It was no charm, but was God's wonderful deliverance.

About two years or more after this, the papers were full of notices of a very valuable slave who had run away. A heavy reward was offered. He had by God's mercy got to us, and by moving the poor fellow from place to place he had been kept safe for about two weeks, as there was no possible chance for father or any one to get him away, so closely were we watched. My father was a very early riser, always up and out about day dawn. Our house stood in the valley between two hills, so that the moment you struck the top of the hill, either way coming or going, you could see every move around our house. Just on the opposite side of the road there used to stand two large chestnut trees, but these had been blown down by a great storm some time before, so there was no screen to hide the house from full view. This morning, while out in the yard feeding the pigs, he saw four men coming on horseback. He knew they were strangers. He could not get in the house to tell mother, so he called to her and said: “Mother, I see four men coming; do the best you can.”

She must act in a moment without being able to say a word more to father. The poor slave man was upstairs. She brought him down and put him between the cords and straw tick. As it was early in the morning her bed was not made up. In the old-fashioned houses in the country we did not have parlors. The front room downstairs was often used as the bed-room. My little brother, two years old, slept in the foot of the bed. The men rode up and spoke to my father. He was a very polite man. “Good morning, gentlemen, good morning, you are out quite early this morning.”

“Yes, we are looking for a runaway nigger.” Just then my father recognized the high sheriff as Mr. E., who was formerly his young master. “Why, is this is not Mr. E.?”

“Yes, Sam, didn't you know me?”

My father made a wonderful time over him, laughed heartily and said: “What in the world is up?”

“Do you know anything about this runaway?”

Another spoke up and said: “We have a search warrant and we mean to have that nigger. We want to know if you have him hid away.”

“Well,” father said, “if I tell you I have not, you won't believe me; if I tell you I have, it will not satisfy you, so come in and look.”

He didn't know a bit what mother had done, but he knew she had a head on her, and he could trust her in an emergency. The men hesitated and said: “It is no use for us to go in, if you will just tell us if you have him or know anything about him.” And father said: “You come in, gentlemen, and look.”

They said, “We have heard your wife is the devil,” and then, speaking very nicely, “You know, Sam, we don't want any trouble with her, you can tell us just as well.”

“No, gentlemen, you will be better satisfied if you go in and see for yourselves.”

Just then mother, in the most dignified and polite manner, threw open the door and said: “Good morning, gentlemen, come right in.” So they laughed heartily. Two dismounted and came in, went upstairs, looked all about while one looked in the kitchen behind the chimney, in the pot closet; and my mother went to the bed and threw back the cover (she knew what cover to throw back, of course,) there lay my little brother. She said: “Look everywhere, maybe this is he?”

“My! Sam,” one of them said, “here is a darkey, what will you take for him?”

“No, you have not money enough to buy him,” father said. Then mother said: “Now, gentlemen, look under the bed as well; you haven't examined every thing here,” and they laughed and ran out and said: “Well, Sam, we see you haven't got him.”

And father said: “Well, now you are better satisfied after you have looked yourselves.” So he didn't tell any lie, but he had the darkey hid just the same!

They mounted their horses and went off full tilt to York. We children were sharp enough never to show any sign of alarm. Poor me, my eyes felt like young moons. The man was safe. After they had got away, mother got the poor fellow out, and he was so weak he could scarcely stand. He trembled from head to foot, and cried like a child. Poor fellow, he thought he was gone, and but for my noble mother he would have been. We soon got him off to Canada, where, I trust, he lived to thank and praise God, who delivered him from the hand of his masters. I can't tell just how long it was after this occurrence, but it was in harvest time. My father had got home from work and was sitting out in the front yard resting himself; it was just beginning to get dusk. We children were all around playing. A tall, well-built man came up to the fence. Father said: “Good evening, my friend.” The poor man trembled, and said: “I don't know if you are a friend or a foe, but I am at your mercy.”

“Don't fear,” said father, “you are safe.” Then he sat on the fence a while and began to tell his sad story. His feet had become so sore he could not travel. He had come away from New Orleans. He said his master owned a large sugar plantation and he was one of the head molasses boilers. His master was a very passionate man, and had threatened several times to sell him because he was a Christian and would pray, but he was a valuable man and so he held on; but he had committed a great offense this time. He said he was very tired, and, something he never did in his life before, he fell asleep from sheer weariness, and so burnt many. hogsheads of molasses, and this so enraged his master that he determined to sell him. He had a wife and three children, if I remember correctly. His master had him handcuffed and put in the cellar under the house, till the Georgia traders came. When the money was paid they generally had a great time drinking and gambling. He said he could not get to see his wife. O, how he prayed all day and all night. His young mistress, whom he had often nursed when she was a little child and whom he used often to carry about from place to place, was very much attached to him, as was frequently the case. She had been away North to school and was a Christian, and that may explain what followed. She was home from school just at this time, and like Queen Esther, when pleading for her people, she was made queen just in time. The evening before the morning he was to be taken away they were having a good jollification time. She waited till they were all full of excitement, and being a great favorite of her father's she managed to get the keys of the cellar and went in and unlocked his handcuffs and made him swear to her on his knees that if they ever caught him he would never betray her. Then she told him which way to go, to follow the North Star, which most of the slaves seemed to understand and travel by. She gave him a little money and something to eat. He prayed for God's blessing on her, and told her he would die if he was taken, but would never betray her; so he would. I shall never forget how he cried as he told this story to my father. He said he had traveled for three weeks, and after his food was all gone he lived on berries, blackberries were just ripe. He would lie by in the day and travel at night; kept in the woods, never traveled in day time, only when it would rain. We soon took him in and got water and bathed his feet. Mother got him a good supper. O, how the poor man ate; he was nearly starved. We kept him about two weeks, and then succeeded in getting him off to dear old Canada. O, how much this poor slave man went through for only the liberty of his body, and yet how few there are that are willing to make any sacrifice to secure the freedom of souls that Jesus so freely offers, for if the Son shall make you free then are ye free, indeed. Thank God, these days of sadness are past, never to be repeated, I trust. The poor man, I suppose, never heard of his wife and children, for this was years before the war and it was not likely they ever met on earth again, but I trust they will meet beyond the river where the surges cease to roll.

The Lord blest the singing to them, and our hearts were melted, then we knelt to pray. O, how the Lord helped me to pray. My own heart was overflowing with gratitude for the kindness shown me, for I recognized the hand of God in it all, and so praised Him. Amen.

In September, 1854, I was married to my first husband, C. Devine, by the Rev. Nicholas Pleasant, a Baptist minister in Columbia. My father did not object to my marrying, only on the ground that I was rather young, and I thought so, too, but still, like so many young people, I said, “But well, I know I can get on.” Then there was the fellow saying all the nice things he would do for me, and I believed it all, of course. But it was not long before I wished I had not believed half he said, though in many things he was good. He believed in religion for his mother's sake. She was a good woman, he said, though I never saw her. He had two sisters who lived in Columbia. He could talk on the subject of religion very sensibly at times; but when strong drink would get the better of him, which I am very sorry to say was quite often, then be was very profane and unreasonable. We had two children. The first died; the other, my daughter Maze, is now married and living in Baltimore.

In 1855 I was very ill. Everything was done for me that could be done. My father lived in Wrightsville, Pa., and was very anxious about my soul. But I did not feel a bit concerned.

I wanted to be let alone. How I wished that no one would speak to me. One day my father said to me, “Amanda, my child, you know the doctors say you must die; they can do no more for you, and now my child you must pray.”

O, I did not want to pray, I was so tired I wanted to sleep. The doctors said they must keep me aroused. In the afternoon of the next day after the doctor had given me up, I fell asleep about two o'clock, or I seemed to go into a kind of trance or vision, and I saw on the foot of my bed a most beautiful angel. It stood on one foot, with wings spread, looking me in the face and motioning me with the hand; it said “Go back,” three times, “Go back. Go back, Go back.”

Then, it seemed, I went to a great Camp Meeting and there seemed to be thousands of people, and I was to preach and the platform I had to stand on was up high above the people. It seemed it was erected between two trees, but near the tops. How I got on it I don't know, but I was on this platform with a large Bible opened and I was preaching from these words:—“And I if I be lifted up will draw all men unto me.” O, how I preached, and the people were slain right and left. I suppose I was in this vision about two hours. When I came out of it I was decidedly better. When the doctor called in and looked at me he was astonished, but so glad. In a few days I was able to sit up, and in about a week or ten days to walk about. Then I made up my mind to pray and lead a Christian life. I thought God had spared me for a purpose, so I meant to be converted, but in my own way quietly. I thought if I was really sincere it would be all right.

I cannot remember the time from my earliest childhood that I did not want to be a Christian, and would often pray alone. Sometimes I would kneel in the fence corner when I went for the cows to bring them home. Sometimes upstairs, or wherever I could be alone. I had planned just about how I was going to be converted. I had a strong will and was full of pride. When I said I would not do anything, I was proud of my word, and people would say, “Well, you know if Amanda says she won't do anything, you might as well try to move the everlasting hills.” And that inflated me and I thought, “O, how nice to have a reputation like that.” I would stick to it; I would not give in; my pride held me. I went on in this course till 1856.

In a watch meeting one night at the Baptist Church in Columbia, Pennsylvania, a revival started. I lived with Mrs. Morris, not far away, and I could hear the singing, but I did not mean to go forward to the altar to pray: I didn't believe in making a great noise. I said, “If you are sincere the Lord will bless you anywhere, and I don't mean to ever go forward to the altar; that I will never do.” So I prayed and struggled day after day, week after week, trying to find light and peace, but I constantly came up against my will. God showed me I was a dreadful sinner, but still I wanted to have my own way about it. I said, “I am not so bad as Bob Loney, Meil Snievely, and a lot of others. I am not like them, I have always lived in first-class families and have always kept company with first-class servant girls, and I don't need to go there and pray like those people do.” All this went on in my mind.

At last one night they were singing so beautifully in this Church, I felt drawn to go in, and went and sat away back by the door and they were inviting persons forward for prayers. O, so many of them were going, the altar was filled in a little while, and though I went in with no intention of going myself, as I sat there all at once,—I can't tell how,—I don't know how,—I never did know how, but when I found myself I was down the aisle and half way up to the altar. All at once it came to me, “There, now, you have always said you would never go forward to an altar, and there you are going.”

I thought I would turn around and go back, but as I went to turn facing all the congregation, it was so far to go back, so I rushed forward to the altar, threw myself down and began to pray with all my might: “O, Lord, have mercy on me! O, Lord, have mercy on me! O, Lord, save me,” I shouted at the top of my voice, till I was hoarse. Finally I quieted down. There came a stillness over me so quiet. I didn't understand it. The meeting closed. I went home.

If I had known how to exercise faith, I would have found peace that night, but they did not instruct us intelligently, so I was left in the dark. A few days after this I took a service place about a mile and it half from Columbia, with a Quaker family named Robert Mifflins. This was in January. I prayed incessantly, night and day, for light and peace.

After I had got out to Mr. Mifflins', I began to plan for my spring suit; I meant to be converted, though I had not given up at all, but I began to save my money up now. There were some pretty styles, and I liked them. A white straw bonnet, with very pretty, broad pink tie-strings; pink or white muslin dress, tucked to the waist; black silk mantilla; and light gaiter boots, with black tips; I had it all picked out in my mind, my nice spring and summer suit. I can see the little box now where I had put my money, saving up for this special purpose. Then I would pray; O, how I prayed, fasted and prayed, read my Bible and prayed, prayed to the moon, prayed to the sun, prayed to the stars. I was so ignorant. O, I wonder how God ever did save me, anyhow. The Devil told me I was such a sinner God would not convert me. When I would kneel down to pray at night, he would say, “You had better give it up; God won't hear you, you are such a sinner.”

Then I thought if I could only think of somebody that had not sinned, and my idea of great sin was disobedience, and I thought if I could only think of somebody that had always been obedient. I never thought about Jesus in that sense, and yet I was looking to Him for pardon and salvation.

All at once it came to me, “Why, the sun has always obeyed God, and kept its place in the heavens, and the moon and stars have always obeyed God, and kept their place in the heavens, the wind has always obeyed God, they all have obeyed.”

So I began, “O, Sun, you never sinned like me, you have always obeyed God and kept your place in the heavens; tell Jesus I am a poor sinner.” Then when I would see the trees move by the wind, I would say “O, Wind, you never sinned like me, you have always obeyed God, and blown at His command; tell Jesus I am a poor sinner.”

When I set my people down to tea in the house I would slip out and get under the trees in the yard and look up to the moon and stars and pray, “O, Moon and Stars, you never sinned like me, you have always obeyed God, and kept your place in the heavens; tell Jesus I am a poor sinner.” One day while I was praying I got desperate, and here came my spring suit up constantly before me, so I told the Lord if he would take away the burden that was on my heart that I would never get one of those things. I wouldn't get the bonnet, I wouldn't get the dress, I wouldn't get the mantilla, I wouldn't get the shoes. O, I wanted relief from the burden and then all at once there came a quiet peace in my heart, and that suit never came before me again; but still there was darkness in my soul. On Tuesday, the 17th day of March. 1856, I was sitting in the kitchen by my ironing table, thinking it all over. The Devil seemed to say to me (I know now it was he), “You have prayed to be converted.”

I said, “Yes.”

“You have been sincere.”

“Yes.”

“You have been in earnest.”

“Yes.”

“You have read your Bible, and you have fasted, and you really want to be converted.”

“Yes, Lord, Thou knowest it; Thou knowest my heart, I really want to be converted.”

Then Satan said, “Well, if God were going to convert you He would have done it long ago; He does His work quick, and with all your sincerity God has not converted you.”

The minute she shut the door I turned the key and ran into the bed-room and got on my knees and prayed, “O, Lord, sanctify my soul and give me enduring grace. O, Lord, sanctify my soul and give me enduring grace.”

Oh! how I struggled and wept and prayed. I threw myself on the floor, on my face, then I got up and walked up and down the room, wrung my hands, pulled my hair and cried, “O, Lord, sanctify my soul and give me enduring grace.”

I thought if I could only get it before James came home at night, for I could never go through another night like last night, then I would cry, “O, Lord, sanctify my soul and give me enduring grace.” So I went on for an hour, and when I got through I did not have the great blessing; God had prepared a better way. I was in such distress that I never thought about faith; I was taken up with my desire and distress when seeking the blessing. Well, I did not get it then, of course, for faith without works is dead, so works, without real faith in God, are dead also.

In this connection I will give a brief account of the closing years of my father's life, as doubtless some may desire to know how he who had fought the battle of life so bravely met the last great enemy—death.

After my mother's death my father married again, but his second marriage was not as congenial as the first, and father had got older, and was not patient and forbearing as he ought to have been; and mother's people and children and grandchildren all lived in Baltimore, so that she would be away often for months at a time. Father was old-fashioned, and did not like some of the new methods in church, such as fairs and festivals and the like; so that in speaking against these things, and not in the mildest spirit, I fear, he offended the pastor of the church he belonged to; it was the African Zion Church, called Big Wesley, in Philadelphia, on Lombard street, below Sixth. He was a class leader, but he had incurred the displeasure of the pastor and the people mostly; so things got to be very unpleasant, and his spirit got sour and he left the church.

The Quakers had a mission on St. Mary's street, for the colored people, and they did a great deal of good, and father used to go there regularly; he seemed to enjoy it; they were plain and very kind; they manifested such a kind spirit towards all the colored people, and looked after the poor so nicely in the whiter time. There were large and good Bible classes, and they had excellent teachers. But notwithstanding all this, my father had lost his spiritual life. Oh! how it grieved me to think of it. I wept and prayed for him, and would talk to him sometimes when he would let me; but the old-time people did not want much talk from the children; so I had to be very careful.

After the Lord had sanctified by soul, my burden for my poor father increased! Oh, how sad! I wept, and it seemed that the Lord must save him anyhow, whether or no. But, oh! how I learned that we cannot do anything by trying to drive God. He cannot be driven. “But, oh!” I said, “It is my dear father I want saved, and the Lord can and must save him.”

He was working at that time on a large and high building, and I was so afraid if he were to fall and be crippled, or killed; I could not bear to think of it. So I prayed more fervently. One day I had an awful test while I was praying for him in New York; he was in Philadelphia; and it came to me, “Would you be willing for your father to be lost?” Oh! my blood seemed to curdle at the thought; how I did cry to God. Then it came, “Suppose it was God's will, could you submit?”

“Oh! Lord,” I cried, “You made him, and he is yours, and you have a right to do with your own what you please; but oh! save my father.”

Then it came, “Suppose you were to hear that he had fallen off that building and was injured for life?” Just then it seemed I saw him fall, and saw the men bring him home, all mangled and bleeding. Oh! what horror! I held my breath, for it seemed it was really so.

“I cannot bear the thought of seeing him suffer,” I said. “But, oh, Lord, if there is no other way, then let Thy will be done.” And I let go of father and took hold of God; and though I cannot tell how, I rested so sweetly in God. His justice is right. His love is right. Two years after this passed away before my father died; but, oh! how sweetly the Lord seemed to bring him to Himself; took all the harshness out of him; sweetened him down so beautifully. I shall never forget.

I had been home to Philadelphia on it visit, and I had father come around one night to tea before I left; he seemed so changed and different from what he had been; he had been sick for several days, but not in bed. I was not there when he died. The morning he died; he got up as usual, was very weak, but dressed himself, put on all his Sunday clothes, went out and took a walk, came back and read his Bible, and then said to my sister, “I feel so weak, I think I will go upstairs and lie down.” And they went up a little while after, and she saw he was dying; not a struggle or a groan. I never had an anxious thought about him from the time I sank down into the will of God. What else ought we to do, when we bring our friends, but to sink into the will of God, and put them into His hands, and trust Him? Amen. Amen.

I had three brothers in the late war. My youngest brother came home sick, and died in the hospital at Harrisburg, in September, '62. I did not hear of his sickness until it was too late. I went at once, but when I got there he was dead and buried two days or more. Oh, what a blow it was to me! He was my favorite brother. He was home on a furlough with his captain, and came to see me. He and I had talked of trying to buy a little home for father. He was rather wild and I wanted him to save his money and send it to me, and I would put mine with it. Poor boy! I wondered why he didn't write after he went away. But he was taken with smallpox and died, and I never saw him again. I saw the men that were with him while he was sick and dying, and his grave; that is all, till the morning of the Resurrection.

My next brother, Samuel Grafton, served three years. He lived at Towanda, Pa., and about a year ago he was drowned.

My oldest brother, William Talbert, served two years in the war, and died about eight or nine months ago at York, Pa. How glad I was that I went to see them all before I went to Africa, and talked and prayed with them, and helped them all I could. Out of a large family of thirteen children, two sisters and myself are all that are living. One of my sisters lives in Brooklyn, N. Y., and the other in San Francisco, Cal.

But I return to the story of my experiences in New York.

The rent in York street was high. We got a room on Broom street. I went out house cleaning then, but my condition was such that I could not get on very well, and after a few months the woman that I had the room with said I would have to move, she was afraid I would be sick, and she could not attend to me, and she was afraid I was not able to get any one. That was true. It took about all I could earn to pay rent and keep up our societies, so I heard that persons in my state were well cared for at the Colored Home. I told my husband I would go there until after my confinement. He consented, as we could get no suitable rooms, and I went; but oh! when I got there and saw how things were I could not stay longer than a week. My husband went to see a friend, Mrs. Harris, a Philadelphia woman. She lived in Grove street. She was taking care of some one's house uptown and was not home at her own house. Her husband only was in at night, so she told my husband I could come there. I went there from the Home.

When my baby was three weeks old I took a situation with a person that seemed to be a real lady; she gave me three dollars a week, with my baby. I had not been in the house long before I saw it was the wrong place. Several girls passing back and forth through the kitchen and laughing and behaving so rudely, I saw that they were not straight. Oh! how sad. I had gone for a week until she could get some one. What shall I do, shall I go? I need the money and I said I will stay this week, so I told the madame I would stay only for a week. She said she was sorry, but if I would only stay she would give me more wages. I told her she must get some one, I could not stay, I would go when my week was up; so when the day came she stayed out of the kitchen all day, and sent orders. Then she went out pretending to look for some one; got back very late, sent word if I would stay till the next day she would pay me, some one had promised to come, so she went on for several days. One night I wailed until nine o'clock; I sent up for the money; she wanted me to stay till morning; I said I will not stay in this house another night, I will leave here to-night if it is not till twelve o'clock. She sent the money, not as she promised, but with cursing. I was glad to take what I got and get out. I went to a friend, Mrs. N., on Sullivan street, and stayed all night; I slept but little. She had a house full of washing, but little room, so she made me a bed an all ironing board and two chairs. Next morning while my baby slept, I felt led to go around and see my old Philadelphia friend, Mrs. Harris, on Grove street, who had now got home again, to see if she could tell me of a room anywhere. On my way back the Lord seemed to direct me and I came through Amity street. I saw in the rear a furnished room to let. I went in. There, I met old Mrs. Anderson, who was very kind and said when I told her who I was, that she had heard her sons, Gus and Peter, speak of me. I had met them years before at Long Branch. She seemed so pleased; it was she that had the basement to let. She let me have the basement at six dollars per month, and I told my husband when he came in the evening from the hotel, and he said he would pay the rent! Oh! how glad I was. I did thank God; I knew He had led me.

There was a carpet on the floor, a good sized stove, a bedstead, three chairs, a table and a lamp. I ran away and got my poor baby and was soon back. It was rather damp and I had never lived in a basement before in my life, but I soon had a good fire, and then when my husband came he was glad and sent the things, what few we had, and in a week or two I began to feel quite at home. Persons began to bring in washing to me, a half dozen, then a dozen, etc., and so I went on. After the first two months Sister A. wanted the carpet off the floor; a day or two later she wanted the table. All right, I said, it was rather inconvenient, but still I gave it. Another month's rent paid. Two or three clays after she wanted the mattress off the bed, and I said, “Sister A., you let the basement furnished for six dollars a month.”

“Well,” she said, “I can get more than that for it, and I want the mattress.”

“All right,” I said, and gave it to her. Then I began to guess what New York sharpers meant. Next thing was a chair, then the next was the stove. She said she had a good chance to sell it. I begged her then to let me have the stove a little longer, and in time the Lord helped me and I got a stove. In the meantime some one moved out from the upstairs. I told James, and we moved upstairs. Four rooms at eight dollars a month. I kept two and rented out the two attic rooms, so that helped to pay my rent. Then I began to get in some families' washing and was getting on very nicely, so much better to be upstairs and out of the damp basement, and I was happy. Then a shadow. Little Tom Henry, my baby, was taken sick, and after several weeks of great suffering he died, and we laid him away in Greenwood Cemetery, there to await the glorious Resurrection morn. My poor heart was sad for days, but Oh! how the Lord comforted me and upheld me with all.

I still went on with my washing. Many nights I have stood at my wash-tub all night, from six in the morning till six the next morning, and so at my ironing table, night and day. I would get so sleepy I could hardly stand on my feet, then I would lean my head on the window ledge and sleep a little till the first deep sleep would pass off, then I would work on till daylight with perfect ease. I had to use all the economy I could, and I knew just how much ironing I could do with a ten cent pail of coal. If I lay down I would oversleep myself, and my fire would burn out, and my coal would be gone. I worked hard day and night, did all I could to help my husband, but he was one of those poor unfortunate dispositions that are hard to satisfy, and many a day and night my poor heart ached as I wept and prayed God to help me.

In the next rooms to me, on the same floor, a Mrs. J. lived; she was an old Philadelphian. She had known my husband, and I thought as she was an old Philadelphian, and she seemed so nice, I would have a true friend who would sympathize with me and help me. How often when we are passing through deep trials we look for human sympathy, and lean on the human more than on God. In this I have always failed; but still I had to learn by experience. She was a widow. She and her daughter lived together. I was as kind as I could be, and did all I could for her poor daughter when she was ill. Mrs. J. and I had the same landlady, Mrs. Bowen. She lived in the front house just above Sixth avenue on Amity street. She was far from being a Christian woman, but was kind and lenient about her rent.

