It took a mighty effort, and he sighed as he spoke the words.  I never heard of his acting similarly in any other case, and I put this down to his credit, glad to know that there was a warm spot in that mountain of mud and ice.  A report of this generous act got afloat in the city, and many were the inquiries I received as to its truth.  There was general incredulity.

His health failed, and he crossed the seas.  Perhaps he wished to visit his native hills in Germany, which he had last seen when a child.  There he died, leaving all his millions to his kindred, save a bequest of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the University of California.  What were his last thoughts, what was his final verdict concerning human life, I know not.  Empty-handed he entered the world of spirits, where, the film fallen from his vision, he saw the Eternal Realities.  What amazement must have followed his awakening!

Uncle Nolan.

He was black and ugly; but it was an ugliness that did not disgust or repel you.  His face had a touch both of the comic and the pathetic.  His mouth was very wide, his lips very thick and the color of a ripe damson, blue-black; his nose made up in width what it lacked in elevation; his ears were big, and bent forward; his eyes were a dull white, on a very dark ground; his wool was white and thick.  His age might be anywhere along from seventy onward.  A black man’s age, like that of a horse, becomes dubious after reaching a certain stage.

He came to the class-meeting in the Pine-street Church, in San Francisco, one Sabbath morning.  He asked leave to speak, which was granted.

“Bredren, I come here sometime ago, from Vicksburg, Mississippi, where I has lived forty year, or more.  I heered dar was a culud church up on de hill, an’ I thought I’d go an’ washup wid’em.  I went dar three or fo’ Sundays, but I foun’ deir ways didn’t suit me, an’ my ways didn’t suit dem.  Dey was Yankees’ niggers, an’ [proudly] I’s a Southern man myself.  Sumbody tole me dar was a Southern Church down here on Pine street, an’ I thought I’d cum an’ look in.  Soon ‘s I got inside de church, an’ look roun’ a minit, I feels at home.  Dey look like home-folks; de preacher preach like home-folks; de people sing like home-folks.  Yer see, chillan, I’se a Southern man myself [emphatically], and I’se a Southern Methodis’.  Dis is de Church I was borned in, an’ dis is de Church I was rarred in, an’ [with great energy] dis is de Church which de Scripter says de gates ob hell shall not prevail ag’in it! ["Amen!” from Father Newman and others.] When dey heerd I was comin’ to dis Church, some ob ’em got arter me ’bout it.  Dey say dis Church was a enemy to de black people, and dat dey was in favor ob slavery.  I tole ’em de Scripter said, ‘Love your enemies,’ an’ den I took de Bible an’ read what it says about slavery—­I can read some, chillun Servants, obey yer masters in all things, not wid eye-service, as men-pleasers, but as unto de Lord;’ and so on.  But, bless yer souls, chillun, dey wouldn’t lis’en to dat —­so I foun’ out dey was abberlishem niggers, an’ I lef’ ’em.!”