Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As soon as the door was closed, and I was once more seated on my grandfather's knee, he commenced his usual practice of holding converse with himself. "What could have brought him here?" said he. "I gave him his freedom, and a piece of land to cultivate. There was a pretty hut upon it, too, with a double row of cocoa-nut trees in front, and a garden of plantains behind, and a nice plot of guinea-grass for a cow, and another of buckwheat--what has become of it all I wonder? Bless me, how time flies! it seems but the other day that I saved the fellow from a couple of bullets, and he repaid the debt by rescuing my Betsy--ah, poor dear! She was your mother, William, and he snatched her from a dreadful and terrific fate. How these things crowd upon my mind! The earthquake shook every building to its foundation--the ground yawned in horrible deformity, and your poor mother--we can see her gravestone from the drawing-room window, you know, for she died since we have been here, and left her old father's heart a dreary blank. Yet not so either, my child," pressing me to his breast and laying his hoary head on mine, "not so either, for she bequeathed you to my guardian care, and you are now the solace of my gray hairs."

I afterwards learned that Davy had rescued my dear mother from destruction, at the risk of his own life, during an earthquake in Trinidad, for which my grandfather had given him his freedom, together with the hut and the land. But he had no protector in the west: the slaves plundered his property; sickness came, and no medical attendant would minister to his wants without the accustomed fee; he contracted debts, and his ground was sold to the estate on which it was situated, to pay the lawyers. He quitted the island of Trinidad to go to Berbice; but, being wrecked near Mahaica Creek, on the east coast of Demerara, he lost his free papers, was seized by the government, and sold as a slave, to pay the expense of advertising and his keep. He fortunately fell into the hands of a kind master, who at his death once more set him at liberty, and he had come to England in the hope of bettering his condition. But here misfortune still pursued him: the gentleman whom he accompanied died on the passage; he could obtain no employment on his landing; he had been plundered of what little money he possessed, and had since wandered about the country till the evening that he implored charity and found a home.

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

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

"_Catch_, massa! what he call _catch_?"

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

"And da old massa what sleep in de _Werk-en-rust_?"

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

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

AN AGED CHRISTIAN.

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

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

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

UNCLE JACK.

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

Uncle Jack's talents were of a high order, and his knowledge of human nature very remarkable. Dr. Rice, of Richmond, said of him, "The old man's acquaintance with the Scriptures is wonderful. Many of his interpretations of obscure passages are singularly just and striking." He spoke pure English. A few anecdotes will convey a good idea of his ready and apt mode of illustration. A person addicted to horse-racing and card-playing, stopped Uncle Jack on the road and said, "Old man, you Christians say a great deal about the way to heaven being narrow. Now if this is so, a great many who profess to be travelling it will not find it half wide enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle Jack died in 1843, aged one hundred years.

--_Blake's Biographical Dictionary._

CHRISTIAN KINDNESS.

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

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

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

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

GRATITUDE OF SLAVES.

BY DR. LETTSOM.

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

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

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

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

THE SLAVE SHOEMAKER.

A lady, who was a Quaker, travelled several years ago through some of the Southern States on a gospel mission. When near the borders of North Carolina, while the horses were being fed, she walked towards a poor hut, and on entering it saw an aged man engaged in making shoes. He was very black, but his hair was white and his countenance thoughtful; he looked up surprised, and when she asked if she might come in and sit down, he replied, "Will mistress sit with me?" She inquired if he was a slave, and if he had a wife and children. He said, "If mistress will hear me I will tell her. I have a wife and four children, but massa sold them into Georgia." Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, he continued, "I am a slave, but, mistress, ever since I got religion God has sweetened my bitter cup, and made smooth my rough path; my bitter cup was parting with my wife and children--my rough path is slavery."

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

"Can thou read?"

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

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

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

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

LET ME RING THE BELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FLIGHT OF A SLAVE.

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

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

In this condition he travelled all the night, and just at the dawn of day he found a few sour apples, and took shelter under the arch of a bridge, where he lay in ambush through the day. Night came on, and he once more proceeded on his wearisome journey. Frequently he was overcome with hunger and fatigue, and sat down and slept a few minutes. At dawn of day he saw a toll-bar, and here he ventured to ask the best way to Philadelphia, and set off in the right direction. His taking the open road was fatal. He was observed by a man, and ordered to give an account of himself. After a parley, James took to his heels; but a hue and cry being raised he was speedily captured. Led to a tavern as a prisoner, he was questioned. He persisted in saying he was a free man, but he had no free papers. Though his story was false, we must remember that he knew not the wickedness of a lie, for he knew nothing of God and our Saviour.

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

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

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

He saw a farm with a small hovel-like barn; into this he went and buried himself in the straw. Here he lay the whole day; his only danger was from the yelping of a small dog, and the noise of horsemen who passed in search of him. He heard them say they were after a runaway negro, who was a blacksmith, and that a reward of two hundred dollars was offered for his recovery. Night came, and he was again on his way, but all he could do was to keep his legs in motion. There came a heavy frost, and he expected every moment to fall to the ground and perish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BENJAMIN BANNEKER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT IN A COLORED SCHOOL AT CHRISTIANSBURG.

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

--_Am. Freedman._

AN INCIDENT.

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

I have a home above,
From sin and sorrow free;
A mansion which eternal love
Design'd and form'd for me.

