The grandmother of a little girl who had died a few days before was very sick and in great distress of mind when I entered her cabin, she said imploringly, "O missus, do pray for poor me. Can God forgive sich an ole sinner as me? Can I fin' Jesus so quick as poor Mary Jane did afore she died? I knows she went so happy; I prayed all night, but 'pears like so dark; don't see de place o' de candle." I read to her of the readiness of Jesus to forgive, and how he forgave the thief on the cross, because he repented and looked to Jesus in faith even in his last moments. As I knelt by her cot I implored unbounded mercy in the Spirit's teaching this precious soul the way to enter in through the door. I left her more calm. She lingered a few days, but her mind became clear from the shadow of a cloud. She died in the triumphs of faith, leaving, she said, her little lambs with the dear Shepherd, "Dat hunted de lost sheep an' foun' her 'mid de wolves, dat scratch her mightily." The children were taken to the orphanage.

While pursuing this work our lives were daily threatened, and some had fears of another riot. One Union woman on our block told me that she had often spent sleepless nights on our account. She had heard such frequent threats that "Nigger teachers should be cleared out, as well as free niggers," that she expected every day would be our last, and every pistol shot she heard in the night, or the alarm of fire, she listened and looked in the direction of our Mission House. But I told her I did not believe we should have another riot; I believed the God of Daniel was able and willing to protect us, and that in him was my confidence.

"But you don't know these people as I do," she said, "for I have always lived here. I have sometimes thought I would not tell you. And then I made up my mind that I would, so you could be more on your guard; because they threatened, just as they do now, before that awful riot a few months ago."

The teachers who were my room-mates said they had heard of the same threats, but there were soldiers near at hand now, and when the riot broke out there were so few here they had to be called from other points to quell it.

On April 13th I visited the sick and relieved eight families. Then I went over old Fort Pickering and through the freedmen's hospital, containing one hundred and eighty-eight inmates, four of them cripples, and fifteen very old. Of one I inquired how old she was:

"I's goin' on two hundred," she answered. "Massa's book say I's one hundred and eight, an' dat is eight years for another hundred, ain't it? Dey name me Esther Jane. I was sole at sheriff's sale for debt to Massa Sparks. In de ole war Massa George Washington was a mighty kind man. He boarded wid Massa Sparks four or five weeks. He wore short breeches an' knee-buckles an' a cocked hat I kep' his room clar'd up."

She was not as blind as a number who were much younger. But her skin was full of fine as well as deep wrinkles, and of an ashen hue. I gave a little sugar and some crackers to many of them.

I returned to find a colored man who had been directed to me. He had made his escape the night before from his old master, who seemed to have no more idea of his leaving him than if there had been no proclamation of freedom. His wife had been sick a long time, and he stayed to take care of her till she died, then he watched an opportunity to bring his two little children with him. But his master he supposed was also watching, for he soon overtook him with help and took his children away from him, and his bundle of clothes that he was going to put on when he got far enough from the house to feel safe with his children. He said it was his best suit. The shirt and drawers he had on were good, and they constituted his entire wardrobe. I laid out a number of garments, and told him to go into the store-room and select a whole suit that would best fit him. The next thing to be done was to accompany him to Colonel Palmer's office, where he told his own pitiful story, and the colonel asked him if he could take care of his children if he got them.

"If you'll be so good as to help me get them, these hands," (holding them out toward the colonel) "shall take as good care of them as they do of me," and his eyes filled with tears. I left him with the colonel, who told him he would send with him an escort of soldiers the next morning, "and the master will not dare refuse to give up the children on reading the note I shall send him."

A little excitement existed over the murder of Mr. Errickson, a Union man, who fled to Memphis with his family for safety during the war. A few weeks before the present time, he returned to his home in Summerville. He had been home but a few days before he was shot dead in front of a store. His poor wife and two daughters were almost insane over his untimely death. He thought the country was becoming more quiet, and he could risk going quietly to their home. There was a very smart colored woman in town who witnessed his murder. She was at Memphis ostensibly to do a little trading; but her errand was to inquire of the real friends of the colored people which man they had better vote for—Parson Brownlow or the conservative candidate—for governor. The men did not dare to come, for fear they would be mistrusted; and she came to learn from Union men their choice for governor, to take back word, and report at Summerville.

I was one day passing the old barracks of soldiers, then occupied by freedmen. I heard distressing groans, and called to see whence they came. I found an old man of ninety-seven years, called "Uncle Philip," in great bodily distress. "How long have you been suffering like this?" I inquired.

"Only two years," he said.

"Two years must seem a great while."

"O no, it's only a little minute, compared with eternity of rest in glorious mansions Jesus went to prepare for me; for I knows I's got a home thar', missus, I knows it, 'case I's seen it, an' I feels it."

"How long have you felt this evidence?"

"I seen it cl'ar as sunshine when I was ten year ole. My massa was a mighty wicked, swearin', cruel man. An' his overseer was a mighty big wicked black man; his name was Munday. An' all the seventy-five grown han's on the plantation was mighty wicked too. I hear so much swearin' I had a bad ide' of God and Jesus; I reckon'd they's some great men, that sent people to a mighty bad place. One day a Methodis' minister stop to Massa Malachi's for dinner. When he lef' massa call me to bring his hoss to 'im. An' de preacher put his han' on my head an' say, 'Philip is a smart little boy. An' if you'll ask God to make you good he'll do it. Then when you die you'll go to that great, beautiful city up yonder, where it's all light and beautiful. Here little Philip has to go 'round among stubs and stones, barefoot; there he'll walk the golden streets in silver slippers. Here he wears his slip; there he'll be dressed in a beautiful white robe. Here he goes bareheaded; there he'll wear a beautiful crown, all glittering with stars. Wouldn't you like to go to such a beautiful city as that when you die?' 'Yes, sir,' I say. 'Well, ask God to make you good, and that will be your home; for Jesus loves little children.' An' he jump'd on his hoss and rode away, while I stood thar, wonderin' what sort of a man that could be, that knew so much 'bout God and heaven. Now I must fin' God, to ask 'im to make me good; an' f'om this man's 'scription, he must be settin' on some cloud. Day and night I watch for 'im; an' when I looked upon the stars I wondered if these sparklin' stars was what God put in de crowns he put on de heads of all good people an' good chillen.

"One day Aunt Milla, the cook, sent me to pick up an armful of wood for her. While I stood lookin' up to de clouds, huntin' for God, I hear a sweet soft voice say, 'Chile, pray.' I look all 'mong de tree- tops, to see who's thar, an' it say, 'Chile, pray,' again. An' I was sure somebody up in de tree-tops, an' I got scared, an' drop my armful of wood, an' run to Aunt Milla, all out o' bref. 'What ails you, Phil? What's the matter?' she said. 'Somebody's in de tree-tops, an' say, "Chile, pray."' 'Hush, chile,' Aunt Milla said, 'dat's God talkin to you.' 'No 't ain't. I's been huntin' for God a good many days, an' can't fin' im.' 'Honey, you can't see God wid de eyes you sees Aunt Milla. God is a great good spirit dat knows all 'bout what you want, an' what you're thinkin' 'bout. I wish I was a Christian, but I ain't. I's hearn Christians talk, an' I knows dat God's talkin' to you, honey. Now, you go by yourse'f, alone like, an' ask God to make you good, as you say you want to, an' he'll do it, sure.'

"Here was a new thought, dat I could fin' God, an' not see 'im. But I did as Aunt Milla tole me. It 'peared like I must fin' God. My heart ached like, all thro' me, I's so anxious. Only a few days after I was totin' an armful o' plates to the dinin'-room for Aunt Milla. All at once I's so happy I didn't know myse'f. I drop my plates, an' broke I don't know how many. But I didn't stop for plates; I shouted, 'Bless Massa Jesus! Glory! Glory hallelujah to God! I 'a foun' 'im; I knows it's God.' I got hold of my papa and mamma, an' tole 'em to ask God to make 'em good, an' he'd do it; an' took hold of my little mate July, 'bout my age, an' tole 'im he mus' pray, an' I'd pray for 'im. In a few days he got 'ligion too. An' two young white ladies, Massa Malachi's nieces, lived thar', an' learned us to sing the sweet hymn:

"'My Savior, my Almighty Friend, When I begin thy praise, Where shall the growing numbers end, The numbers of thy grace?'

