and Beaufort Rivers, and opening into
the Atlantic Ocean on the South Carolina coast, about midway between
Charleston and Savannah. No more beautiful region is to be found in
the world. Far enough south to escape the rigors of the northern
winters, and far enough north to be free from the enervating heat of
the tropics; honeycombed by broad, salt-water lagoons, giving moisture
and mildness to the air,--the country about Port Royal is like a great
garden; and even to-day, ravaged though it was by the storms of war,
it shows many traces of its former beauty. It is in this region that
are found the famous Sea Islands, on which grows cotton so much more
fleecy and fine of fibre than the product of the interior, that it is
known the world over as Sea Island cotton, and sells at the highest
price in the markets of England. In '61 the islands bore the great
hospitable manor-houses of the Southern planters; broad of rooms and
wide of piazzas, and always open for the entertainment of travellers,
were they friends or strangers. The planters living there were among
the wealthiest in the South, at a time when all planters were wealthy.
They numbered their slaves by thousands. Standing on the broad piazza
of one of these Southern homes, one could see the rows of rough huts
that made up the negro quarters, and hear faintly the sound of the
banjo and rude negro melodies, mingling with the music of piano or
harp within the parlor of the mansion-house. Refined by education and
travel, the planters of the region about Port Royal made up a courtly
society, until war burst upon them, and reduced their estates to
wildernesses, and themselves to beggary.

At the head of the Beaufort River stood the little town of Beaufort.
Before the war this was a thriving place; its magnificent harbor made
it easily accessible for the largest merchant-ships, and the richly
productive country round about furnished heavy cargoes of the fleecy
staple that gave to the South the name of the "cotton kingdom." On
Saturdays and holidays the broad streets of Beaufort would be crowded
with carriages and horsemen from the neighboring plantations. The
planters, in broad-brimmed hats and suits of snowy linen, thronged the
broad piazzas of the hotel, or grouped together in the shade of the
spreading trees that lined the streets, discussing the cotton crops
and prices. Now all is changed. Beaufort is a sleepy little village,
with no sign of trade, domestic or foreign; an