Chapter III: Part 3

"This conversation made a deep impression upon me, and the thought of the prayer-meeting at Paynstown was continually recurring day and night, until I at length resolved to go there on the following Sunday.

"Sunday came, and I started on my way to Paynstown. On reaching the house, a negro servant addressed me in a friendly voice; at the same moment Mrs. Cook appeared at the door, and I heard her say to the attendant, on his mentioning my name, 'Let him enter; I am glad that he comes!' Feeling very shy, I waited outside the hall till a bell gave the summons for prayers. Mr. Cook conducted the service, which was commenced with singing a hymn: then a portion of the Scriptures was read and prayer offered. I have no recollection of what was read, nor could I understand the prayer, as I knew nothing of our Saviour; yet I shall never forget this hour; it was a turning-point for the whole of my life. I had a feeling that I was in the presence of Almighty God, _my_ Lord and God, and my inmost soul was deeply moved, while I trembled from head to foot. Unable to utter a word, I hurried away and remained alone in my hut.

"Some time afterwards Mrs. Cooper offered to teach me to read if I wished to learn, and I gladly accepted her offer, though exposing myself to no little ridicule on the part of my fellow-slaves, who thought it very foolish of me to attempt to learn to read 'the white men's book.' How thankful have I felt ever since that I was enabled to read the Bible for myself, and thus come into the enjoyment of a wonderful privilege!

"Saturday and Sunday were free days for the slaves; Sunday was market-day in the neighboring town, and we negroes were in the habit of cultivating our own plots of ground on our return from the service at Paynstown, or carrying their produce to the market. One Sunday I was so eagerly bent on making the most out of my garden, that I did not go to Paynstown, but was busy at work from earliest dawn. Suddenly the conviction seized my mind that I was not acting right in the sight of God, in thus digging and planting in hope of gain. Quite overcome with the thought, I threw away my hoe, and kneeling in the hole which I had just dug, I cried aloud to our Saviour, imploring Him to help me in my darkness, and show me what I ought to do. The comforting light was vouchsafed to me at once. While recognizing my sinful conduct in striving for outward gain to the detriment of my soul, I was assured that all my need would be supplied from the bountiful hand of my heavenly Father, and that the right course for me was to seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. From that day I never touched a hoe on Sunday, and I have been so blessed in regard to externals that I have never suffered any want.

"Some time afterwards I made a proposal of marriage to a young woman, whom I had known as one of the most regular attendants at the services in Mr. Cooper's house, and she accepted it. My master and mistress were at first greatly opposed to this step, but were led eventually to withdraw their prohibition, and we were married on the 8th of June, 1826.

"A few months afterwards I became a member of the Moravian Church, one of twelve, who at that time constituted the whole congregation. Many others, however, joined the church at Carmel, and the number of those who desired to cast in their lot with us as children of God, increased most surprisingly from week to week.

"The office of native helper, to which I was soon afterwards appointed, gave me many opportunities of telling others what the Lord had done for me, and directing them to the same Saviour.

"I had a great desire to purchase my freedom. I went to my master, who tried to persuade me to wait, seeing that I should be legally emancipated in three years' time. My longing for freedom was, however, so strong that I remained unmoved. I paid down all my savings, and was soon afterwards able to complete the required sum, and my certificate of freedom was signed. O how full my heart was! how overflowing with thanks and praise to God! This day has always been to me a day of special rejoicing and thanksgiving. It was the 1st of June, 1837.

"Subsequently I was asked by several gentlemen to undertake the management of their estates, but I declined, not wishing to fetter myself in such a manner as would be prejudicial to my work in the Lord's cause. I was greatly rejoiced when Brother Zorn proposed to me to devote my time entirely to the duties of a native helper, receiving £12 a year to provide subsistence for myself and family. I purchased a small cottage and piece of ground, and here I have lived ever since with my dear wife and the only daughter whom the Lord has been pleased to give us."

Ancass died July, 1864.--_English Tract._

A STORM AT SEA.