An' I tole July we'd have prayer-meetin's in our cabin of nights, an' de ole folks gathered 'round us, an' our cabin was full. Massa Malachi Murphy was angry 'bout it; sometimes he'd scold, sometimes make fun o' me, an' call me de 'big preacher, Howlin' Phil.' But as all dat didn't put me down, he call me to 'im an' say, 'You shall stop this prayin' an' singin' in your cabin, or I'll whip you to death,' an' he swore I was ruinin' his plantation. My papa an' mamma tried to get me to stop. They said, 'You know Massa Malachi will do jus' as he say.' 'O no, I can't stop prayin' to Jesus, he's so good to poor me. I can't stop prayin', I said. But we did stop our prayer-meetin's in our cabin, but we had our night meetin's in a deep ravine over a quarter of a mile away. Forty or fifty of our fellow slaves would, meet us thar to hear us pray an' sing. At las' massa set de overseer, Munday, to watch us, an' he found us out. He ordered Munday to bring July an' me to 'im afore sun up. When we come in sight of de yard we seen two ropes hangin' to a big tree limb, an' I stop an' look to July, an' to de woods, wid a half a min' to run. But July says, 'We knows we can't stop prayin', an' we knows what we'll take jus' as well firs' as las'.' Then I was 'shamed to think I was firs' in de cause, an' July stronger'n me. An' we went through de gate an' stood afore massa, settin' in de back door in his night shirt. He began to swear we was ruinin' his whole plantation, an' now he was goin' to have us whipped to death. 'Now you see you've got to die or stop prayin'; will you stop this d——d prayin'?' 'O massa, do please let me pray to God, do please.' 'Strip off your slip, tie 'im up thar, Mun, an' give 'im a full round.' It was done accordin' to order; twenty lashes with the bull whip, an' twenty strokes with the paddle. Turning to July, he said, 'Will you stop prayin' or die?' 'Massa, do please let me pray to God,' said July. With an oath, he was bidden to take off his slip, an' tied to the other rope with a rail at the lower end, nearly touching the ground. The paddle was an inch board four inches wide, three or four feet long, whittled at one end for the handle, having six or eight inches bored full of holes, each hole drawing a blister at every stroke. The full round was given to July as ordered, twenty lashes with the bull whip and twenty strokes with the paddle. With an oath he turned again to me, 'Now, have you got enough to stop your praying or will the devil die?' 'O massa, do please let me pray to God, he is so good,' I answered. 'Mun, give 'im another full round,' and twenty lashes with the whip, and twenty strokes with the paddle was again given. Again he queried July, who gave the same reply as before, and the full round was ordered and given again. Then he ordered him to be cut down, swearing that he would whip him to death the next time he heard of his praying. But he swore he'd have the little devil, Phil, whipped to death now, as he was first in this 'devilish' praying. As I expected to die, I prayed all through this terrible ordeal that Jesus would come near to help me endure it, in his name.

"I felt him like he was by my side," continued Uncle Philip, as the tears dropped thick and fast, often stopping a moment to find utterance. "Massa bid July go home an' behave, an' he order' de overseer to give me another round unless I'd promise to stop prayin'. But it 'peared like I felt stronger in de Lo'd, an' I give de same answer, and I can't tell how long I was whipped an' paddled, for when I cum to, I was cut down, and layin' in de blood on de groun'—I fainted away. Massa was lookin' at me thar in his night shirt; I see him as cl'ar as if't was done yesterday. He swore I should never cum in his sight again, or cum inside dat gate, pointing to it. I prayed in my heart for God to give me strength to git up and walk to de quarters, for the pain an' loss of blood made me so weak an' faint. But de good Lo'd was thar, an' I presently got strong enough to get up an' took my slip in han', an' staggered out dat yard, and cum up to July. He stop on de way to see if I was 'live. When we pass de quarters all along, de old men an' women stood at their doors cryin'.

When we got out o' sight of de great house, one ole man an' 'oman called us to 'em an' oiled our backs. Da said we was all cut up to a jelly, an' put soft cloth over de gashes. Our people tried harder'n ever to stop our prayin' an' singin', caze Massa Malachi sure to kill us.

"A few days after massa sent for me, an' I 'spected he'd finish me dis time sure. But I felt Jesus was close by me; I was weak in de body, but strong in de Lo'd. I obeyed, as I stood all trimbly afore 'im. 'Well, howlin' preacher, if you are boun' to preach you shall preach,' an' he swore I should have enough of it. 'Next Sunday, at eleven o'clock you shall preach; I'm going to invite all the white folks an' black people 'round here to cum to hear de big preacher. I'm going to have a pulpit built under that big tree' (pointing to one in the yard two rods from the one the ropes were tied to when we was whipped). 'Now we'll have a big meetin' to hear de big preacher. You understan', do you?' 'Yes, massa,' I say, an' he sent me away. I tol' July what massa said. 'Now we mus' pray to God to sen' a minister, an' pray God to soften massa's heart, to let 'im preach, for you knows Massa Malachi mil do jus' as he says he will, an' God will answer our prayer.' At nights I went to one plantation an' July went to another, an' we tried to git some Christian man or some Christian woman to promise to preach if massa would consent. But not one would promise. They all knew it was just for sport. Sunday morning came with a great parade of hauling boards, an' a pulpit was built."

Uncle Philip said it looked more terrifying to him than would a gallows if built for his own hanging. People gathered from all directions, both white and colored, and filled the whole yard. The hour of eleven brought the master to the door in his arm-chair, with his family Bible in his lap. Taking his watch from his pockets, he called out, "Come on, my big preacher."

"I obeyed the command," said Uncle Philip, "as I stood afore 'im. 'Now we are to hear this howling preacher,' he said, sneeringly, 'ad you can't preach without the Bible, an' I'll hold it wide open, an' you must look right at me when you preach. The time is up; go to your pulpit.' I asked July if he would go up with me and help me sing—

"'My Savior, my Almighty Friend'

Nodding an assent, we went on. It 'peared like I was too weak to go up four or five steps. I trimbled an' sweat all over. But once I was up my strength cum to me, and we sung so loud de people say da hear ev'ry word all over dat great yard. By de time we got to de las' line of third verse de people was cryin' for mercy an' down on dair knees crying, 'Lo'd, what shall I do to be saved? 'Lo'd have mercy on me, a sinner!' 'Be merciful to poor me, or I'm lost.' These cries we hear'n from every side. I never felt happier or bolder in my life, while tears of joy ran down as I faced my ole massa. He slam de door shut, an' da said he jumped between two feather-beds to keep from hearin' de cries of de people. I tell you, honey, de Lo'd made dat hymn my sin- killer on dat blessed day, long, long to be 'membered."

"And did you preach?" I asked.

"Preach, chile; de Lo'd did all de preachin' dat day. We finish' de hymn, an' we went down an' talked an' prayed wid de seekers, an' we staid dar all night, an' afore next mornin' twenty-three was converted an' praisin' God. Massa call for me, an' I 'spected my time cum now anyhow. But I was ready for death or life. I went without fear of any thing. He looked at me as mile as a lamb, an' said, 'Phil, my boy, you may preach, pray, or sing as much as you please, an' go where you please, an' you shall never be hit another lick as long as I live.' I bowed low an' said, 'Thanky, Massa Malachi; God bless you, massa.' I praised God as I turned away from, him who had caused me so much sufferin'.

"But God turned it into a great blessin'. He dismissed his overseer, an' never 'lowed one of his slaves to be punish' after that great day. In one year seventy-three on dat plantation was converted. Two nieces of massa's was 'mong 'em, besides a few other white folks. But Massa Malachi tried to git 'em to give up 'ligion, an' sent 'em to dancin' frolics. An' da come to me for advice as if I was deir brover. I tole em Massa Malachi took keer of 'em, 'caze day was orphans, an' de sin would res' on de uncle dat make 'em go agin deir will, and not on dem. Two years after one of 'em got married an' moved thirty miles away, an' she got leave of massa to let me go an' stay a week or two at a time. At las', poor gal, she died of consumption, and sent for me a month afore she died to stay wid her, an' she often asked me to pray wid her. O how happy she died, in full faith in de 'ligion she foun' on de blessed day massa compel me to preach, little thinkin' he was 'pointin' a meetin' for de Lo'd of hosts instead of little Phil. But my people on other plantations often sent for me to preach, but I never call it preachin', only 'ligious talks. Da would have me help organize Churches all 'roun' thar. In four years we organized seven Churches an' the cause prospered.

