their might.  But the shouting of the grown people is rather solemn and impressive than otherwise.  We cannot determine whether it has a religious character or not.  Some of the people tell us that it has, others that it has not.  But as the shouts of the grown people are always in connection with their religious meetings, it is probable that they are the barbarous expression of religion, handed down to them from their African ancestors, and destined to pass away under the influence of Christian teachings.  The people on this island have no songs.  They sing only hymns, and most of these are sad.  Prince, a large black boy from a neighboring plantation, was the principal shouter among the children.  It seemed impossible for him to keep still for a moment.  His performances were most amusing specimens of Ethiopian gymnastics.  Amaretta the younger, a cunning, kittenish little creature of only six years old, had a remarkably sweet voice.  Her favorite hymn, which we used to hear her singing to herself as she walked through the yard, is one of the oddest we have heard:—­

    “What makes old Satan follow me so? 
    Satan got nuttin’ ’t all fur to do wid me.

    CHORUS.

    “Tiddy Rosa, hold your light! 
    Brudder Tony, hold your light! 
    All de member, hold bright light
    On Canaan’s shore!”

This is one of the most spirited shouting-tunes.  “Tiddy” is their word for sister.

A very queer-looking old man came into the store one day.  He was dressed in a complete suit of brilliant Brussels carpeting.  Probably it had been taken from his master’s house after the “gun-shoot”; but he looked so very dignified that we did not like to question him about it.  The people called him Doctor Crofts,—­which was, I believe, his master’s name, his own being Scipio.  He was very jubilant over the new state of things, and said to Mr. H.,—­“Don’t hab me feelins hurt now.  Used to hab me feelins hurt all de time.  But don’t hab ’em hurt now no more.”  Poor old soul!  We rejoiced with him that he and his brethren no longer have their “feelins” hurt, as in the old time.

* * * * *

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, General Saxton’s noble Proclamation was read at church.  We could not listen to it without emotion.  The people listened with the deepest attention, and seemed to understand and appreciate it.  Whittier has said of it and its writer,—­“It is the most beautiful and touching official document I ever read.  God bless him!  ‘The bravest are the tenderest.’”

General Saxton is truly worthy of the gratitude and admiration with which the people regard him.  His unfailing kindness and consideration for them—­so different from the treatment they have sometimes received at the hands of other officers—­have caused them to have unbounded confidence in General “Saxby,” as they call him.