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

The following day the minister went on board, and entered into conversation with the passengers, when a lady thus addressed him: "O, sir, what an invaluable blessing is personal religion! Never did I see it so exemplified as in my poor Ellen during the storm. When we expected every wave to entomb us all, my mind was in a horrible state--I was afraid to die. Ellen would come to me and say, with all possible composure: 'Never mind, missie; look to Jesus Christ. He made--he rule the sea.' And when we neared the shore, and were at a loss to know where we were, fearing every minute to strike on the rocks, Ellen said, with the same composure as before, 'Don't fear, missie; look to Jesus Christ--He the Rock; _no shipwreck on that Rock_; He save to the uttermost. Don't fear, missie; look to Jesus Christ!'"

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

_Minister._ "Well, Ellen, I am glad to find you know something of Jesus Christ."

_Ellen._ "Jesus Christ, massa! Oh, He be very good to my soul! Oh! He be very dear to me."

_Minister._ "How long since you first knew the Saviour?"

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

_Minister._ "And when did you see Mr. Kitchin last?"

_Ellen._ "Sir, the fever take him; he lie bed; he call us his children. He say, 'Come round the bed, my children.' He then say, 'My children, I go to God; meet me before God;' and then he fall asleep."

_Minister._ "Oh, then, Mr. Kitchin is dead, is he?"

_Ellen._ "Dead, sir? oh, no! Mr. Kitchin no die; he fall asleep in Jesus. He has gone to heaven."

"LITTLE WA."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May "little Wa's" Almighty protector and all-loving provider be yours!--_The Family Treasury._

THE AFRICAN SERVANT.

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

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

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

"Does he behave well as your servant?"

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

"Was he always so well-behaved?"

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

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

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

"To-morrow afternoon, sir, if you please."

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

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

"Where were you born?"

"In Africa. I was very little boy when I was made slave by the white men."

"How was that?"

"I left father and mother one day at home to go to get shells by the sea-shore; and, as I was stooping down to gather them up, some white sailors came out of a boat and took me away. I never see father nor mother again."

"And what became of you then?"

"I was put into ship and brought to Jamaica, and sold to a massa, who keep me in his house to serve him some years; when about three years ago, Captain W----, my massa that spoke to you, bought me to be his servant on board his ship. And he be good massa; and I live with him ever since."

"And what thoughts had you about your soul all that time before you went to America?" I asked him.

"I no care for my soul at all before then. No man teach me a word about my soul."

"Well, now tell me further about what happened to you in America. How came you there?"

"My massa take me there in a ship, and he stop there one month; and then I hear the good minister."

"And what did that minister say?"

"He said I was a great sinner."

"Did he speak to you in particular?"

"Yes, I think so; for there was a great many to hear him, but he tell them all about me."

"What did he say?"

"He say all about the things that were in my heart."

"Who taught you to read?"

"God teach me to read."

"What do you mean by saying so?"

"God gave me desire to read, and that make reading easy. Massa give me Bible, and one sailor show me the letter; and so I learn to read by myself with God's good help."

"And what do you read in the Bible?"

"Oh, I read all about Jesus Christ, and How He loved sinners; and wicked men killed him, and He died and came again from the grave, and all this for poor negro. And it sometime make me cry to think that Christ love me so."

Not many days after the first interview with my African disciple, I went from home on horseback, with the design of visiting and conversing with him again at his master's house, which was situated in a part of the parish near four miles distant from my own. The road which I took lay over a lofty down or hill, which commands a prospect of scenery seldom equalled for beauty and magnificence. It gave birth to silent, but instructive contemplation.

As I pursued the meditations which this magnificent and varied scenery excited in my mind, I approached the edge of a tremendous perpendicular cliff with which the hill terminates; I dismounted from my horse and tied him.

I cast my eye downwards a little to the left, towards a small cove, the shore of which consists of fine hard sand. It is surrounded by fragments of rock, chalk cliffs, and steep banks of broken earth. Shut out from human intercourse and dwellings, it seems formed for retirement and contemplation. On one of these rocks I unexpectedly observed a man sitting with a book, which he was reading. The place was near two hundred yards perpendicularly below me: but I soon discovered by his dress, and by the color of his features, contrasted with the white rocks beside him, that it was no other than my African disciple, with, as I doubted not, a Bible in his hand. I rejoiced at this unlooked-for opportunity of meeting him in so solitary and interesting a situation. I descended a steep bank, winding by a kind of rude staircase, formed by fishermen and shepherds' boys, in the side of the cliff down to the shore.