"At las' so many persecutions an' sufferin' was goin' on I got disheartened. I began to question whether it wan't me causin' all dis sufferin', an' I stop goin' to prayer-meetin' four months, an' de ministers an' Christian men an' Christian women come to see me an' say, 'Brodder Philip, why don't you come to meetin', as you use' to?' I tole 'em, 'caze I didn't feel like it. Said one man, 'I's feared de devil's got hold of you.' I tole 'im I 'spected he'd had hold o' me a long while, for I felt bad enough to be his work. I tole 'im Massa Malachi made me preach, an' God didn't have nothin' to do wid it, for he knew massa was a wicked man."

These doubts and fears seemed to follow Uncle Philip day and night, until, as, he said, his distress was great. Then, he fell into an insensible, lifeless state, in which he lay fourteen days. Said he:

"My mother dressed me for de grave; but as my limbs did not stiffen, Mada Malachi sent for a doctor who placed a glass before my face, an' moisture gathered on it. He tole 'em it was not entirely cole over de heart, an' da mus'n't bury me until decomposition took place, cuze it might be a trance. An' da kep' me in de kitchen wid Aunt Milla, de cook, to watch me. It 'peared like I's goin' down into a horrible place of awful soun's an' rattlin' of chains; an' I prayed mightily for help, an' Jesus reached down an' took my han' an' lifted me up to a glorious palace so beautiful, an' every thing was light. Steps seemed built out of light, somehow made into sub'sance, I can't 'escribe it. My guide tole me I was wrong to doubt, when God had been so good to me in all my hard trials. He showed me de windows dat let light down to dis earth, an' to de churches I helpt organize. It seemed like bein' led from place to place into a mighty big country. When I seen 'em all dress' in pure white robes an' singin' such splendid music, I look at myself and see how filthy an' ragged I look; I say to my guide, 'I can never go in dat company.' 'Yes you can when Jesus wash you in his blood. All you see was as filthy an' ragged as you. But da is made clean.' An' we crossed over a line like, an' firs' I know I's in de pure white robe too, an' singin' wid all dat great company. O I can't 'escribe, how happy I felt in rangin' wid my guide de fields of light an' sich glorious visions. At las' he said, 'You mus' go back to earth an' teach your people de way to dis glorious home, dat is your home if you be faithful in readin' dis book.' I said, 'I am a slave back thar, an' can't read.' 'But this book you can read,' an' he laid de open book on my outstretched lef' arm; de tip of de golden leaves reach the tip of my fingers, an' the other tip of the leaves touch my head. He took me two or three little steps, an' I thought I was back to earth, an' I ask Aunt Milla for a drink as I was so thirsty. And she said de bucket of water was on de bench, an' my little cup by it.

"When I cum to myse'f I was standin' by de bucket drinkin' out o' my cup. But nobody was in de house but Mina, a little gal 'bout eight year ole, massa bought out of a drove was passin' by de kitchen door, and run to the fiel' shoutin' all de way 'Phil's alive! Phil's alive!' An' all de han's on de plantation cum runnin' to de house, an' my mother caught me firs', 'Praise God, my chile's alive.' De firs' I said, 'I's been wrong to doubt God, I never, never will doubt him any more.' I never can, for I's had a glimpse of hell, and have been in dat beautiful world of light."

I have given Uncle Philip's narrative in his own language as I took it down in my note-book at the time of my interviews with him. His was indeed a green old age; his mind remarkably clear, and his memory retentive. From time to time, as I read a chapter or a psalm, he often referred to certain passages that he had dwelt upon since I had left him. In relating his history be often shed tears; at one time with his elbows resting upon his knees, and face buried in the calico 'kerchief until it was wet. At another time he was just raising himself up from the kneeling position—when I came in. "I's jus' bin prayin' for you," he said. "I did't know as you's so near, but I felt your spirit. It sort o' lifs me up to talk wid you. I prayed dat de good seed you's sowin' 'mong our people may lodge in good groun' an' bring a hundred fol'. De men you talked to on de bridge 'bout swearin' never'll forgit your words. You's doin' more for our poor, ignorant people dan you knows on."

He lived about a year after I left Memphis, Tennessee. I sent him occasionally two or three dollars, through Superintendent Barnum or his wife, who often called to see his wants supplied. The last words he uttered were a few lines of one of his favorite hymns, "Give me wings," and his happy spirit took its flight; having faithfully read the book he said he had always kept in his heart. I was often forcibly impressed while conversing with that aged saint. How manifest is the power of our Wonderful, in his dealing with his followers, just according to their needs. That poor ignorant man could not read the written Word, but God took his own way to lead and instruct him, to fit him for an instrument in his hand of turning many souls to the knowledge of the truth as it is in Jesus.

On May 11, 1867, I took the cars for home. Having instructions from the American Missionary Association and transportation, I took fifteen homeless orphans to our asylum in my former school, Raisin Institute. I left this field of arduous toiling, often passing the former residence of John P. and Thomas K. Chester, who had so often threatened my life. Both closed their earthly career by untimely deaths. I reached home on the 14th, praising the God of Daniel for his keeping power in the lion's den.



CHAPTER XVI.

"STATE PUBLIC SCHOOL."

After my return my health gave way, as did also that of our worthy agent, Catherine Taylor. She endured great suffering from inflammation of the sciatic nerve, and was entirely disabled from labor for months. Late in the Autumn our supplies ran very low, and our self-sacrificing president was also in poor health. She, with a few other members of the board, visited the asylum, and found nothing on hand but corn-meal and turnips, which, with a little milk that was made into a gravy, was all there was to keep the children from starving. Our president ran in debt twenty-six dollars at the mill and grocery; but on Thanksgiving- day a collection of sixty-six dollars was taken for the asylum. This liquidated the debt, and furnished the necessary food for the time being. But Winter was approaching, and the failing health of the workers seemed to forebode the necessity of closing our asylum work.

Mrs. Catherine Rice corresponded with friends of the work in Grand Rapids, asking them to unite with us in a petition to the State Legislature to establish a State manual labor school in Grand Rapids, as the friends in that city were arranging for a local orphan asylum. The subject was discussed in the board, but a small majority voted against uniting their local interests with the State work. During this time, all new material sent in for clothing was exchanged for food, and Jane A. Smith and our faithful teacher applied to a few friends and received temporary aid. On December 15, 1870, we found the provisions too short to last for two weeks. The question came up, What shall be done for the twenty children for whom no homes are provided? Under the circumstances, there seemed no alternative but to return the children to their respective county infirmaries. When this decision was reached by the board of managers, and made known to the matron and teacher, on the evening of their week-day prayer-meeting, the matron informed the children of it. Eleven of them had made a profession of religion, and had given evidence of having found Him who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not" Each of these offered earnest prayer for God to help them live so faithfully that he would make friends for them, to bring them something to eat, "so we won't have to go back to the county poor-house."

All this time my children and friends had not allowed me to know the condition of the asylum. Our firm friend, Rebecca Bennett, and our president called on my physician to ask permission to see me for advice as to whom they could write for aid. He replied, "With your calm and judicious manner, I can risk you." But they came far short of making a full revelation of the true state of things. I advised them to write the superintendent of the Congregationalist Sabbath-school at, Franklin Center, and to the pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Tecumseh. They proposed that I should dictate to my daughter what to write. This was done, and my appeal was read in their respective congregations. Within a week two sleigh-loads, containing grain, flour, meal, and beef, and a whole dressed sheep, came from those places. The drivers rolled in barrel after barrel from each of the sleighs, and said they would bring more before this was gone. One little boy of eleven years said:

"Mrs. Smith, don't you think God sent all this 'cause we prayed so hard the other night?"

"My child," she answered, "the Lord has heard our prayers, and has answered; and, although it is snowing hard, yet you must hurry, and hitch Jack to the buggy as quick as possible, so that we can let Mrs. Haviland know this; for I have been afraid she has been worse since she learned we were so nearly out."

Soon she came into my room with the glad tidings: "Do not take another anxious thought over our asylum. We had more supplies come to us to- day than we have had for two months—two heavy sleigh-loads." We clasped each others' hands and wept for joy, and praised God, from whom all blessings flow.

This news revived the spirits of those whose hands were hanging down, and gave them courage to reappoint officers. Rev. Dr. Asa Mahan's wife served as president, with other officers, duly elected. A petition to the Legislature was drafted and industriously circulated, and printed copies were sent to a number of the superintendents of counties who had favored our project. Though the Legislature was in session, and there was not time to circulate it as extensively as desirable, yet Dr. Mahan and others thought it might succeed, although there were heavy drafts upon our Legislature of 1870-71. The State Prison was to be enlarged, the Insane Asylum to be improved, and additions to Ann Arbor University made, while there were still other calls for appropriations. All these made the success of our scheme look doubtful to many. All I could do was to continue in prayer that senators and representatives might feel the importance of looking after the pressing wants of our future men and women, soon to fill our vacated places. I found many children in the county poor-house through the debauchery of their fathers, and occasionally mothers.