My Father's gracious hand
Has built this sweet abode,
From everlasting it was plann'd,
My dwelling-place with God.

My Saviour's precious blood
Has made my title sure;
He passed through death's dark raging flood
To make my rest secure.

The Comforter is come,
The Earnest has been given;
He leads me onward to the home
Reserv'd for me in heaven.

Bright angels guard my way;
His ministers of power
Encamping round me night and day,
Preserve in danger's hour.

Lov'd ones are gone before,
Whose pilgrim days are done;
I soon shall greet them on that shore,
Where partings are unknown.

But more than all I long
HIS glories to behold,
Whose smile fills all that radiant throng,
With ecstasy untold.

That bright, yet tender smile
(My sweetest welcome there),
Shall cheer me through the little while
I tarry for Him here.

Thy love, thou precious Lord,
My joy and strength shall be;
Till Thou shalt speak the glad'ning word
That bids me rise to Thee.

And then through endless days,
Where all Thy glories shine,
In happier, holier strains I'll praise
The grace that made me Thine.

Before the great _I AM_,
Around His throne above,
The song of Moses and the Lamb,
We'll sing with deathless love.

There is no sorrow there!
There is no sorrow there!
In heaven above where all is love,
There is no sorrow there.

SOJOURNER TRUTH.

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

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

"'Mammy, what makes you groan so?'

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

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

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

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

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

"What a fuss you make about a little nigger! got more of 'em now than you know what to do with."

"Sojourner," said a gentleman, "you seem to be very sure about heaven."

"Well, I be;" she answered triumphantly.

"What makes you so sure there is any heaven?"

"Well, because I got such a hankering arter it in here," she said, giving a thump on her breast with her usual energy.

"Sojourner, did you always go by this name?"

"No, 'deed! My name was Isabella. No, 'deed! but when I left the house of bondage, I left everything behind. I want goin' to keep nothin' of Egypt about me, and so I went to the Lord and asked him to give me a new name. And the Lord gave me Sojourner, because I was to travel up an' down the land, showing the people their sins, an' being a sign unto them. Afterwards I told the Lord I wanted another name, 'cause everybody else had two names; and the Lord gave me _Truth_, cause I was to declare the truth to the people."

Wendell Phillips relates a scene of which he was witness before the abolition of slavery in the United States. It was in a crowded public meeting in Faneuil Hall, Boston, where Frederick Douglas was one of the chief speakers. Douglas had been describing the wrongs of the colored race, and as he proceeded he grew more and more excited, and finally ended by saying that they had no hope of justice from the whites, no possible hope except in their own right arms. It must come to blood; they must fight for themselves, or it would never be done.

Sojourner was sitting, tall and dark, on the very front seat facing the platform; and in the hush of feeling after Frederick sat down, she spoke out in her deep peculiar voice, heard all over the house:

"Frederick, _is God dead_?"

The effect was perfectly electrical, and thrilled through the whole house, changing as by a flash, the whole feeling of the audience. Not another word she said or needed to say, it was enough.

The following is from a letter from a lady who visited Freedman's Village, near Washington, where Sojourner Truth was residing in a little frame building with the American flag over the door.

"We found Sojourner Truth, tall, dark, very homely, but with an expression of determination and good sense by no means common. She apologized for her hoarseness, as she had a meeting last evening. We asked what she had been doing there. 'Fighting the devil,' she said. What particular devil? 'An unfaithful man who has undertaken work for which he is not competent. My people,' she added, 'have fallen very low, and no one need take hold to help raise them up as a matter of business, it must be done from love.' She greatly complained of some one who had an office in relation to the Freedmen, and said he ought to be removed. She was asked why she did not go to the President with her story of the wrongdoing. She said, 'Don't you see the President has a big job on hand? Any little matter Sojourner can do for herself she aint going to bother him with.'"

KATY FERGUSON;

OR, WHAT A POOR COLORED WOMAN MAY DO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POOR POMPEY.

An old African who had long served the Lord, when on his death-bed, was visited by his friends, who came around him lamenting that he was going to die, saying: "Poor Pompey! poor Pompey is dying." The old saint said to them, with much earnestness: "Don't call me poor Pompey. _I_, KING Pompey," referring to Revelation i. verse 6.--"_And hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father._"

ANCASS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About eight years afterwards my master left the island for England, and I was sent with the children to the seaport-town, Savana-la-Mar, where we were to attend the church and school. This was anything but agreeable to us, and I persisted in neglecting every opportunity of learning, which I might have enjoyed. As to the church, I invariably played outside during the services, and my master's children were generally with me. In three years' time the master returned, and took us all back to the estate, where he soon died. The eldest son became owner of the property, and he immediately appointed me his overseer at Krepp, and subsequently at Dumbasken, when the former estate was sold.

"In the year 1824 the owner of a neighboring estate (Paynstown) returned to Jamaica from a visit in England. This gentleman and his lady were true Christians. One evening, when passing his plantation on my way home, I met a female servant of the family, Christina by name, who was going to draw water from a neighboring spring. I entered into conversation with her, and she told me that on Sunday there would be prayer and singing at Paynstown, and that her master invited his people to attend. I asked if strangers were admitted, and was told that Mrs. Cook had frequently expressed her regret that no one from the vicinity would come to join them at prayers, and that strangers would be welcomed, not only on Sundays, but also in the morning and evening of the week-days.