that it boasts a village called Moultrieville.  Its hundred cottages are mostly of one model, square, low-roofed, a single story in height, and surrounded by a veranda, a portion of which is in some instances inclosed by blinds so as to add to the amount of shelter.  Paint has been sparingly used, when applied at all, and is seldom renewed, when weather-stained.  The favorite colors, at least those which most strike the eye at a distance, are green and yellow.  The yards are apt to be full of sand-drifts, which are much prized by the possessors, with whom it is an object to be secured from high tides and other more permanent aggressions of the ocean.  The whole island is but a verdureless sand-drift, of which the outlines are constantly changing under the influence of winds and waters.  Fort Moultrie, once close to the shore, as I am told, is now a hundred yards from it; while, half a mile off, the sea flows over the site of a row of cottages not long since washed away.  Behind Fort Moultrie, where the land rises to its highest, appears a continuous foliage of the famous palmettos, a low palm, strange to the Northern eye, but not beautiful, unless to those who love it for its associations.  Compared with its brothers of the East, it is short, contracted in outline, and deficient in waving grace.

The chill mist and drizzling rain frequently drove us under cover.  “While enjoying my cigar in the little smoking-room on the promenade-deck, I listened to the talk of four players of euchre, two of them Georgians, one a Carolinian, and one a pro-slavery New-Yorker.

“I wish the Cap’n would invite old Greeley on board his boat in New York,” said the Gothamite, “and then run him off to Charleston.  I’d give ten thousand dollars towards paying expenses; that is, if they could do what they was a mind to with him.”

“I reckon a little more’n ten thousand dollars’d do it,” grinned Georgian First.

“They’d cut him up into little bits,” pursued the New-Yorker.

“They’d worry him first like a cat does a mouse,” added the Carolinian.

“I’d rather serve Beecher or—­what’s his name?—­Cheever, that trick,” observed Georgian Second.  “It’s the cussed parsons that’s done all the mischief.  Who played that bower?  Yours, eh?  My deal.”

“I want to smash up some of these dam’ Black Republicans,” resumed the New-Yorker.  “I want to see the North suffer some.  I don’t care, if New York catches it.  I own about forty thousand dollars’ worth of property in ——­ Street, and I want to see the grass growing all round it.  Blasted, if I can get a hand any way!”

“I say, we should be in a tight place, if the forts went to firing now,” suggested the Carolinian.  “Major Anderson would have a fair chance at us, if he wanted to do us any harm.”

“Damn Major Anderson!” answered the New-Yorker.  “I’d shoot him myself, if I had a chance.  I’ve heard about Bob Anderson till I’m sick of it.”