enough.  A columbiad throwing a ball of one hundred and twenty pounds, sufficient to crack the strongest embrasures, was on its way from some unknown region.  An Armstrong gun capable of carrying ten miles had arrived or was about to arrive.  No one inquired whether Governor Pickens had suspended the law of gravitation in South Carolina, in view of the fact that ordinarily an Armstrong gun will not carry five miles,—­nor whether, in such case, the guns of Fort Sumter might not also be expected to double their range.  Major Anderson was a Southerner, who would surrender rather than shed the blood of fellow-Southerners.  Major Anderson was an army-officer, incapable by his professional education of comprehending State rights, angry because he had been charged with cowardice in withdrawing from Fort Moultrie, and resolved to defend himself to the death.

In the mean time, the city papers were strangely deficient in local news concerning the revolution,—­possibly from a fear of giving valuable military information to the enemy at Washington.  Uselessly did I study them for particulars concerning the condition of the batteries, and the number of guns and troops,—­finding little in them but mention of parades, soldierly festivities, offers of service by enthusiastic citizens, and other like small business.  I thought of visiting the islands, but heard that strangers were closely watched there, and that a permit from authority to enter the forts was difficult to obtain.  Fortune, or rather, misfortune, favored me in this matter.

After passing six days in Charleston, hearing much that was extraordinary, but seeing little, I left in the steamer Columbia for New York.  The main opening to the harbor, or Ship Channel, as it is called, being choked with sunken vessels, and the Middle Channel little known, our only resource for exit was Maffitt’s Channel, a narrow strip of deep water closely skirting Sullivan’s Island.  It was half-past six in the morning, slightly misty and very quiet Passing Fort Sumter, then Fort Moultrie, we rounded a low break-water, and attempted to take the channel.  I have heard a half-dozen reasons why we struck; but all I venture to affirm is that we did strike.  There was a bump; we hoped it was the last:—­there was another; we hoped again:—­there was a third; we stopped.  The wheels rolled and surged, bringing the fine sand from the bottom and changing the green waters to yellow; but the Columbia remained inert under the gray morning sky, close alongside of the brown, damp beach of Sullivan’s Island.  There was only a faint breeze, and a mere ripple of a sea; but even those slight forces swung our stern far enough toward the land to complete our helplessness.  We lay broadside to the shore, in the centre of a small crescent or cove, and, consequently, unable to use our engines without forcing either bow or stern higher up on the sloping bottom.  The Columbia tried to advance, tried to back water, and then gave