I knew an old black man, whose piety and childlike trust in God were beautiful to witness.  At fifty-three years old he joined the Baptist church.  He had a most earnest desire to learn to read.  He thought he should know how to serve God better if he could only read the Bible.  He came to me, and begged me to teach him.  He said he could not pay me, for he had no money; but he would bring me nice fruit when the season for it came.  I asked him if he didn’t know it was contrary to law; and that slaves were whipped and imprisoned for teaching each other to read.  This brought the tears into his eyes.  “Don’t be troubled, uncle Fred,” said I.  “I have no thoughts of refusing to teach you.  I only told you of the law, that you might know the danger, and be on your guard.”  He thought he could plan to come three times a week without its being suspected.  I selected a quiet nook, where no intruder was likely to penetrate, and there I taught him his A, B, C. Considering his age, his progress was astonishing.  As soon as he could spell in two syllables he wanted to spell out words in the Bible.  The happy smile that illuminated his face put joy into my heart.  After spelling out a few words, he paused, and said, “Honey, it ’pears when I can read dis good book I shall be nearer to God.  White man is got all de sense.  He can larn easy.  It ain’t easy for ole black man like me.  I only wants to read dis book, dat I may know how to live; den I hab no fear ’bout dying.”

I tried to encourage him by speaking of the rapid progress he had made.  “Hab patience, child,” he replied.  “I larns slow.”

I had no need of patience.  His gratitude, and the happiness imparted, were more than a recompense for all my trouble.

At the end of six months he had read through the New Testament, and could find any text in it.  One day, when he had recited unusually well, I said, “Uncle Fred, how do you manage to get your lessons so well?”

“Lord bress you, chile,” he replied.  “You nebber gibs me a lesson dat I don’t pray to God to help me to understan’ what I spells and what I reads.  And he does help me, chile.  Bress his holy name!”

There are thousands, who, like good uncle Fred, are thirsting for the water of life; but the law forbids it, and the churches withhold it.  They send the Bible to heathen abroad, and neglect the heathen at home.  I am glad that missionaries go out to the dark corners of the earth; but I ask them not to overlook the dark corners at home.  Talk to American slaveholders as you talk to savages in Africa.  Tell them it was wrong to traffic in men.  Tell them it is sinful to sell their own children, and atrocious to violate their own daughters.  Tell them that all men are brethren, and that man has no right to shut out the light of knowledge from his brother.  Tell them they are answerable to God for sealing up the Fountain of Life from souls that are thirsting for it.

There are men who would gladly undertake such missionary work as this; but, alas! their number is small.  They are hated by the south, and would be driven from its soil, or dragged to prison to die, as others have been before them.  The field is ripe for the harvest, and awaits the reapers.  Perhaps the great grandchildren of uncle Fred may have freely imparted to them the divine treasures, which he sought by stealth, at the risk of the prison and the scourge.