A long, wooden bridge, spanning one of the little estuaries that cut up these islands, led us across into St. Helena. By this time the roads were alive with a gaily-dressed throng of blacks, of both sexes and all ages, wending their way, on foot, on horseback, in carts and wagons, and even, in a few cases, in Northern trotting buggies, to the Central Church. Noticing their cheerful, contented air, their gay chat, their cleanly appearance and _repartie_ among themselves, their respectful and cordial greetings to the passing Generals, and the manifest tokens of prosperity evinced in modes of locomotion, personal adornment and the like, one could clearly believe General Saxton’s renewed declaration, that, in all substantial respects, considering their peculiar difficulties, they would contrast not discreditably with any peasantry in the world. As we turned off from the main road, which runs the whole length of the island, and began to pass through the gates, which made a sort of private way among the cotton fields to the church, the throng increased, till the roads were alive with the church-going freedmen. Every little group stopped as we came up; every old negress gave us a droll bob of the head; the men touched their hats, soldier fashion, or lifted them altogether from their heads, and the young women made, in many cases, not ungraceful courtesies. “Dere’s General Saxby,” we could often hear energetically whispered among the groups, and there was no mistaking the pleased expression which the name summoned to every countenance. “Are not negroes likely hereafter, as heretofore, to be controlled by their old masters?” some one asks. “We’s know our frens, massa,” was the emphatic answer of a coal-black plantation hand, the other day, when I put some such question to him. Clearly, these people, on St. Helena, “know their friends.” * * * * * Presently a group of negroes, with many a respectful scrape of the foot and tug at the hat, threw open the last gate, and, under a refreshing canopy of trees, we drove to the old country church, which, time out of mind, has been the central worshipping place for both whites and blacks of St. Helena. Overflowing all the church-yard, flooding the road, through which our carriages could hardly be driven, and backing up against the grave-yard, were the negroes, gay with holiday attire, many-colored kerchiefs, and the best their earnings (and the sutler’s extortions) would permit them to buy. The woods, back of the church, were filled with carts and wagons; the horses were unharnessed, tied to the trees and fed; their owners were gathered in groups about the carts, discussing the condition of the cotton crop, or the price Sam had paid for “dat new mar;” and how much “Aunt Sukie was gittin’ down to Bufor’ for dem dis year’s pullets.”