He was intent on his book, and did not perceive me till I approached very near to him.

"William, is that you?"

"Ah, massa, I very glad to see you. How came massa into this place? I thought nobody here but only God and me."

"I was coming to your master's house to see you, and rode round by this way for the sake of the prospect. I often come here in fine weather to look at the sea and the shipping. Is that your Bible?"

"Yes, sir, this is my dear, good Bible."

"I am glad," said I, "to see you so well employed; it is a good sign, William."

"Yes, massa, a sign that God is good to me; but I never good to God."

"How so?"

"I never thank Him enough; I never pray to Him enough; I never remember enough who give me all these good things. Massa, I afraid my heart very bad. I wish I was like you."

"Like me, William? Why, you are like me, a poor helpless sinner."

"Tell me, William, is not that very sin which you speak of, a burden to you? You do not love it: you would be glad to obtain strength against it, and to be freed from it, would you not?"

"Oh, yes; I give all this world, if I had it, to be without sin."

"Come then, and welcome, to Jesus Christ, my brother; His blood cleanseth from all sin. He gave himself as a ransom for sinners. He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed. The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all. Come, freely come to Jesus, the Saviour of sinners."

"Yes, massa," said the poor fellow, weeping, "I will come, but I come very slow; very slow, massa; I want to run; I want to fly. Jesus is very good to poor me to send you to tell me all this."

I was much pleased with the affectionate manner in which he spoke of his parents, from whom he had been stolen in his childhood; and his wishes that God might direct them by some means to the knowledge of the Saviour.

"Who knows," I said, "but some of these ships may be carrying a missionary to the country where they live, to declare the good news of salvation to your countrymen, and to your own dear parents in particular, if they are yet alive."

"Oh, my dear father and mother; my dear, gracious Saviour," exclaimed he, leaping from the ground, as he spoke, "if Thou would but save their souls, and tell them what Thou hast done for sinners; but--"

He stopped and seemed much affected.

"My friend," said I, "I will now pray with you for your own soul, and those of your parents also."

"Do, massa, that is very good and kind; do pray for poor negro souls here and everywhere."

This was a new and solemn "house of prayer." The sea-sand was our floor, the heavens were our roof. The cliffs, the rocks, the hills, and the waves, formed the walls of our chamber. It was not indeed a "place where prayer was wont to be made," but for this once it became a hallowed spot; it will by me ever be remembered as such. The presence of God was there. I prayed. The African wept. His heart was full. I felt with him, and could not but weep likewise.

The last day will show whether our tears were not the tears of sincerity and Christian love.

I had, for a considerable time, been accustomed to meet some serious persons once a week, in a cottage at no great distance from the house where he lived, for the purpose of religious conversation, instruction, and prayer. Having found these occasions remarkably useful and interesting to myself and others, I thought it would be very desirable to take the African there, in order that there might be many witnesses to the simplicity and sincerity of real Christianity, as exhibited in the character of this promising young convert. I hoped it might prove an eminent means of grace to excite and quicken the spirit of prayer and praise among some over whose spiritual progress I was anxiously watching.

It was known that the African was to visit the little society this evening, and satisfaction beamed in every countenance as I took him by the hand and introduced him among them, saying, "I have brought a brother from Africa to see you, my friends. Bid him welcome in the name of the Lord."

"Sir," said a humble and pious laborer, whose heart and tongue always overflowed with Christian kindness, "we are at all times glad to see our dear minister, but especially so to-day, in such company as you have brought with you. We have heard how gracious the Lord has been to him. Give me your hand, good friend," turning to the African; "God be with you here and everywhere; and blessed be His holy name for calling wicked sinners, as I hope He has done you and me, to love and serve Him for His mercy's sake."

Each one greeted him as he came into the house, and some addressed him in very kind and impressive language.

"Massa," said he, "I not know what to say to all these good friends; I think this looks like little heaven upon earth."

He then, with tears in his eyes, which, almost before he spoke, brought responsive drops into those of all present, said:

"Good friends and brethren in Christ Jesus, God bless you all, and bring you to heaven at last."