We paid her, not always the first day of the month. She would take a dollar at a time just as she could get it and say nothing. Christmas time came. Mrs. B. sent over to ask Mrs. Johnson to come in and cook her Christmas dinner, and she would let it go on the rent, as she was behind, and so it would help her. Mrs. J. said she would do it, but in the evening another party came for Mrs. J. and paid her the cash, notwithstanding she had promised Mrs. B. she would go. She sent her daughter to Mrs. B. and she went where she would get the cash. This displeased Mrs. B. very much, when she considered how lenient she had been with her for so long. The girl was young and could not do the work as well as her mother, and Mrs. B. said, “I will not put up with Mrs. J. any longer; she shall move.”

I tried to talk to her as best I could, and told her to see Mrs. J. and not put her out; it might be she would pay up all her back rent. No, she would go to Jefferson Market and have a notice sent her to move.

“Wait,” I said, “till she comes home to-night and hear what she says.” So when Mrs. J. came I told her she had better go in and see Mrs. B. and not have her send the notice; but to my surprise Mrs. J. was quite spunky, and said if she wanted to send her a notice she could do so.

“Well, Johnson,” I said, “you know Mrs. B. has been very kind, and I think you ought to go in anyhow and tell her why you did not come;” but she did not; so Mrs. B. had her summoned before the court of Jefferson Market. Saturday morning came. I had a large basket of gentlemen's shirts to iron. Mrs. J. came in and asked me if I would go to court with her. I said, “J., I have to get these shirts home by one, o'clock; the gentleman is going away, and I have promised, and if I go with you I can't do it.” A friend of Mrs. J.'s was there, and I said, “Charlotte, can't you go?”

“Yes,” she said, “I am going.”

“O,” I said, “then you don't need me; there is no use of so many going.” She said, “yes.”

I went to my work, and thought when they came back they would tell me how they came out; but no, neither of them came near. When I met Mrs. J. in the evening I said, “Good evening, Mrs. J., is that you?” She did not speak. I was dumbfounded. I said, “That is Mrs. J., I know; but what is the matter?” A week passed. She went and came, and one evening as I was coming in I walked up to her and took hold of her and said, “But say, Johnson, what is the matter?” She pulled away from me, but never spoke a word.

O, how vexed I was at myself. I said the idea of my forcing people to speak to me when they don't want to, and I have done nothing to them. “I will never speak to her again while I live,” I said. For two years after, God only knows what I had to undergo through that woman.

She had succeeded in paying up the back rent, and Mrs. Bowen was kind enough to let her stay. She lived next door to me on the same floor. Her daughter would speak, but she, never. Sometimes she would act as though she wanted to, but I was afraid to trust her, as she had acted so rudely before. She used to tantalize me by sending messages to me by people. When it would be my Saturday to scrub the long veranda and down the steps, she would wait on Saturday night till it was all done, and then would throw greasy bread crumbs all over the stoop and steps, and you know how grease will spread on soft pine. I would often cry, but said not a word.

A Sister Brown, to whom I had let my two rooms upstairs, and Mrs. J. got to be very special friends. In the spring I went out house-cleaning, and often when I would come home from work Mrs. B. would come in to talk and have a great story to tell me about what Mrs. Johnson said. I said nothing. I knew if I opened my mouth that both of those dear sisters would wish they were miles away. I prayed God not to let me speak; so one day I got home about four o'clock; a little while after Sister B. came in, so kind, apparently. After talking, she began about what Mrs. Johnson said. I said, “Look here, Sister B., I have no objections if Sister Johnson and you talk about me all you like. I work hard, and though I live beside Mrs. Johnson, I don't live off of her. I I don't owe her a cent”—(and she did owe me, for she had borrowed money from me and never has paid it yet). I said, “You must never tell me anything she says again while you live. I am next door to Mrs. Johnson, and if she wants me to know these things she must tell me herself.”

These sisters were both in my own church. So poor Sister B. took offense at what I said and moved into Mrs. Johnson's. Mrs. Johnson moved into her two attic rooms and let Mrs. Brown have the lower rooms. I said nothing, but went on as if nothing had happened. My! what fine cronies they were; but it was not of long duration. After a few months Mrs. B. and Mrs. J. had a terrible falling out, and I had to take Mrs. B. to keep her from being set out in the street; and so had a chance to return good for evil. This greatly changed Mrs. B.'s spirit. We got on nicely till they were able to suit themselves better. Amid all this my soul cried out after God. I would talk to my husband, but he had no sympathy with holiness. He had had advantages far me, and was far more intelligent. He would always want to on this subject, and I could not keep up on that line and it would throw me back, so I told the Lord one day if He would send James away somewhere till I got the blessing he would never get it away again, but that he hindered me from getting it. I knew he would often go away with his people for a month or two at a time. That was in my mind when I prayed; so, sure enough, in about a week after this prayer I looked out one morning and there came James back. When he came in I said, “My! James, what is up, are the folks going away?”

“No; they have got a young Irishman, just from the old country, a nephew of the cook who has lived in the family for a number of years, and they have taken him at fifteen dollars a month. He has been around me for two weeks, pretending he came to visit his aunt, but I see now he was only taking lessons how to manage the horses.”

James got forty dollars, and a reduction to fifteen was a good deal in the employer's pocket. My heart throbbed. “O,” I said, “if he should find out I prayed he would blame me,” and I was afraid to talk much. He was like a fish out of water when he had no work. It was two weeks before he got a situation. Being a first-class coachman, he would not take less than forty dollars. Finally he got a situation at fifty dollars a month at New Utrecht, with a Mr. Roberts. He had only to drive twice a day. They had fine English horses, and they wanted them well cared for. They gave a comfortable house, rent free, two tons of coal for the winter, and a barrel of flour. This was the first of September. He went and wanted me to go, but having a right young baby I said, “No, James; I have got some nice families' washing in, and you go and try till spring, and I will save up and in the spring we will take a fresh start and we call have our garden and everything.” But no, I must go right away. I reasoned every way I could, but he was determined I should go. At last I said, “James, I am afraid to go; you have done me so bad right here where I have just begun to get used to the people, and know how to turn around, and what will it be if I go there out in the country, no church near, and a stranger, and if I give up my washing what will I do? I can help myself a little now.” But this did not please him, and I told him I would wait till spring. The landlady died, and a new landlord raised the rent,—thirteen dollars. He paid the rent, but would do no more. His daughter was married and lived in Philadelphia, so he sent for them to come on and live in the house, and he lived with them and would come home every other Sunday and stay till Monday. He came home regularly every fortnight. I said, “Now, Lord, while James is away do please give me the blessing I seek. I will be true, I will never let anything he may say or do get the blessing away from me.”

One day while cleaning up my room I distinctly heard a voice say to me, “On Sunday morning go to Green Street Church and hear John Inskip.”

“Yes,” I said, “I will.”

Then came such a quiet hush all over me, and I smiled. This was on Wednesday morning. So I went on thinking it over. Now, I was not definitely seeking the blessing as I had been. I thought when an opportunity offered and I could be baptized and come up to the Bible standard, then the Lord would have to sanctify me. How blind I was!

And when they sang these words, “Whose blood now cleanseth,” O what a wave of glory swept over my soul! I shouted glory to Jesus. Brother Inskip answered, “Amen, Glory to God.” O, what a triumph for our King Emmanuel. I don't know just how I looked, but I felt so wonderfully strange, yet I felt glorious. One of the good official brethren at the door said, as I was passing out, “Well, auntie, how did you like that sermon?” but I could not speak; if I had, I should have shouted, but I simply nodded my head. Just as I put my foot on the top step I seemed to feel a hand, the touch of which I cannot describe. It seemed to press me gently on the top of my head, and I felt something part and roll down and cover me like a great cloak! I felt it distinctly; it was done in a moment, and O what a mighty peace and power took possession of me! I started up Green street. The streets were full of people coming from the different churches in all directions. Just ahead of me were three of the leading sisters in our church. I would sooner have met anybody else than them. I was afraid of them. Well, I don't know why, but they were rather the ones who made you feel that wisdom dwelt with them. They were old leading sisters, and I have found that the colored churches were not the only ones that have these leading consequential sisters in them. Well, as I drew near, I saw them say something to each other, and they looked very dignified. Now, the Devil was not so close to me as before; he seemed to be quite behind me, but he shouted after me, “You will not tell them you are sanctified.”

“No,” I said, “I will say nothing to them,” but when I got up to them I seemed to have special power in my right arm and I was swinging it around, like the boys do sometimes! I don't know why, but O I felt mighty, as I came near those sisters. They said, “Well, Smith, where have you been this morning?”

“The Lord,” I said, “has sanctified my soul.” And they were speechless! I said no more, but passed on, swinging my arm! I suppose the people thought I was wild, and I was, for God had set me on fire! “O,” I thought, “if there was a platform around the world I would be willing to get on it and walk and tell everybody of this sanctifying power of God!”

Somehow I always had a fear of white people—that is, I was not afraid of them in the sense of doing me harm, or anything of that kind— but a kind of fear because they were white, and were there, and I was black and was here! But that morning on Green street, as I stood on my feet trembling, I heard these words distinctly. They seemed to come from the northeast corner of the church, slowly, but clearly: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28.) I never understood that text before. But now the Holy Ghost had made it clear to me. And as I looked at white people that I had always seemed to be afraid of, now they looked so small. The great mountain had become a mole-hill. “Therefore, if the Son shall make you free, then are you free, indeed.” All praise to my victorious Christ!

Hallelujahl Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

When I got home I opened the door; the baby was still asleep. I said: “Mazie, has Mr. Smith come?”

“No.”

“Has Will slept all right?”

“Yes, he has not wakened up at all.”

“Well, the Lord has sanctified my soul this morning,” and she said, “Has he, mother?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I want to go around and tell Auntie Scott.” She was my good band sister. She lived in Clinton court, off Eighth street. When I got to the door, I knocked and opened at the same time. Brother Scott was lying on the sofa; he was assistant class leader to Brother Henry De Schield's, who was my leader. He believed in the doctrine of holiness, but had not the experience at that time, but, thank God, he believed in it and said nothing against it, so that was in my favor. Brother Scott was “on the fence,” sometimes he would seem to believe in it and talk as though he had it, at another time he would oppose it bitterly, so you never knew just when he would turn on you. When I went in that morning, I said: “Pop Scott, the Lord has sanctified my soul this morning.”

He raised himself up, and said: “Did—did He?” (He stammered a little.) I did not wait for any more, I began to sing an old hymn that I had often heard sung in our love feasts and class meetings in the gone-by days, which seemed to be the real song of my soul. I had never felt such soul union with Jesus before in my life; so I sang:

The old man looked at me and smiled and got ready for an argument. The children all looked astonished. Sister Scott had not come in from church. When I had finished the verse, I said, “Good morning,” and as I opened the door to go out, Sister Scott was just coming in. I said; “Oh, Scott! the Lord has sanctified my soul this morning.”

I thought she would be so glad for she told me that years before in Canada, she had got the blessing through Mrs. Dr. Palmer. She never spoke of it definitely and clearly, so I never understood anything about it, but to my great surprise she very coolly said, “Well I hope you will keep it,” and passed right in by me, and said not another word. I went out. Oh, what a shock!

“There,” the Devil says, “She don't believe you have got the blessing.”

“O Lord,” I said, “Can it be that I am mistaken and will I have to go back and go all over the ground. I would rather die right here in my tracks.”

As I was turning out of Eighth street in Sixth avenue, I cried out, “O Lord, help me, and if this blessing is not sanctification, then what is it?” And the Lord did help me. Quick these words came with power to my heart: “It is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.” “Believeth,” seemed to be so powerfully emphasized, and I said, “Lord, I do believe that Thou hast sanctified my soul,” and the power of God came upon me so that my knees gave way under me and I dropped as though I were shot, right on Sixth avenue. The people were passing and looked at me and said nothing. I suppose they thought I was a little gone in the head, but God had turned my captivity and my mouth was filled with laughter. I scrambled up as best I could, for I did not fall prostrate, my knees gave way and I dropped on my hands, and every time I said the word which the Lord put in my month: “It is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth,” another wave of power came upon me. Down I went again, and so three times, before I got home, I fell under the mighty power of God. Hallelujah! It is to-day the same, “The power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth,” and I do believe God, and He has kept me saved magnificently. Hallelujah! There is a big triumph in my soul. I don't know where the Devil went, but I heard no more of him for a week, then he called on me and said, “When people get sanctified, everything gets better around them.”

“Yes,” said I.“

“Well, you see James is not any better, if anything he is worse.”

That was true, if possible, and I said I did think so too, and didn't understand it, for I thought he would be glad to know that I had got more religion.

“Then,” said he, “You have no witness that you are sanctified.”

“Well,” I said, “I will have it, God helping me, right now.”

It was Friday. I was ironing; I set down my iron and went and told Jesus. I said; “Lord, I believe Thou hast sanctified my soul, but Satan says I have no witness. Now, Lord, I don't know what to ask as a direct witness to this blessing, but give me something that shall be so clear and distinct that the Devil will never attack me again on that point while I live.”

After a short prayer I waited a moment in silence, and said, “Now, Lord, I wait till Thou shalt speak to me Thyself,” and a moment passed and these words came: “Ask for the conversion of Miss Chapel.”

I said, “Lord, for a real evidence that Thou hast sanctified my soul, I ask that Thou will convert Miss Chapel between now and Sunday morning.”

In a moment these words were flashed through my soul: “If thou canst believe all things that are possible to him that believeth.” And I said, “Lord, I believe Thou will do it,” and a flood of light and joy filled me. Oh, I praise the Lord. I arose from my knees praising God. I went to ironing; after a little while, Satan came again.

“You ought to go and see if the woman is converted before you are so sure.”

“Well, yes, I would like to go, but then it is two miles away, and I am afraid Will might wake up and cry.”

But the enemy urged me, “You had better not be too sure, you ought to go and see,” and I was sorely tempted. I lifted my heart to God in prayer and said, “Lord help me, I believe that Thou wilt do it, and I will trust Thee.” Then there came a still hush and quiet all over me and I went on ironing and singing. Praise the Lord!

Miss Chapel, referred to, was a very nice young woman, though not a Christian. She was a very upright, moral person. She was taken ill, and her sister, a very earnest Christian, was very anxious about her state, and asked me and others to come and pray with her. One day I went, and met Mother Jones and several others. We sang and prayed with her and left her. And now a week had passed and I had not heard from her, and I had thought that was why the enemy attacked me so fiercely on Friday. Sunday morning came and I had persisted in believing and praising God, according to His word: “If thou canst believe all things are possible to him that believeth.” I went to church, and as I sat in my pew after the sermon was over, and the collection was being taken up, Sister Jones, who sat in the opposite pew, got up and came over to me, and said “Smith, Chapel has got the blessing.” I said, “Praise the Lord, when did she get it?” She said, “Yesterday afternoon.” Then these words were spoken to my heart in power: “Now that is your evidence,” and I said, “O Lord, I do thank Thee, Thou hast answered my prayer and given me this distinct witness that Thou hast sanctified my soul.”

Many times since then my faith has been tried sorely, and I have had much to contend with, and the fiery darts of Satan at times have been sore, but he has never, from that day, had the impudence to tell me that God had not done this blessed work. Hallelujah! what a Saviour!

Everybody does not have direct witness to their sanctification nor to their justification in that way, but it is their privilege to have the clear, distinct witness of the Spirit to both justification and sanctification, and, as a rule, persons who do not get this distinct witness are unsettled in their Christian life, often waver and falter, and are more easily turned aside to new isms and doctrines; but, thank God, He has kept me in perfect peace while my mind has been stayed on Him and I have trusted in Him. Praise His name forever!

James did not come home for two weeks. When he came I sat down on his lap and put my arms around his neck and told him all about it. He listened patiently. When I got through he began his old argument. I said, “Now, my dear, you know I can't argue.”

“O well,” he said, “If you have got something you can't talk about, I don't believe in it.”

“Well,” I said, “I have told you all I can and I cannot argue.” O, how he tantalized me in every way, but God kept me so still in my soul, and my poor husband was so annoyed because I would not argue. I knew what it meant, but praise God he saved me. I could only weep and pray.

Shortly after I was converted, I was deeply convicted for the blessing of heart purity; and if I had had any one to instruct me, I can see how I might have entered into the blessed experience. But not having proper teaching, like Israel of old, I wandered in the wilderness of doubts and fears, and ups and downs, for twelve years; and but for the Rev. John S. Inskip's having the experience himself, and preaching that memorable Sunday morning, September, 1868, in the old Green Street Church, New York, in all probability I might never have got into the blessed light of full salvation.

I shall ever thank God that the evidence of my acceptance with Him was so definite and clear when I was so deeply convicted for the blessing of heart purity. It was a hard struggle, anyhow; but if this point had not been settled so clearly it would have been much worse—the difference between the two convictions, pardon and purity. When I was convicted for sin I was under condemnation, and felt that I was a lost and wretched sinner. Now, when God in mercy had pardoned all my sins, he took away all condemnation and gave me joy and peace in believing. Hallelujah!

Now, when I was convicted for purity or sanctification, it was a deep conviction of want—an indescribable want; not condemnation. But, oh! that deep heart want. Like, after you have eaten a good hearty breakfast, and have worked hard all day, and get very hungry for your dinner or supper. Well, my heart cried out and longed as one that “Longeth for the morning.” And yet I had no means, no words to express just what I wanted. One day a friend came in to see me. I was then living at Col. S. McGraw's, in Lancaster. She was quite a high-toned colored lady, for everyone knew the Porter family, and they were always considered one of the leading families among the colored people. The father was a large farmer in Kent county, and the sons were all fine young men, and pretty well educated, as was also the daughter. She had been a school teacher for many years, but was now married to Rev. Lewis Hood, who was pastor of the Union Church in Lancaster. So I thought I could open my heart to her, and she would be able to help me. So I said to her, “Sister Hood, I don't know what's the matter with me. Somehow I feel like I wanted something, but I can't tell just what. I pray, but I do not get help just as I want.”

“Well,” she said, “What's the matter with you? Aren't you converted?”

“Oh! yes,” I said, “It isn't that.”

“Well, haven't you got the witness of the Spirit?”

“Oh! yes; it isn't that.”

“Well,” she said, “If you keep on you will be crazy.”

Then I was frightened, and said, “Oh! she does not understand me; and now if she tells anybody what I said they will not understand it, and will think I have backslidden; and here I am leading class, and the leader of the female prayer meeting.”

So as soon as she was gone I ran down into the cellar and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to take out of the mind of Sister Hood all that I had said, so she would not repeat it. I was in sore distress.

Several days after this I was reading my Bible, and I turned to the forty-second Psalm, first verse, “As the heart panteth after the water brook, so panteth my soul after the living God.” My heart leaped. “Oh!” I said, “That's what I wanted—God! Now if anyone asked me what I wanted, as Sister Hood did, I could tell them it was God I wanted.” The more I read my Bible, and fasted and prayed, the deeper my hunger became. One day I went to George James—I generally called him “Father James”—he was a tall, elderly man, very dignified in manner, but was kind. He was very black, his hair was while, and he was a leading local preacher, and deacon of the A. M. E. Church, in Lancaster, at that time, where I belonged. So I went to him, and I said: “Father James, I have been reading the Bible to-day, and I see this: ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ What does that mean?”

“You know,” he said, “That is in the Bible for you to come as near to it as you can. But God knows you never can be ‘pure in heart.'”

Then he went on and explained to me in his way. Of course I did not get much light. And the Devil said to me as I went home thinking it all over, “You are seeking after something that's not for you.”

“Well,” I said, “People do have this blessing. There are Job Morris, and Polly Waters, and others, and they say they are sanctified, and everybody believes them.”

“Oh! but they are almost ready to die. But you are young, and you cannot expect to have what they have.”

“Well, perhaps so,” I said.

“Then, you know, Father James said that the Bible did not mean that.” But somehow my better judgment said he was wrong. “I believe what the Bible says, and there must be some way that this grace can be obtained, or God never would have left it on record.” But how to get hold of it I still did not know. I would read my Bible, and pray, and pray on. No light—only the deep hunger. Of course I had comfort in doing my duty— attending my class meeting and prayer meetings, and I would go about and pray with the sick and dying, and work in revival meetings, and in all ways I could. After working hard all day many times I would be called up at twelve or one o'clock at night to go and pray with somebody that was sick or dying. I never refused to go, rain or shine, cold or warm; I felt it was my duty, and I was always glad to do it. Then I would come home,— sometimes at three o'clock—and have but very little sleep, and up and off to work again next morning, when I did not have work in the house. My meat and drink was to see souls coming to Christ. I had no fear to go into a congregation and speak to men or women, young or old. I hardly ever went for persons in a congregation, in time of extra meetings, but what they went forward, and many of them were converted. Praise God forever!

And yet at times my spirit was vascillating. Sometimes high on the mountain. When I would tell of the rapture and joy I felt, sometimes the older brethren and sisters would say, “Ah, child, I was that way, too, when I first got converted; but you wait till the Devil shoots a few bomb-shells at you and you will not have so much joy.” Poor me! I tried to look out for these bomb-shells. Oh! why didn't they tell me of the land of corn and wine and oil, and that the God of Caleb and Joshua was able, and would bring me in if I would only trust in Him? But, dear souls, they did not know it themselves, so could not help me. So one day I felt I must go and talk with Father James, for I had been reading the fourth chapter of second Thessalonians and third verse, “For this is the will of God, even your sanctification.” So I said, “Father James, I have been reading the Bible to-day, and I see this.” Then I quoted the text.

“Oh!” he, said, “my child, don't you know when people die very happy?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, you know, God does not sanctify you until just before you are ready to die. Of course you could not go to heaven unless you were holy, and sanctification makes you holy, and you could not live in this sinful world if you were holy. So if you were sanctified you would die.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, if it is going to kill me, I don't want it. I don't want to die. The Lord has done a great deal for me. I can do a little for Him; so I will just go on and do the best I can.” So on I went.

Some time after this I was reading the fifth chapter of Matthew, and when I got to the eleventh and twelfth verses I said, “My experience does not come up to this: ‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for my sake.’ ‘Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for great is your reward in heaven.’ I cannot rejoice when anyone lies on me; it's no use; I can't do it.” Then came up all my good works. “I go to church; I attend to all my duties; I do not go about meddling with other people's affairs; I mind my own business; and when anybody says anything about me that is not true, I must have satisfaction. I am not going to stand it.” I had not read, “They that love God in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution.” But, Oh! haven't I learned it since then. One day one of the dearest friends I had, as I thought, told a real lie on me. It made quite a stir. I wondered where all the coolness came about in different directions but did not know the real cause. So I made up my mind I would go and ask the parties what the matter was. So I got down and prayed that the Lord would give me the right spirit, and not let me get vexed, and not let the parties get vexed, and make them tell me what the matter was. So off I started a little after nine o'clock in the morning. I walked till about two o'clock in the afternoon, and found myself about as near the truth when I stopped as when I started. The first place I called I said to the friend, calling her by name, “I hear so and so; I came to ask you what about it?”

“All I know,” she replied, “is what John B. said that Mary S. said that you said that I said that she said,” and so on.

Well, I went to the next parties. They said the same thing: “Well, all I know about it is Ann So and So said that you said that she said that I said that they said,” etc. I went the round, then started home, so ashamed and disgusted. As soon as I got home I took off my wraps, went down into the cellar and got down on my knees, where I always went to settle hard difficulties, and I said, “Oh! Lord, if you will help me, I will never, while I live, go after another lie.” And thank God I never have, though sometimes I have been tempted; but the Lord has always delivered me. Praise His dear name! Amen.