The improvement, both in conduct and in morals, of the neglected little waifs whom we had gathered into our asylum, urged us on in our work; for we realized that our experiment was a success. Our friends were thus encouraged to press forward with the petition.

Dr. Mahan and his wife, our president, went before the Legislature with the view of pressing our claims. Members of the Senate and House proposed to grant Dr. Mahan one evening in representing the project, and left it in the hands of the Committee on Petitions. Senator Randall, of Coldwater, put it in the form of a bill that covered the spirit and requests of the petition. Being chairman of the Committee on Bills, he presented it in the Senate. It was passed in that body, to our great joy, and soon after was passed in the House, and received the governor's signature, making it a law.

Though only thirty thousand dollars were appropriated by the Legislature with which to commence operations, yet I knew the State would carry on the work hereafter. The site for the new asylum was to be selected at whatever desirable locality offered the most liberal donations. As Coldwater offered thirty thousand dollars toward the new enterprise, it was located in that city. While the buildings for the State school were being erected, our asylum was moved into the city of Adrian, as at that point it was more convenient for the sisters composing the board of managers to care for it. When the "State Public School" should be opened, all in our asylum not provided with homes were to be transferred to it.

My health improved sufficiently to enable me to make a few appeals to bring up arrears in our work. The matron and myself had received but very little, as all went to the support of the children. I cared but little for myself; but for sister Smith, who had been such a faithful, mother to these poor children, I was more anxious. At length I secured permission of my tender care-takers—my two daughters—to go among my friends in Detroit. To most of them I appealed by letter, and made but one personal call. That was more particularly in the interest of a prisoner for whom I solicited a pardon. This was at length granted. Governor Baldwin had known of my asylum work, and inquired after its interests. He gave me twenty dollars towards it. Mr. Crapo's son gave me twenty-five dollars, and Captain E. B. Ward fifty dollars. Others responded to my letters, and I obtained over two hundred dollars.

The great fires in Chicago and Northern Michigan stopped farther work of this character; but we did what we could toward canceling arrearages, being confident that were it not for the continued and faithful toiling of Jane A. Smith the asylum would have died during my long and serious illness. It must have died, even after its removal to Adrian, had it not been for a faithful few.

A few months after the State Public School was opened at Coldwater, in charge of Professor Truesdell, superintendent, and Miss Emma A. Hall, matron. I went into the school as seamstress and nurse, and remained there nearly two years. Instead of overhauling, cutting, and making over second-hand clothes for the three hundred little homeless waifs we had cared for in our orphans' home, we were now well supplied with bolts of substantial new material, out of which we made comfortable bedding and clothing. Here we had no care about furnishing, and no anxious fear for their support. With pleasure we saw the vast contrast in conveniences and supplies compared with our little rill in which we so long paddled our own canoe, and in which faithful laborers were still at work. It matters not by whom this great work was accomplished; it matters not by what agencies our prayer of more than four years long, previous to the adopting of this work by the State, was answered. Through an overruling power clouds and icebergs vanished, and in lieu thereof the massive brick buildings of the State Public School in Coldwater were raised, instead of the old Raisin Institute, where it drew its first breath.



CHAPTER XVII.

CHRISTIAN LABOR AND RESULTS.

It seemed refreshing to meet with sympathizing friends after toiling for months among false brethren. It was a relief to enjoy a few days of freedom from care. After asking a few friends to sign an article of agreement to pay one dollar a year during five years for the orphan asylum, and mailing a couple of letters to Levi Coffin and Rev. E. M. Cravath, of Cincinnati, I took from the office a drop-letter from Mr. Burton Kent, County Superintendent of the Poor, containing the following notice:

"MRS. LAURA S. HAVILAND,—Many persons transported by you last year have become a county charge, and it has become an intolerable burden to the tax-payers. Any person bringing a child or indigent person into this county without being legally indentured, shall be prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

Within five minutes after reading the above notice I was on my way to our County Poor-house, three miles from town. To my surprise I found that no colored child had been there, and of the fifty-one inmates but three were colored, and only one man (Mr. Morris Brown) who came with me the previous Summer had been received. He was discharged in a short time. A stay at the infirmary for two months and a half was a burden, but was it "intolerable to the tax-payers" of our county?

I felt that I must search diligently to discover all the facts. I called on Mr. Helms, who said there was widow with four or five children that was sick a couple of weeks, and he had supplied her with a load of wood and groceries. I asked for the cost, but as it was not convenient for him to give the figures then, he said he would furnish them the following Tuesday. Mr. Young had told him that he had buried a family. I called to learn what family it was in his ward. He gave the name of the man who died after a short illness, and to whom he had taken a load of wood, a small sack of flour, and some other groceries. I inquired if he had taken these things to them more than once. He said he had not, as his wife was all there was to look after, and she took care of herself after her husband's death. He gave me the expenses—eight dollars and ninety-six cents. I called on Mr. Helms at three appointed times, and failed to get his precise figures, but, placing them at highest rates, from all I could gather it could not have been more than thirty-five dollars. I wrote an article for the Adrian Times, in which I stated the figures, and informed the citizens and tax-payers of Lenawee County that this orphan asylum was under the auspices of the American Missionary Association, which was responsible for its support. I solicited some mathematician to give us the fraction of a mill to each taxpayer as his share of this "intolerable burden upon the tax-payers."

Our county superintendents of the poor, Burton Kent and Alice Warren, the officials from whom I received the notice, were surprised to learn that the American Missionary Association was the responsible party. But all these threats sprang from prejudiced parties, and clearly indicated the necessity of a few strokes of the reconstruction brush north of Mason and Dixon's line, as well as south of it, to obliterate the color-line. Friends here and there paid me a dollar on their pledge of a dollar a year, and our colored friends in the city of Adrian—Sarah Lewis, with her brothers and Mr. Wilson, managers of a festival—realized thirty-two dollars and sixty-one cents, cash, and fifty pounds of meat, beans, fruit and clothing, valued at fifty dollars.

July the Fourth was a merry day for the forty little folks at the asylum. At dark fire-crackers, torpedoes and sky-rockets flew in every direction for an hour, when all were arranged in a semicircle and sang "John Brown," "Red White and Blue," "Rally 'Round the Flag, Boys," and a few temperance songs, in great glee. It was a happy group. We had a few visitors, who left us the happier for seeing the children and listening to their sweet voices in song.

I was often engaged in procuring good homes for these orphans. A few homes were found that were not suitable, and the children were withdrawn and placed in other homes.

On September 19th I met Mrs. Edgerton, the matron of our asylum, with T. D. Allen, of Kalamazoo, agent under J. R. Shipherd, secretary of the American Missionary Association, who were authorized to build a school-room for the asylum. Heretofore the children's play-room had been used for the school during the warm season. As the American Missionary Association was doing a great work in the late slave States in maintaining freedmen's schools, the officers concluded to solicit aid, in the State of Michigan for the building of the much needed school-room. They urged me to engage in this work, but I thought that I had done my share, in giving the time I had to soliciting money for the purchase of supplies. Besides Elizabeth L. Comstock had given one thousand dollars in money, with which to enlarge the little farm to thirty-five acres, buy a horse, and furnish the little folks with hats, etc. Then I wanted to look for a home, as I was becoming rather weary of singing the old song,

"No foot of land do I possess, No cottage in this wilderness."

This had been my condition for nearly three years; but with all my pleading, I failed to be released. As it was already cooler weather, and Winter would soon overtake us, T. D. Allen said I had worked long enough without reward, save that of blessing these little homeless waifs, and now, if I would take hold of this enterprise, I should be paid the same amount he was receiving.

At length I agreed to spend a week or two at least, and took from him the bill of all the kinds of lumber needed, and left for Detroit. Judge F. C. Beaman furnished me with a letter of introduction, indorsed by Rev. Dr. George Duffield, of Detroit. I called, as he advised, on Samuel Pitts, who subscribed one hundred dollars in lumber. I selected out of my bill what was first called for to enable the carpenters already engaged to commence their work. I then called on Mr. Cooper, freight agent, to secure, if possible, free transportation to Adrian; to him I gave my introductory letter. When he glanced at the heading, without reading it, he gave it a toss on his table toward me, with a look of disgust, saying, "I've seen that thing before, and I've nothing to do with it."

"That is a mistake," said I; "that paper is from F. C. Beaman, and not a week old."

"If I'm not very much mistaken I've seen it before."

