“ME NO POOR CRETUR.”—Multitudes of Christian negroes in their last moments have exhibited a tranquility which death could not ruffle, and a confidence which the king of terrors could not shake. “That poor man’s life must be a misery to him,” said a gentleman to a Missionary who was conducting him round a negro village, alluding to an aged negro who sat at the door of a lonely hut, but suffering from a loathsome disease. “Poor creature! and he seems to be forsaken by the rest of the people.” The old man caught the words, and, looking benignantly at the speaker, replied, with considerable animation, “No, me no poor creetur; me family very good, give me something to eat; and Massa Jesus too good to me, poo sinner: Him give me comfort here,” putting him hand upon his heart.
“Well,” said the Missionary, “but are you not almost tired of carrying about your poor afflicted body?” “No,” replied the negro; “you poo Negro can’t tired. Me sitting down waited for Massa Jesus to can; den me go and left me pore body behind.”
Lifting his eyes up to heaven, he said, with a smile, “There Him is; Him looking down upon me; and it seems like Him say, Keep heart little longer; me soon call for you now;’ so, minister, me satisfy.”
“ME, STEAL AWAY TO JESUS.” ―Adam, the old negro, was dying when the Missionary called to see him. His hands were folded, resting on his breast, and his eyes were shut. Apparently he was in earnest prayer. Shortly he opened his eyes, and, seeing the Missionary, he stretched out his hand and said, “Ah, massa, you know Adam! here him lie now. Me often hear your voice in prayer; me often hear you praise. Once more, massa, let me hear your voice. Oh, sing, sing de praise of Jesus once more; and den may be while you sing me steal away to Jesus.”