Part 3

It rejoiced the heart of the good African not a little to find in the humble stone-breaker a friend who had taken such a deep interest in the people of Africa. And if his pleasure was so great, the laborer's was not less, for he saw in George Nicol an answer to his prayers, and a sure proof that his missionary money had not been spent in vain. He felt the truth of the words, "Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days."

HE NEVER TOLD A LIE.

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

DADDY DAVY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The servant quitted the room, and it was not without some feelings of fear, as well as hopes of amusement that, a few minutes afterwards, I saw the poor African stand bowing before the parlor door. The twilight had faded away, and except the reflection from the snow, night had thrown its sable shadows on the scene; but as the bright gleam of the fire shed its red hue upon the features of the negro, and flashed upon his rolling eyes, he presented rather a terrific appearance to my young mind.

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

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

His look was inclined downwards, as if fearful of meeting the stern gaze of my grandfather, who scanned him with the most minute attention, not unmingled with agitation. Every joint of the poor fellow's limbs shook as if struck with ague, and the cold seemed to have contracted his sinews; for he crouched his body together, as if to shrink from the keen blast. Tears were trickling down his cheek, and his spirit seemed bowed to the earth by distress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"_Catch_, massa! what he call _catch_?"

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

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

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

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

AN AGED CHRISTIAN.

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

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

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

UNCLE JACK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle Jack died in 1843, aged one hundred years.

--_Blake's Biographical Dictionary._

CHRISTIAN KINDNESS.

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

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

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

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

GRATITUDE OF SLAVES.

BY DR. LETTSOM.

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

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

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

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

THE SLAVE SHOEMAKER.

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

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

"Can thou read?"

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

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

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

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

LET ME RING THE BELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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