Some months after this I got interested in the subject of baptism, and I thought if I were immersed it would help me to see the way better. So I went to Father James and told him I would like to be immersed. My father and mother had all of us children baptized, as the discipline of the Methodist Church required; but I thought if I could answer for myself it would be better. Then if I camp up to all that the Bible said as far as I knew, the Lord would be obliged to give me the great blessing I sought. Father James did not discourage me in this, but rather was favorable. So this helped me to think that I was on the right track now. There were four or five others who wanted to be immersed also; so I went around to see them, and it was decided to send to Philadelphia for a good brother and local preacher in the African Methodist Church, a sanctified man named Brother Jones. Some years before there was a great revival in Columbia, and some six or eight of the converts wanted to be baptized. So they sent to Philadelphia and got Rev. Bob Collins, who was a powerful preacher in his day, and a leading minister in the A. M. E. Church. It was in the dead of winter. The Susquehanna river was frozen over, and they cut the ice, and Brother Collins baptized eight, I think it was. And they shouted and sang. They stood on the shore, and all around on the ice by hundreds. It was six o'clock in the morning. Oh! what a time! Of course all the Baptists believed in that, and they were out, and rejoiced with them that did rejoice. Our minister at that time was Rev. Sanford. His wife's sister, Henney Johnson, had been very sick, and she had got converted. But she leaned toward the Baptists. So to save her to her church, she was baptized that Sunday, and she got well after that, which was a great wonder to many. Sister Harriet N. Baker was one of the strong members in the church. She was baptized the same Sunday morning. Lancaster was only twelve miles from Columbia, so that we in Lancaster got water struck! For most all the colored people in Lancaster would go to Columbia to quarterly meeting. Oh! how I have seen the power of God displayed in the salvation of souls. What men and women they were to pray in those days. How I remember Candes Watson, Sarah Henderson, Chris Stokes, Simon Morris, John Morris, Jake Snively, and a host of others. How they come before me now, as I think it all over. But all these have gone, though it seems but as yesterday.

But to return to my story. After I had seen the parties I went to Father James and asked him to write to Brother Jones and find out what the cost would be. He replied that we were to pay him twenty dollars and his traveling expenses from Philadelphia and back. I was willing to pay him a month's wages, which was six dollars, if the others would make up the balance. So they were to try. A few weeks passed, then one of the leading ones in the number, Sister Maxwell, was taken sick, and her husband would not let her go into the water. Brother Williams went away. I had got my dress ready, but the others all backed out. Then Father James was taken sick. So he said that March was a bad month to go into the water, so if I would wait until April or May he would perform the ceremony. But alas! Poor man! About the first of April I stood by his bedside and saw him die, and heard his last words.

My husband, James Smith, was formerly of Baltimore, Md. He was for many years a leader of the choir of Bethel A. M. E. Church, in that city. Afterward he moved to Philadelphia, and was ordained deacon in the A. M. E. Church. He died in November, 1869, at New Utrecht, N. Y. Since then I have been a widow, and have traveled half way round the world, and God has ever been faithful. He has never left me a moment; but in all these years I have proved the word true, “Lo! I am with you always, even to the end.”

Amen. Amen.

I had told the Lord I would be obedient and would do all he bade me, so one day while I was busy at work it was whispered to my heart, “You go to Bedford Street on Sunday.”

“Yes,” I said, “I will.” I always liked to go and hear Rev. John Cookman, who was then pastor. Sunday morning came; it was Easter Sunday. My friend, Sister Scott, and I went. Strange to say, but the usher took us up front, in what is or used to be called “The Amen Corner.” I shall never forget John Cookman's text and sermon. The words were: “See that ye make all things after the pattern shown you in the Mount.”

O, what a congregation, and what power the young man seemed to have in those days. He brought out holiness so clear and definite. I had got wonderfully blest as they sang the old Easter Anthem, as only Bedford Street could sing it in those days. O, how it thrills me now as I think it all over! As Brother Cookman went on with his sermon increasing in fervor and power, the Spirit whispered to me distinctly, “Raise up your right hand,” and I was just going to do so, when the Devil said, just, as distinctly, “Yes, you look nice lifting up your black hand before all the people”—and I drew back and did not do it.

Then the Spirit said: “The other day you told the Lord you would do any thing He would tell you to do.”

“O, yes,” I said, “I did. O, Lord, forgive me and give me another chance and I will lift my hand for Thee!”

By-and-by the Spirit said again, “Lift up your right hand,” and I did, and the power of the Spirit fell on the people and the whole congregation. There were “Amens,” and “Amens,” and sobs and weeping and “Praise the Lord,” heard all over the house, and many were led out of prison by the simple act of obedience to God. He did not tell me to shout, but to lift my hand for Him, and the people shouted, and my own heart then filled with adoring praise. O, I would God I had always obeyed Him, then would my peace have flowed as the river, but many times I failed. Once on the car coming from New Utrecht, where I had gone to see my husband, I had a tract in my hand with a message for a lad that got in. I saw him look at me, and then turn quickly away as if he was afraid I would hand it to him. My heart was prompted to give it to him, but I kept hesitating. First, I said, “I will wait till some of the people get out.” Then, I said, “I will wait till I get out.” The car stopped, the lad got out and ran away as though I was after him. I looked after him and wanted to call him, but he was gone. Then these words came to me in such force that I have never forgotten them, “His blood will I require at your hand.” I did nothing but pray to God for His pardoning and forgiving mercy from that hour till I got home; at last, I felt He forgave me and gave me peace in my heart.

Here I desire to record some things the Lord taught me about what is now called faith, or divine healing.

I think it was in October, 1868, not very long after I had got the blessing of sanctification. It seemed that my faith had increased and strengthened in this short time, so that I did not seem to find it difficult to believe God for anything I really needed. I had never heard of Dr. Cullis, Dr. Bordman, or Dr. Mahan, of Oberlin, Ohio. I had never read a book or paper of any kind. I believed what I read in the Bible about the miracles performed by the Lord Jesus, opening the eyes of the blind, unstopping the ears of the deaf, and healing the sick, but thought it belonged to the days of miracles especially, and it was to prove to the unbelieving Jews the Divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. I had often prayed for sick people, and asked the Lord to bless means that were used, and so many times He did it, as I believe in answer to prayer; but I never made any time about it, as though it were some especial state of grace, so much higher than entire sanctification or holiness. So I went on claiming promises, quenching the violence of fire, escaping the edge of the sword, out of weakness was made strong, waxing valiant in fight, and really turning to flight the armies of the aliens. And so found out that there is no want to them that fear the Lord. But I did not feel led to make a special gospel of the great and deep things God had taught me. The Gospel of Jesus was so full and practical, and with good, common sense it seemed to cover all my need. Praise the Lord for that lesson. For I find, no matter what the state of grace attained to in this life, one may ever learn some new lesson. Learn to know one's own self. Learn to know one's weakness. Learn to know the beauty of love and power and sympathy of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. And so on.

It was Saturday. I was very busy, as that is a busy day, especially with a washwoman. After I had swept my room I gave the dustpan to Mazie to carry out to the ash box that stood on the sidewalk. It was when I lived in the rear at 135 Amity street, New York. When she came in, she said, “O, ma, some one has thrown a lot of nice books into the ash box; some of them are almost new.” She was very fond of reading, so she said, “May I bring some in?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “Mazie; I have little enough room now, and I do not want any old books or trash brought in.” But contrary to my orders, the child slipped three of these books into the house, and hid them in the little closet on the shelf behind the smoothing irons. In the bottom of this closet, on the floor, I kept my coal. I could put in about two pailfuls, which was about a half bushel, at a time. So on Monday morning after prayers, Mazie had gone to school, I went to put some coal in the stove and then was going to gather my clothes. But I noticed that my irons were not back on the shelf in their place properly. So I went to arrange them, and found these books.

“There,” I said, “I told Mazie not to bring any of these books in; she has not obeyed me.” But as I looked at them I said, “Perhaps I should not have told her ‘no’ until I saw them; for they really are almost new.” I don't remember what the two were, but the third was a small-sized book, entitled, “Child's Book on Physiology.” So I began to read it. I looked through it. As I read on, its explanations, simple and so beautiful, of the human body in all its parts, in a way that any child could understand it, I got so interested that I sat down, though I was in such a hurry. After reading and thinking, I turned to the first page. There was a cut of the human frame on the fly leaf. As I looked at it and studied it, I said, “Surely, as the Psalmist says, ‘Man is fearfully and wonderfully made.'” Now, in my imagination, I covered that frame with flesh, and skin, and sinew, and blood, and pulse, and life. Then I got a pain, or rheumatism, in the left arm or back; and I said, “Now, there is a man suffering pain in his arm and back. I give him medicine in his mouth, and it must go all this round to reach that spot; when God, who made him, knows how to reach the difficulty direct.” Now, all this was as I imagined. There was not a soul in the house but myself. So I said, lifting my eyes to heaven, “Oh! Lord, I will never take another bit of medicine while I live without you tell me to.” And I got up and threw out all my medicines—I had a few simple remedies in the house—and for a year and eight months I never touched anything. Oh! what wonderful lessons the Lord taught me in that time. It did seem that He watched as a father would watch his child. Sometimes I would bring in a basket of clothes, and it would be so warm I would sit down between the window and doors so as to get the breeze quickly, and I would hear the Spirit whisper, as distinctly as a man, so gently, but clearly: “You are sitting in the draught.” Often I have looked around to see if there was not really a person speaking. If I was prompt and moved, it was all right. But sometimes I would say, when the whisper came, “Oh, yes, but I'm so warm;” and I would forget, until I would feel a pain in my back, or neck, or somewhere. Then I would at once look up to God and say, “Now, Lord, teach me the lesson you want I should learn; and then do please relieve me of this pain.” Can you understand the patience and forbearance of God? I cannot. Sometimes He would bless me so; I would be so happy, I would whirl round and round and laugh and say, “Oh! Lord, how beautiful. I will never have to take any more medicine, and I can save the money that I spent for medicine for other purposes.” But the Lord knew how to teach me, praised be His name. So at the expiration of a year and eight months, it was in November, I think, I took a severe cold. I never knew how I got that cold, and if the grippe had been known then, as now, I would have said I had it in its severest form. I never thought of medicine. The Lord was my physician, and had done everything I had asked for myself and my child for a year and eight months, so of course He would now. So I prayed as aforetime, but still grew worse. Oh! how dreadfully ill I was. But I held on. Oh! how I did cry to God for deliverance. For three days and nights I could not lie down, my cough was so bad. I had a raging fever. My head ached, and every bone in my body ached. I still grew worse, until the morning of the fourth day. I tried to get my clothes on, but could not stand up long enough. “Oh! what shall I do?” I went in my bed room and knelt down by a chair. Oh! how I cried and prayed. “Oh! Lord, what is the matter? What have I done? Thou didst always heal me when I asked Thee; and now Thou seest I can hardly hold my head up, I am so sick. Oh! Lord, show me if I have done anything to displease Thee; make it clear to me, and forgive me, for Jesus' sake. Now, Lord, I will just be quiet till Thou dost speak to me and tell me what I have done, and why Thou dost not heal me as Thou usest to do.”

So I waited a few minutes; I don't know how long; then it seemed as though the Lord Jesus in person stood by me; such a peaceful hush came all over me, and He seemed to say, so tenderly, Oh! so tenderly, “Now, if you knew the Lord wanted you to take medicine would you be willing?”

“No, Lord, you always have healed me without medicine, and why not now? What have I done?”

Then it seemed just as though a person spoke and said, “No, no, but if you knew it was God's will, would you be willing?” I said, “No, Lord; you can heal me without medicine, and I don't want to take it.” Then the patient, gentle voice said the third time, “No, no,” and putting the question a little differently, said, “If you knew it was God's will for you to take medicine would you be willing to do God's will?”

Oh! how I cried. I saw it, but I said, “No, Lord, I don't like medicine; but Thou canst conquer my will. I do not want to live with my will in opposition to Thy will. Thou must conquer.”

Oh! what a battle. It took me one whole hour before my will went down. I held on to the chair, for I felt I must get up, but I said, “No, I will die right here.” But I held right on to the chair. I said, “I will never rise from here until my will dies.” And I knew when the death was given and when the victory came. I remained quiet, and thought it all over. And I said, “Lord, I thank Thee. Now tell me what I must do.” For I felt if the Lord had said, “Now, you go over there on Sixth avenue to the drug store, and take all the medicine, bottles and all,” I was willing! Oh! I was willing all through! It seemed wonderfully sweet to die to my own will, and sink into God. So just then it came to me to use a simple remedy that I had used a thousand times before, and in twenty-four hours I was as well as ever. I never got over a cold like that before in my life in so short a time; a cold like that would always be a three weeks' siege. But I seemed to see what it all meant. God showed me. I was worshiping my will.

Sometimes when I have told this strange experience to some of the good people in these days, they throw up their hands in holy horror and say, “Oh! I don't see how you could dare to say so.” But I see the same spirit of will-worship in many of those who profess what they prefer to call “Divine healing;” the same spirit of will-worship that I had. But I do not think they know it. I am at no controversy with anybody on these lines. But, Oh! how I do thank and praise God for opening my eyes to see, and I think, understand His will concerning Amanda Smith. I do not believe in calling the doctor for every little thing, or making a drug store of one's self; but I believe it right when you need medicine or doctor, to use both, prayerfully, and with common-sense, with an eye single. But to say the use of means in sickness is contrary to the will of God, and that all Christians should have faith and trust the Lord to heal them without the use of means at all, even though their common-sense, which is as much God's gift to us as any other blessing, tells them to use the means, but must close their eyes, ignore all symptoms, and by the force of will, which they must call “faith,” ride over everything;—now this is where the tug of war comes in, with Amanda Smith. My neighbor prays, and is wonderfully healed; she is a Christian; so am I; we have both been blessed of God; I pray, and am not healed; someone tells me it is a lack of faith on my part, or there is something wrong in my consecration, or there is something wrong in me somewhere, and that is the reason I am not healed. Now comes the question: “How do you know that? Who told you so?” So that I must either stand judged, or else I must judge, and where do I get my authority for so doing? The Lord help me. Amen.

The days of miracles are not past. God has healed without the use of means of any kind, as well as with; and why He does not now heal every case as He used to do, I do not think I have any right to say is because of a lack of faith on the part of some poor, weak child of God; and so consign them to perdition. Then there are some things God would have us do for ourselves. Not long ago I was at the home of a good minister, a man that knew the Lord, and for years had walked in the light and blessedness of full salvation. He had begun to get deaf in his right ear; it came on gradually; sometimes worse than at other times. So he prayed earnestly, and believed God, and held on about a year. Finally he seemed to grow worse. His wife, a good, saved, orthodox, level-headed woman, had often said to him he ought to see a doctor about it. But he had a pretty strong will of his own, and did not yield easily to her persuasions. But she was gentle and patient. One morning as he was sitting in the room talking with me, she came in and said, “Now, my dear, you must really go and see the doctor this morning about your deafness; let him examine it; you are getting worse all the time, and it will never do to have you going around deaf.”

The good man looked at his wife, then he turned to me and said, smilingly, “Sister Smith, my wife is generally pretty clear when she decides upon a thing.”

“Yes, Sister Smith,” she said, “it would do no harm to go and see about it, anyhow.”

“Sister M.,” I said, “you are quite right; just what I say.”

So off he went. He was gone about two hours. When he returned, I said, “Well, Brother M., what did the doctor say?”

“Oh! praise the Lord,” he said, “I am all right; clear as a bell.” So he told the story, and laughed heartily. I said, “What did the doctor do?”

“Oh,” he said, “he told me to sit down and he would examine My ear; he said there was nothing serious the matter; the wax was very dry. So he took his instruments and took out about a thimbleful of wax, and put a little sweet oil or something in it, and it is all right.”

“Yes,” I said, “praise the Lord. Some people would have teased the Lord to have Him clean out their ears, when they might do it themselves, or get someone to do it to whom God had given the sense and ability.”

One day I was meditating and thinking upon His goodness. My heart was full of praise as I thought of all the Lord had done, and I said, “Oh, I will not need to pray now, as I used to do.” Just then these words came: “The children of Israel gathered manna fresh every morning.” I said, “Yes, Jesus.” I knew He meant to teach me that it must be daily bread my soul would need, and as my natural need was met each day, so my spiritual need must be met by prayer and the reading of His Holy Word and the appropriating of His promises. Without this all else would avail nothing.

How I marvel at God's patience with me when I think how He led me about to teach me how to be obedient, in spite of all Satan's devices.

I was working up town one day, as the lady wanted some blankets washed. The morning I was to go I had slept rather late. I was to have been there at seven o'clock. A long walk from Fourth street to Twenty-third street. I felt led to take some tracts. I always kept a lot on hand and would take them when I went out, generally looking over them so as to see and know just what I was giving away. This morning Satan seemed to hurry me. “You will be too late if you stop to sort the tracts.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am afraid so.” Then the Spirit would seem to say, “Take the tracts.” Then I picked up a handful and began to look over them. Then I got so nervous. Satan said, “You know that lady will not pay you if you are not there at seven.”

“Yes,” I said, “she is hard about money anyhow.” So I laid the tracts down and started off, and it seemed to me I never saw so many opportunities where I could have given a tract as I did that morning. When I got to the house the lady said she would not have the blankets washed that day; I should come the next week. And I saw how Satan had hindered me. How sorry I was I did not listen to the good Spirit and take the tracts. God knew the washing was not to be done that day, and that is why He whispered so gently to my heart, “Take the tracts.” I don't know who lost the blessing by my not giving them, but I know I lost a blessing by not obeying. O, it is so safe to obey even though it may be dark. A few days later on, I went, and as I had sorted my tracts, I prayed that the Lord would show me to whom to give them; and what a good time I had. I met a very fine looking man and as I looked at him I trembled; but as he drew near I said, “Now, Lord, help me.” I had met some colored men and had given them some tracts and spoken a word, and the Devil said, “That is a white gentleman, and he will curse you.”

But when he came near I said, “Pardon me, sir; will you have a tract?”

He seemed thoroughly astonished, but very pleasant and courteous. He took the tract and thanked me. A couple of weeks after, a friend said to me, “Did you give a tract to a young man on Sixth avenue last week?”

”Yes.”

“Well,” she said, “It was you, then. I was working for Mrs. A., and she told me that her son came home so happy and told her that a colored woman had given him a tract, and that he had never read anything that had done him so much good as that tract.”

O, how the mother and son rejoiced together. Her dear boy that she had prayed for so long had found peace and joy in the Lord. How strange it should come about in the way it did, but God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform. On a little further, I passed two men: they were musicians. They stood talking, and as I came near them a deep feeling came over me to give those men a tract. My heart beat quickly, but just as I got near them they seemed to think what I was going to do, so they started and walked across on the side. I said, “Lord, if you want me to give that man a tract, if there is a word that Thou dost want him to have, make him cross the next corner back again.” O, how I did pray! Sure enough he did cross over the next corner and met me face to face and took a tract, and thanked me and seemed deeply impressed. Praise God.

At another time. One night I was crossing on the ferry boat. I had a good religious paper in my hand, which had a good sermon in it and some experiences. I said I will take this and give it to some one, men are more willing to take a paper than a tract. On the boat a nice looking lad sat just opposite me, and as I looked at him the Spirit said, “Give him that paper.” Again I looked and thought I will give it to him before we get out. Then something seemed to say, “Give it to this other man that looks more thoughtful.”

“No,” it came to me, “Give it to that lad.”

I got up and handed it to him. He took it and threw it underneath the bench. Then said Satan, “Now you have made a mistake, you would better have given it to the man.”

But I lifted my heart in prayer and said, “Now, Lord, if there is anything in that paper that Thou dost want that young man to know, make him pick it up. Lord, don't let him go out, make him pick up that paper.” I continued to pray, and we were nearing the shore. I saw the fellow was very restless. O, how I did beg the Lord to make him pick it up, I felt it had a word for him. Just as the boat struck the dock, he stooped down and picked up the paper and put it in his pocket and ran away. Just then the grand old text came: “If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.” (John14:14).

I think it was November, 1869. On my way home one evening from work, I met a friend on Sixth avenue. She said to me, “Smith, are you going to the Fair to-night?”

“No,” I said, “I am tired and shall not go.”

“I have two tickets, if you like to go I will give them to you.”

“All right,” I said, “If I feel better after I get home I will go. You know I never go to such places unless the Lord wants me to do something for Him.”

“Well,” she said, “I wish you would go.”

I went to my home at thirty-five Amity street, and as I prayed and asked the Lord, it was very clear to me I was to go. It was a damp, rainy evening, and I would think, “Well, it is too damp and I will not go.” Then it would come to me, “Go, take some tracts.”

I knew I would be criticised, for I had become a speckled bird among my own people on account of the profession of the blessing of holiness. Remarks would be made, “There is Amanda Smith, with her sanctification again.” So I knew all that would be said, but I said, “Lord help me, and I will go for Thee. Tell me what Thou dost want me to do.”

I went in, and there were quite a number; all seemed to look at me, remarks passed, and then all went on as they would there. I walked about and spoke to several, then I sat down and lifted my heart in prayer, and said, “Lord, I have no business here, and why should I stay, make it clear what you want me to do;” and these words were spoken to my heart distinctly, “Go stand in the way.” I got up and went and stood at the lop of the stairs where the people were coming up. Several persons passed up, then came two young men full of glee. The Spirit seemed to pick out one especially, and said, “Speak to that young man.” I did; he was respectful as he could be, but said it was time enough for him, and with a toss of the head turned away.

I handed some tracts to several others, then the Lord seemed to say, “You may go home.” I went out, and felt that I had done as I was told, but how strange that I should not do anything but that. I went home and bore this young man up to God. This, I think, was on Wednesday evening. On Saturday, as I was carrying some clothes home, I met some one on Sixth avenue and they said, “Did you hear that Charlie S. is dead?”

“No.”

“Well, he is, he was found dead in his bed this morning; he was at the Fair the other night, well and hearty.” I went and looked at him. There he was, dead, no sign of sickness, and the very young man that God had sent me to speak to. He looked as though he were asleep. O, how sad it was, and yet how glad I was that I had strength given me that night to obey the Lord, and do as I thought He led me, whether the young man would hear, or whether he would forbear.

I seemed to see the inconsistencies of the brethren and sisters so much more than I ever had before. I had seen some before, as I suppose most people do. I saw my own, and what the Lord had saved me from, and I wanted everybody to get saved right away. Brother Patterson was pastor of the Sullivan Street A. M. E. Church at the time I got the blessing. He enjoyed the experience and preached the doctrine. But colored people are like some white people; although the church prospered under his administration, and we had a wonderful revival during the two years, and the church was built up and edified, yet many of them did not like him. After he left, Rev. Nelson Turpin was sent to us. He was fierce. He openly opposed and denounced the doctrine and experience of the blessing of full salvation, although there were a number in the church, some among the leading members, who claimed to have the experience. He was very popular with the great mass. The church was crowded. Then we poor souls who dared to testify definitely in a Love Feast, or in a General Class, might expect a raking; and especially on Sunday nights, when the church would be crowded, he, would take especial pains to tell some ridiculous inconsistency about some sanctified sister or brother that he used to know. Then, if a sister, he, would say: “They put on a plain bonnet and shawl and wear a long face, but they are sanctified Devils.” Then all eyes would be turned on Sister Scott and myself, for we were about the only ones that dressed in the way described. Then there would be a regular giggle all over the house. How much I had to contend with. Hence my temptation to leave the church. Then I did not like fairs and festivals and all the rest of it. But God saved me from backsliding over any of those things. Then I was in bondage to my clothes; in bondage to other people's clothes. If they were not made just as I thought they ought to be it troubled me, and I did not care if I did not hear them speak and pray in prayer meeting. I had rather not kneel at communion with these dressed-up people. Then I was afraid of Brother Turpin. At first he was very kind; but after a little while he would always try to shun me. But I would follow him up, ask him to come to see me, and would go to see Sister Turpin and the children. But he would always be very formal and cold. My! how afraid of him I did get! So one day Mother Jones said to me, “Sister Smith, if I were you I would not say anything about sanctification. You see people do not like it, and they persecute you, and I do not like to hear them.”

