Part 6

"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."