He followed in earnest prayer. At the close he raised his clasped hands: "I've found him; I've got him. O, how I wish I could have voice and strength to tell you how happy I am! I want to go to my Savior; he is my all. But I can not tell it here; I will tell it in glory. It's all light now; the darkness, is all gone."
He seemed much exhausted, and took leave of his mother and mister, and sank into a stupor, and quietly passed away that afternoon.
I felt under renewed obligations to praise Him for his loving kindness in reminding me, so vividly of the promise I made to that dying young man, Harvey White. How careful we should be to attend, to every little errand as we are passing through our life-work. I felt to upbraid myself for being so inattentive to that request. Had that precious soul left the shores of time without hope in Christ, I could never have forgiven myself for my neglect. There are neglected duties that dot my life here and there with regrets, that have been lessons to teach the necessity of greater faithfulness in the Master's work.
The daughter of John Hatfield came to me with the word that there was a woman at their house who wished to see me. Her father being a member of the vigilance committee I went without delay, and found the woman in great distress of mind. She said she was a slave, but had the privilege of working in Cincinnati at house-cleaning, washing, or any jobs she could get, by paying her mistress three dollars per week. In this way she had managed to lay aside for herself over twenty dollars during nearly two years. She had a husband and nine children, "An' las' year," said she, "missus was gwine to sell my oldes' gal an' her baby to get money to keep her two gals in school Norf somewhars, an' she tuck her baby an' run off for Canada, an' now she says she's got to sell my Mary;" and her tears came as from a fountain.
"Why don't she come away as your other daughter did?" I asked.
"Oh, she can't; missus won't let one o' my family come but me. She let's me come an' do all her marketin' arter I gets all her work a-goin', so my man an' chillen goes on wid it; she lets me come to de city to work, an' I pays her three dollars every week. Now I'se full o' trouble over my Mary;" and she wept so freely that it was some time before she could give me this little sketch. I found they lived fifteen miles from the river, and she had placed her money in the hands of a colored man by the name of Bailey, to keep for her to use at some future time in going to Canada with her family. He had told her when the right time came he would have her money ready for her, and would help her. I told her I would gladly relieve her were it in my power; but all I could do was to advise her to bring her family in the covered market wagon, and throw a quilt or blanket over them; then the hay she always put in for her team over that, and a bag of apples, and another of potatoes, or any thing she generally brought into market, placed in front so as to present the appearance of a load of marketing. As she had been over so often, she said, the ferryman hardly ever asked her for her pass, for he knew her so well. "Don't you see you are the very one to bring yourself and family here? You could drive over and take your family to either of three places: to a colored family on Macallister Street, by the name of Hall; or to Levi Coffin's, on the corner of Ninth and Walnut Streets; or bring them here to John Hatfield's. At either of these places you are as sure of going through safe as if you were already in Canada." She listened with great attention, and her tears dried away as she looked up, with her face shining with hope, and said, "I do b'leve I can do it; I never thought o' that. I'll go to Bailey for my money fus thing, an' I'll go mighty soon." I charged her not to name to Bailey or any other human being this side or the other, the plan I had given her, except to her own family. She promised, and left with a much lighter heart.
A few days later I was requested to meet Mary French, who would be at John Hatfield's house at twelve o'clock. Her friend said, "She is nearly crazy, an' I coaxed her to see you. She's los' faith in every body I reckon, for 't was a good bit afore I could get her to see you agin. She said she did see you wonst, an' you couldn't do nothin' for her. She's bin house-cleanin' wid me, an' it 'pears like she's 'cryin' all the time, day an' night, an' me an' another woman got her to see you, if I'd git you to come to Mr. Hatfield's at noon." I found her wringing her hands and weeping bitterly. As I looked upon that poor, despairing woman that I had left so hopeful a few days previously, I felt that I could say or do nothing for her but to point her to the God of Israel, who is able and willing to lead his oppressed children. I said, "Were you ever a Christian?"
"I was three years ago, an' I lived a prayin' life a year; then the white folks did so bad, it 'peared like I couldn't live 'ligion, an' I giv' it all up. Missus sole my poor gal down de river, to sen' her two gals to de Norf to school now she's gwine to sell my Mary, kase they's runnin' short o' money; an' she missed sellin' my gal las' year. If I hadn't lef de Lord maybe dis hard trouble wouldn't come 'pon me." And again she began to wring her hands with convulsive weeping.
As I looked upon that poor, crushed spirit, the most frantic with grief of any person I ever saw, a feeling of confidence sprang up in me that she would become free. Said I, "You have known what it was to ask God to give you freedom from sin, and make you free from the bondage of Satan. Now go to him with full purpose of heart, and he will restore the joys of his salvation and again will set you free in soul. Then, I feel confident that the Captain of the soul's freedom will open the way for freedom from this chain of slavery that now binds you as a family. Now go to Jesus; he will do great things for you. You lose confidence in your friends, you lose confidence in yourself; but go to the Lord Jesus, and believe he will direct you, and he will do it. Let prayer be thy constant work, then faith will increase—that will not fail." At these few words she became calm, and said, as she looked up, "Can you tell me where my daughter is?"
"Certainly," I said, "I heard from her yesterday; she is in Carthaginia, Indiana. I had supposed she went directly to Canada, and I was sorry she stopped so near to the line—not more than one hundred miles off."