“Well, but Mother Jones,” I said, “the Lord has blessed me so, and I can't help it.” Then she laughed and took hold of me kindly, and said, “I would not say anything about it if I were you.”

So I went home and thought how Mother Jones sympathized with me. So I began to be very indefinite in my testimony. I chose words that the people would like. I would say, “I am all the Lord's.” They would say, “Amen!” Or, if I said, “Jesus saves me fully,” or “The blood cleanseth,” they would say, “Amen!” to that. But if I used the word “sanctify,” then there was a rustling among the dry bones. Then look out for the next testimony, especially if in a General Class or Love Feast. Thank God, He led my class leader, Henry De Sheilds, into the experience in answer to prayer, just three weeks after I got the blessing. So while “Pop” Scott, who was assistant class leader, never came out clear, Brother De Shields was a power and a great help to myself, and to many. He still lives in New York, and at this writing is walking in the light of full salvation. Still, I was afraid of Brother Turpin. Then darkness came over me, and the joy and peace all seemed to be gone. I did not know what ailed me. So I set apart Friday to fast and pray, and find out the cause of this darkness. Satan suggested many things, but I held on and cried to God for light and help. So, about two P. M., though I had stopped my work and gone away and prayed a number of times that day, I took my Bible and knelt down to pray. And I said: “Oh! Lord, show me what is the matter. Why is this darkness in my mind? O! Lord, make it clear to me.” And the Spirit seemed to say to me very distinctly, “Read.” And I opened my Bible, and my eyes lighted on these words: “Perfect love casteth out fear. He that feareth has not been made perfect in love.” Then I said: “Lord, if I am not, I will be now.” Then I saw what was the matter. Fear! And I said: “Oh! Lord, take all the man-fearing spirit out of me. I thank Thee for what Thou hast done for me, but deliver me from fear. Take all the woman-fearing spirit out of me, and give me complete victory over this fear.” And, thank the Lord, He did it. There was no especial manifestation, but there was a deep consciousness in my heart that what I had asked the Lord to do, He had done, and I praised Him. Then He came to me: “Will you go uptown to Union Church on Sunday and testify definitely?”

“Yes, Lord, if Thou wilt help me, and give me Thy strength, and go with me, I will go.” So there was a calm and peace in my heart. Union Church, uptown, was a colored church. There was not a member in it that believed in the doctrine of holiness; and from that church there had been great criticism in regard to my professing such a blessing. Sunday morning came. The Love Feast was at 6 o'clock A. M. I had been but once before. I got ready and went. My heart trembled, and my knees trembled. But I went on, and I said, “Now, Lord, help me, and I will go.” I got in and sat down. The church was well filled. A number of strange ministers sat in the altar. Every eye was turned on me. After the meeting opened the testimony began. The ministers urged everybody to be short, and in many of the testimonies there were remarks and insinuations thrown out to me. I sat still and prayed. Oh! how I did pray. Then they began to get very noisy. They shouted and praised. I said to the Lord; “Now, Lord, I will speak for Thee if Thou wilt make these people be quiet. Lord, make them be quiet. I can't talk when there is a great noise, and Thou hast sent me here to speak for Thee, and I want the people to hear. Lord, make them be still.” Sometimes there would be three or four on the floor speaking at the same time. The ministers would urge them on, and say: “The Lord can hear you all. Don't wait on one another.” But I prayed, “Lord, still them, still them.” Then there came a pause. Then I got on my feet. Then they began to shout again, and they drowned me out. So I stood still, and prayed, “Lord, still the people.” And He did. They calmed down so that when I began, there was not another one spoke. I began and quoted several passages of Scripture bearing on holiness definitely, and on God's promise of this grace to those who sought it, and how it was obtained by faith. And they listened. The ministers touched one another. I went on talking, and by and by I came to a point when it seemed a finger touched my tongue, and the power of God came upon me in such a wonderful manner that I talked, it seemed to me, about ten minutes. The people looked as though they were alarmed. The ministers who sat in the altar, and who had looked so critical when I came in, began to shout “Amen! Lord Almighty, bless that sister!” And then the fire seemed to fall on all the people. When I had finished, I. sat down, feeling that I had delivered the message according to the will of the Lord. To His name be all the glory for the strength He gave me that day. Amen. Amen.

One day Sister Scott called and was so happy. She told me some white sisters had been at her house, and had prayed and sung, and that they were full of the Holy Ghost. They were dressed so plain and neat. They belonged to the Free Methodist Church, uptown somewhere in New York. And they asked her to come to some of their meetings. “Oh!” I said, “why didn't you bring them to see me?” She said, “I told them I would bring you up to their church sometime.” So on Sunday I went with her. It was about two miles from where I lived. We started early, and, of course, we walked all the way. We thought it was a dreadful thing to ride on the street cars on Sunday. And I think still we should not do it whenever we can avoid it. But I am not in bondage even in this as I once was. Praise the Lord! We got to the church. Mr. Mackey, who was so well known all over New York, was then very popular and prominent in that church, and was a good friend to the colored people. For years he led meetings at the Colored Home in New York. When we went into the church he was there, and was so glad to see us. He shook hands, and seated us, and was so kind.

The Lord took from me my dear little Will. He was the brightest and most promising of all the five children I had had, and when he was but three days old, I got on my knees by my bedside and consecrated him to God. I had not done so with the others, and I thought it was why the Lord took them away, but I did not know about consecrating children to God, only in baptism. Now I saw afterward there was selfishness in it, though I was really sincere. I did this, thinking the Lord would not take him. Then I promised I would train him prayerfully, and he should be a preacher of the Gospel. I said: “Lord, I give him to Thee, and I hold myself just as Thy servant, to raise him for Thee; he is not mine, I give him wholly to Thee, and now help me to raise him. When he is five years old I will have him reading, and I will work day and night to give him an education.”

When I got through with my prayer I arose and lay down again. He grew and thrived beautifully till he was five months old. Oh, how bright he was. He had had several little sick turns, but I never once thought he would die, because I had given him to the Lord so fully, and now the Lord will let me have him. One morning I had cleaned up my room, and had my tubs all ready to go to washing, for this I always did, so that my house was in order if any one should come in. The next was to give my baby his bath and make him comfortable. Just after I had done this and laid him down on the sofa, and emptied his bath, he seemed perfectly well and was crowing and so bright. His sister, Mazie, was getting ready for school, and was calling, saying: “Be good, Will, till I come back.” All at once she called out to me: “Oh Ma, look at Will,” and he was stiff in a fit, and there was froth on his mouth and he was black in the face. My kettle of wash water was on, and in a moment I had him another bath ready. I stripped him. There was no one to call. I never lost my presence of mind a moment. I put him in his bath. I did not forget to put in the water a handful of salt and a little mustard. I don't know how I did it, God kept me so still in my soul. He soon came out of his spasm when I put him in the warm water. The dear little fellow, the first thing he did was to look up and say, “Mama,” and pat me on the check with his little hand. He seemed all right and I dressed him and laid him down and went to my washing. He slept and took his food as usual till several days had passed, then he seemed poorly and fretful, and I took him to a doctor; he prescribed for him and said he would be all right in I few days; but another spasm. Then for five long weeks I worked and watched and never took off my clothes, only to change them. I did everything I could; had no one to help; had to do my washing between times as I could. It never entered my thoughts that he would die. One Wednesday morning, I had been watching all night; he was restless, but I had got him quiet about five o'clock in the morning. I stole away from him to finish hanging up my last clothes and finish my work. About six o'clock he awoke and cried, and I would call to him and he would wait to see if I was coming and then he would cry again. I would say: “Hold on, Will, I am coming.” Oh, how I worked! I had to work quick. When I got through I went to take him up. I found he had kicked off one of his little socks. I picked it up cheerfully and said, “Oh, Will, you have lost one of your boots, old man.” When I went to put it on I saw his little foot was swollen on top. I knew what that meant; an arrow went through my heart, and I could hardly lift him from the bed. I tried to say, “Thy will be done,” but I could not. I thought, “After all, the Lord is going to take him, and I can't say ‘Thy will be done.’ ”

I had heard of a wonderful doctor for children, a lady. I thought I would try this new doctor. I took him in my arms, and when I got to the doctor's I could not speak a word. She looked at him and said to me, “You must not feel so bad, his eyes are bright, and I think he will be better in a few days;” but I knew the sign of his feet was no mistake. I paid her one dollar, and a dollar and a half for the prescription, and had but fifty cents left; all I had in the world. I went home and did as I was told, but I could not say “Thy will be done.” Oh! the agony of my soul. The Lord sent a dear friend in Minte Corsey. Oh, how glad I was she came. She lived at service and could only stay a day or two, but this was a great help to me. Friday morning came, still I could not say, “Thy will be done.” I wanted to say it, and then I resolved that I would neither eat nor drink until I could, from my heart, say, “The will of the Lord be done.” It took me from Thursday till Friday afternoon about three P. M. I got the victory. While I was alone pleading with God for power to say, “Thy will he done,” all at once my heart seemed to sink into a deep quiet, and I said, “Lord, Thou hast helped me, and I can say, ‘Thy will be done.’ ” Oh, how sweet it was; it seemed to me I could taste it; it was sweet as honey; and a voice seemed to reason, “Now, Amanda, you can have your choice, if you say the life of your child you may have it as easy as turning your hand,” and I said, “Lord, Thy will is so sweet, I only want Thy will;” and it came again, “Whatever you desire it is only to say,” and I said again, “Oh, Lord, Thy will is so sweet, I only say Thy will be done.” Then the joy sprang up in my heart. I was filled with joy, and I went out of that room saying, “Victory, victory, thanks be to God, He giveth victory, Hallelujah!”

This was Friday afternoon about four o'clock. About two o'clock the next morning little Will fell asleep in Jesus, in my arms. I washed the little body and laid it out myself; laid him on the little stand. No tears; God seemed to dry them up with joy! O, the greatness of His peace that passeth understanding!

Saturday morning I don't know how I got my clothes home, but I did. I got a young man to go for my husband, who was at New Utrecht, not far from Brooklyn, N. Y. I had but two dollars, that had come in from my washing, and I wondered what I would do, but my husband would be home, and I thought I could leave that. Just then a flood of sadness seemed to fill my heart. I could not understand it. I was sick and weak, and I said it is because I have lost so much rest. I sent my little girl to tell some friends to come in, and they sent word it was Saturday and they were all busy, so no one came. I lay down I few moments, then I broke into a flood of tears. “Lord, help me!” I said.

About ten o'clock the young man came back, whom I sent to see my husband. He sent word he was sick himself, and could not come, and had no money. I felt I must sink. I said, “O, Lord, help me!” I was so weak I had to lie down three times before I could get properly dressed, as I must go out in the street. I thought I would go and see a lady with whom I used to live, away uptown, Fortieth street and Madison avenue. I thought if they could help me get my baby buried, I would clean house to pay them again. While I was getting ready to go, my dear friend, Sister Nancy Thompson, who lived in Clinton court, near Eighth Street, sent a messenger to say I must come to her house at once.

“O,” I said, “I can't. I must go uptown,” but the child would not go without me.

She said, “Auntie Thompson says I must not come without you,” and I went with the child. I thought after I had seen her,

She thought I ought to come home and stand by her, but I knew the Lord did not want me to meddle in man and wife trouble, so it was all right I was away. I said, “Scott, every eye is on you to see how you stand, and if sanctifying grace is good for anything, this is your time to test it. Don't you leave your home.” This was the way I wrote, and I think it was not what she expected. From that time the spirit of her letters to me seemed to be greatly changed. I felt she was not the same in spirit. Then, encouraged by her son to leave her home, she did so and moved, with the three children, around in Minnetta street. While I felt she had changed, I loved her so well that I thought, “When I get home and see her and have a talk I can explain and clear up everything; she will understand me and will soon be all right.” So in June I got to be full of hope and expectation, for I did not think I could live in New York without the former friendship and love of sister S. She had moved from Minnetta street to Dominick street, and after I had got a little straightened up in my room I could hardly wait to see her. I would smile to myself and think how glad she would be to see me, and what she would say; and it was all so real; but O, imagine my disappointment and surprise. When I went she was so cool and formal. O, how my heart sank. I told her everything that I knew used to interest her. She listened, and I saw she made an effort to be herself, and that hurt me so; I knew her so well. I told her why I wrote to her as I did, and I thought as she had been through so much for so many years she might have stuck to it a little longer, and I believed God would have helped her and brought her out conqueror. I saw that the Devil had made her believe that I did not care for her, and had no sympathy for her. We talked till twelve at night; then as we always prayed when we met, I said well, let us pray. We knelt; I prayed, but she did not. I went out with a heavy heart, and under an awful temptation.

“Oh!” I thought, “if Scott has turned against me after all these years of helpful friendship, what will I do?” and it was like Peter's walk on the water. I had got my eye off of Jesus, and I began to sink, and the more I thought of it the deeper I went. I called again and begged her to come and see me. I ran in again, and said, “I have been wishing you would come, that we might have a season of prayer together,” but she made some excuse, which I knew was not like my old friend. How I wept and prayed; I thought it would kill me, but I see now what it meant. God was to separate me unto Himself and I must be weaned. O, what an ordeal. After a day or two she came in. I was ironing and she sat down on the doorstep. “Oh,” I said, “come in,” but she would not and went away without saying a word about prayer, and I was convinced that the real spirit of my dear friend of years had gone—only the woman was there. O, the sadness of that other spirit, how it lingers even to this day. I tried to cast my burden on the Lord with fasting and weeping and praying, but, O, for weeks I walked in darkness and Satan accused me. I looked over my mind to see if the advice I had given was the cause, no, I felt I was right. Well, to go and keep talking and trying to win my friend back to her former friendship—it seemed it was not what the Lord wanted me to do, but why had this darkness settled down over my spirit. I said, “O Lord, help me!” I did not seem able pray, I seemed to have no spirit in me. Yet I could not feel any clear condemnation, but, O, what a state I was in! I knew I had not taken anything back from God of my consecration, but, O, what was the matter with me, I could not tell. Other times when I would have these trials my friend would come and we would pray together and get deliverance, but now, I not a soul to help me, and I could not prevail. There are times when one needs help to prevail with God, but I had no help, and the Devil said, “You see, if you were sanctified fully, you would be able to pray, but you have grieved the Spirit in some way, and this is why God don't answer you.”

O, how real it all seemed, and yet somehow I knew it was not so. I was afraid to tell anyone. Satan said, “If you tell anyone they will think you have backslidden, you never heard of anyone who was sanctified having darkness like that.”

“No, I never did.” So I went to meetings, and talked what I knew of the bright side for fear the people would think I had backslidden sure enough. I think sanctified people ought to tell the other side, for it is no sign that you are backsliding when there comes a shadow over your Spirit, even after you are wholly sanctified; but I was ignorant and did not know that these questions were from the Devil. O, how he can transform himself into an angel of light to deceive.

My little girl had gone to live in Philadelphia with a very nice family, and I was very busy finishing a dress so as to send it to her. I had just got a letter from her, and she was getting along very nicely. As I sat with a sad heart and at times wishing I really could condemn myself so as to get access to God, for I felt if I could feel any condemnation, then surely I could pray; all at once the thought came, go down to Dominick street to Mrs. Clark's holiness meeting. Sister Clark used to have this meeting every Thursday afternoon at her house. I said, “O, I am too busy, I want to get this dress done,” but a deep conviction took hold of me and I felt I must go, so I got up and went. I began to feel a little lighter. I said, “I guess the Lord is going to bless me to-day.”

I went into the meeting, there were a good many present, and about five minutes after I got into the room this awful avalanche of darkness came over me again, and I began to cry. O, how bitterly I cried; I was heartbroken. The hymn was given out. I was sitting by Sister Clark. Just before the last verse was sung, the Devil said, “Now they are going to ask you to pray, and you know you can't;” and I said, “No, I can't pray.”

Sure enough, when they knelt down, Sister Clark said to me, “Sister Smith, pray.” I had always been able to pray before and after I had been sanctified, but I tried, and broke down. Some one said, “Amen, Lord, bless Sister Smith.”

They thought I had got blest and was very happy. So I tried the second time to pray, but could not. Then the third time, failed again. O, I could not pray.

“Sister Clark,” I said, “you pray, I can't,” and she did pray, as she could in those days, for she used to be mighty in prayer. Then we arose. I sat and sobbed like a baby, listened to the testimonies and hoped for just a ray of light to come to my mind, so dark. After several had spoken, I arose and made a confession of all I knew. I had gone to Philadelphia to see my sister who was very sick and not expected to live. I left on Saturday night by the twelve o'clock train and got in five o'clock Sunday morning; left again on Sunday night, at twelve, got to Jersey City at five A. M., so the Devil had told me, that was one of the causes of I darkness. Then I had gone out without taking my tracts several times, so he said that was another reason. Then I used to get up and pray once or twice in the night, but I had not done that for several nights, so he accused me of that. At another time, after I had worked hard all day, I was tired, and after I had read my Bible lesson I knelt down to pray and fell asleep on my knees, and did not wake till about two o'clock in the morning; so he accused me of that, but when I asked the Lord to forgive me for all of these, it seemed as if a voice would say, “No, that is not it,” and I said “Lord, what is it?” So I told these sisters all this. “And now,” said I, “I want to know if any of you have had such an experience, for I don't know what is the matter; do help me if you can. Do sanctified people ever have such an experience?”

“No,” they said; they shook their heads and looked very solemn, and I sat down, and each sister that spoke in turn, joined with my accuser and condemned me. They said that no doubt that these things were very wrong and was the cause of this darkness, and strange to say while I wanted it so, yet something seemed to say, “That is not so,” and I felt like saying to each one of them as they spoke, “It is not so.”

There was one lady who sat over by the window. I shall never forget her, though I can't remember her name. She was formerly from England, and was a friend of Sister Clark's. She had very black hair; she wore it very plain, two little puffs each side; I used to know her so well at Mrs. Palmer's meeting and at Round Lake Camp Meeting. God bless her! She was the last to speak that day, they were all through but her, and all had condemned me, but when she rose to speak she looked at me and said so sweetly these words—I shall never forget it, she said: “The Lord has a controversy with Amanda Smith, and it must be settled between her and Him alone.” And a flash of light went through my mind, and I said, “Thank you, I see it.” God showed me that instant I was leaning on my friend, Sister S. O, how I was wrapped up in her, but the snare was broken. I went out, my captivity was turned, and I praised the Lord. When I got home I got on my knees and thanked God for the light to show me where I was, and then with tears I begged the Lord to cut me loose from Sister Scott. I said, “Lord, it almost kills me, but O, deliver me, cut me loose, if you have to kill me, cut me loose.”

O, what a dying it was! It seemed my heart was bound around with cords and to let go would take my life, but I cried, “O, Lord, cut me loose,” and it was as though someone snapped with a knife the cords around my heart, and I breathed freely, and said, “Thank God I have got the victory.” I arose and praised the Lord, and walked up and down!

I was just going to sit down to my sewing when I thought, “I must go out and get a postage stamp and write to my daughter to-night, so that she can get it in the morning.” Out I started to the drug store on the corner of Fourth street and Sixth avenue. Just as I turned out of Amity street in Sixth avenue, I glanced over the way on Cornelia street, and saw a person who looked just like my friend Sister S. She seemed to look at me, and I nodded my head, and was just going to call to her, when she quickly turned her head, and didn't seem to see me at all. I thought, “O, has Scott gotten to where she will not even speak to me?” A pang went through my heart, and Satan in a moment said distinctly, “You have got no joy now.”

“No,” I said, “not a bit.”

“You are not happy, either.”

“No, it's all gone.” Then in a tantalizing manner he said, “Where is all your sanctification and holiness that you have been talking about?” And then for the first time I clearly realized that it was Satan himself that was accusing me, and I said, “Ah! Ah! Mr. Satan, it is you, is it? Well, now look here, happiness or no happiness, joy or no joy, sanctification or no sanctification, I belong to Jesus!” and I began to sing this hymn:—

I did not sing loud. Some gentlemen and ladies were passing me. They looked at me rather strangely. As I sang I felt that hateful Satanic influence and power break and leave me, as really as I ever took a garment and laid it aside. I seemed to see the Devil in the shape of a little black dog, with his tail between his legs. He seemed to pass me down Sixth avenue. I don't know where he came from. There was nobody with him, but just as this power broke I saw this little dog pass.

The Lord had turned my captivity. I was like one that dreamed. My mouth was filled with laughter; I could not stop. I went into the drugstore, and the man in the store saw me laughing, so he fell in line and got to laughing to; he was stout, and he shook. I said, “O, sir, give me a three-cent stamp,” and I laughed and he laughed, and I went out. He did not say a word to me, but, O, how he laughed. So did I. I turned to go home. I said, “I will go down on this side and get me a spool of cotton while I am out,” and just as I got opposite where I was attacked by Satan before, he had crossed over and was on the other side. He said, “O, you are very happy.”

“Yes, praise the Lord!”

“You don't know how your child is coming on in Philadelphia.”

“She is all right; I just had a letter.”

“O, the people tell you that, but you don't know if it is true!”

“O, but I know if Mazie was not all right she would tell me.”

“Well you want to go to the camp-meeting, too, and you have no money.”

Then I recognized that old Accuser again, and I said, “Well, it is none of your business, I belong to Jesus,” and I began to sing again, “The blood of Christ it cleanseth me,Just now, while I believe,” and away he went, my adversary, and from that day to this I seem to be able to know him when he approaches, no matter in what shape he comes.

If you keep close to the blood he soon leaves, and nothing will put him on a run so quickly as a song or testimony of the power of the blood.

Amen! Amen!

Some time after the Lord had sanctified my soul, I became greatly exercised about the Trinity. I could not seem to under stand just how there could exist three distinct persons, and yet one. I thought every day and prayed for light, but didn't seem to get help. I read the Bible, but no help came. I wanted to ask some one, but I was afraid they would misunderstand me and think I was getting fanatical, as that spirit was being developed a good deal at that time. Brother Boole was pastor of Seventeenth Street Church. As I lived in New York I thought if I could hear him preach on the baptism of the Holy Ghost, that I would get light and help, but the Sunday he was to preach on this very subject I could not be there. I was engaged at Janes Street Church with Reverend Doctor Hamlin, so it went on for weeks after. I got through at Janes Street, and went to Williamsburg to help Brother Hollis. There the Lord blessed us very greatly The people were all very kind, but I met no one during the ten days that I felt I could trust to ask for this explanation. Brother Richard Ryan came over on Sunday afternoon, and he gave his experience of how he came into the blessing of sanctification. It was blest to many souls, and I got a little help on one or two points, but to understand the Trinity was still a great puzzle to me. We closed up grandly on Sunday night, and on Monday morning I went home to New York, 135 Amity street. My two little attic rooms were quite dusty, having been shut up for two weeks, so the first thing I did was to sweep and dust, and after a little lunch I said I will wash my dishes and will kneel down and pray, and I will stay on my knees till the Lord makes this thing clear. I had the dish-cloth in my hand, and as I walked toward the window a voice seemed to speak to me and say, “Every blessing you get from God is by faith.” I said, “Yes,—and if by faith, why not now?”

I turned around and knelt down by an old trunk that stood in the corner of the room, and I told the Lord that I wanted to understand the Trinity, and that I was afraid of fanaticism, and I wanted Him to make it clear to me for His own sake. I don't know how long I prayed, but O, how my soul was filled with light under the great baptism that came upon me. I came near falling prostrate, but bore up when God revealed Himself so clearly me, and I have understood it ever since. I can't just explain it to others, but God made me understand it so I have had no question since. Praise the Lord! Then He showed me three other things. O, what a revelation. The wonderful fatherhood of God, the brotherhood of Jesus, the efficacy and broadness of the atonement. It seemed to sweep hard by the gates of hell. I saw how difficult it was for a soul to be lost, and how easy it was to be deceived by believing in universal salvation without repentance. I was awe stricken and wept. I durst not move. And now, as I think of it, I seem to feel the great waves of glory mingled with awe as they surged through my soul, so that my whole being seemed to throb with love and praise. All the points on these lines have been settled since that time, and like Elijah, I have been able to go on in the strength of this meat for more than forty days.