"Well, you are very much mistaken, for I brought it to this city with me yesterday, and I have not been in your office until this minute. But I am not soliciting money. I only called to see if I can secure free transportation for one hundred dollars' worth of lumber to Adrian for an orphan school-room, as forty little homeless waifs, under our care, have no school-room, except a wood-house and play-room. The cold weather will soon overtake us."

He listened patiently to my short speech, and said he had no authority to grant such a favor; that I would have to write to C. H. Hatch, then in Chicago.

"I know he would grant it," I said, "for he granted this quarter pass on his road for my mission work," showing the pass.

He turned it over and spent double the time in examining it that he did on my introductory letter, and said, slowly, "I think I will risk sending this car-load," and wrote an order to his assistant to send it forthwith to Adrian.

I thankfully returned to my duty of calling on the list of the benevolently inclined wealthy persons whose names Dr. Duffield and J. F. Conover had furnished. Rev. Dr. Hogarth, Mr. Raymond, the book- merchant, and Rev. Dr. Duffield gave sufficient to pay the cartage of the lumber to the depot. Soon it was on its way. I dined at Moses Sutton's, who gave $5, and his sister Annie $1. Mr. Brooks gave me $25 in lumber. Mr. Bronson gave five thousand shingles; another gave $2.50 in shingles.

After a few days at home I returned, October 25th, to Detroit, and toiled, like the fishermen, nearly all day, and caught nothing. Weary, and almost discouraged, I was about to retire to my resting-place at Augustus Leggett's, when one gave $5, another $2. The following day I called on C. Merrill, who gave $5; another gave $5; Mr. R. C. Renuick gave $10; Mr. Whitney gave $5. Weariness coaxed me to another sweet resting-place, the home of my dear friends J. F. and Hannah Conover. I called on a few persons whose names had been given me by Mr. Palmer, from whom I received $17; and from a few others I received $15. John Bagley gave $10; another gave $5; Rev. J. A. Baughman, $5; and Mr. King, his son-in-law, $5. I also called on Governor Crapo, who gave $5. Others gave $5, $2, and $1, until I had forty dollars more to aid in constructing our school-room.

We secured sufficient means to build our school-room. In all, with the favors granted by the Michigan Southern and Lake Shore Railroad, we received about four hundred dollars.

Through the kindness of my friend, L. Tabor, Esq., who purchased a house and small lot for me, I again had a place for my children to occupy, which I could call my home; for which I praised the Lord, from whom all blessings flow.

As our orphan asylum was now in a good condition, Mrs. Edgerton, the matron, said the secretaries of the three divisions of the Missionary Association, Chicago, Cincinnati, and New York, met and voted her one hundred dollars a month, with which to carry forward this asylum. She deemed this an ample supply, with what had been raised on the place. She said it was then on a more substantial basis than it had been during the year she had had it in charge.

Through General O. O. Howard I learned that mission work was much needed in Charleston, South Carolina, and received from him transportation to that city by way of Washington, District of Columbia.

My health being now restored, on January 29, 1869, I left my sweet home and loved ones at three o'clock P. M., and spent the night in Toledo, with my old friends, William Merritt and wife. I attended with them the prayer-meeting in the new colored church. I arrived at Pittsburg with but little detention. Passing through the mountains, we found the snow deeper than when I left Michigan. At seven A. M. we passed the wreck of three cars which had run off the embankment and were still burning. Among the killed taken from the wreck was a woman partially burnt. I did not learn the number of killed and injured. Among these dead and dying I should probably have been had I not spent the night in Toledo, as this was the train, I would have been on had I remained on the one I left. O, how sad to look upon this smoldering wreck, from which I had so narrowly escaped! This was the third accident of this kind which I had thus providentially missed in my travels by river and rail of three thousand miles. Many are the dangers, seen and unseen, through which I have passed, and the remembrance of this disaster calls forth a renewed song of deliverance and praise for the Guiding Hand that preserves through the vicissitudes of this ever-changing life.

I arrived in Washington early in the morning, and took breakfast with my friend Dr. Glenan. Here I found my brother, Harvey Smith, and his son, who were teaching freedmen's schools, and with them I spent the Sabbath, In the evening I attended the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church, and was invited to address the large meeting. I spoke half an hour, and told the history of Uncle Philip, and how, amidst the persecutions and sorrows to which his slave-life subjected him, he had kept his hand in the hand of his Savior all these ninety-seven years.

While speaking of his being whipped until he fainted, a few wept aloud, and after meeting a number came to tell me of their being whipped for praying. One woman was whipped until she fainted, and one man was kept in the stocks all night after being whipped, and came near dying. His master told him he "would whip the praying devil out of him," using the same words that Uncle Philip's master used to him.

The surgeon-in-chief, Dr. Reynolds, wished me to remain in Washington another day, and thought General Howard would permit me to stay there for a time, to engage in sanitary work. I had an interview with the general, who thought I was most needed in Washington, during the Winter season at least. He gave me authority to visit the free soup- houses, and investigate the sanitary work generally. After reading my commission, I told him I had a request to make, and that was that the authority with which I was vested, might be kept secret. To investigate to the best advantage was my object. I was also appointed to examine, as far as practicable, the condition of applicants for charity, and the manner in which the charity was applied. My office was furnished, and board was allowed me at the head-quarters of the freedmen's hospital in Campbell Camp.

On February eth I called at Josephine Griffin's relief office before 10 o'clock A. M. Between sixty and seventy persons called on her, mostly for work. I followed a number of the applicants for soup- tickets to their homes. In visiting twenty families during the day, I found a number of persona in squalid wretchedness. One man was very sick with a high fever, and unconscious. He had received no help, because unable to make personal application, and he had no family to intercede for him. His bed was a pile of rags in the corner on the floor. I called for the Bureau physician and saw that he had suitable bed-clothing and food. The physician said he must have died within two or three days in that condition. Among the applicants for relief was an Irishwoman, who had a brick house she was renting, except the back room, which she occupied, and had another nearly finished. She and her family for whom she was begging soup, lived in good style.

The fourth day of my investigations revealed great deficiency in properly looking after applicants for aid. The greatest sufferers were often too diffident to ask for help. The soup-houses were generally well managed. I called as one whom curiosity had drawn into the motley crowd, and was treated to a taste of fine soup, even at the "Savage Soup-house," where I saw two caldrons of soup. The one from which I was served might well tempt the palate of an epicure, but the other looked too forbidding for a human stomach. I soon found the good soup was being given to the white applicants, who were first served, while the colored people, standing in the yard, were waiting their time. Policeman Ross told a shivering colored man to go inside and put his pail on the farther block for soup.

"I shall be sent out," he replied.

"I tell you to go in," said the policeman; "I'll see to that."

He obeyed the order, only to receive curses: "You know better than to come yet; another thing you know, this soup is for white folks, the other is for niggers."

At this, Policeman Roes canoe in: "I have seen," said he, "fish made of one and flesh of another long enough. Here are women and children standing out on the ice and snow, waiting all this afternoon for you to serve the white people first. Another thing I'd like to know, why is this difference in the soup? That black stuff is hardly fit for pigs to eat, Mr. Savage, and you know it."

"Our citizens furnish material for this soup," replied he, "and our citizens shall have it."

"Doesn't General Howard furnish a hundred pounds of beef and two hundred loaves of bread each day? and on Saturday it is double. Another thing I'd like to know—are these not our citizens?" pointing toward the yard full of colored people.

"There are ten thousand too many of 'em, and it's none of your business; I shall do as I please."

"I will let you know; I shall make it my business to report you to General Howard."

Mr. Savage poured out a horrid volley of oaths at him, adding that all his reporting would make no difference with him. One Irish woman received three loaves of bread, four quarts of soup, and a large piece of meat. After nearly all, both white and colored, were served, the lieutenant policeman left, but Mr. Ross remained until the end of the disbursing. I was tempted to cheer the policeman for his bravery, but thought silence the better part of valor.

When Aunt Chloe's "cl'arin' up time" was come, I took my departure. I saw the policeman standing near the gate, and said in low tone, as I passed out, "I thank you for your words."

"Stop; do you live here?" he said.

"Temporarily."

"Go slowly till I get my club, so I can catch up. I want to see you."

