But it was when the “exercises” were over, that the real interest of the occasion was brought out. Not less than a hundred of Doctor Fuller’s former slaves were in the audience. The moment the benediction was pronounced, they made a rush for the platform, and the good Doctor found his path blocked up at the steps. “Lod bress ye, Massa Rich’d; was afeard ’ud never see ye agin.” “Don’t you know me, Massa Rich’d? I’m Aunt Chloe.” “’Pears like ye wa’n’t never comin’, no more!” And all the while a vigorous hand-shaking and hand-kissing went on, the former master standing on the steps, and looking benevolently down into upturned faces that fairly shone with joy and excitement. Presently one of the Aunties, whose happiness was altogether too exuberant for words, struck up a wild chant, and in a moment half a hundred voices had joined her. She stood with clasped hands and beaming face, balancing from one foot to the other in a sort of measured dance, sometimes stopping a moment to shout “glory,” and then resuming with yet more enthusiasm; while the former slaves still kept crowding up, feeling the Doctor’s hair, passing their hands over his shoulders, clustering lingeringly about him, and joining with deep-throated emphasis in the chant. Soon other women had approached the swaying leader, two or three clasped hands, there was the same animal, half-hysteric excitement, the same intoxication of the affections, which we had witnessed in the morning on St. Helena; while, meantime, a few middle-aged negroes, who gave no other marks of excitement than a perfectly gratified expression of countenance, quietly engaged the Doctor in conversation, told him something of their life since they had become freemen, their hardships and their final prosperity. The women kept up the singing; more and more negroes were joining the circle about the former planter, as we pushed through and left them to themselves. Long lines of soldiers were marching away, their glistening bayonets setting the red rays of the sinking sun to flickering in grotesque lights and shades over the shouting and dancing slaves. Under the trees on the outskirts stood a group of interested spectators, officers, traders, agents of different departments of the Government; a few ladies wonderingly looked on; the breeze was fluttering the flags over the platform; and the late slaves were still singing and kissing their former master’s hand. It was our last sight of Beaufort. * * * * *