Just then I saw the letter “O.” I said, “Why, that means go.” And I said “What else?” And a voice distinctly said to me “Go preach.”

The voice was so audible that it frightened me for a moment, and I said, “Oh Lord, is that what you wanted me to come here for? Why did you not tell me when I was at home, or when I was on my knees praying?” But His paths are known in the mighty deep, and His ways are past finding out. On Monday morning, about four o'clock, I think, I was awakened by the presentation of a beautiful, white cross— white as the driven snow—similar to that described in the last chapter. It was as cold as marble. It was laid just on my forehead and on my breast. It seemed very heavy; to press me down. The weight and the coldness of it were what woke me; and as I woke I said: “Lord, I know what that is. It is a cross.”

I arose and got on my knees, and while I was praying these words came to me: “If any man will come after Me let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me.” And I said, “Lord, help me and I will.”

I did not know that I was so unwilling. But the Lord had showed me when I was at Oakington Camp Meeting in July, 1870. There was a gentleman there who lived at Espa, Pa. He made me a good offer, to give me a home in his family, as servant, as long as I lived, my little girl and myself. He said that his family was small; only himself and wife, and one son, a beautiful young man, who was with him at the meeting, and who also, with his father, urged me to go. He said his house was quite new, newly fitted up with all the modern improvements, and that he had a very nice colored man and family on the place, who was his farmer, and who was a good Christian man, and a local preacher, and that they held in his own house a holiness meeting once every week, so that I would not be lonesome; and as he had been asking the Lord about a person, he felt, and thought, I was the very person that would suit them, and he wanted me to break up housekeeping and come to live with them right away. I kept a small room in New York for myself and little girl.

He was a grand, good man, and talked so very nice, and it did seem at first glance that it was right I should do so, and I almost decided to go. But before I did decide, I spread it before the Lord, and asked the assistance and direction of His Holy Spirit, and I soon found out that it was not the will of the Lord for me to confine myself as a servant in any family, but to go and work in His vineyard as the Spirit directed me. This the Lord had made very plain to me once before.

I worked out by the day and had a great deal to do, till the families I worked for went away out of the country, and the work got slack, and I had but one day out of the week, and that was at Sister Clark's, on Dominick street. So when my work was stopped, my revenue was stopped. I was reduced down to thirteen cents; and I did not know what to do. The enemy said to me, “You will keep on talking about trusting the Lord, and you will have to beg before you are done with it.”

“It is none of your business,” I said, “if I do. I belong to the Lord, and if He wants me to beg I'll do it.”

And he left me a little while. But after a time he returned, and said, “You had better go to service and come home at night.”

And I thought, “I could do that. My little girl goes to school, and when she was out she could come to where I was and stay till night, and then go home with me.”

While I was thinking about it, my friend, Sister Scott, sent for me to go somewhere to work, but she had made a mistake in the number where I was to go, and I did not find it. I saw afterwards it was all the Lord's doings. I walked up and down for an hour. I went to the place with the number she gave me, but no such person lived there. On my way back I met a girl looking for a chambermaid in the family where she lived. She wanted me to go and see the lady at once; but I said, “No, if I do go now the lady will want me to decide when I can come.”

“Oh, yes,” said she, “for she wants some one right away.”

“Well, I must ask the Lord first.”

I went home and got down on my knees, and I said: “Oh, Lord, I am willing to go to service if Thou sayest so. But, Lord, Thou knowest I so love the Sabbath day, and if I go to service it will be taken from me.”

Then these words were given me: “My grace is sufficient for you. If you trust Me you shall never be confounded.”

“Now, Lord,” I said, “for the evidence that I am not to go to service, send some one for me to go to work by the day.”

And a little while afterward a little boy came and said that his mother had sent him to see if I could come next day and wash; and I said, “yes,” and I had the evidence that I was not to go to service. I had but thirteen cents of money in the world. My little girl was at school, and when she came home the first thing she would say was, “O, Ma, I am so hungry; have you got any bread?” So I had done without any dinner, and saved the piece of bread I had, so that when my child would ask me for a piece of bread I might have it to give her. I thought I couldn't stand it, to have her ask for bread and have none to give her; so, though I was very hungry, I did without.

The grocer's name was Mr. Otten. His store was on the corner of Mannetta Lane and Sixth avenue. I always dealt with him. I never got anything on trust. When I had the money I would get what I needed, and pay for it. When I didn't have the money I would do without it. So I took the thirteen cents and went to Mr. Otten's store, and said to him, “Mr. Otten, I will tell you what I want; I want a loaf of bread, I want a quart of potatoes, I want three slices of salt pork, and I want a bundle of wood, and this is every cent of money I have between me and death.” I showed him my money before I got the things. He looked at me.

“Well,” he said, “thirteen cents is not money enough to pay for what you want.”

“I know it, but that is what I want, and that is all the money I have.”

And then he looked at me, and went and got the things and gave me back three cents.

Oh! how I praised the Lord. I hastened home. I made a nice little stew for dinner for Mazie and me. I was expecting this to last me a week. I didn't intend to eat much myself; I thought I could do without, but my child must have enough; and I had a faculty of piecing out a little to make it go a good ways.

Well, the next day I went to where I was to do the washing. It was not far from where I lived. I knocked, and the lady opened the door. She was a very rough, coarse woman. I said, “Good morning, Madame.”

“Good morning. Are you the woman that's come to wash?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“How much do you charge a day?”

“Well, Madame, I don't know, I believe the general price is one dollar and twenty-five cents.”

“Well,” she said, “I'm not going to pay any such price as that.”

Then Mrs. Clark said, “You can take your own bed-tick and have it filled, and you can have room in our tent to sleep, and you will only have our tent to look after.” How my heart leaped for joy. Then she told me how to manage, and I worked away, gathered what I could together and so got enough to pay my round trip ticket and had just ten cents over. When the time came Mrs. Clark said, “Send your trunk down to our house and it call go with our things in the morning.”

I did so, but when the man got there a little after six o'clock in the morning they were all gone. When I got to the Cortlandt Street Ferry, I found my trunk was not there, the man had taken it to Debrosses Street Ferry, so the old man told me I had better go up to Debrosses street, about two miles away. My heart beat, I didn't know what to do. I thought, “I can't walk, it is so far, and I am so weary.” I thought I might catch the train, and so took the street cars. Then I thought, “If I pay the ten cents to go up and down, how am I going to get through the ferry?”

I got back, but of course missed the train. I had to wait from about eight o'clock till half past ten. It seemed that everything was against me. O, how earnestly I did pray. I found that I was twenty-five cents short when I went to buy my ticket, that is If I got an excursion ticket, so I didn't know what to do. I asked the Lord to let me see some one I knew, so as to ask them to lend it to me. There were a great many persons waiting to go by the same train, among them was Rev. Henry Belden, whom I had often met at the Palmer meetings; Rev. Mr. Wells, pastor of the Seventeenth Street Methodist Church; Mr. Faulkner, and a number of other members of the church. They were all very kind to me. I thought, “Shall I ask Brother Belden for the twenty-five cents?”

Just as I looked around, who should be there but Brother Clark.

“O,” I said, “I thought you had gone.”

“I will not go,” he said, “till Saturday,”—this was Wednesday morning, I think,—“Mrs. Clark left something and I hurried back to get it, and when I got here the train had just gone, so you will take it.”

“Mr. Clark, will you please loan me twenty-five cents?”

“I have no change,” he said, “but a two dollar bill, I will give you that and you can give it to me when I come.”

“Now, Sister Smith,” said he, “I have a church at St. Johnsville, and our people have a large society tent, and you could stay in it, and I would like to have you come to our camp meeting. I will give you my address, and when I get home I will write you and give you all the directions how to come, so you will have no trouble.”

“All right, sir; thank you,” I said.

The meeting closed, and I never had heard such wonderful preaching on the line of holiness. I was filled and thrilled. So I went home and began to pray and ask the Lord where He would have me go. For out of all the places I had been asked to visit, I wanted to know just where He would have me go. And a deep conviction settled down upon me that I was to go to Kennebunk. I liked Brother Luce and Brother Munger, and their families were all so kind to me while at Round Lake. Then Brother Luce would send me word just how to come. But to my surprise, when the letter came Brother Luce said, “Sister Smith, I am not well, and our people have decided not to take our big tent; so you had better not come, as you are a stranger, and have no place to stop.”

“Well,” I thought, “all right. I will go to Wesley Grove, where Mrs. Brown wants me to go. Then I know her, and like to work for her. So it will be better than going to Kennebunk.”

Then the conviction to go to Kennebunk seemed to deepen, and I did not understand it. I must go to Kennebunk. I went to the Lord and told Him. I said, “Lord, I would be willing to go to Kennebunk, but Thou knowest Brother Luce has written and told me not to come. And Thou knowest it is not nice to go where you are told not to come. And if I do, it will look like impertinence after he has written and told me not to come. So I will go to Wesley Grove. Mrs. Brown says they need help there. Then I have worked for Mrs. Brown, and I am better acquainted with her, and that would be better for me.”

This time Satan helped me a little bit. He said, “Yes, the reason you want to go to Wesley Grove is because Mrs. Brown offered you money, and that is all you are going there for—money.”

Oh! how horrible it seemed as I thought of it. And I knew it was not so. And I said, “Now, Mr. Satan, that's a lie, and I will not go to Wesley Grove at all. I am going straight to Kennebunk where they told me not to come. And I will show you it's not money I'm after.”

So I went up to her with all the smiles and grace I was capable of, and she drew herself up in the most dignified manner and said, “Who told you to come here?” And she said it in such a tone that it frightened me. It went all over me, and I began to stammer—a thing I never do—and I tried to think of the name of the lady who had asked me—for I knew her very well—but to save me her name would not come. She was at the meeting, but had got to the door, and was speaking to some one; and I looked round and said, “Mrs.—, Mrs.—,” but I could not think of the name. I told her some ladies had told me about Miss Smiley's meeting, and I thought I would like to come and hear Miss Smiley.

“Well,” she said, “we have invited Miss Smiley here.”

“Oh.” I said, “I beg your pardon, madame.”

“Never mind, pass right out, pass right out,” she said, waving her hand toward the door.

“Oh,” I said, “Madame—” and she said, “Pass out, pass out,” and she drove me away.

Some of the ladies were passing, and they said, “Oh, my, this is too bad.”

“What is the matter?” another said. And another, “Oh, that is a shame.” “What is it?”

By the time I got to the door there was so much sympathy and pity for me that they almost killed me. I cried, almost to convulsions. I was nearly dead. If they had not pitied me and seemed to feel so sorry for me, I could have got on well enough.

I went up to Sixth avenue and got on the car, and some of the ladies got on the same car; and they sat down beside me and tried to comfort me, and they made it worse. I was ashamed of myself, but I could not help myself. It seemed to me I had lost all control of my feelings. I cried about that thing for about two days, every time I thought of it. And it made quite a stir. The ladies came from downtown to see me about it, and to inquire about it. And I prayed so much for the woman, for I thought she needed to be prayed for, and I did pray for her with all my heart. So I think that she got the worst of it in the end!

Sometimes people say to me, “Oh, Amanda Smith, how very popular you are.”

“Yes,” I say, “but I paid for it.” I paid a good price for my popularity. I don't know whether the lady is living or dead. I have never seen her since. Poor thing, how I have pitied her! I suppose the Lord will get her through somehow. But that is the only time I was ever ordered out of a church from a religious meeting, or any other kind.

Again, it was in 1870 or 1871, when my dear friend, Mrs. Hannah Whitehall Smith, was holding those marvelous Bible readings in Germantown and Philadelphia that God blessed so wonderfully. I had often heard them spoken of, and read of them, and thought how I would like to go; but then I did not know whether they would allow colored persons to go. The Lord often would send me around among white people where there was a good meeting going on, that I might learn more perfectly some lesson from His Word.

One day I was on my way to West Philadelphia when Mr. Robert Pearson Smith, who had been off in California, doing some evangelistic work, I believe, and had got home just a few days before, got on the car, and after he had sat down a little while he looked over and recognized me. He came and said, “I think this is Amanda Smith?” I said, “Yes.” He took a seat by me, and did not have any fear or embarrassment from my being a colored woman. How real, and kind, and true he was. He said, “Amanda Smith, has thee attended any of the meetings that my wife Hannah, has been holding?”

“No,” I said, “I have thought I would like so much to go, but I did not know if they would allow colored persons to go.”

“Oh, yes, Amanda,” he said, “there would be no objection to thee going, and I think thee would enjoy the meeting very much. God has wonderfully blessed Hannah, and scores of ladies of rank have been led to consecrate themselves to the Lord, and have realized great blessing. She will hold a meeting at 1018 Arch street, on Friday. Thee must go.”

I thanked him very kindly, and told him I would do so.

“Now,” I thought, to myself, “the Lord has answered my prayer, and opened the way for me, and no doubt He has some blessed lesson to teach me from His Word; for Mrs. Smith is such a wonderful Bible teacher.”

So I looked forward to Friday with great delight. When the day came I got ready and went, prayerfully. But somehow I seemed to have a little trembling come over me as I neared the corner of Tenth and Arch streets; and I said to myself, “I wonder what is going to happen; my heart has become so sad all in a moment.”

Then I began to pray more earnestly that the Lord would help me and lead me. Sometimes these feeling of sadness, though unexplainable, are the omen of a great blessing from God; at another time they may indicate disappointment and sadness, so that in either case God permits them, and prepares the heart by prayer to receive the blessing, or to endure the sorrow or disappointment. Praise His name for this.

Just when I was about to turn the corner, I saw two ladies coming. I knew them, and they were on the way to the meeting. I thought, “I will let them pass, and I will follow close on behind, and go in just when they are fairly in.” I always tried to avoid anything like pushing myself, or going where I was not wanted. And then I knew how sensitive many white people are about a colored person, so I always kept back. I don't think that anybody can ever say that Amanda Smith pushed herself in where she was not wanted. I was something like the groundhog; when he sees his shadow he goes in; I always could see my shadow far enough ahead to keep out of the way. But I thought as Mr. Pearson Smith had so kindly told me that it would be all right for me to go to this meeting, that I would not be intruding; no, certainly not. When these ladies got up to me, they stopped, and spoke to me very kindly; they said, “Well, Amanda Smith, how does thee do? Is thee going to the meeting?”

“Yes,” I said, “I have heard and read a good deal about the meeting, and I thought I would go to-day.”

I saw they looked a little nervous or queer, so I said to them, “I met Mr. Pearson Smith the other day, and he told me to go; there would be no objection, and the meetings were very wonderful in blessing, and he thought I would enjoy them.”

“Well, Amanda,” one of the ladies said, “the meeting will be very full to-day, and there will be a great many very wealthy ladies in from Germantown, and West Philadelphia, and Walnut Hills, and the meetings are especially for this class, and I think thee had better not go to-day; some other day would be better for thee.” And then they politely bowed, and went on.

I never said a word. I was dumbfounded; and there I stood. I thought, “How is this? I have been praying about this meeting ever since I saw Mr. Smith, and I have been expecting a real feast to my soul to-day, and now these ladies feel it won't do for me to go, because I am a colored woman, and so many of the wealthy ladies will be there. They don't know but that the Lord may have sent a message to some of them through me.” So I said, “I will linger about till I know the meeting is well begun, then I will go and stand at the door.”

Now I felt in my heart it was right to do this instead of going back home. I did so. “And after all it may be I may hear the word the Lord has for me; for He meant something by my coming.” So I slipped in quietly and stood at the door; there were a number of others standing up. Just as Mrs. Smith was in the midst of her good Bible address, sure enough the Lord had a message for me, and I got a great blessing as I stood at the door. Praise the Lord!

And now, the change is, instead of Amanda Smith, the colored washwoman's presence having a bad effect on a meeting where ladies of wealth and rank are gathered to pray and sing His blessing, they think a failure more possible if the same Amanda Smith, the colored woman, cannot be present. This is all the Lord's doings, and marvelous in our eyes.

At the close of this meeting as the ladies were passing out, one and another came to me and spoke to me, and shook hands; “Why, this is Amanda Smith.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, here is Amanda Smith; why didn't you sing?” And another, “Oh, I have heard you.” And another, “Oh, I wish you had sung such a piece.” And another, “Why didn't you speak?” And another, “I have heard you sing such a piece at Ocean Grove at such a time, or at Round Lake.” I was glad of this, for I thought, “After all, I have not spoiled the spirit of the meeting.”

But then, I was not so well known then, and many people were shy of me, and are yet. But I belong to Royalty, and am well acquainted with the King of Kings, and am better known and better understood among the great family above than I am on earth. But I thank God the time is coming, and we “Shall know each other better when the mists have rolled away.” Hallelujah! Amen.

In May, '70, or '71, the General Conference of the A. M. E. Church was held at Nashville, Tenn. It was the first time they ever held a General Conference south of Mason and Dixon's line. I had been laboring in Salem, where the Lord first sent me, and blessed me in winning souls; the people were not rich; they gave me a home, and something to eat; but very little money. So, before I could get back to New York, my home, I took a service place, at Mrs. Mater's, in Philadelphia, corner of Coach and Brown streets, while her servant, Mary, went to Wilmington to see her child; she was to be gone a month, but she stayed five weeks; and now the Annual Conference was in session, at the A. M. E. Union Church, near by where I was, so I had a chance to attend.

The election of delegates to the General Conference the next year was a very prominent feature of the Conference; of course every minister wanted, or hoped to be elected as delegate. As I listened, my heart throbbed. This was the first time in all these years that this religious body of black men, with a black church from beginning to end, was to be assembled south of Mason and Dixon's line.

But the great battle had been fought, and the victory won; slavery had been abolished; we were really free. There, were enthusiastic speeches made on these points. Oh, how I wished I could go; and a deep desire took possession of me; but then, who was I? I had no money, no prominence at that time, except being a plain Christian woman, heard of and known by a few of the brethren, as a woman preacher, which was to be dreaded by the majority, especially the upper ten. Fortunately I had a good friend in Bishop Campbell, knowing him so well years before he was elected to this office. Also Bishop Wayman, Bishop Brown, and Bishop Quinn, were friends of mine. I believe I always had their sympathy and friendship. But there was no opportunity for me to speak to them personally. So I ventured to ask one of the brethren, who had been elected delegate, to tell me how much it would cost to go to Nashville; I would like to go if it did not cost too much.

He looked at me in surprise, mingled with half disgust; the very idea of one looking like me to want to go to General Conference; they cut their eye at my big poke Quaker bonnet, with not a flower, not a feather. He said, “I tell you, Sister, it will cost money to go down there; and if you ain't got plenty of it, it's no use to go;” and turned away and smiled; another said:

“What does she want to go for?”

“Woman preacher; they want to be ordained,” was the reply.

“Oh, I was delighted. I didn't know this was anywhere in the region where Lincoln's monument was. Of course I was glad of the opportunity, and went with them. We were gone all day. I went up into the top of the monument and wrote on the wall, “Rock of Ages.”

I shall never forget that wonderful scene to me. I had never seen anything like it before in my life.

After we had visited round and seen what we could, we came back, and got back to the camp ground about half-past five o'clock. Brother and Sister Inskip, with a number of the other brethren and friends, had been invited to Mrs. Blank's tent to tea. Mrs. Little and I had been invited also. When I got there they were just through tea, and they said, “Oh, Mrs. Smith, we have been waiting for you, but we could not wait any longer.”

“Oh, I'm so glad; I just this minute got here.”

Mrs. Inskip was just going off to take charge of the Young People's Meeting; she said, “As soon as you are through, Mrs. Smith, I want you to come down and help me in the Young People's Meeting.”

I noticed that a number of these young people kept smiling and laughing, and I could not tell what was up.

So Mrs. Inskip went on, and I sat down to have my tea. Then I noticed several of the gentlemen and ladies, and they talked and smiled, and I said, “What is up? You all seem to be so happy.”

“Oh, well, Mrs. Smith,” they said, “never mind; when you are through, come into the tent; we want to see you before you go to Mrs. Inskip's meeting.”

They had along table spread in the rear of the tent, In the old-fashioned camp meeting style, loaded with good things.

Now I had not breathed to a soul what I had prayed about. No one knew but God the prayer I prayed In the woods on Saturday night before. When I got through my supper I went into the tent; and after a little pleasant passing of words, a gentleman arose and said, “Well, Sister Smith, Sister Gardner, and some other ladies, have got a little purse for you, and they want me to present it to you, for you to go to Knoxville;” then handing it over to me, he presented me with fifty dollars and fifty-five cents.

Well, there was my money for Knoxville. Mrs. Gardner told me she could have got a hundred dollars just as easy as she got the fifty; but the word of the Lord to her was, “Get Amanda Smith fifty dollars to go to Knoxville.”

I seemed to see a great heathen town. There were the great boa-constrictors, and there the great lions and panthers, and there was my poor child. Oh! how I wept. But I said, “Lord, somebody must go to Africa, and I am too old to learn, so I cannot go. But I can, I will, I do, consecrate my child to Thee for Africa. My heart aches, but, Lord, help me. I give her to Thee. She is Thine, and Thou canst take care of her.”

I suppose I was there for an hour or two, but I never left my knees till I felt I had given her fully to God for Africa.

“Now, Lord,” I said, “open the way for me to get her educated, so that she will not have the difficulty that I have if you want her to go. Lord, I don't want her to read books and get worked up in that way, but help me to educate her, and then sanctify her wholly and send her whither Thou wilt.”

When I arose from my knees, my heart was calm and restful. And now my thought was to get her educated. I prayed, and watched every indication.

Several days later I chanced to meet that good man, Dr. Ward, and during our conversation I began telling him my experience, and how I was looking to the Lord about my daughter's education, and asked him where would be a good school for her.

“Oh!” said he, “I wish I had known this yesterday. I have just given away a scholarship to some one (calling the name), and if I had known of your wish I would have been so glad to give it to you.”

Well, it seemed that all was lost. But still I hoped. This was the first of my thinking of going to Africa.

I had worked so hard, and helped Mazie. She had been at Oberlin for a year, and at Xenia, and got on very nicely. But I could not keep up the expense. But at that time I was only thinking to fit her for a teacher, and selfishly had planned in my mind that if I could help it she should not have to slave and work hard day and night as I had done. So I thought when I got old she would be in a position to help herself and me, and I could keep the home and look after everything while she was away teaching, and we could be so happy together, so that my last days would be happy.

But, alas! how disappointed I have been, even in the shadow of such a hope. Every wish in that direction has been swept away, and I have had to surrender that cherished hope. I thought I could not bear it. Oh! how I had to cry to God for enduring grace. And He has given it, and I am wonderfully upheld by His almighty hand. His grace is sufficient, even when we are disappointed in our brightest hopes.

She is married and settled in her own home, and I am where I was when I first started, so far as that is concerned. And now my prayer before the Lord is, that He will save her soul in His own way. While her name is on the church record, yet like so many dear souls, I fear she has but little spiritual life!

Time went on, and I saw no way to get my daughter educated for Africa.

One summer we were at Ocean Grove with Mrs. Sanders. She had bought some lots, and they had a fine cottage right on the lake. So she invited me and Mazie to come down and spend the summer for the camp meeting. They had put up a large tent, which Mazie and I occupied, on one of these vacant lots, beautifully situated, near the lake. They had a great deal of company, so Mazie and I used to go in, and wait on the table, and help with the work.

One morning I was busy helping in the kitchen before I went to the meeting; Mazie had been waiting on the table in the dining room; and Mrs. Sanders said to me:

“Amanda Smith, come into the parlor; I want to speak to you.”