He soon overtook me, and inquired whether I was one of the visiting committee. I told him that I was authorized by General Howard to inspect the soup-houses. He asked whether I was going to report Savage "I am on my way," I said, "to the general's office for that purpose." "I will give you my name and number," he replied, "and will run to see the lieutenant of police, who will give his name and number for reference also; I'll overtake you by the time you reach Pennsylvania Avenue" And off he ran. As I wished to inspect the poor soup more thoroughly, I called at a cabin, the home of the poor man that the policeman compelled to go in and demand the good soup. I found his quart of excuse for soup, on the stove to cook the half raw bits of turnips and potatoes. I tasted of what the policeman said was hardly fit for pigs, and fully agreed with his assertion, for the man said it made them sick to eat it without cooking it over. This man had been sick with pneumonia, and his mother very sick with it at this time I hurried to the nearest grocery, where I bought crackers, sugar, rice, bread, tea, and mustard for a plaster to put on her side. The man had received only a slice of bread with his quart of soup, for the seven reported in his family, four of whom were sick.

When I reached the avenue, I met the policeman who had nearly run himself out of breath. He was delayed in hunting for the lieutenant, who sent word that he would call on the general to confirm my report if necessary, and gave his name and number. The result of the report was, that a notice was sent at once to Mr. Savage that there must be no difference in giving to the poor, either in quality or quantity at his soup-house, and that the difference mad between white and colored, as reported to him, could not continue. In reply, Mr. Savage denied having made any difference in his soup-house, and charged the reporter with being an arrant liar, and he also made the same statement in the Daily Chronicle.

I wrote a confirmation of my report, using his own words in connection with the remarks of policeman Ross, and took it to Dr. Reyburn, Burgeon-in-chief in the sanitary work. The doctor approved my statement, and wrote a few lines of preface himself. As I used Mr. Boss's name, I called on him, who also approved, and referred to the lieutenant of police, who was present; and both sanctioned my report. This was published in the Chronicle.

At this Savage raved, and swore he would arrest me for defamation. Neither did the policeman whose name I used as reference go unscathed. The chief of the police force requested Mr. Ross to see me and learn by what authority I was acting, as there seemed to be none indicated in my article in the Chronicle. Mr. Ross said the chief of police did not doubt my authority, but would like to know, if I had no objection. I presented my paper, with a request that the matter should be held as confidential, as I did not wish to make it public.

After reading the paper he said: "I think you are authorized to inspect the work of the whole of us; I see in this the whole field is included. Would you object to my taking this to the chief of police, if I bring it back within, an hour or two? We may in some cases render you assistance."

I had no objection, and he took it. I found their assistance in a few cases very important, as well as convenient. But with all the Savage threats, nothing was done, and not even a reference was made to the subject in either of the papers. Surgeon Reyburn told me, as he was passing a corner where a group of secessionists were discussing the subject quite freely, that one man said, "Why don't Savage do something about that soup-house affair, and not be a numb-head, and let that woman wind him around her finger like that?" Another said, "If I'd lied once over that old soup-house, I'd lie again, before I'd hold still and take all that" He changed his soup-house policy for a little while; but the complaints among secession friends and white customers caused him soon afterward to backslide.

Mr. Carpenter, treasurer of the Provident Aid Society, wrote a letter to George Savage that he thought might improve him. But Surgeon Reyburn sent for me, and requested me to prepare for running the Fourth Ward soup-house, as he had heard they were going to discharge George Savage. I called on Mr. Shepherd, the proper authority to discharge him. He said that in a week or two all the soup-houses would close for the season, and, as Savage had received letters that he thought he would improve by, he would release me from the task of running the soup-house. I therefore continued visiting and relieving the sick and suffering.

I met in my rounds Dr. Cook, who said there was a child frozen to death in Kendal Green Barracks, nearly two miles away. Neither the doctor nor myself knew who had charge there. I went, and found a child of ten months old that had chilled to death. The mother said hers was the fourth child in that row of cabins that had died; and that none of them were allowed more than two four-foot sticks of fire-wood for twenty-four hours. I called at the other cabins, and found them without fire, and all told the same story of lack of wood and no coal. There was neither bedding nor clothing enough among them all to make a single family comfortable. The mother of the dead child had been to see the superintendent of the poor of the city to get a coffin. With shoes but little better than none, she had waded through melting snow until her dress was wet four inches, at least, around the bottom. I inquired who the superintendent of this camp and barracks was, and they said, Major Thompson. I went to his head-quarters, but found that be and his family had gone to the Capital to learn how President Johnson's impeachment trial was likely to end. I repaired to General C. H. Howard's office, and reported the condition of these families. He sent me back in his ambulance, with fifty loaves of bread, a coffin for the dead child, and two quilts and a few blankets for the destitute, with instructions to give the bread, except one loaf to each of the four families I had visited, to Major Townsend, a man that I had met in the Sabbath-school he superintended. He was surprised to find those families under his care in such a condition. The general furthermore requested me to make a thorough investigation of Kendal Green Barracks and camp.

The following day I visited forty families, and found twelve sick, and not sufficiently supplied. I listened to many sad stories by a white man, who had been one of Major Townsend's police guards while he had charge of Campbell Camp, before I went to Washington. I was informed that the major had charged his two police guards to bring the woman that was interfering with his camp to his office till he returned, if she should come again in his absence. Although they were quite cross, they did not take me to the major's head-quarters, as I told them I was calling by request. The major had no more idea of who the intruder was than I knew who the superintendent was until I made my report to the general, when he informed me that it was not Thompson, but Major Townsend, to whom I had been introduced in a colored Sabbath-school. But as he knew by the supplies which I took to the families that they came from head-quarters, he called on General Howard, and from him learned who the inspector was, and he told the general he would aid me in calling on the poor who needed aid. While he spent most of the day in calling at my office and going to see the general, I was visiting the barracks.

For sundry misdemeanors while in office the major was relieved, and another appointed in his stead. Though I did not think he was the right man for the place, yet I felt sorry for his excellent family. His wife and two young lady daughters I had called on, and was much pleased with their self-sacrificing Christian spirit.

There was much excitement in Washington during a portion of May, on account of the impeachment and trial of President Johnson. At length, on the 16th of the month, the news spread that he was acquitted of the high charges made against him by the House of Representatives, and that his power was left uncurtailed. But he had turned his back upon our brave soldiers, who bled and died to save the nation's life, and made no serious effort to put an end to the Kuklux outrages in the Southern States. For this reason many demanded that he be removed from his office. With them his acquittal foreboded ill; but we hoped for the best.

Uncle Dodson, aged sixty-five years, a plantation preacher and a resident of Campbell Camp, caused great excitement when he found his long-lost wife and she found her long-lost husband. Twenty years before the husband and wife were torn apart by the unrelenting slave- master. Weeping and begging to be sold together, while kneeling at the master's feet, they were only answered by a kick and the lash. Now they met again. In the front yard the wife came running to him crying out, "O Ben Dodson, is dis you? I am your own Betty." And she clasped him closely. "Glory! glory! hallalujah! Dis is my Betty, shuah," he said, pushing her away to look at her face. "I foun' you at las'. I's hunted an' hunted till I track you up here. I's boun' to hunt till I fin' you if you's alive." And they both wept tears of joy. "Ah, Betty, we cried harder'n dis when da sole us apart down dar in Egyp'." And another, outburst of joy followed. They were soon happily living together in their own little cabin.

The old man had some queer Scripture quotations. One he recited in meeting twice before I had an opportunity of correcting him, and that was, "Adam called his wife's name Eve because she was the mother of all evil." As Uncle Dodson often wished me to read a chapter in their chapel meetings "an 'splain it to us," I took occasion to read the third chapter of Genesis, and when I read,

"Because she was the mother of all living," he called out "ebil, ebil, sistah Hab'lin." Uncle Dodson was learning to read, and could read easy words in the first reader. I placed the Bible before him and pointed to the word "living." "Dat is so in dis place," he acknowledged, "but it's some place in de Bible." "Father Dodson," I said, "I have read every word in this Bible a number of times, and there is no such sentence between the two lids that Adam called his wife's name Eve because she was the mother of all evil," and a smile ran through the entire congregation. I added that it was not a wonder that these poor people should misquote Scripture, as a few years ago many of them were not allowed to learn to read. At this three of that company testified to being punished severely for learning their letters of a little white boy. I told them it was a greater wonder that they had passed through such privations and retained as much intelligence as they possessed. "O yes, well do I 'member when I was punish' too," said another, "for tryin' to learn to read." Turning to a young exhorter sitting by him, Uncle Dodson said, "Brodder Davis, I've labored in de Gospel mor'n forty years wid de white ministers and wid de black ministers, an' I neber foun' one so deep in de Scriptur' as sistah Hablin." We continued our exercises with good satisfaction.

