In April we left Oaklands, which had always been considered a particularly unhealthy place during the summer, and came to "Seaside," a plantation on another and healthier part of the island. The place contains nearly a hundred people. The house is large and comparatively comfortable. Notwithstanding the name, we have not even a distant glimpse of the sea, although we can sometimes hear its roar. At low tide there is not a drop of water to be seen,--only dreary stretches of marsh-land, reminding us of the sad outlook of Mariana in the Moated Grange,-- "The level waste and rounding gray." But at night we have generally a good sea-breeze, and during the hottest weather the air is purer and more invigorating than in many parts of the island. On this, as on several other large plantations, there is a "Praise-House," which is the special property of the people. Even in the old days of Slavery, they were allowed to hold meetings here; and they still keep up the custom. They assemble on several nights of the week, and on Sunday afternoons. First, they hold what is called the "Praise-Meeting," which consists of singing, praying, and preaching. We have heard some of the old negro preachers make prayers that were really beautiful and touching. In these meetings they sing only the church-hymns which the Northern ministers have taught them, and which are far less suited to their voices than their own. At the close of the Praise-Meeting they all shake hands with each other in the most solemn manner. Afterward, as a kind of appendix, they have a grand "shout," during which they sing their own hymns. Maurice, an old blind man, leads the singing. He has a remarkable voice, and sings with the greatest enthusiasm. The first shout that we witnessed in the Praise-House impressed us very much. The large, gloomy room, with its blackened walls,--the wild, whirling dance of the shouters,--the crowd of dark, eager faces gathered around,--the figure of the old blind man, whose excitement could hardly be controlled, and whose attitude and gestures while singing were very fine,--and over all, the red glare of the burning pine-knot, which shed a circle of light around it, but only seemed to deepen and darken the shadows in the other parts of the room,--these all formed a wild, strange, and deeply impressive picture, not soon to be forgotten. Maurice's especial favorite is one of the grandest hymns that we have yet heard:-- "De tallest tree in Paradise De Christian calls de Tree ob Life, An' I hope dat trumpet blow me home To my New Jerusalem. CHORUS. "Blow, Gabriel! trumpet, blow louder, louder! An' I hope dat trumpet blow me home To my New Jerusalem! "Paul and Silas jail-bound Sing God's praise both night and day, An' I hope dat trumpet blow me home To my New Jerusalem. CHORUS.