class="c8">Ole massa run, ha! ha!
De darkey stay, ho! ho!
It mus' be now dat de kingdom's cummin',
An' de year of Jubilo!"

Some ragged negro boys on the street, who, by the way they danced, appeared to have india-rubber joints, and who ended their songs with a "shout" and a "break-down," were asked if they knew the John Brown song.

"Oh, yeth, massa; we know ole John Brown."

"Well, give it to us then."

"John Brown's body lies a mold'ring in de clay,
But his soul am a marchin' home!"

"Good! give us some more!"

"We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour apple tree,
On Canaan's happy sho'!"

Some of them doubtless still sing the new version, believing that Jeff Davis will yet be hung, on Canaan's happy shore; and so they are all "bound for the happy land of Canaan!" It has been stated as an indisputable fact, that some of the older negroes having never heard their masters mention the name of a Yankee except with a profane accompaniment, have been praying for years, "O Lord! bress, we beseech Thee, and speedily bring along de comin' of de dam Yankees!"

Retracing our steps towards the steamer, we met our friends coming from various directions. Some of them would have passed for returning miners, who, in lieu of rich booty, were heavily laden with relics of stone, brass and iron. While these Yankee relic-hunters failed in getting away with old Fort Sumter itself, they successfully carried off two six-hundred pound shots from the great English Blakely gun, (sent over to the rebels by friends in England.) They afterwards presented these to the New York and Long Island Historical Societies, as enduring evidences of British neutrality during our war.

Ruins of Circular Church. St. Michael's Church. Ruins of Institute Hall.

CHARLESTON IN RUINS.

My mementoes included several hundred dollars worth, so to speak, of Confederate currency; a tile from the floor of the State Bank of South Carolina, and a Book of Common Prayer picked up among the rubbish in St. Michael's Episcopal Church. The floor of the edifice was covered with the shattered glass from the windows. A large shell had ploughed its way directly through the tower, fragments passing through the rear wall of the church, demolishing the pulpit, and even "breaking the commandments" inscribed on tablets attached to the wall. But the iron messenger kindly spared the precepts most needed in Charleston, "Thou shalt not kill!" and "Thou shalt not steal!"

We climbed to the top of the tower of this ancient structure, whose chimes had been removed to be recast into rebel cannon. I have since heard that a new set of chimes now ring out the glad notes of Freedom.

Near by, on the right, were the ruins of Institute Hall, where the Ordinance of Secession was passed, December 20th, 1860, by more than five hundred majority. On the left, the ruins of Circular Church, where the first secession sermon was preached.

But the hour for the grand ceremonial at Sumter had now almost arrived. Hastily embarking on the transport "Golden Gate," the brilliant pageant in the harbor opened before us. As far as the eye could reach, its waters were thickly crowded with shipping, gaily decked from bow-sprit to yard-arm and top-mast, "with flags and streamers gay, in honor of the gala-day!" While on every ship and transport, in every available place, were assembled the expectant multitude.

A steamer in the advance suddenly attracted our attention, decked with banners and crowded with the boys in blue. Can it be? Yes, it is our old Rhode Island steamer "Canonicus." Summoned at the opening of the war from the peaceful waters of Narragansett bay, she had rendered efficient service as a government transport, and now at its close had been honorably chosen to lead the grand procession in the peaceful advance to Fort Sumter. Presently the signal was given, the drums were beaten, the trumpets sounded, and immediately the "Canonicus" led the proud procession, followed by a long line of steamers and transports which gracefully rounded into line. Prominent among them was the "Planter," commanded by Robert Small, a freedman, who shouted his orders from the top of the paddle-box, while all around him, and below, in every nook and corner, were crowded the happy contrabands of South Carolina, of all ages and sizes, presenting in their variety of costumes a most novel and fantastic picture.

It was a proud day for them and for Robert Small, who, a few months before, almost unaided and alone, had captured the "Planter" from the armed State of South Carolina, safely passed the rebel batteries, and delivered her a prize to our blockaders. He received from the government $4,500, one-half the value of the steamer, with a commission of $1,800 as her commander. He afterwards purchased his old master's house and furniture, which set him up as immensely rich among his people, who declared him to be "de dun smartest cullud man in Souf Curlina!"

As the long procession of steamers and transports passed the fleet at anchor, manned and decked most gallantly, there was a scene of indescribable enthusiasm; guns were booming, bands playing triumphal marches, bells ringing and whistles sounding, while everybody was shouting and cheering at the highest pitch of patriotic exultation. This continued unabated till we reached the landing of Fort Sumter. Disembarking we passed between two files of soldiers, black men on the right, and white men on the left, rivalling each other in soldierly bearing. Ascending a flight of fifty steps we reached the parapet of the fort, where we found the Rhode Island boys of Company B, Third Artillery, Lieutenant J.E. Burroughs commanding, in charge of six pieces of artillery. Captain J.M. Barker and his men, of Company D, were on duty on Morris Island; and our comrade, Charles H. Williams, with a detachment of Company B, were on Sullivan's Island, in charge of Fort Moultrie and Battery Bee. As I stood there on the parapet of Sumter, and looked out over the battered and crumbled fortress, I realized how it had become, even in ruins, well nigh impregnable. The upper, or barbette walls, had fallen on the outside, and lay packed solidly against the lower walls, choking the entrances to the shattered casemates; numberless great guns, whose thunder had long been the voice of battle, lay dismounted and half buried in the sand, while the immense volume of shot and shell which had been hurled against the fort had served only to solidify and strengthen the entire mass. The fort was further protected from a scaling party by cheveaux de frise of pointed pickets, while along the base of the wall, near the water line, was a barrier of interlaced wire fence, invisible at the distance of a few feet, and which effectively resisted the advance of our naval forces on the night of September 8, 1863.

In the interior of the fort, packed tier above tier against the walls, were layers of tall wicker baskets filled with sand. In the centre stood the new flag-staff, nearly one hundred and fifty feet high, while here and there, at considerable intervals, were piled pyramids of solid shot.

But the grim aspect of war had been somewhat softened by the floral decorations, which, I was informed, were the combined taste of six Union ladies of Charleston. Near the flag-staff, a graceful arched canopy had been erected, draped with the American flag, and