Another of Father Dodson's comforting passages was, "Blessed is the corpse that the rain falls on." If the departed one had left no other evidence of being, prepared for the great change, then a rain on the day of the funeral was sufficient. I found this was quite generally accepted as a sure evidence with many of them.

As I was passing through the hospital yard a number of the convalescents were in a group discussing the subject of charity, thinking that some one had been too harshly judged. Said one man, "Paul said faith, hope, and charity. An' de greates' of 'em all was char'ty. An' I knows what a bigger man nor Paul said, better man too."

"An' who dat, an' what he say?" rejoined another. "He say, 'Judge not an' ye shan't be judged.'" "An' who said dat?" "'T was George Washington."

On inquiry I found his parents lived many years in the vicinity of Mount Vernon, and probably the colored people heard George Washington repeat that text, and it was handed down among them as an original saying of the Father of his Country, in their minds a greater and better man than Paul.

While engaged in my work, as the weather became very warm, I often rested an hour or two in the capitol to listen to the many witnesses who testified to the awful condition of our soldiers at Andersonville Prison, under Henry Wirtz. At the statement made concerning his stabbing and shooting the soldiers for leaning against the "dead line," the guilty man, Wirtz, shook as he arose from the sofa upon which he was reclining, and swore "that was a lie;" but General Auger, the president of the court, told him that he had nothing to say, and bade him sit down, which he did with cursing in great excitement. I some- times spent two or three hours in listening to the tale of the heartless cruelties that unprincipled wretch had committed. One woman, whose son died in that prison, was listening one afternoon. She stood in the corridor, and as he passed with his guards for the ambulance, which was to bear him back to the prison, she followed with her best weapon, a large umbrella. This she nimbly used, thrusting the pointed end into his side or back, or wherever she could hit him, saying, "You rascal, you villain, you murderer, you murdered my son in Andersonville." Her thrusts were in such quick succession that he begged the guards to protect him; but they did not interfere with the bereaved woman until they got the prisoner into the ambulance.

While I did not feel like following her example because of his murdering my cousin, yet I told General Auger that it was well for Henry Wirtz that his case was not tried by mothers and sisters of the thousands who had suffered and died under his cruelties. Said the general, "I do not know but it would be the best thing for him if mothers and sisters were his judges." But if they were the ones to give the decision, justice and mercy would never kiss each other over him. I never was an advocate of capital punishment, but I must acknowledge I did feel at times, while listening to Henry Wirtz's trial, that I would like to see that tiger in human form take a hemp swing. But when at last he received his sentence and swore he "always thought the American Eagle was a d—- buzzard," I had no desire to mingle with the multitude to witness the execution, though he well deserved the execration of all.

On May 14th I received a note from Mrs. Edgerton, stating that a peremptory order from Rev. J. R. Shipherd, secretary of the American Missionary Association at Chicago, had been received, to close the asylum immediately. From her note I learned that this was the day for the auction sale of the asylum personal property. I was confident that forty or fifty little folks could not at once be properly situated in compliance with such an order, and wrote J. R. Shipherd a proposition, reminding him of his verbal pledge and proposed terms on which we could reopen the asylum for all for whom no suitable homes might be found. I also wrote an appeal to Rev. Geo. Whipple, of the New York Division, and sent with it a copy of the proposition I had made to J. R. Shipherd. I received in reply a request to remit to that division the reply I should receive from J. R. Shipherd, or a copy, by the first mail, for they thought my proposition would be accepted. I wrote them they should have whatever reply I might receive from J. R. Shipherd, but I did not look for any word whatever from him. In the mean time I received a letter from Adrian informing me that four of the little children were already in the county poor-house, and that others would soon be taken there, that four of the younger ones were left in the streets of Adrian to find their own homes among colored people, and that four were left with a poor colored family who were promised pay for keeping them until other homes could be found. Four more were also left with a white family in Palmyra, with the promise of pay until other arrangements were made. One little girl of ten years was left with a woman of ill-fame and of drinking habits, and the little girl had been seen drunk.

I wrote to Rev. E. M. Cravath, secretary of the Middle Division, at Cincinnati, and to Levi Coffin, and learned in reply that eight of the little children were found one morning sitting on the stone steps of the office of the American Missionary Association, with a note in the hand of the oldest, aged ten or eleven years, the purport of which was, "These children were sent by you to the asylum near Adrian, Michigan. It has closed. You must take care of them." They said that Mrs. Edgerton brought them from the asylum, and sent them here in the express wagon. The office being locked, the driver left them on the steps at 6 o'clock A. M. As they had eaten nothing during the night, Levi Coffin furnished them with food, while Rev. E. M. Cravath went to the colored orphan asylum of the city, and made arrangements by paying the board of managers one hundred dollars for their admittance. The letter from Levi Coffin contained the following queries: "What ails Michigan, that she can not care for thirty or forty of these poor little homeless orphans, when we have had a few thousands to look after in this great thoroughfare? Where is the Christianity and philanthropy of your great State, to send these children back to us, who took them from those crowded camps, where there was so much suffering and dying, for the purpose of their being properly trained, and fitted for usefulness, amid humane surroundings?" They soon found the whys and wherefores in my letter and appeal to allow the asylum to be reopened.

After writing a number of letters to the New York Division, containing a full account of the condition of the children, and sending them a copy of the letter from Adrian, I inquired whether as a Christian body they could allow these children over whom they had assumed control, and for whom they were responsible, to be turned out into the streets, to be lodged in the county poor-house, and to be left in the house of ill-fame, and appealed to them as Christian men to make some suitable arrangements for them. Their reply was: "We can not afford to allow this condition of those children. We have not received a communication in this office that has produced the deep feeling that your last letter has. We have telegraphed Mr. Shipherd to dispose of nothing more connected with that asylum. How long would it be before it could he reopened, should we replace it in the hands of its friend?" I answered, "It shall be re-opened as soon as I receive official authority from your association to do it, and I will resign my position in this work." In reply to this, the Rev. Mr. Smith, a member of the New York Division, came to Washington and authorized me to secure a part of the asylum building, and reopen it for the children that were in improper houses. I secured a pass by way of Cincinnati, in accordance with the request of Levi Coffin and Rev. E. M. Cravath, of the Middle Division. They had secured good homes for two of the children. I took the others home.

The secretaries and a few other members of the three divisions met in Oberlin to consider further concerning the asylum that had been so unwisely closed. At the close of this consultation I received a letter from Mr. Whipple, of New York, in which he stated that there was much sympathy expressed for me in behalf of the asylum by all except Mr. Shipherd, who said be had done nothing of which I or any one else had any right to complain. He was ordered to return twenty-three boxes and packages of asylum goods to me, as I was acting under their orders in reopening the home; and they sent me fifty dollars for supplies. I gathered in between twenty-five and thirty children that had previously belonged to the home, and bought back what furniture I could that had been sold at a great sacrifice. The corporation appointed me general superintendent of the asylum, and engaged me to devote my whole time to it.

Although to provide means to carry it on was no small task, yet the burden to me seemed light compared with its importance. It had cost great anxiety and effort to accomplish what we had already done. I secured a horse, repaired the buggy, and employed our soldier, Charlie Taft, whose health was much impaired from service in the army. He offered to spend the Winter with us, and render what assistance he could, for his board. Just now our prospects were brighter than at any period since Raisin Institute was converted into a home for harmless little people, to train for useful citizens, instead of tramps, or inmates of prisons.

But, alas! we were doomed to a heavy draft upon our faith. After a very busy day of measuring, cutting, and fitting garments for the little ones, I went in haste to place a bundle of patches in the box in the hall room. It was now dark twilight, and I mistook the cellar door for that of the hall. Passing through, I fell headlong seven feet against the corner of a hard-wood beam. I received many bruises, and the concussion fractured both the inner and outer layers of the left temporal bone, and severed the temporal artery. I was taken up insensible, and it was supposed that life was extinct; but in a few moments signs of life appeared, and a physician was immediately sent for. Great consternation prevailed among the children, and much sympathy was expressed, as well as many prayers offered by them in my behalf.

Brother Smart, pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Adrian, was then holding a series of meetings; and being told of the accident at the evening meeting, he said: "Elder Jacokes informs me that sister Haviland is supposed to be in a dying state from a dangerous fall in the orphan asylum this evening. I propose to pursue my subject no further, but to turn this meeting into a season of prayer for her restoration, if in accordance with the Lord's will; if not, that her mantle may fall upon another, to carry forward that enterprise. The Lord can hear and answer here as readily as by her bedside." He then led in fervent supplication, followed by a few others. Said a friend present: "The announcement fell upon us like an electric shock, and I never heard brother Smart, or those who followed, pray with such power. Then brother Bird arose and said, 'I feel confident that we shall have an answer to our prayers, that sister Haviland will be restored or another take her place.'"