After some time passed in more general conversation on the subject of the African's history, I said, "Let us now praise God for the rich and unspeakable gift of His grace, and sing the hymn of 'redeeming love,'

"'Now begin the heavenly theme,
Sing aloud in Jesus' name,'" etc.

which was accordingly done. Whatever might be the merit of the natural voices, it was plain there was melody in all their hearts.

The African was not much used to our way of singing, yet joined with great earnestness and affection, which showed how truly he felt what was uttered. When the fifth verse was ended--

"Nothing brought Him from above,
Nothing but redeeming love"--

he repeated the words, almost unconscious where he was.

"No, nothing, nothing but redeeming love bring Him down to poor William; nothing but redeeming love."

The following verses were added, and sung by way of conclusion:

See, a stranger comes to view;
Though he's black, he's comely too:
Come to join the choirs above,
Singing of redeeming love.

Welcome, brother, welcome here,
Banish doubt, and banish fear;
You, who Christ's salvation prove,
Praise and bless redeeming love.
--_Abridged from Legh Richmond._

THE BLIND SLAVE IN THE MINES.

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

On advancing with our lamps we found the passage closed by a door, in order to give a different direction to the currents of air for the purpose of ventilation; yet this door must be opened occasionally to let the rail-cars pass, loaded with coal. And to accomplish this we found sitting by that door an aged blind slave, whose eyes had been entirely destroyed by a blast of gunpowder many years before, in that mine. There he sat, on a seat cut in the coal, from sunrise to sunset, day after day; his sole business being to open and shut the door when he heard the rail-cars approaching. We requested him to sing again the hymn whose last line we had heard. It was, indeed, lame in expression, and in poetic measure very defective, being in fact one of those productions which we found the pious slaves were in the habit of singing, in part at least, impromptu. But each stanza closed with the sentiment, "I shall be in heaven in the morning."

It was sung with a clear and pleasant voice, and I could see the shrivelled, sightless eyeballs of the old man rolling in their sockets, as if his soul felt the inspiring sentiments; and really the exhibition was one of the most affecting that I have ever witnessed. There he stood, an old man, whose earthly hopes, even at the best, must be very faint--and he was a slave--and he was blind--what could he hope for on earth? He was buried, too, a thousand feet beneath the solid rocks. In the expressive language of Jonah, he had "gone down to the bottom of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about him for ever." There, from month to month, he sat in total darkness.

I would add, that on inquiry of the pious slaves engaged in these mines, I found that the blind old man had a fair reputation for piety, and that it was not till the loss of his eyes that he was led to the Saviour. It may be that the destruction of his natural vision was the necessary means of opening the eye of faith within his soul. And though we should shudder at the thought of exchanging conditions with him on earth, yet who can say but his peculiar and deep tribulation here may prepare his soul for a distinction in glory which we might covet. Oh, how much better to endure even his deep degradation and privations, sustained by his hopes, than to partake of their fortune who live in luxury and pleasure, or riot in wealth!

The scene which I have now described affords a most animating lesson of encouragement to the tried and the afflicted, and of reproof to the complaining and discontented.

Suppose health does fail us, and poverty oppress us, and our friends forsake us, and our best laid plans prove abortive, so that a dark cloud settles upon our worldly prospects--who of us is reduced so low as to be willing to change places with this poor slave? And yet he is able to keep his spirits buoyant by the single hope of future glory. He thinks of a morning that is to come, when even his deep and dreadful darkness shall pass away; and the thought has a magic power to sustain him. If we are Christians, shall not that same hope chase away our despondency, and nerve us to bear cheerfully those trials which are far inferior to his?

THE AFRICAN SERVANT'S PRAYER.

I was a helpless negro boy,
And wandered on the shore;
Men took me from my parents' arms,
I never saw them more.

But yet my lot, which seemed so hard,
Quite otherwise did prove;
For I was carried far from home,
To learn a Saviour's love.

Poor and despiséd though I was,
Yet Thou, O God, wast nigh;
And when Thy mercy first I saw,
Sure none so glad as I.

And if Thy Son hath made me free,
Then am I free indeed;
My soul is rescued from its chains;
For this did Jesus bleed.

