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LIFE ON THE SEA ISLANDS.

[To THE EDITOR OF THE “ATLANTIC MONTHLY.”—­The following graceful and picturesque description of the new condition of things on the Sea Islands of South Carolina, originally written for private perusal, seems to me worthy of a place in the “Atlantic.”  Its young author—­herself akin to the long-suffering race whose Exodus she so pleasantly describes—­is still engaged in her labor of love on St. Helena Island.—­J.G.W.]

PART I.

It was on the afternoon of a warm, murky day late in October that our steamer, the United States, touched the landing at Hilton Head.  A motley assemblage had collected on the wharf,—­officers, soldiers, and “contrabands” of every size and hue:  black was, however, the prevailing color.  The first view of Hilton Head is desolate enough,—­a long, low, sandy point, stretching out into the sea, with no visible dwellings upon it, except the rows of small white-roofed houses which have lately been built for the freed people.

After signing a paper wherein we declared ourselves loyal to the Government, and wherein, also, were set forth fearful penalties, should we ever be found guilty of treason, we were allowed to land, and immediately took General Saxton’s boat, the Flora, for Beaufort.  The General was on board, and we were presented to him.  He is handsome, courteous, and affable, and looks—­as he is—­the gentleman and the soldier.

From Hilton Head to Beaufort the same long, low line of sandy coast, bordered by trees; formidable gunboats in the distance, and the gray ruins of an old fort, said to have been built by the Huguenots more than two hundred years ago.  Arrived at Beaufort, we found that we had not yet reached our journey’s end.  While waiting for the boat which was to take us to our island of St. Helena, we had a little time to observe the ancient town.  The houses in the main street, which fronts the “Bay,” are large and handsome, built of wood, in the usual Southern style, with spacious piazzas, and surrounded by fine trees.  We noticed in one yard a magnolia, as high as some of our largest shade-maples, with rich, dark, shining foliage.  A large building which was once the Public Library is now a shelter for freed people from Fernandina.  Did the Rebels know it, they would doubtless upturn their aristocratic noses, and exclaim in disgust, “To what base uses,” etc.  We confess that it was highly satisfactory to us to see how the tables are turned, now that “the whirligig of time has brought about its revenges.”  We saw the market-place, in which slaves were sometimes sold; but we were told that the buying and selling at auction were usually done in Charleston.  The arsenal, a large stone structure, was guarded by cannon and sentinels.  The houses in the smaller streets had, mostly, a dismantled, desolate look.  We saw no one in the streets but soldiers and freed people.  There were indications that already Northern improvements had reached this Southern town.  Among them was a wharf, a convenience that one wonders how the Southerners could so long have existed without.  The more we know of their mode of life, the more are we inclined to marvel at its utter shiftlessness.