My dear sister in Christ, Elizabeth L. Comstock, was at that time laboring in the Master's vineyard in Chicago. Hearing of the accident by means of the telegram sent to my daughter residing in that city, she mentioned it at the Moody noon prayer-meeting, and requested prayer for my restoration, if it were the Lord's will. I was made the subject of prayer also at Pittsford Wesleyan Methodist protracted meeting.

A letter came from Rev. E. M. Cravath, of Cincinnati, addressed to me. In answer, my daughter, L. J. Brownell, wrote that "mother is unconscious from a dangerous fall, and we (her children) are earnestly praying for her restoration. If our Heavenly Father sees meet to grant our petition, you will receive a reply from her when practicable." The immediate reply was: "You may rest assured our All-wise Father will restore your mother if he has further work for her to do. You may also be assured that her friends in this city are uniting in prayer with her children for her recovery."

I was so nearly conscious at one time that I heard some one say, "She will never speak again." The thought struck me forcibly that I was going to get well, and yet I had no sense of being ill. But I reflected that my children must be very sad at the thought of giving me up, and I would try to say, "I am going to get well." With all the effort I could command I could not utter a syllable. Then I tried to see if my children were present; but I seemed to be in a pure, soft, white cloud, such as we sometimes see floating in the ethereal blue, where I could discover no countenance of those moving around my bed. Consequently I gave over the effort, and was again lost to all consciousness until three days and nights had passed. Then the first returning consciousness was the passing away of that beautiful white cloud, and I recognized my three daughters standing before me. One of them said, "Mother looks as if she knew us." Why, yes, I thought, they are my daughters; but what are their names? and what is my name? Then I surveyed the room. The papered wall, maps, pictures, and furniture all looked familiar; but where am I? Am I in some large city, or in a country place? I am advanced in years; and what have I done in all my life? But I could recall nothing.

While in this mental soliloquy, it came to me what my name was, and that this was the orphan asylum.

"Do you know me, mother?" said my daughter Jane.

It was a matter of reflection before I could utter the word "yes," and then a study to give her name. At length I pronounced it. Another daughter made the same query, and I had the answer, "yes," ready, but it seemed a hard study again to recollect the name Mira. The same effort brought to my lips the name of Esther when she addressed me.

"Don't have the least anxiety or care," she said, "about this orphan asylum, for the friends have brought gram, flour, meal, meat, and groceries in abundance." O what a relief these words brought! Surely the Lord is the Father of the fatherless.

After studying for words I said, "What is the matter?" for I felt that my head was very sore, and my face swollen. When told that I had fallen down cellar and was badly hurt, I was surprised, for I could recall nothing of the fall. After calling to mind the various residences of my daughters, and words to inquire how they knew of the accident, I was told that my son-in-law telegraphed them. At length I reached the conclusion that I became stunned by the bruise on my head, and fell asleep and slept my senses all away, and that was the reason I did not know any thing. I thought, must I learn to read again? Shall I ever know any thing? How sad it will be not to know how to read or do any thing; but I will leave all in the hands of the dear Savior. They gave me medicine that I knew I had taken. Did I not take this an hour ago? "O no, mother, not since yesterday." What day of the week is to-day? "Monday." Then to-morrow will be Tuesday. "Yes." I have got so far, I will remember that, thought I. Again another dose of medicine was given. Did I take this yesterday? "You took this two hours ago." It is certain that I do not know any thing. How sad it will be when I get well of this hurt (as I had no doubt but I should) and not know any thing. But, then, the second thought of leaving it with the Lord was a resting-place. But consciousness was gradually restored. The next day my son Daniel came; but he did not dare to approach the front door, fearing that a tie of crepe on the knob would be the first to tell him the sad story of his mother's departure He was met at the back door by his three sisters, one of whom informed him of a faint hope of my recovery, as there was evidence of returning consciousness.

A day later the fourth daughter, Anna H. Camburo, arrived. I was thus permitted to meet all my children save one, whose infant son had died the day after the news reached him of my fall. But as the children daily informed their brother Joseph of increasing hope of my recovery, he, of my six children, was the only absent one. Through their tender care and the blessing of God, in answer to many earnest prayers, I was spared to toil on a few years longer. To him alone be all the praise! My Savior never seemed nearer.

It was January, 15, 1869, when I fully realized that consciousness was restored. I renewed my entire consecration to the service of my Lord and Master. All was peace and quiet within. The inmates of the asylum, between twenty-five and thirty, were so quiet that it seemed as if no more than my own children were moving around me. During the second week, through my dear friend Elizabeth L. Comstock, seventy-five dollars was sent to us from friends in Chicago. A few days later thirty dollars came from the same city. The fourth week after the fall I was removed to my home in the city of Adrian, accompanied by my five children, three of whom then returned to their homes. In four months I had so far recovered as to be able to do moderate asylum work, and in one year I solicited and received one thousand dollars for the asylum, aside from the means sent during my inability to labor. This kept the asylum in supplies, we hardly knew how, only as it came from the Father of the fatherless. Within ten days after my arrival at home I received three checks of fifty dollars each from the Cincinnati Branch of the American Missionary Association, from the Friends' Sabbath- school, in Syracuse, New York, and from John Stanton, Washington, D.C.

In all this severe trial I had no regrets in making this scheme another specialty in my life-work. I visited nine county poor-houses, learning the number of children in each, and noting their condition, with the view of reporting to our next Legislature. In three of the county houses were girls, half idiotic, who had become mothers. In one there were twenty children of school-age, sent to school four hours each day. As I followed the matron through the dormitory and other parts of the house, I saw by the filthy appearance of the sheets and pillows, as well as a want of order generally, a great need of system. As I was about to leave I remarked to the matron, "You have many unpleasant tasks to perform here."

"La me, I guess we do," she said.

"You have plenty of vermin to deal with, I suppose?"

"Indeed we do. You can scrape up quarts of 'em."

I added her testimony to my report. Then, after visiting many of the infirmaries on April 6th, I attended meetings of our county supervisors and superintendent of the poor. I reported our work, and presented an order for dues for the previous month. Having arranged my monthly report, I presented it to the monthly meeting of our asylum association.

I retired weary, and awoke to see Dr. Pearsall about to leave my room. He was giving directions to my two anxious daughters. To my surprise my son-in-law remarked, "Mother is so much better, I will return home." Here was a mystery I was unable to solve, and I insisted on knowing why the doctor was there, now nearly 2 o'clock in the morning. I was informed that I had suffered an attack of apoplexy. I was not the least startled, but told them if I had had a fit of that character, I was liable to go at any time, and I wished to say a few things and then I would sleep: If I should be taken away in an unconscious state for them not to have the least uneasiness about me, as my way was clear. I wished my children to live nearer the Savior, and meet their mother in a fairer clime than this, and I requested them to tell my dear absent children the same. I then directed how my little effects should be divided among my six children, and rested well in sleep until the usual hour of waking, and was able to dress in the afternoon.

Within ten days I rode to the asylum, made arrangements to rent the land of the asylum farm for the coming season, and wrote to brother G. A. Olmstead to take my place in looking after its interests for a few months, as my physicians told me it was unsafe for me to continue mental labor, and I must rest at least six months. This was another heavy drawback upon our faith and work, as we had designed to circulate our petition during the remainder of the year, so as to have it ready to present to the next Legislature. Rev. G. A. Olmstead undertook the work of soliciting, and kept the asylum comfortably supplied until his health failed. Then a devoted and self-sacrificing sister, Catharine Taylor, took the field, while I spent six months visiting my children. The severest prescription I ever took from physician, was to think of nothing. But I succeeded admirably, and spent much time in drawing bits of clippings and rags of diverse colors through canvas, making domestic rugs for each of my children. I called upon various physicians, who gave it as their opinion that I could safely accomplish one-fourth of my former work, but I did not even reach that amount of labor. In a little over a month's work, with a petition to the Legislature in my pocket, and at the home of Anson Barkus and wife, I was taken with another midnight fit, and was much longer unconscious than before, but I returned home the following afternoon, accompanied by brother Backus. Twenty-five miles ride on the car and a mile in the hack did not improve the strange pressure in my head. Within a week I had five terrible spasms, lasting at times from five to twenty minutes; during consciousness I was not able to speak a word. When I appeared more comfortable, and my head more natural, greater hopes of my recovery were entertained by my physician and children.