I did so, and she said, “I see that Mazie is just as smart as a steel trap; now, why don't you get her into school?”

Then I told her my story, how I had been praying, and how I had been watching and waiting for the Lord to open some way. I told her I had done the best I could, and the expenses were so heavy I found I could not keep Mazie in school. I had done what I could for her for two years, so I thought she would have to do the next herself; I had given it up. But as she talked on I seemed to see this was the way the Lord was to answer my prayer.

It was just as the camp meeting was closing, so Mrs. Sanders said:

“Now, if you find a place for her to go to school, I will help you to get all her outfit, and send her, if you can do the other.”

I thanked her, and told her I would do what I could. I had heard of a good school in Baltimore, and as my aunt lived there I wrote and asked her about it; she kindly replied, and spoke highly of the school; so that what she said confirmed what I had heard before; and then she was where she could look after my child; so this decided me.

The next week Mrs. Sanders went to New York and bought all her outfit, everything, and I went to work and got her ready, and I think it was about the third week in September we were off to Baltimore. She was at that school a year. Strange to say, just before the close of the year I got a letter from the matron, and she said Mazie was very smart; she was getting along nicely. If I could only just leave her for one year longer it would be the making of her. It was a pity to take her just now. And I wondered if I could stand it another year.

I went to the Lord and prayed, and asked Him to help me and strengthen me, and to open the way for me to get the means to keep her just another year.

About two or three weeks after I had decided to let her remain another year, the Lord seemed to open my way clearly to go to England. I only expected to stay three months, and I thought how nice it would be, while she was in school, and was not losing any time, and would be well cared for, and under good discipline and control, and then my aunt could look after her.

Everything seemed to be favorable. So in July, 1878, after I had gone to Baltimore and spent a week with her, I left her, and went to England. Instead of getting back in three months, as I had thought and planned, I was away for over twelve years.

After I had been in England about three months, the Lord made it very clear to me that I was to remain longer; so I thought three months longer; but when six months had passed, my way seemed to be shut up to come home, but open to remain. Now, people say, “But how was that?” That is just what I say; for I do not understand it yet, and could not explain it; but I am just as sure that God was in it, as I am of my own existence. It is one of God's inexplicable dealings. I wrote and sent money home to my daughter, and had made all arrangements for her for two years.

Then she wrote and told me she thought I had paid money enough for her, and that she wanted to come out of school, and had an opportunity for a situation as teacher; so I agreed to that. I knew she was clever enough, and quite able to do this, if she chose. A little while later on she wrote me that a young man had proposed marriage to her. I told her I had rather she would not marry. She had quite time enough, and it would be so much better for her to come to England and spend at least a year or two first.

I saw that her teaching plan was pretty well upset when she got the marrying spirit; and she was like many other young people; they cannot hear reason or anything when they take a notion to get married. If I had been at home, I think I should have forbidden it; but being away, I thought if anything should happen I would always blame myself. But I urged her to come to England and wait a while; then she wrote me she had decided to do so. Many of my friends in England, who had been interested in her, were delighted. They had written to her, and she was all for coming to England. So I got the money all ready and was just about to send it for her to come. All the arrangements were made. But I thought to myself, “I will wait for a letter from Mazie before I send it.” And when the letter came she wrote me very frankly that the young man had persuaded her to wait till after she was married, and then come to England.

“No,” I said, “if you come to England married you won't belong to me; you will belong to some one else; and if you can risk losing the opportunity that not many colored girls have had, and that you will not have again, and think more of the man, and take him in preference after all I have said, I guess the safest plan is that you remain.” And I think so yet. But she could not have got a kinder husband, or one that did a better part by her, if I had been living right here with her. It is wonderful how the Lord provided in that.

In answer to prayer, the Lord opened my way to attend Yarmouth Camp Meeting. There I heard for the first time of the landing of the Pilgrims on Plymouth Rock. It seemed the Lord had appointed that grove especially for a camp meeting grove. There I first saw the famous Hutchinson family. Mr. Asa Hutchinson, his wife, two sons, and a daughter, Miss Abbie, how well I remember them; their noble, kind-heartedness. They had me sing with them several times. Although all have passed away, the precious memory of them still remains.

Through the kindness of Rev. B. F. Pomeroy, of the Troy Conference, I had my quarters during the camp meeting in one of his little tents. I shall never forget how kind he and his dear wife were to me. He used often to sit down and tell me wonderful things about God's dealings with him, which often strengthened my faith, and helped me. Praise the Lord! Many lights there are along the shore that never grow dim.

I had been asked by the pastor of the Methodist Church, at Martha's Vineyard, to go to Martha's Vineyard Camp Meeting. He said he believed God would have me go, and that they had a society tent that they would put up on the camp ground, “and,” said he, “you can stay with us and we will look after you.”

This was on Wednesday. He said he must leave on Friday, but I could come with his wife and children. So I told Brother Pomeroy about it. He seemed to think is was not just the thing for me to go. He said that years ago that used to be the great place, the power of the Lord used to come on that camp ground in the old-fashioned way. “They have but very little of the Spirit now-a-days. They go more as a picnic, not the Holy Ghost times of the past.”

Well, he was always so good in his counsel that I thought it was the thing, of course, not to go; still, I thought that it they were so orderly and lifeless the more need there was for me to go, I might help a little.

At the close of the morning service at the stand that day the Presiding Elder called out to all the tent holders within the circle to close the front of their tent, and there was to be no walking inside the circle from half-past twelve till two, when the afternoon service would commence.

During this interval I took my Bible and went into the woods about a half mile away, all alone, to ask God about going to Martha's Vineyard, and there, as I prayed and told the Lord how I had been asked to go, that Brother P. was a good man, and he said he thought I had better not go, and I wanted He should show me His will.

“Lord,” I said, “if Thou dost want me to take any message I will do it for Thee.”

So it was, whispered to we to read, and I opened my Bible to see what the Lord would give me. Mal. 14, 1st verse: “And the Lord said go speak as I command you.” I was afraid and said, “O, Lord, I am a stranger and a colored woman, and the people are proud and wicked, as has been told me,” and I wept and trembled, but he said, “Go, do as I command you.”

I arose from my knees and went back to the tent, but I did not dare to tell brother P. what I had done. So the last day came, and when Brother P. began to take down their tent they wanted me to go with them to another camp meeting, but I said, “No, the Lord bids me go to Martha's Vineyard.” They said they thought I was mistaken. But I said nothing.

I prayed for the Lord to give me means. I would take it as an indication that I was to go. The next morning I went into Father Snow's tent. We had a wonderful meeting. After the regular meeting was closed, several people asked me to sing, and a crowd gathered around. Some were standing on the benches. Some one dropped a two dollar note in my lap; that was my first token for the money, and I looked up and praised the Lord. Then there came a one dollar bill, then another, and so on till I had seven dollars. Just then a strange lady turned to me and said:

“Have you ever been to Martha's Vineyard?”

“No.”

“I believe the Lord wants you there, and if you will go I will give you a good place to sleep.”

This lady's name was Mrs. Jenkins. She said her daughter was on from Baltimore, and had taken a cottage for the summer; that she had such a nice colored woman who was nurse for her. Then she wrote her name and address on a card and said, “I leave to-day and want you to come to our cottage, if you come.” I thanked her and said, “All right, madam.” When the day came I started off with Mrs.—and the children and servant. The Lord seemed to have ordered everything.

Going up on the boat I went to pay my fare, and some one said, “Your fare has been paid.”

“Praise the Lord,” but I said I did not know the parties, so that I could thank them. So several of us sat down to dinner; when I went to pay they said, “Your bill is settled,” and so there was another, “praise the Lord!” I could see so far very clearly the hand of the Lord in it.

When we reached the camp ground, Martha's Vineyard, it was found that the society tent that the pastor had told me about had been exchanged and another sent in its place, and after all we did not have any tent, so what should we do. I said to the pastor's wife, “What shall I do?”

“I don't know,” she said, “what we shall do now, we will have to see about sending it back and getting our own.”

As he turned to face the congregation, his sister, that he had not seen for years, was just behind him. She had been praying for him, but she did not know that he was there, nor did he know that she was there. She sprang to him and threw her arms around his neck and they had a good time of rejoicing together. This had a marvelous effect upon the congregation. A number came forward, and many professed to be saved that night.

One dear woman that I met last fall at the Saturday night holiness meeting, told me she was converted at that meeting; also her husband and two children. She told me how she disliked me because I was a colored woman; how she went to church full of prejudice, but when God saved her He took it all out, and now she loves me as a sister and thinks I have a beautiful color! Of course, I call that a good conversion to begin with.

Some people don't get enough of the blessing to take prejudice out of them, even after they are sanctified.

Sometime after this I went to Pittman Church. Rev. George McLaughlin was pastor. The church was not finished. We held meetings in the lecture room, a fine large room that would hold over three hundred, I suppose, and every night it was packed. Here we had a grand time from the start. On Sunday afternoon we had a marvelous meeting. At that meeting dear Brother Alkhorn got the blessing of sanctification, after seeking it for thirty years, as he said in his testimony when he arose. I shall never forget that Sabbath afternoon. The Lord wonderfully helped me to speak for Him.

Brother McLaughlin was a grand, good man to work with, though he was not very definite on the line of holiness, but he said to me, “Sister Smith, you go ahead; I am with you.” So he put no bands on and I had perfect freedom, thank God.

Brother Alkhorn was a local preacher; was a converted man and had been for years, and always longed for the blessing of full salvation. He was thorough Wesleyan as well as Scriptural in his views of the doctrine. He said he would preach it and sometimes would believe he had it, then he would meet with ministers that did not see it as he did, and declare that all was done at conversion. Then he would get in the dark again, and this was the way he went on for years.

He kept a bakery on Lumber street. I got to know him and the family very well. He was a member of the Western Methodist Church, and I think Dr. Patterson was the pastor at the time of his death.

He sat that Sunday afternoon about three pews from the altar, while many testimonies were given—many of them very definite and clear—to the experience and power of this great salvation. Then we had an altar service, and I urged those who really desired to know the experience for themselves to come forward and kneel at the altar, and settle it then and there. A number came forward. I saw Brother A. get up deliberately, take off his overcoat, fold it together, and then take his hat and cane and walk forward and hand them to some of the brethren. And as he kneeled at the altar, he said, “Brethren, I want the blessing.” And he began to pray like he wanted it, indeed; and in a little while he sank down into a calm, and said, “It is done, praise the Lord. The blood cleanseth; glory to Jesus.” He arose and bore the testimony that I have already given.

In about a year, I think it was, after this, he met with a sad accident; was thrown from his wagon, and in a few days died. But, O, he triumphs over death, hell and the grave!

I lost a true friend when he was taken, that is, as the world would say, but I have a never dying friend in Jesus. Praise His dear name forever.

At the same altar, kneeling just a little further along from where Brother Alkhorn kneeled, a great big man, a Dutchman, was kneeling. He had been seeking the Lord for fifteen years, off and on, but never got into clear light. The people at the altar were all getting blessed, and rising one after the other, and it was getting late and time for the meeting to close. This poor man got into an awful struggle. He cried out, “Lord, save me.” He wouldn't get up.

“Hold on,” I shouted, “you are nearly out.”

I felt things were giving way, and I said, “All you need, all you want, is a little more faith in Jesus,” and his poor wife felt she could not hold on any longer. She came inside the altar and was just about to throw her arms around his neck. She was overcome with sympathy for him. I caught her and said, “Oh, what ever you do, don't touch him; you will hinder him.”

“Oh,” she said, “I have prayed so long.”

I held on to her and kept her back, while the brethren were encouraging his faith. In a few minutes he sprang to his feet, shouting at the top of his voice, “I am saved, I am saved. Glory to Jesus! Glory to Jesus!”

I let his wife go and he caught her up in his arms, then he let her go and caught hold of some of the brethren. Oh, how he shouted! I kept out of the way; of course I wouldn't interfere. So this was a good start for our meeting for the week.

We went on for ten days, and there were scores converted. During all this time the interest never flagged one night.

Brother M. wanted me to stay longer, but I could not. I had an engagement at Long Island, with Brother Hollis. It was at this time my house in Philadelphia was planned for, without my knowledge. About two weeks after, I got a letter from Mrs. James Orr. She said, “Some friends are planning to buy you a house, but they don't want you to know it, so don't let on that I have told you.”

I was dreadfully frightened, and as soon as I had read the letter I got on my knees and prayed that the Lord would not let them succeed in getting the house that they were planning for. I thought it was too much for me. I said, the idea of a poor woman like me having a house given to her! There must be something wrong about it. Oh, how I prayed!

Several days after this I got another letter, saying that the house they were looking at and wanted, they could not get. There was. something that was not just satisfactory in regard to the deed, so I thought the Lord had answered my prayer, and it was all right.

In a day or two I was off again, holding meetings. After ten days, I came home. A number of letters were waiting for me—two from Philadelphia. I opened and read them. The first was from the same person. She said, “Don't say I told you, for they want to surprise you. They have looked at another house and have made arrangements to buy, and will pay so much to close the bargain, such a day.”

That was all done two days before I got home, as I saw by the date of the letter. Then I thought it all over. I said, I have never asked the Lord to give me a house, and I wonder if He really wants me to have it. It must mean something, for why should these people persist in getting the house for me? I am a colored woman, and they are all white, and they are strangers. So then I got down and prayed the Lord to bless and prosper those who had undertaken it. The lady that wrote me had told me how that everybody was favorable to it, how much Chaplain Gibben and his wife were interested and had given quite a sum to start with. Well, it did look as though the Lord was in it.

Then I opened the other letters. There was one from the very gentleman who was the proposer, and who had set the thing going, Brother Andrew Marshall. He was well known in Philadelphia, one of the leading men in Pittman Church at the time, and a man doing a large business in the bakery and confectionery, and a good man, so I could but feel the Lord was in it. He told me all about it. The house was three thousand dollars, subject to the ground rent of sixty dollars a year. Two thousand dollars of this money had already been provided for through friends of Mr. Marshall's, so that I had nothing to do with this part of it in any way; I must only be ready to come at the time they said. So away I went for two weeks more.

When I returned there were letters. The house was bought, the deed was made out in my name, and I only to come on. They said you need not bring anything if you don't care to. Some of the ladies of Pittman, with Mrs. Orr, had gone to work and furnished two rooms, the front bed-room upstairs, and the front parlor downstairs; everything nice and comfortable. So I got ready and went.

I took a very few things; I had not many. My dear old irons and ironing-board, that had seen me through so many hard places in New York, I couldn't forget them nor leave them behind! Then the little, low, old chair that I had kneeled beside and fought such a battle, on the remembrance of the New York riot after I was sanctified! I said, “I must take these things anyhow.”

It was late on Saturday evening before I got off, so I did not get to the house till about seven P. M. Then, sure enough, at 1817 Addison street, a nice little three story brick house, nice white marble steps in front, all lighted with gas!

It was very nice. Then there were a number of friends gathered, and a good warm fire. I didn't know what to do or say, and I praised the Lord, and thanked the people, and I said, “Is it really mine?” Then they handed me the deed. Then I said, “Let us pray.”

That seemed out of order, for we were all too happy to pray, so we sang the Doxology.

Well, I tried my best to beg off from Mr. Parker—I told him how tired I was, and how much I needed rest. I told him I would give him the whole month of September if he would let me off.

No, he said, his official board told him he must have me come, if but for a week, and I told him I would let him know the next week. I prayed earnestly that the Lord would give me strength and help me through that week, and it was wonderful how He did help me as I have often asked Him before. So on Monday morning I went to see if I could prevail on Dr. Parker to let me have the rest, but no word I could say moved him from what he had said first.

Just when we were busy talking the bell rang, and Dr. Parker was called away. Then a Miss Price, a friend of Mrs. Parker's, was there visiting. She was an English lady; had been in this country about four years, and was expecting to go home in April. She was very pleasant, and I began telling her and Mrs. Parker how I was trying to beg the Doctor to let me off for a rest. So finally Miss Price said, “Well, you do need rest; you had better come and go with me to England next month; it would be just the thing for you. The great Parts Exposition is going on, and I would take you, and we would have a real nice time, and I know the trip would do you good.”

“Yes,” I said, “that would be nice.”

“Well,” she said, “pray about it; I believe the Lord would have you go.”

Just then Mr. Parker came in again. No more was said about England. He fixed on the day I was to come to Sands Street. I closed my last meeting at the “Mayflower” on Saturday night. There was a blessed work done, the result of which eternity alone will tell.

On Sunday afternoon was our first meeting at Sands Street. The old church was crowded. Our first meeting was for the young people and children, and I began by asking the older people, strangers and all, here and there, all over the house, upstairs and down, as I would call them out, “Brother, how old were you when you gave your heart to the Lord?” Then I would ask a sister.

There were some real gem testimonies to the grace of God, and this encouraged and helped the young people very much, so when I began our altar service it was not long till the altar was crowded, and many of the dear young people and children professed to have found peace in believing that day. I spent a week, putting in two Sundays, and the Lord was with us and gave us blessing all through. Praise His name!

At the close of this meeting Miss Price came up to me and spoke to me, and said, “Did you pray about what I told you?”

I didn't recognize her at first, and I said, “About what?”

“Don't you know Miss Price, that spoke to you on Monday about going to England?”

“Oh, yes, I do remember you now.”

“Well, did you pray about it?”

“No,” I said. “I did not.”

“Well,” she said, “you must; I believe the Lord would have you go.”

So that night when I went home and got ready for bed, the thought came to me, “You know that lady told you to pray about going to England,” I said, “Yes, that is so.”

I thought a moment and said to myself:

“Go to England! Amanda Smith, the colored washwoman, go to England! No, I am not going to pray a bit; I have to ask the Lord for so many things that I really need, that I am not going to bother Him with what I don't need—to go to England. It does well enough for swell people to go, not for me.”

So, after I had this little talk all to myself, I said my prayers and went to bed. On Tuesday afternoon I was invited to tea to Brother Parker's. There were several others, also. Dr. Parker's brother, a young man, had just come from the old country. The Doctor was well pleased to receive him safe, so we were having a pleasant chat at the tea table. The young man was telling of his pleasant voyage across the sea. Then Dr. Parker told what a grand time he had when he came. He said the sea was beautiful and calm as a mill pond. He told how they had danced—the passengers I think he referred to; as he was a Methodist preacher, I don't suppose he indulged in dancing.

I listened attentively to all, for I never knew the sea was calm. My idea of the great sea was that it was always rough and tossing. I know I used to sing that good old hymn:—

“Like the rough sea that cannot rest.”

So that was my best idea of the grand old ocean. I have learned a great deal about it since then.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Bordman, is it you, the joy of my heart?”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Keswick Convention.”

“Why, that is just where we are going.”

Then she introduced me to the lady that was with her and we had a beautiful time and pleasant journey to Keswick.

The house where Mrs. B. and her friend had lodged was full, but they said they thought to get me a place near by.

Of course no one knew I was really coming, I had got Mrs. Johnson's letter telling me all about how to come, but I had no time to write and tell her I had decided to do so, so, in a little while after we had got to the house, dear Dr. Bordman went to see about my lodgings. It was in St. John's Lane. The landlady told him she could accommodate me for the night, but the next day she was expecting two young men who had engaged the rooms. So I went off to my lodgings.

The lady was a very pleasant old lady, a widow. She was quite alone, but had such a pretty home, like so many one sees in England. The room was large; everything was elegant and rich, but old-fashioned; high bedstead, with heavy curtains around. I was glad when the night came, to go to bed. I had never been so long in such close quarters as in the cabin on the steamer, and I longed to have a good, free time without shaking. It was July, dreadfully hot here in America, but so cool in England that I could sleep with the windows closed and under a blanket.

“My! I never knew the luxury of an English feather-bed till that night. Oh, it was so elegant, a great big English feather-bed, I had never seen anything like it, though I had seen many a large feather bed here in America. I lay all over it. I said, “I want to get the benefit of this feather-bed, I will only have it for one night.”

My! what a nice sleep I had; how refreshed and rested I was the next morning; how full of praise my heart was to God for His kindness in bringing me safely to England and giving me such a token of His favor among the people that received me; I shall never forget it.

I got up next morning, did up my room, and was to go to Mrs. Bordman's to have my breakfast with them. Before going out I thought to myself how I should like to stay here; it just seems like as if this is the place the Lord wants me to be, but the lady has said she could accommodate me only for the night, and of course I can't ask her when she has said she expects the young men. Then I got down on my knees and said my prayers, and I said, “Now, Lord, this seems like the very place that Thou dost want me to stay; now, Thou canst manage so that I can stay here, and if it really is Thy will, put it in the lady's heart when I go down stairs to tell me I can stay. I don't want to ask her. She has been so kind, and I am a stranger; but, Lord, I believe that Thou canst manage it for me; surely Thou canst if it is Thy will, so I leave it with Thee. Amen.”

Somehow, my heart was so quiet and full of peace, I felt the Lord would do it, and yet it seemed so strange that He should. I took my bag in my hand and went down. When I got downstairs I met the lady. She bade me good morning and asked me how I slept. I told her, beautifully; I was so refreshed from the comfortable night's sleep. Then she said to me, “I have just had a telegram from one of the young men that was to come, and he has met with a friend he has not seen for a long time, so he is going to stay with him, and the other young man is going with a friend of his; so the room will be vacant and you can stay.”

Oh, I came near shouting right out, but I knew if I did she would think I was wild, so I did say, praise the Lord; but I wanted to dance for joy. Oh, how wonderfully God provided for me. I went down and told Mrs. Bordman, and we had a good time praising the Lord together.

The meeting was held in a big tent in an open lot. There were crowds of poople. As I walked down to the tent and heard the singing, it all seemed very much like home. I was introduced by Mrs. J. to Canon Battersby. No one acted as though I was a black woman, I don't suppose they would have treated Mrs. President of the United States with more Christian courtesy and cordiality than they did me. After the preaching service was over I was introduced by Canon Battersby, and was asked to lead the after meeting. There were clergymen and workers all around, and I felt at first a little awkward. I thought I would never get hold of the way they did things; and they told me just to go right on in my own way, just as I was accustomed to do in America, and they would stand by and assist in anything I wished them to do.

So after talking awhile, I asked those who wanted personal conversion and prayer to stand, and a great number arose all over the tent. I was a little surprised, but I kept looking to the Lord; then I said to the workers and clergymen, “Now, there is a great work to do; these souls must be spoken to, helped and prayed with. I want that all of you should go around and speak to them.” Then I said, “If there are those who would like to come forward and kneel here, they may do so,” though I saw that that was not the custom.

A few came to the front, and in a moment the clergymen and workers were all out in the congregation kneeling and praying with the seekers. By and by one would call out, “Mrs. Smith, here is a soul that has found peace in believing in Jesus.”

That one would stand up and say a word, and then another would call out, “And here is another who wants to say a word,” another and another would call out “Here's another,” so I praised the Lord; and I remember how I was taken back, for I struck in to sing the old Coronation the way we sang it in America, “All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name,” but no one joined, and I thought it was so strange. I went on with the first verse. I knew how it would have rung out at home, but I could not understand why they didn't sing; surely they must know it. They did, but the tune they sing in England is entirely different from that which is sung here.

There was a good Wesleyan brother that was speaking to those that were forward, and I turned to him and said, “Why don't they sing?” He says, “They don't know the tune.” Then I said, “You start it to the tune they all know.” And so he did.

My! how they sung it! And I learned that tune, though I did not like it at first; but now I do. Of course it don't beat the American tune, but still it is grand. Praise the Lord.

I don't know just the number that professed to receive peace that night, but I know it was a goodly number. To God be all the glory. That was my first work in England.

A few days later on I met some ladies from Liverpool who were members of Christ's Church, Everton, where Rev. Hay Adken was formerly rector. They had a large mothers' meeting. This lady, Mrs. Stavely, wanted to know if I would come to Liverpool and hold some meetings. I told her I would see about it and let her know later on. She was very pleasant, and I got to know her afterwards very well. She is among the dearest friends I have in England to-day. Her house is one of my homes. She received the blessing of full salvation when Rev. John Inskip and MacDonald were in England and went on their tour around the world.

