The interior of the plain, low brick church was deserted, the deacons having decided that there was not room for the throng in attendance—an event, as we afterward learned, of almost weekly occurrence. Three times in the week these people had filled the “praise meetings” on their respective plantations, and already there had been another such meeting on Sunday before they started to church; yet, here was a great throng, which the church could not contain, and still the roads, for miles in each direction, swarmed with those yet coming. We have been told that emancipated slaves would be disorderly vagrants, and, doubtless, there is ground for some apprehension, but this Sabbath scene does not tend to increase it. Within the church were traces of the slaveholding era, as one finds in the Silurian stratification fossils that tell the story of a past age. The doors were on each side, near the middle of the building, and connected by a broad aisle. Above this, toward the pulpit, were the square, high-backed pews for the planters of the island—when they chose to occupy them. Back of the aisle were rude benches, which the poor whites, or, in their absence, the negroes, were privileged to take; and in the long galleries on either side (approached by stairs that were built for the steps of giants), were benches exclusively devoted to the negro population. The pews still stand with open doors, nearest the pulpit; but the men that filled them come no more. Some are North, many fill unknown graves, or trenches on battle-fields, the rest are in that unexplored region, whence come no sounds but those of sorrow, “the interior.” And to the right of the pulpit, in a shady little inclosure, still carefully preserved, are the moss-grown marble monuments, which no filial hands come now to garnish or adorn. The graves of their fathers have passed under the guardianship of the alien race. While our party stood looking about this scene of the past, a white-wooled deacon came, with the politeness, if not the grace, of an old-world master of ceremonies, to summon us to one of the present. “De people is gathered, sah, and was ready for de suvvices to begin.” There was a not unnatural sensation as the Major-Generals, the Chief Justice and the ladies of the party, were led through the crowd to a little platform under the live-oaks; but it was when Rev. Dr. Fuller—“ole massa Richard”—made his appearance, that the wondering stare brightened and eyes grew moist, and ancient negresses could be heard vehemently whispering “Bress de Lod, bress de Lod!” “Hebenly Marster!” “Gra-a-ate King!” No word had been sent of our coming, and it was but within the last half hour that the old slaves of Dr. Fuller had heard that he was to address them. There was no way of estimating the number of these “Fuller slaves” in attendance—he had owned between two and three hundred, but probably half of them were now at Beaufort. Every adult negro in the assemblage, however, seemed to know him.