Oh, send Thy word to that far land
Where none but negroes live;
Teach them the way, the truth, the life;
Thy grace, Thy blessing give.

Oh, that my father, mother, dear,
Might there Thy mercy see;
Tell them what Christ has done for them,
What Christ has done for me.

Whose God is like the Christian's God?
Who can with Him compare?
He has compassion on my soul,
And hears a negro's prayer.

ANECDOTE.

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

A LITTLE ACT OF KINDNESS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If your eyes are open, you will see these opportunities _every day_, and oh, how happy you may make your own heart, and the heart of some other, while your dear Father in heaven will smile upon your efforts.--_Angel of Peace._

OLD SUSAN.

BY GERTRUDE L. VANDERBILT.

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

Soon after I saw the poor old woman bent almost double with the weight of fagots on her back, and her check apron filled with chips and corn-cobs from the wood-yard. I raised the sash, and called her:

"Aunt Susan, do come in! Flora will get your breakfast, and you can take some home with you for granny," said I.

She lowered the bundle of fagots from her shoulders, and pushed back the long gingham sun-bonnet, as she looked up at my window.

"Bless yer heart, chile, but I couldn't--wouldn't!" She shook her head very decidedly, and adjusted the red bandana turban which had been crushed down by the sun-bonnet. "Ye see, me and granny ain't had fambly prayers yit this morning. That's it; obliged to yer jes' the same."

I suggested that our Heavenly Father would not reject prayers that were offered after breakfast. She looked up at me as I leaned from the window to catch the glory of the sunrise, and said, with rather a touch of sadness in her tone:

"No, chile, yer hadn't oughter think so. De Lord fust, an' everything else afterwards. Ef ye eat, or ef ye drink, do it all to de glory of God; but it tain't ter His glory ef yer please yerself fust. I'll be round biemby; then we 'splain the matter together." And reloading her tired shoulders, she tottered off under her burden.

This poor colored woman, bent down by her seventy years of sickness, and poverty, and hard work, and constant care, had a conscience so tender that nothing could have induced her to partake of the proffered meal before she had offered up her morning prayer, lest the act might seem like want of reverence and respect.

This was not an occasional spasmodic outburst of piety; she seemed always anxious to talk about God, and, as she could not read herself, to hear others read about Him. I never knew one who seemed to be in such constant and close communion with God. In my visits among the poor, I remember calling at her door one day, and being obliged to wait some time after knocking, although I heard her voice within. I was surprised that she should keep me waiting, for she had such a delicate sense of the duties of hospitality that she was particularly careful never to oblige a visitor to remain standing at her door. I soon discovered that she was engaged in prayer; one greater than any earthly guest was with her; it almost seemed as if she pleaded before one who was visibly present. She waited and wept, she urged, entreated, and earnestly pleaded; then gradually her tone changed, and her voice rose in prayer and loud hallelujahs, and then she was silent. I knocked once more, and hastily now she threw open the door; the traces of tears were still on her cheeks, and in her poor, dim eyes.

"Welcome, welcome!" she exclaimed: "come in. De Lord's bin wid me dis day. Praise and bless His holy name. I'se had sich a blessed time."

Then she dusted the only spare seat her poor room afforded, and placed it so that as she seated herself upon her bed she should face me.

"Oh, chile!" she exclaimed; "de prayers dat's gone up from dis poor shanty for you and de Sunday-school! Dey's gone right up from dis poor, low, mean place, right up through dis old roof, straight up to de great white throne!" And she clasped her hands and looked up as if she saw the vision beyond. "God's holy angels has heard 'em, Jesus's listened to 'em, and God's treasured 'em up, and dey'll come down in blessin's when old Susan's dead and gone. When I gits rid of dis mis'able, sickly body, and rises up to where my prayer's gone before me, oh, how I'll sing wid de holy angels, praise de Lord, praise de Lord!"