Then Mrs. Johnson introduced me to a Mrs. Stephen Menzes, of Eggleston Hills, just out of Liverpool. She is a wonderful lady, does a marvelous work for the Young Women's Christian Association, and was its first organizer, I think. She invited Mrs. Johnson and some other friends to the hotel to dine, and invited me to meet these friends. They were very much interested to know my history and birth—if I was a slave, etc.

Then Mrs. Menzes arranged for me to come to Eggleston Hills. They had a large hall and did great work among the laboring class.

A day or so after that Canon Hopkins came to me with a letter from Lord Mount Temple, of Broadlands, in which his lordship invited me to their convention, to be held in August at Broadlands. I thanked him very kindly, of course. I didn't know who Lord Mount Temple was. I didn't know anything about Broadlands. Then I said, “Oh, I have heard Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Bordman speak of it; I suppose they are all going, and Miss Smiley.”

He smiled and said, “You are invited, Mrs. Smith.”

I knew they had all been there, so I thanked him. I went home and told Mrs. Bordman of it, and she was very kind, but said she didn't think it was at all the thing for me to go to this convention. Well, I didn't know. I knew Mrs. Bordman was a good woman, and she would only say what she thought would be best for me. She said the doctrines and truths that were taught there were rather deep, and it might do me harm, and she only wanted to shield me.

Well, I could not understand it. I went upstairs to my room, took my Bible, got on my knees and began to pray the Lord to show me what His will was in regard to it. Clear and plain as my right hand, though I can't explain, but God showed me it was right I should go, so I thought no more of it.

Afterwards I told Mrs. Johnson. Oh, she thought it was dreadful; surely I must not go by any means. I prayed on. Clearer and clearer it came I was to go. I was invited to a Mr. Brathwait's, at Kendall, a very wealthy Quaker gentleman. Miss Smiley and Mrs. Johnson were there at the same time.

Of course, I was quite a curiosity, to start with. The hall was crowded. It would hold about three hundred, or four hundred. The first two meetings, I saw they were a little afraid that I didn't know what I was going to do. But I was judicious and careful, and the Lord helped me wonderfully. By the time I held the third meeting one could not have told from their manner, and the hearty Scotch co-operation and sympathy with which they stood by me, but what they had been accustomed, not only to women preaching, but to black women, all their days.

Every night there were crowds. Many were turned away; they could not get in. The Lord gave me great liberty in speaking for Him, and many during the meeting professed to have found peace in believing. The first three nights I talked more directly to believers; I saw they were full of the knowledge of the truth, which is a marked characteristic of the Scotch people. They know their Bibles; but they need to know the Holy Ghost to quicken the Word into life and power.

At the close of the meeting one evening, a good, old brother said to me, softly, in his beautiful Scotch accent: “Sister Smith, I think you had better speak more to sinners.”

“Yes,” I said, “but you know there are many sinners in Zion, and I want them to wake up.”

I often find when the truth hits that some one is very anxious you should go for the poor sinners. It is generally a sign that they want to be let alone. But when the Lord leads it is all right.

One morning a lady called to have a talk with me about the great salvation. She knew her Bible well, and was a staunch member of the church, and had been for years; but she had no assurance that she ever was converted. As she went on and told me her state, with tears, I asked the Holy Spirit to help me; and as I talked with her the Lord sent light into her heart; and there in Mrs. Amars' parlor the Holy Spirit witnessed to her heart that she was born of God. We knelt together, and for the first time in her life she opened her lips to pray and thank God for His great mercy, and testify to the family before she left that she had the assurance of her salvation. Praise the Lord! This was a wonderful victory.

My last meeting was held in one of the chapels. We had a large crowd, and though it was a week day morning, about nine o'clock, the chapel was almost crowded. Oh, what a blessed time we had!

As I stood and heard his explanation, my heart caught fire; and I thought how much that is like the blessed Master. Sometimes what brings out the beautiful character is the furnace. And I said, “Oh, Lord, help me to be in Thy hands as this clay is in the potter's hands; and even when the furnace comes, to submit, and not dictate.”

In one of the avenues not far from this place (I'm sorry I can't remember the name), a very wide avenue, with beautiful trees on either side, almost making an arch, there were long rows of gypsy wagons, with everything to sell; a kind of fair—“Vanity Fair.” The minute I saw this it brought to my mind a dream that I had had twenty-three years before. Oh, how marvelous! Everything was almost just as I had dreamed it, twenty-three years before!

We leave Paris at two o'clock in the. afternoon, and travel all night.

Tuesday, September 7th. Reach Turin to-night at eight-thirty.

Wednesday, 8th. Leave this morning for Florence. Reach there at nine at night. Spend the next day sight-seeing. As we traveled by what is called Cooke's coupon system which is very convenient, and gives you every information of places of interest, etc., and as Miss Drake had all that part of the arrangement to attend to, I did not even as much as note the names of the hotels where we stopped in my diary, only, perhaps, once, though I was familiar with all the names and places at the time.

We had a guide given us. We first visited the great Uffizi gallery, with its wonderful collection of works of art, such as I had never seen before, and never shall again. Here was the first time I ever remember hearing the name of the great painter, Michael Angelo.

There was so much that was beautiful, that I could take in but a very little of the whole. I was wonderfully struck with the bust and head of Negro when a boy of ten or fourteen. His countenance was sullen, and I could almost see him as he decided against Christians.

The next place we went to was the National Museum and gallery of fine arts. Here again was pointed out to us the bust of the great sculptor and painter, Michael Angelo, who is held in loving, if not sacred remembrance. It was he who furnished the model for the great dome of St. Peter's of Rome. All this was new to me, and some things I had heard of by the hearing of the ear. But could it be that I, Amanda Smith, was really living, and at Florence, Italy? Many times while they were talking, and the man would be explaining things, I was lost in wonder, love and praise at the Lord's dealings in giving me the privilege to enjoy so much that I never expected could come to one like me. Surely it is His doings, and very marvelous.

Our next visit was to the Baptistry of St. John's. There were those beautiful bronze gates. How magnificent! I can almost see them now as I think it all over. Just as we got there a priest was about to perform the ceremony of baptism to two lovely babies. Two carriages drove up. In the first were the father and mother, with the baby, and the priest. In the second was the party with the other baby. They were exquisitely dressed. I thought I never saw such lovely looking babies in my life. I would like to have just taken them up in my arms and kissed them. They looked more like angels than children. They didn't seem to offer any objections to us looking on. When it was over I saw the fathers pay the priest quite a sum in gold. My heart was sad for the little things, after all; for I thought they will live and die without the true light and knowledge of the glorious Gospel of the Son of God.

Thursday, September 9th. We leave this morning for Rome. Arrive about five P. M. How accommodating and courteous they are at the hotel. We got on splendidly. Here in this great old historic city there is much to admire, and much to be sad for. Poverty and wealth seem to rival each other. I think I got some little idea what it meant for a country to be priest ridden. Everywhere you go, up and down, every few stations on the railroad, every train you get off of, or on, priests; all through the streets, in every turn you make, you see a priest coming or going; or two or three or four; scattered in every direction, priests. I never saw so many priests and monks in my life. Old men, with gray hair, who had never done a day's work in their lives; large, well, strong looking men. Some of them looked almost like idiots; their brain, and muscle, and thought had never been developed. They had never worn stockings, or shoes. They wore sandals, and just straight gowns of the coarsest material, with a cord, a piece of common clothes line, round the waist, and the ends, which were tied in knots to keep it from untwisting, hung almost to the bottom of the gown; the sleeves were long, and came over the hands, something like the Chinese we see here.

You could see these men, in any numbers, walking about. Sometimes you would see them leading a donkey, with a load of grass, which they had gathered, and were bringing into town to sell. They generally visited the hotels, with a little bunch of parsley, and an onion, and a carrot, to sell as pot herbs. How I pitied them when I first saw them. I gave them some pennies. Of course, I didn't take the pot herbs; I didn't need them. But I soon found out that that was their business. I never saw one look clean. Oh, how horrible!

And these are the men they call holy, because they give up the world, and practice such rigid self-denial. How glad I am that God nowhere teaches that men have to go into filth and indolence in order to be holy. But He does say: “Cleanse yourself from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit and perfect holiness in the fear of the Lord.” This is always the way when men change the truth of God for a lie, and begin to worship and adore the creature more than the Creator.

Sunday, 12th. Miss Drake was tired, so she did not go out to church in the morning. But I wanted to have it to say that I had been to church in Rome. So I started off alone to the nearest English church. The schedule of the principal hotels and churches hangs in the office; so I had no difficulty in finding it. So I went.

I found it was a High Church, almost Roman Catholic. They had candles, and choir boys, and they turned toward the east and bowed, and the atmosphere seemed like a vault. All this was new to me, for I had never been in a Protestant High Church before. How unsatisfying all this to one who knows Christ. For Him there is no substitute.

Monday, 1st. A grand day sightseeing. We had our carriage and our guide. What I was most anxious to see was St. Peter's. So to this we went first. The magnificence of this great historic old church cannot be described by me. As we walked through its large corridors and halls, and as I stood and looked up at the great dome, I was almost awe-stricken. It seemed as though it was a mile away, in the sky. What stupendous thought had been put into its architecture, coloring, and statuary.

A little to the right of the main entrance was a statue of St. Peter, in bronze, life size. I had heard that it had been visited by thousands of people, and that the great toe on the right foot had been kissed till it had been worn quite smooth. I went up and examined it, and found its smoothness really a fact; but whether the result of constant kissing, or whether from some other cause, I cannot say. I had no inclination whatever to kiss the toe; but I laid my right hand on it, and it felt cold. I said to myself, as I saw many come in and stand before it, and cross themselves and pray, “That is all they get in return for their long pilgrimages, and their prayers and tears.” How sad! How glad I am that the lines have fallen to me in a more pleasant place, and I have a goodly heritage. Praise the Lord!

The next visit was to the Vatican and we walked through the great corridors, and admired the statuary and paintings, and my head ached with seeing so much. As we were passing down through a beautiful walk we heard some one shout out to us in a language we did not understand; but they motioned to us to get out of the way, and we stepped aside, and there came the Pope in his sedan chair, with his body guard seven or eight men, returning from his morning outing; some were walking in front of him, some by his side, and others behind. And I thought to myself, “It was only a few years since that I heard the infallibility of the Pope was declared.” And I thought if infallibility had to be guarded like that, what would be my safety in trusting in it. No. My faith is in the infallibility of God only.

The next was the Coliseum, with its ruined walls. As the man went on telling us the great stories, and pointing out things of interest and explaining, I sometimes wondered if all he said was real fact, in every instance. But no one questions the veracity of the guides when one is sight-seeing. They are supposed to know everything you ask them, of course.

He told us of the great arena where the Christians were thrown in and devoured by the starved lions, while thousands of spectators were gathered in the amphitheatre, to look on, with delight. And then I thought of Fox's Book of Martyrs, that I remember reading when I was quite a girl, and sometimes I wonder if much of the spirit of the age is not akin to it. Christianity has done wonders. Hallelujah!

Then the Appian Way was pointed out to us, and the guide said, “That is the very road on which they brought Paul front the prison to the court.” There was the very floor, inlaid in marble, like a pavement, on which he said Paul stood before Nero.

The next was the Catacombs. We went down about six feet under ground, and entered a little narrow passage, and then he lighted tapers and grave each of us one. Then we entered a very large room; and on the clear, solid wall were beautifully painted a pulpit and altar, and nearly all the ritual of an English church service. The colors were as perfect as if it had been done but a little while; and yet it was more than two hundred years old. There were shelves, or niches, cut out in the rock, where their dead were laid; then these were closed up by masonry. A number of the bodies had been taken out by friends, and these spaces were open; but some remained still closed up. They had to go in and out by these subterranean passages, quietly. How much they must have suffered for His name in those dark days of persecution. As I thought it all over, I said, “Oh, will history repeat itself? May God in mercy deliver us.”

I was foolish enough to start off in a different direction from the others, alone; though the guide had said to me when we first went in, “Now keep close to me;” but, as he stood explaining and talking to Miss Drake, I turned into, as I thought, another room. But the turns were very intricate to one who does not know. It all seemed to me as the same hallway. But when I found myself I was out of the hearing of the others altogether. I kept turning, but didn't seem to come near them. Then I began to get frightened. Then I thought I would stand right still; and so I did, and prayed the Lord to help me. In a little while they came, looking for me.

The guide said I did quite right to stop, for then they came and found me. If I had gone on turning they might have missed me entirely.

My! I shudder as I think of it. But he never had to tell me to keep close after that. What a lesson I learned. I shall never forget it. I had the lighted taper in my hand, but I should have obeyed my guide, and kept close, as he had told me. God gives us His Spirit, but we must walk in the light of the Spirit; then we will not fulfill the lust of the flesh, going in our own way. May He help us. Amen!

Wednesday, September 15th. We leave Rome to-day for Naples. The little prayer I breathed just as we were starting, was, “Oh, God, for Christ's sake, send upon Rome the mighty power of the Holy Ghost. Let the people be awakened.”

We reached Naples at about half past five or six o'clock P. M. The hotel where we stopped was very fine. We preferred stopping at a hotel where English was mostly spoken, as neither Miss Drake nor I were familiar with the French language. We noticed the city abounded with churches; and, on our way up from the station in the 'bus, as we passed several, the doors being open, as is usual, we could see persons in the confession boxes; some would be coming out, and others going in; and so many poor people seemed to be going hither and yon; and monks coming and going, as we saw at Rome. After we had our supper, as we were very weary, we soon retired.

Thursday, 16th. Up early this morning, feeling quite refreshed from our journey. As we had but a day to spend, we thought we would do some sight-seeing; so we got a carriage and a guide, and drove to some of the principal points of interest. The most interesting, to me, was the great museum, which is quite elevated, and off in the distance we could see Mt. Vesuvius quite distinctly. One could see it very plainly on a clear day; but it shows very much better on a clear night. It looks like a great burning furnace in the distance. Then we went through the museum, and there we saw Pompeii in statuary, as it was, and as it is, in ruins.

I had heard of excavations from Pompeii, and had read some little about them, but now I stood by them. Many of the things which were explained to us have gone from my memory since then, but some are very distinct. I remember one figure showed a baker; there he stood by the oven, seemingly just in the act of putting in bread; there was the table, with the bread and pans, all perfect. Another was a person lying on a sofa, asleep. There were policemen standing at the gates going into the city, all perfect. All this seemed to me so wonderful; and when the man was explaining all these things to us, sometimes it would thrill through me with sadness.

Friday, Feb. 13th. Dear Jennie Frow is not so well to-day. God bless her! It is now Jennie Fuller. She was married since then. We leave to-day for Nagpore. Praise God for His great care over us during the night. We had to drive with the bullocks this fifty-one miles back to Acola. They had been mending the road, and there was a great deep gutter about a quarter of a mile in length. We had to change our bullocks three times; and the third time we thought we had got a very stupid driver; we got to a place where the bullocks would not go on, and the man seemed to be stupid. Poor Miss Frow remonstrated, and told him to go on; but the bullocks would not go; so we thought we would get out, and see what was the matter. It was very dark, and there were no lights; and when we got out and walked ahead two or three yards we saw the great danger we were in; if the bullocks had gone on, they would have surely broken their necks, and we might have been killed. Oh, how we praised the Lord when we saw the danger that God had saved us from. Then we had to turn the bullocks down on the lower road.

There are generally two roads; a native road, and an English road; the English roads were better, as a rule; they generally kept in their provinces good roads; we were on the English road, so we had to turn out and go down on the native road, which was very rough, because they never mended them, or made any repairs on them.

Sunday, 22nd. A meeting at Camp Te to-night. The Lord helped me this once. He led me to give my experience, and I had great liberty, and he made it a blessing. We leave for Elegepore. I feel I ought to stay. There was such an interest manifested in the grand aftermeeting.

Col. Whitlock was a very earnest Christian gentleman; he had a very beautiful little daughter, and one night when we were holding meeting in a large hall (he always took an interest in any religious meeting, which was not very customary among English soldiers), his little daughter, about ten years old, became very much interested, and when I asked them to rise for prayers, among others in the great congregation, this little girl rose; and the Lord blessed her; she seemed very happy and bright. Her father was delighted with her decision; the mother, too; but still she was afraid she did not understand what she was doing. But the little thing persisted, and had the sympathy and help of her father. So she would have her mother come to me next day, and I had a very nice Christian talk with her, and told her how she might help the little child, and she seemed very much pleased.

The child acted out her position by beginning to do something. Her mother kept a Hindoo derzy; a man who does all the sewing and mending and everything of the kind, in a family. Some of them have two or three. You will find them in almost every family in India. All the clothes to be made or mended are given to these men, and they sit down in a corner that is arranged for them, and do the sewing. They come and go, morning and evening, and are very quiet. They never pass about through the house only at their work. This one had been living with them a long time, and was a pucka Hindoo; that is, what we would call strong, or rank, or staunch in their faith.

So little Ethel began to tell him about what Jesus could do; and as she could talk the native language as well as a native, he listened to her; and she kept it up till he got so interested he asked her for a Testament; and so she got a Testament, and made the old man promise that he would read it. He was greatly pleased with it.

Who knows but what that child, though but ten years old, who was the means of getting that Hindoo to read the Testament, was sent by God with light to this poor, dark mind.

When we went to leave, Mrs. Whitlock gave me a very handsome India shawl, and prepared us a beautiful lunch, and in so many ways was kind. In the lunch, she put two loaves of bread, a half dozen boiled eggs, six bottles of lemonade, a bottle of champagne, a bottle of wine, and I don't know what all else; but she sent a man with a note on Sunday afternoon, and this beautiful basket of lunch.

My! what a time I had over it. I couldn't send it back. The shawl was an elegant thing. It was about a twenty-five dollar shawl. The only objection I had to it, was, it was scarlet. But, still, that was not much, for I could get it dyed. But, I thought to myself, “What will I do with this wine and brandy?” I knew Miss Frow would not touch it, and I was a staunch teetotaler. “If I take it and say nothing about it, she may think, and tell somebody, that I was a good woman, and yet I accepted it,” and I didn't know what to do.

So I prayed about it very earnestly. The enemy wanted to make me believe that she would he greatly offended, and that now I would undo all the good work that I might have done. Oh, how terribly tempted I was over that!

Sunday night was my last night. I spoke at the hall.

And that was the night I had promised to speak more especially of temperance. But then I had received a bottle of wine and a bottle of champagne. So the Devil suggested to me that nobody would know it, and now if Col. and Mrs. Whitlock were there, it would be better for me not to say anything about it, after they had been so very kind, and that they did not see it like I did. So I reasoned.

At last I resolved by the grace of God I would tell Mrs. Whitlock that I could not have it, and would go on and speak on temperance in the meeting, as I had intended. So, when the time came, I went to church.

Just as I got to the door going in, I met Col. and Mrs. Whitlock, and little Ethel; so I very kindly thanked the lady for the elegant shawl, and for the lunch which she had sent me; but then, I said, “Now what will I do with the bottle of champagne and the wine? for I am a staunch teetotaler; I never touch it.”

“Miss Frow looks so pale,” she said, “I thought a little wine would do her good.”

“But, Oh,” I said, “she would not touch it for the world. She is also a staunch teetotaler.”

Then she laughed, and said, “You do with it, Mrs. Smith, anything you like.”

I thanked her very kindly, and told her I would.

The Lord gave me liberty in speaking that night, and I was very strong on the subject of temperance. No one was offended. Everybody seemed to be much interested and pleased.

We went from there up to Chaculdah. That was Miss Frow's station. Mr. and Mrs. Sibley were there in charge of this station, and she was their assistant.

We took the baby in, and Miss Anstea adopted it, and we named it “Amanda Smith.”

I left on Friday. Up to that time the baby had got on very well, but cried a good deal, nights; there were plenty to look after it in the daytime, but at night everybody wanted to sleep, but the baby. Dear, little Amanda Smith!

I went from Colar to Bangalore, then to Madras I never heard whether the poor, little thing pulled through or not; if she did, I know it was hard, after the novelty had worn off with the children.

Miss Anstea was a grand woman, and did a noble work in that province. How they have missed her since she has returned to England. She spent many years in India, and established and run the missions mostly at her own personal expense.

When she broke down, and was obliged to return to England, she turned the work over to Bishop Thoburn. So the work at Colar is still being perpetuated.

Madras, January 7th, 1881. I spend a few days at the home of Brother Shaw, pastor of the Methodist Church. Miss E. and I visit three zenanas and speak to a very nice family of girls; read, and explain the Word; then I sing; and as I sing, though they do not understand the words, the Spirit seemed to touch their hearts, and they weep. May God bless them.

Wednesday, January l2th. A meeting at eight A. M. The Lord was in the midst of us. A number of good testimonies, and a number rose for prayers, as they did also at night. Still there's more to follow.

Here I saw the great juggernaut car, so well known in the history of sacrifices in India, whose wheels have crushed so many infants at the hands of their poor mothers. How my heart ached as I listened to the story, told by the Chief of Police. How dreadful is heathen blindness. Thank God that the car of the juggernaut for such sacrifice has come to belong to the things of the past; has been superseded by the glorious light of Christian civilization, and judicious Christian legislation.

Tuesday, Jan. 18th. I leave this morning for Punrooty, to see Miss Reed. How God has kept His dear servant here, and made her a blessing and a succor to many! The Lord has sent her help from England just at this time, Miss Bloom and Miss Thurgood. Mrs. Fred Bowden and her dear mother came with them for a little visit. A beautiful company of Christian workers.

On Monday, New Year's Day, we were at Grand Canary. A very pretty looking place from the ship. Here we got vegetables. This is the home of all the canaries in the world, I am told.

The captain and some of the officers and passengers went ashore. It was a magnificent, moonlight night. The captain asked me to join in the party, but I declined; I quite preferred quiet and the lovely moonlight. After a few hours the whistle blew, the anchor lifted, and we were off. Oh, this narrow bunk, and this dreadful rolling! I shall be so glad when I am through.

The next stop is at Sierra Leone. And now three days to Monrovia. This is a very busy looking place. A great many come on board to get work. They are called coolies. Some of them opened my trunks and helped themselves. There was a white Wesleyan minister that came on board who was very kind, and as we were there for a day, I would like to have gone ashore. I asked him about the prosperity of the work and the churches. He didn't seem to speak very favorably. He said that the colored missionaries were not men that could he depended upon to advance and develop the work as one might suppose.

At this I felt quite indignant, and thought it was because he was a white man, and simply said that about colored men. But after I had been there awhile, and got to understand things better, I quite agreed with what the missionary told me on my first arrival on those shores.

The captain and purser were very kind. They were greatly annoyed to think that my trunks had been interfered with. They stopped at Sierra Leone to take on coal. My largest trunk was down in the hold, where all the large trunks were, and these coolies were loading coal all day, and so were down in the hold a good deal, where the trunks were.

The first I knew of it was, I was up on deck, and as I went to look over on the lower deck, just at the side of the ship, where the steps go down, I saw one of the officers have a pair of shoes in his hand, and I thought they looked like my shoes; but I knew my shoes were in the trunk. Then I thought somebody had come on to sell things, as the did. All at once I heard a great outcry of “Thief, thief, thief!” And then I saw them bringing a man along from aft; a nice looking fellow, tall and clean looking; and he was declaring to all that was above and below that he had not touched anything, and that he was not the thief.

One merchant, a foreigner, a Mr. Attier, I am told, is ordering a hundred thousand cases of gin, so as to escape the law of high duties, which goes into effect in September. The law goes in for high duties on the importation of strong drink. Then I see how many ministers there are in the country who stand aloof from the work of temperance, and are afraid to open their mouths against this great Zerubabel that shall become a plain. May God put a book in his jaw. Oh, Lord, work quick! For Jesus' sake, speak! Arrest this flood tide, and awaken the people to a sense of their duty.

