They left me, and went into a meeting-house, where a black bridegroom, in a blue broadcloth suit, white waistcoat, kid gloves, patent-leather shoes, and white hose, and an ebony bride, in white muslin caught up with jessamines, and a myrtle wreath on her head, had gone in, followed by a train of colored people.  The white people, invited guests, it seems, were already assembled.  The sexton told your Uncle that the parties were servants, each to a respectable family.  This was a new picture to Hattie.  She said that in looking back to the steamboat, an hour ago, the revelations made to her by what she had seen and heard, in that short time, all new, all surprising and delightful, afforded her some idea of the sensations of a soul after it has been one hour within the veil.  We sat in the carriage, and saw the procession pass out, when the choir, who had been in the church before the wedding, practising tunes, resumed their singing.

“Now the idea,” said Hattie, after we had listened awhile, “that they can forget that they are slaves long enough to meet and practise psalm-tunes!”

“You evidently think,” said your Uncle, “that they would not sing the Lord’s songs, if this were to them a strange land.”

“They certainly have not hung their harps upon the willows by these rivers of Babylon,” said Hattie.

“Why, some of our people at the North are to-day writhing in anguish, because of these slaves, and are imprecating God’s vengeance, and praying that the slaves may get their liberty, even by violence, while the slaves themselves are practising psalm-tunes!”—­

“And getting married,” said your Uncle.

“Yes, Sir,” said Hattie, “and this week our ——­ paper will come to us from New York loaded with articles about ‘bondage’ and ’sum of all villanies,’ and ‘poor, toil-worn slaves.’  Toil-worn!  I never saw such a lively set of people.  Do see that little mite of a round black child, in black jacket and pants; he looks like a drop of ink; Oh, isn’t he cunning!  Little boy! what is your”—­

“Come, come!” said your Uncle, “you are getting too much excited; you will pay for all this to-morrow with one of your headaches.”

But a new surprise awaited us.  The driver stopped opposite a large, plain-looking building, and told us that we had better step in.  On entering, we involuntarily started back, for I never saw a house more densely filled; and all were blacks.  It was a sable cloud; but the sun was in it.  The choir were singing a select piece.  The principal soprano, an elegant-looking black girl, dressed in perfect taste, held her book from her in her very small hand covered with a straw-colored glove.  The singing was charming.  We asked a white-headed negro in the vestibule what was going on.

“Why, it is Easter Monday, Missis.”

“Is this an Episcopal church?”

“No; Baptist.”

“What are all these people here for?” said your Uncle.