She used to go off in these rhapsodies frequently; she had dull prosaic neighbors, who never got excited over praise or anything else, and they used to say that old Susan was crazy when she prayed. In alluding to this she once told me, smiling, that she was going to ask the Lord to make them crazy in prayer. She thought a little more earnestness on the subject would be an improvement. Her faith was so strong that it seemed to have an element of sublimity in it; it was grand! The extreme poverty in which she lived, and her reliance upon others for every comfort in life, made her realize her dependence upon our Father in heaven more strongly than those who live in ease and luxury. She has often said to me, "I am poor and sick, broken down with hard work, crooked and bent with rheumatism, my wrists are so weak, and my fingers so stiff, that I can hardly pick up chips; boys often laugh at me in the street, because when I bend down I cannot always get up again; sometimes my fire goes out, and I have nothing to eat until the Lord sends some kind friend with food. But bless the Lord I am going home. The Lord is my Father, and in my Father's house there is plenty; more than enough. Oh, when I get home! Dear Lord, dear Lord! When I shall reach my home, I shall forget all the troubles I have had in this poor shanty." Looking at her in her poor room, I have often thought that if possible, heaven would seem more glorious to her, coming out of distress and misery, sickness and want, darkness and cold, into the full blaze of heavenly light.

She was very grateful to those who paid her rent. Of one lady in particular, she often spoke to me with great affection. She said to me once, naming this lady: "She is to be paid back every cent." It was spoken with so much earnestness that I involuntarily looked around as if I expected to see some one standing there with the money. She smiled, and told me she had been reminding God of His promise to pay her debts.

I once called on passing, to leave some dinner for her, she met me at the door, and insisted on my coming in. "I know'd you was a comin'," she said, "for I had nothin' t'eat, and I prayed de Lord ter send me somethin'."

"Well," I replied, "He has heard your prayer, and has sent this to you."

She placed the dish on her stove to keep warm, and then she began to talk of prayer. "I does pray fur you," she said, "and fur Mr. and Mrs. L., and Miss C. I prays fur all de world, but the Lord lets us choose out those who's good to us, and pray fur them most of all. Mr. L. has been so good, so good to me, never gettin' tired of being good to me, oh, I do pray fur him!" She paused, and sat thinking a moment, and then added: "When Aunt Susan stops a prayin', she'll be cold and dead."

"Aunt Susan" was by no means a gloomy Christian, she had a sense of humor, and was often very quick-witted in reply.

During those terrible riots in New York, in which so many of her race fell victims to the mob, she fled to her white friends for protection. Some time after this, when she was speaking of her faith and her trust in the Lord, an Irish Roman Catholic taunted her with having failed to trust in the Lord at that time. Her reply was very characteristic. "Did you ever read in the Old Testament of a man named Lot?" she asked. "Well, Lot showed his faith by running away, and so did Aunt Susan!" In relating to me this story, she laughed very heartily, and concluded by saying: "Yer see as I understan's it, Lot showed his faith by leavin' his home and flyin' accordin' to the command of der Lord, and Aunt Susan did jes de same, fur I showed my faith by usin' de means de Lord hed appinted, and not temptin' de Lord by stayin' behind. Jes so."

Old Susan's "family" consisted of her aged mother, at that time in her hundred and first year, her dog Prince, her cat Tom, her hen Toby; a more aged and decrepit family were surely never before gathered under one roof. If I had been told that old Dinah's age was a hundred and twenty, from appearances I should have been inclined to believe it. Smoking was the sole recreation which years had left her. Susan would fill her pipe at intervals during the day, and after using it, Dinah would sit gazing vacantly around her until it was refilled and placed in her hand. The dog, proportionately to canine years, had reached an equally advanced age with his mistress, and his scabby back gave him the appearance of having been eaten by moth. The cat and the hen had reached a greater age than the time usually allotted to their species; each would sit for hours perfectly motionless on the door-step, as if musing on the singing and exhorting they were constantly hearing within the house from their old mistress. Susan was very fond of animals, and seemed to have a curious power in taming and controlling them. I once told her, that had she lived earlier, she might have been taken up for a witch, with Tom and Toby as her familiar spirits.

