up the contest, standing upright on her flat flooring with no motion beyond an occasional faint bumping.  The tugboat Aid, half a mile ahead of us, cast off from the vessel which it was taking out, and came to our assistance.  Apparently it had been engaged during the night in watching the harbor; for on deck stood a score of volunteers in gray overcoats, while the naval-looking personage with grizzled whiskers who seemed to command was the same Lieutenant Coste who transferred the revenue-cutter Aiken from the service of the United States to that of South Carolina.  The Aid took hold of us, broke a large new hawser after a brief struggle, and then went up to the city to report our condition.

The morning was lowery, with driving showers running through it from time to time, and an atmosphere penetratingly damp and cheerless.  On the beach two companies of volunteers were drilling in the rain, no doubt getting an appetite for breakfast.  Without uniforms, their trousers tucked into their boots, and here and there a white blanket fastened shawl-like over the shoulders, they looked, as one of our passengers observed, like a party of returned Californians.  Their line was uneven, their wheeling excessively loose, their evolutions of the simplest and yet awkwardly executed.  Evidently they were newly embodied, and from the country; for the Charleston companies are spruce in appearance and well drilled.  Half a dozen of them, who had been on sentinel duty during the night, discharged their guns in the air,—­a daily process, rendered necessary by the moist atmosphere of the harbor at this season; and then, the exercise being over, there was a general scamper for the shelter of a neighboring cottage, low-roofed and surrounded by a veranda after the fashion of Sullivan’s Island.  Within half an hour they reappeared in idle squads, and proceeded to kill the heavy time by staring at us as we stared at them.  One individual, learned in sea-phrase, insulted our misfortune by bawling, “Ship ahoy!” A fellow in a red shirt, who looked more like a Bowery bhoy than like a Carolinian, hailed the captain to know if he might come aboard; whereupon he was surrounded by twenty others, who appeared to question him and confound him until he thought it best to disappear unostentatiously.  I conjectured that he was a hero of Northern birth, who had concluded to run away, if he could do it safely.

When we tired of the volunteers, we looked at the harbor and its inanimate surroundings.  A ship from Liverpool, a small steamer from Savannah, and a schooner or two of the coasting class passed by us toward the city during the day, showing to what small proportions the commerce of Charleston had suddenly shrunk.  On shore there seemed to be no population aside from the volunteers, Sullivan’s Island is a summer resort, much favored by Charlestonians in the hot season, because of its coolness and healthfulness, but apparently almost uninhabited in winter, notwithstanding