Before the war Wilmington was a dull, sleepy North Carolina Town, with as little animation of any kind as a Breton Pillage.  The only business was the handling of the tar, turpentine, rosin, and peanuts produced in the surrounding country, a business never lively enough to excite more than a lazy ripple in the sluggish lagoons of trade.  But very new wine was put into this old bottle when blockade running began to develop in importance.  Then this Sleepy hollow of a place took on the appearance of San Francisco in the hight of the gold fever.  The English houses engaged in blockade running established branches there conducted by young men who lived like princes.  All the best houses in the City were leased by them and fitted up in the most gorgeous style.  They literally clothed themselves in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, with their fine wines and imported delicacies and retinue of servants to wait upon them.  Fast young Rebel officers, eager for a season of dissipation, could imagine nothing better than a leave of absence to go to Wilmington.  Money flowed like water.  The common sailors—­the scum of all foreign ports—­who manned the blockade runners, received as high as one hundred dollars in gold per month, and a bounty of fifty dollars for every successful trip, which from Nassau could be easily made in seven days.  Other people were paid in proportion, and as the old proverb says, “What comes over the Devil’s back is spent under his breast,” the money so obtained was squandered recklessly, and all sorts of debauchery ran riot.

On the ground where we were standing had been erected several large steam cotton presses, built to compress cotton for the blockade runners.  Around them were stored immense quantities of cotton, and near by were nearly as great stores of turpentine, rosin and tar.  A little farther down the river was navy yard with docks, etc., for the accommodation, building and repair of blockade runners.  At the time our folks took Fort Fisher and advanced on Wilmington the docks were filled with vessels.  The retreating Rebels set fire to everything—­cotton, cotton presses, turpentine, rosin, tar, navy yard, naval stores, timber, docks, and vessels, and the fire made clean work.  Our people arrived too late to save anything, and when we came in the smoke from the burned cotton, turpentine, etc., still filled the woods.  It was a signal illustration of the ravages of war.  Here had been destroyed, in a few hours, more property than a half-million industrious men would accumulate in their lives.