Old Susan's faith led her to believe that she could see the hand of God in even the most trifling events of life, and that, as He was leading her, and teaching her through these means, she should be ever on the watch, so as not to lose the lessons His providence set in her way. She came to me one day with the utmost gravity, to tell me of a lesson in resignation. This pet dog, through some inadvertence, had eaten a portion prepared for rats; her tender heart was much troubled by the suffering so carelessly inflicted. Just before extinguishing her light at night, she turned to Dinah and--to let her tell her own story, as she told it to me: "Sez I, granny, look yer last on poor Prince, fur you'll never see him alive no more. Then it kinder struck me that I wasn't resigned, so I kneels down, and sez I, 'O dear Lord, he's bin a faithful dog to me. He's watched over my things many a day when I was out a beggin' for daily bread; he's bin very faithful, but I gin him up to de Lord. If de Lord says his time's out, I gin him up. I's resigned.' Next mornin' I opens de winders, an' behold, dere's Prince, jis as well as ever! Sez I, granny, de Lord has gin him back to me. He was jis a tryin' my faith! His will is the best fur us all, ye mus larn dat, granny, dat's the lesson from dis providence."

Old Susan still lives, but her faculties seem gradually failing, while life yet retains hold in her weak frame. She is helpless, poor, and old. While earthly matters seem fading out of her memory, her thoughts still cling to things above. In my last tract-distributing visit to her room, I found her holding an open Testament, with the leaf folded down at the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. She cannot read, but she sat pathetically looking at the text. As I entered, she exclaimed: "Oh, read it, read it, for me!" It seemed as if her faith, so sorely tried by her long waiting, and her earthly sufferings, was for a moment wavering. As I slowly and distinctly read the words, "In my Father's house are many mansions," etc., the glimmering rays rekindled, her faith re-asserted itself. "Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, "I knew it was so, I knew it was written somewhere there; now I remember it. I'll yet have a home in my Father's house." As I looked at the poor, worn-out frame; the weak, helpless hands; the wrinkled face, and the dim eyes, my faith could see through these the glorious spirit that should one day arise and take its upward flight towards the heavenly mansions.

POOR SARAH;

_Or, Religion Exemplified in the Life and Death of a Pious Indian Woman._

The subject of the following narrative lived and died in a town in
the eastern part of Connecticut. We are well acquainted with the
writer, and we can assure our readers that the account here given
is true.--_Editor of the Religious Intelligencer._

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

She called to solicit a few _crusts_, meekly saying she "deserved nothing but the _crumbs_--they were enough for her poor old body, just ready to crumble into dust." I had heard of _Sarah_, a pious Indian woman, and I was therefore prepared to receive her with kindness. And remembering the words of my Lord, who said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the _least_ of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me," I was ready to impart a portion of my _little_ unto her (for little, alas! was my store).

"And how," I asked her, "have you got along, this long, cold winter, Sarah?" "O misse," she replied, "God better to Sarah than she fear. When winter come on, Sarah was in great doubt. No husband, no child here but one; she wicked, gone a great deal. What if great snow come? What if fire go out? Nabor great way off. What if sick all 'lone? What if I die? Nobody know it.

"While I think so, in my heart, then I cry: while I cryin', somethin' speak in my mind, and say, 'Trust God, Sarah; He love His people, He never leave them, He never forsake them; He never forsake Sarah, He friend indeed. Go tell Jesus, Sarah; He love hear prayer; He often hear Sarah pray.' So I wipe my eyes; don't cry any more; go out in bushes, where nobody see, fall down on my old knees and pray. God give me great many words; pray a great while. God make all my mind peace.

"When I get up, go in house, can't stop prayin' in my mind. All my heart burn with love to God; willin' live cold, go hungry, be sick, die all 'lone, if God be there. He know best; Sarah don't know. So I feel happy; great many day go singin' hymn--

'Now I can trust the Lord for ever,
He can clothe, and He can feed,
He my rock, and He my Saviour,
Jesus is a friend indeed.'"

"Well, Sarah, have you been comfortably supplied?" "O yes," she replied, "I never out corn meal once all winter." "But how do you cook it, Sarah, so as to make it comfortable food?" "O, I make porridge, misse. Sometimes I get out, like to-day, and I go get some crusts bread and some salt put in it, then it is so nourishing to this poor old body; but when can't get none, then make it good I can, and kneel down, pray God to bless it to me; and I feel if God feed me, and be so happy here"--(laying her hand on her heart).