What a dreadful snare this trade is. Of course, the doings and customs are all new to me; I have never seen it in this wise before. Preachers and laymen all think there is nothing they can do but trade. Some of the men go off in the country for fifty or sixty or a hundred miles; there they stay for years; two, three, five and eight, right along. Young men, and married men; they will leave their wives and children. Some start towns, and buy native women, and have large families; this is not an uncommon occurrence!

A fine looking young man, who owns his own house, and has a nice wife and one child, has left everything and been away in the country two years. His wife stayed at the place as long as she could; but he sent her nothing to live on, so her parents had to take her home. He has several wives in the country, and, of course, he cannot support all.

I am stopping with a lady now, whose brother, a young man, is in the country, and has been there over a year. Here is where our loss is in the perpetuation of our church. If they would try to teach and instruct the heathen, or teach school, or do something to elevate, and civilize, and Christianize the poor natives, then it would be well. But they at once fall into all the customs and habits, and turn from Christianity easier than they turn the heathen from idolatry.

Oh, what a blight is on our whole country because of this sin. We have degraded ourselves in the eyes of the heathen. And now the blind lead the blind.

On Saturday a poor woman came to me in great trouble. Her husband had been away in the country for six months. He came home and brought several boys with him. After several days had passed he seemed very unkind and quarrelsome. Nothing was right. She could do nothing to please him. So he got drunk and beat her severely, and chased her from the house with a gun.

The secret was, he had become infatuated with a country wife, and his own home and wife had lost all charms for him.

Greenville, Sinoe Co., W. C. A., January 11th, 1884. Yesterday was a sad day. Two of the oldest men in town died, and one was interred at eleven and the other at four P. M. Both were good men; one a member of the Methodist Church for nearly half a century; a class leader and trustee, and also sexton and grave digger. His name was Thomas Brown. He emigrated to this country forty years ago. His life was not a life of comfort, after the style of the world. He had much to contend with; but the joy of the Lord was his strength, and he triumphed by faith, anyway! His last sickness, which lasted but a month, was very severe, and the dear old man had such few comforts; but not a murmur escaped his lips. A few months before he died, Brother Draper said to him:

“Brother Brown, you are almost home.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I shall be home directly,” and he thanked God for the last little acts of kindness done; then he closed his eyes in peace, and went to God.

My heart said, “Oh, let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like theirs.”

He was a member of the Band of Hope Gospel Temperance Society; one of the first to join when the work began here in Sinoe, in December. His membership was of short duration; we had his happy “amens” to cheer us only a short time. But he stood true to his pledge, and the principles of total abstinence, and was a strong advocate.

The other was Louis Sherman. He also was a member of the Gospel Temperance Society. Each leaves a large family to mourn his loss.

A strange incident connected with this was, while the services were going on in the house over the remains of the men, the dogs, numbering six or seven in the different houses, howled in the most distressing manner; then they would cease, and begin again, as though they were directed by some one.

The Band of Hope formed a line and led on, the others following. At five P M., all was over, and the families returned to see their husbands and fathers no more till they all meet beyond the river.

So Bishop Taylor's home from that day has been at Brother Henry Cooper's house, when in Liberia. Sometimes he has had to stop there three weeks, before he could get away. And God has always helped Brother Cooper, and always will.

How well I remember that all day holiness meeting, when God so wonderfully sanctified Brother Cooper, and, a few days later, his dear wife. How well I remember the morning she came to Sister Payne's, singing her song of victory, for she had got the baptism in her own home. She came up to Sister Payne's, where my home was. I saw her when she was coming in. Her face was all a glow of light. Oh! I shall never forget it. The first thing she said as she came in, was:

And she has been singing it ever since; in the midst of trials and storms, for she has had them, and so will everybody that goes into the fountain straight. God doesn't often develop on any other line than that of trial, and sometimes suffering, in various ways; “For the trial of your faith is more precious than gold, though it be tried with fire.”

Saturday, January 24th. The Bishop and I were invited to take breakfast at the United States Legation, American Consul, Hon. John Smyth. Prof. Brown, who was a guest of Mr. Smyth's, was also present. We had a most elegant breakfast, served in real American style, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

I think the Bishop had no thought of any such reception in Africa. But Mr. Smyth, who is so thoroughly qualified for his position, is always quick to perform the courtesies due to strangers, and especially those from his own country, America.

The Bishop and I made a number of calls together in the different places. He never objected to going anywhere, among the poorest of the poor. He would go in and sit down, sing, pray and talk, and leave his blessing. He never seemed to give the impression to anyone that they need to stand off from him, or be afraid of him, because he was Bishop. He was always congenial and kind to everyone.

My second visit to the King's Yard was Sunday, June 12th. We went to four houses. I sang, and talked through an interpreter, and prayed, and told them how I found Jesus, and how He saved me. Poor things, how interested they seemed; and I saw the great tears in their eyes.

Some of the women were very good looking; good features and beautifully formed, as are also their children. Oh, how my heart longed after them for Jesus.

At the house of Ironbar, who is a big chief, the first thing, we saw on entering was in one corner of the courtyard a large juju, the head of an elephant, which represents a superstition they all believe in, and which they all have, in some shape or form, in their houses. They also have the skulls of goats, numbers of human skulls, turtle shells, chicken feathers, lots of long strings, or bits of rag, hanging in strings and tied in different knots and loops, and plenty of dirty grease poured over them.

This was a big chief. He dressed like a gentleman, in English clothes, and was my first escort to the Presbyterian Church.

He had a train of servants behind him to carry his umbrella, which was large, and of different colors of silk; blue, yellow, green, red, etc., and a brass knob on top as big as a good sized teacup; two men could manage it quite well; then they would take turns. Ironbar went to church nearly every Sunday; and yet he was as full of superstition and heathenism as if he had never heard the Gospel.

At the third yard, buried at the threshold, there was a human skull, over which one must walk to get in. Oh, what horror! a human graveyard. But what about all you have not seen and heard of, of horrors? I said, “Oh, Lord, how long shall the dreadful night of heathenism last? Oh, that the day may break, and that right early. Amen.”

At the fourth yard, as we passed the king's palace, to go to the court where his wives stayed, we looked in and saw the table, on which were bottles of champagne and brandy; and some eight or more of the lords, and princes, and rulers gathered around, while their servants stood ready to do their bidding; and as they drank their wine and smoked, I thought of King Belshazzar and the writing on the wall. May God hasten the time when this kingdom will be taken from them and given to the King of kings.

In 1887, while at Cape Palmas, though I had given up all hope or desire of getting a boy, little Bob and a little playmate of his used to come to Mrs. Harmon's. They were very little fellows, and as I did my own housekeeping, and so often had bits of food left, I would call these children and give them to them. My! they were pleased; and I became very fond of them, and often would talk to them as best I could. I could not understand them so well as they could understand me. Ma Harmon could talk the Gredebo language just like a native, and they almost idolized Mr. Harmon. They knew they lost a true friend when he was taken.

Ma Harmon had told these children that they must always speak to me; say “Good morning, Mammy.”

So one day I was going downtown, and little Bob and his friend were hanging on the gate as I passed. When they saw me coming they began shouting, “Good morning, Mammy! Good morning, Mammy!”

I went up and put my hand on Bob's head. I always admired him so much; he was so black, and his skin was so soft and smooth, like a kid glove.

“Well,” I said, “are you fine boy to-day?”

“Yes.”

He understood what I said.

“True, you be fine too much,” I said.

To a native child that means everything we mean when we say, “You are a good boy,” or a “nice boy.”

My! they were so pleased. I had noticed, as I was passing, a man and woman who stood talking together; and when I had gone a few steps away the man called out, “Mammy!”

I turned, and he said, “Mammy,” (for you must know that all foreigners and Liberians are called ‘Mammy’ and ‘Daddy;’ and in the sense it is used in America, one would feel like drawing up their shoulders sometimes; but when the natives use it, it is as we would use ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.’), “I want you to take that pick'n and teach him God palavar,” pointing to little Bob. “Myself, I be fool; I no sabe God. I don't want my pick'n to be fool all same like myself.”

“Jack,” I said, “is that your pick'n?”

“Yes.”

“For true? You be his daddy?”

“Yes. I want you to take him; all that place you live to come when you catch England and big America, you teach him, so he can sabe God proper.”

“Well, Jack,” I said, “myself don't be well just now; dem fever humbug me too much. I be weak plenty. So when dat steamer live to catch here, with Bishop Taylor's missionaries, myself I go down the coast a little bit. Jack, why not give him to some of the Liberian people? He will teach him.”

“No, Mammy,” he said, “if you left him on his hand, he no sabe nothing.”

And strange as it may seem, there was much more truth than poetry in this statement.

This was on Tuesday; and on Saturday the looked for steamer arrived with Bishop Taylor's second party of thirteen or more missionaries for the Congo.

I had been down with fever for three or four days, and was very weak. I hardly knew how to get ready. But the kind friends came in, and my old standby, Betty Tubman, and Rosetta Cole, took hold and helped me get my things together; and the dear old Bishop, God bless him, got hold of my trunk and helped out with it, then rolled up my things in the rug and carried them down, and I can hear him say now:

“Come on, Amanda.”

Oh! but wasn't I weak! He saw and knew it, and I could see the great sympathy in his eyes. But, Oh! he did not know how much he helped me when he went ahead and said, “Now come on, Amanda.” I said, “Lord, help me.” And He did, and we reached the boat. They helped me in, and we were soon off to the steamer.

Now aboard the steamer. Thank God. How nice to see a lot of home folks, and all so happy. I seemed to gather strength. We had a pleasant time.

I was away for months, and returned with but little gained, if any; for my trip of seven days from Calabar to Cape Palmas was so sad that whatever I had gained I lost, and was so weak I could scarcely get out of the boat.

“Well,” I said, “it is no use; I see I have got to go home.”

For three years I had been planning and hoping, but could not seem to get clear light from above, and I was so sure God Himself had sent me to Africa that I felt I dare not leave without His permission; although the doctors at Lagos and old Calabar both said that I should come home. So I kept my few things packed so as to be ready for a homeward steamer that would stop at Cape Palmas and at Monrovia, for I must stop there for my little girl, Frances.

I waited one week and no steamer stopped. Two weeks, three weeks, and no homeward steamer stopped. How tiresome. But then, what will you do? and what could you do?

I worked away, as usual, doing all I could by day and night. The latter part of the third week brought a letter, by an outward bound steamer, to Brother Pratt, Bishop Taylor's agent, that thirteen missionaries would be out soon, giving the date that they would leave Liverpool; and the Bishop had asked me to help Brother Pratt in looking after the missionaries when they arrived. Brother Pratt came to me and said;

“Now, Ma, you can't go. These missionaries are coming, and the Bishop said he wanted you to help get them settled.”

So I felt that delay to me was of the Lord, though I seemed to be of so little use. But, though I say it myself, I really don't know what Brother Pratt or the missionaries would have done if it had not been for the little help I was able to give; and this, I believe, dear Miss Whitfield and Miss McNeil would say, too.

“Well,” I said to Brother Pratt, “all right; I'm in for it.”

So we went to planning as best we could. Jack was not home when we first got back. So I thought it was all over about taking the child. But one day I met Jack in the street.

“Mammy,” he said, “howdy; I glad for see you. You be well now.”

“Thank you, Jack, but myself don't be well. Weak, weak, all time.”

“Mammy, I be sorry for you. You goin' take that pick'n?”

“Well, Jack, that boy be very small boy; he live to give somebody plenty trouble; small boy, so.”

So I spoke to him in what we call broken English. He could speak it well, and understand it very well if you would break it up.

“You See, Jack, if I take him I must be all same as his mammy. All same like if I born him myself. My heart must be big like his own mammy's heart; and this fever bother me all time; so I am weak.”

“Well,” he said, with a sad face, “Mammy you promised to take him.”

Then there are various kinds of fruits. They are different from what we have here. There are no apples, or peaches, or berries like ours. The mango plum is most abundant, and is very nice in every way you can prepare it. When in Cape Palmas I dried some, just as we dry apples.

Some of the people thought I was wild; the idea of drying plums. But it was not very difficult; the sun is so hot that in two days they were as dry as bones. I found them most convenient when the rainy season came on; and some of the folks that laughed at the idea learned a good lesson.

As a rule they do not dry any of the fruits. Sometimes they will make preserves, but not often. They just use the things as they come round in season, and when the season is done they are done, until the Lord brings the season for them around again!

There is a nice fruit called petanga; something like a cherry; quite tart. These make a very nice jelly, something like currant jelly. I didn't see Irish potatoes grow, but I was told they had been grown there, but were generally small. For them they depend on the English steamers that bring them, generally from Madeira.

If they get fresh seed imported every year, their cabbage, and melons and other vegetables grow large, and to the same perfection they would here; but if they plant from the same seed, they will be a size smaller each year. They seem to degenerate. No one seems to be able to account for it. They have the same soil and attention, but they are smaller.

In bringing seed across the ocean, unless it is put in sealed tins, air tight, no matter what it is, the salt air affects it, and very often it does not come up at all; and if it does come up, it will die away.

The proper time of year for gardening is September. Everybody that makes a garden at all, or puts seed in the ground, must do it then, so that at Christmas and New Years they have the nicest kind of vegetables and melons.

Then there are coconuts, bananas, oranges, pineapples and such as that. No one plants them specially; they grow almost everywhere. I did, just before I left, get some cocoanut scions, or young plants, and set them out, some five or six in number, in Ma Payne's lot. I named them all. The last I heard they were growing nicely, and the one I named “Amanda Smith” was flourishing.

Formerly they had good schools in Freetown. This is one thing I admire in the English government; she generally looks well after the education of her colonists. Of course there is room for much improvement, even in Sierra Leone and Lagos.

All up and down the coast, wherever you go where the English flag waves, and there has been any civilization at all, you will find scores and hundreds who have a liberal education, and are fitted for most all professions and callings.

The Wesleyan Girls' High School, at Freetown, was once a beautiful building, with well furnished dormitories, and a staff of first-class teachers; but it has seen its best days, without a great change takes place. For several years it has been sadly declining in power and influence, being almost entirely under the control of one or two parties. I was told that when it was first founded, it was under the management of white people; the lady principal and teachers were all white, and they did a grand work. And then the boys' high school, which I also visited, and had the privilege, through the invitation of the principal, Mr. M., of addressing, was not what it once was, or should be. The Episcopal school, both for girls and boys, is good. The boys have a fine, large, commodious building, and a good staff of teachers.

Several of the Liberian families, who have not been able to send their sons and daughters as far as England to be educated, sent them to Freetown. I had the pleasure of going all through this building, on the day of the dedication of the new dormitory and recitation rooms, which had been added to the main building, accommodating, I think, probably two hundred in all. His lordship the Bishop, was in the chair, and gave a most excellent address, as did also Mr. N., who, I think, at that time had charge of the theological department, and who was a noble, Christian gentleman. His sister was the lady principal of the girls' high school, which I also visited, and had the pleasure of speaking a few words to the young ladies. Everything wag in good order.

I was greatly delighted with this school, especially the house-keeping department, where, in connection with their studies, each girl took her turn in the sweeping, dusting, making bread, biscuit, pie, or cake, and in washing dishes and attending the dining room. This, it seemed to me, was the most essential of all; it would certainly be one of the “one needful things.” For if, having the intellectual qualifications, the girls in Africa are remiss in this, the former is as good as lost, to a great extent, as their homes would not be what they might be otherwise.

Then, there are private schools. I visited a Mr. Leapol's school, which was a very nice school for boys. I suppose he accommodated about forty. Mr. L. was a very high type of a Christian gentleman; I think, a West Indian by birth. This school was of the higher grade. Teachers and helpers, I believe, were all colored.

There was a good government school, which, according to my American ideas, should have continued to exist. But when the new Bishop came, he, being a very conservative English gentleman, and invested with power, thought it best, as I was told, to disband the government school, and build a large parish school. So that many of the poor children, who were not able to pay, were shut out. This opened a good harvest for the Roman Catholics, which they lost no time in securing.

I am often asked if I think that missionary work in Africa prospers and develops better when under the entire control of colored people, or do I think it is better under the control of white people.

To answer this as best I can I will give my experience and observation at the several places I have been.

The schools at Old Calabar under the Scotch Presbyterian Missionary Society, and the schools and missions at Lagos, and the Episcopal, Baptist and Wesleyan Schools in the Republic of Liberia, and then in Sierra Leone the United Free Methodists, the Episcopals, the Lady Huntington Society, the U. B. Mission, and the English Baptist Mission, all were established, supported and superintended by white missionaries; but just in proportion as they have died, or on account of poor health have had to retire from the work, the schools and mission property have declined.

Many of them in the work have developed good native teachers and preachers, who are loyal, and faithful, and true; and the white missionary feels that he, or she, could not do without these native helpers. But when the whole work is left to them the interest seems to flag, and the natives themselves seem to lose their interest, which the teacher feels, but cannot help.

I do not attempt to make any explanation of this; I simply

I spoke as the Lord led me on, confessing Christ and what He had done for a soul definitely. I did not know anything about Brother Pitman's experience; I had never spoken to him about it, and did not know he was interested in the subject of holiness at all, only I knew he seemed to possess the spirit of holiness; I felt it in his conversation and preaching.

After I was through I took my seat. Brother Pitman sprang to his feet in a moment, and said, “The Lord has sent that message to me;” then he went on with how, some three months before, as nearly as I can recollect, he had received this distinct blessing of sanctification, and was helped wonderfully to see the way clearly through the teaching in that grand, old, pioneer holiness periodical, “Guide to Holiness.”

“I see as you have spoken, Sister Smith,” he continued, “my mistake has been, I have not definitely confessed what the Lord has done for me. But I do here and now confess, before God and these people, that He has cleansed and sanctified my heart.”

And from that time forth, he never swerved from preaching or testifying to this great blessing, definitely sought and received by faith.

God made him a great blessing to the people everywhere he went. I believe it was the power of this grace that enabled him to endure as he did; for, being a thorough native of the Da tribe, he had much to endure. He, like Paul, had false brethren to contend with. How my heart has ached, as I have seen and heard things that would have kindled a blaze that would have been unquenchable in the church and community; but he was patient and true, through all.

Then, I think it was in 1883, Brother Ware had charge. The change was great. Some were glad, but I believe most were sorry.

But he and I got on nicely. I always consulted him about my meetings; and, to my face, he would always give me the greatest liberty; and I would be led to think that we saw together; though he did not often take much part; he would say:

“I give you full charge, Sister Smith, whenever you want to have any meetings. Of course I will not be able to be present at all of them, but all the brethren will stand by you, and it will be all right.”

I would have afternoon meetings for the young converts, to instruct them in Bible lessons; he would come in and sit way back, and listen, but that was all. He would generally go out when I was about to close. I went on, carefully, but I went on. And God surely was with us, and blessed us.

I went to Bassa in 1885. after I got to Bassa and met the Bishop, I told him how we had heard at Monrovia that he was to spend three months in that region round about, take a trip to Bepora, etc. He said it was the first he had known of it; that he had made an arrangement, with a certain steamer that was to pick him up at Bassa, and leave him at Cape Palmas, and said this was my chance to go.

“I have not come prepared to go to Cape Palmas,” I replied, “but I have been waiting for three years to go. Just when I got ready some months ago, word came that there was small-pox there, so I could not go.”

“Well,” said the Bishop, “this is your chance, Amanda.”

Just then dear Brother Pitman came in. I told him, and he said, “I think, Sister Smith, this is your chance.”

“Well,” I said, “if you will take Frances (my little native girl) to your home in Paynesville, and keep her till I come back, I think I will go. Do you think Sister Pitman will care? I would go and see her myself, if I could.”

“That will be all right, Sister Smith; Frances shall fare as the other children do, and if you are satisfied with that, I will take her.”

Sister Pitman was a grand, good woman. She was a splendid housekeeper, and was also a dressmaker and tailor. They never had any children of their own, but all the native boys and girls they had in their family were well raised and well trained; and I knew Frances would fare as well there as if I had her myself.

May God ever bless Sister Pitman. How I sympathize with her in her loss.

So when he returned from the Conference in Monrovia, he took her with him to his home at Paynesville.

I think it was on Wednesday, February 17th, a steamer came to Bassa. The Bishop said we would go. I had but little to get together; only just what would do me as I thought, for the three weeks I had planned to be away. So I had to send for my things after I got to Cape Palmas.

When we went to get into the boat to go to the steamer, a messenger came to say the captain sent word he would not stop at Cape Palmas, and for no one to come from the shore. “Oh, Bishop,” I said, “what will you do?”

“Oh, we will just go.”

“Shall I go, then?”

“Oh, yes, come on,” he said, quietly, but with such perfect confidence. I just held my breath, and did as I was told.

The man remonstrated, but the Bishop said to the men, “Push off;” and off we did push. When we got alongside, the men aboard the steamer hailed us.

“Where are you going?”

The men gave the word, “To Cape Palmas.”

“We are not going to stop at Cape Palmas,” one of the officers shouted; “the captain sent word ashore.”

When they saw Bishop Taylor was a white man they let down the steps. The Bishop said he wanted to see the captain. It was just dinner time—six o'clock—when we got on board. Of course they did not want that I should come up; but the Bishop said to me quietly, “Come right along, Amanda.”

Brother Turner, one of the Bishop's missionaries, a genuine black man, who had been out but about two years, was with him. He was going to Sinoe. We kept close to the Bishop, for we knew if he succeeded, we would.

Oh! how vexed the officers were. But of course they said nothing to Bishop Taylor. They were civil to him.

The Bishop had no baggage; he never did carry any about with him in Africa; simply a small basket, and his bed rolled up. To look at it you would think it was a surveyor's instruments; that was generally his outfit. But some of the rest of us did have something, in the shape of a small trunk. When the officers saw this they said:

“We are not going to stop at Cape Palmas; don't lift the baggage.”

So I stood quietly while the Bishop went in to see the captain; or rather send word to him, and there was a pause of fifteen minutes, or so. I stood trembling in my boots almost, for it was about five miles back to shore, and I thought, “Oh, dearie me, if I have got to go back in this darkness all alone!” So I said, “Oh! Lord, help the Bishop, and bless that captain, and make him let us go.”

While they were gone with a message to the captain, I slipped softly up to the Bishop, and said:

There was no standard school book in any of the schools. The children used any kind of books they could get—Sunday School books, story books, or any book. Everywhere I went I inquired about the schools, and found the same statement. I visited a school one day where I found a very nice lot of children, ranging from six to fourteen years of age. Many of them seemed to be very bright. They came to recite one at a time.

“Why don't you have them in classes?” I asked.

“Yes, that is what I would like to do,” the teacher said. “But we haven't got the books. There are not four children in the school with books alike. Their parents send them with any kind of a book, and I am obliged to use it; and some of the children come and have no book at all; but they come.”

“How do you manage?”

“I borrow a book from some of the other children, and hear the lesson.”

“Then they can't study when they go home?”

“No,” she said, “they just have to study in school.”

“How long have you been teaching this school?”

“Two years,” she said.

“Well, why don't you speak about it? Isn't this a government school?”

“Yes, but I have spoke, and have gone myself to Monrovia, and done all I could about it; but it does no good.”

And that was about the way I would find it everywhere, unless there was a mission school.

As I was going to Liberia, in 1882, when we got to Sierra Leone, a Liberian young man, a very nice lad, I suppose about seventeen years of age, Mr. Eddie Lisles, from Bassa, got on the steamer. I saw he was a very nice, interesting looking lad, and one day as he was sitting smoking, I went up to him and had a talk with him. I asked him his name, and where he lived, and he told me. He said he had been away at school.

“Away at school?” I said; “where?”

“At Sierra Leone.”

“Sierra Leone? Why they have a college at Monrovia, haven't they?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I'm surprised. I thought that the people would be sending their children from other places to Monrovia to the college.”