Continental Monthly , Vol. 6, No. 1, July, 1864

After every calm comes a storm, and so, after weeks of listless waiting, doing nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, a very gale of bustle comes on. 'Sail ho!' comes from the lookout aloft. 'One point off our starboard bow!' 'Man the windlass and up anchor!' shouts the officer of the deck, as the strange sail bears down steadily toward us, finally showing signals which tell us she's a friend and brings a mail. The Iroquois steams out to meet her; their anchors drop, and they hold friendly confab. We, too, soon come up, and hear that letters, papers, fresh meat, and ice await us, on the good old Bay State steamer Massachusetts. We prepare to lower boats and get our goodies, when we are told from the Iroquois that a sail lies far off to the N. N. E., and are ordered off on chase. 'It never rains but it pours,' think we. Letters, goodies, and now a chance at a prize! 'Begone dull care!' 'Ay, ay, sir!' responds swift-vanishing ennui, as our eyes are strained in the direction we were told the vessel was seen. No sign of one yet; but as we enter on our second mile, our lookout cries for the first time: 'A sail! dead ahead, sir!' After a five miles' run, we near the vessel sufficiently to make out that she is the brig Perry, one of Uncle Sam's swiftest sailing vessels, and so we quit chasing, and return to get our letters and provisions ere the Massachusetts starts again. An hour from our first meeting we are back, and find her heaving anchor to be off, for she runs on time, and may not delay here; so haste away with the boats, or we lose mails, provisions, and all. The boat returns well laden with barrels of potatoes, quarter of beef, and chunks of ice, but no mail. 'Letters and papers all sent on board the Iroquois,' says the Massachusetts; so if we have any, there they are, but no word of any for us is sent; so with hearts disappointed, but stomachs rejoicing in the prospect of ice water and fresh meat, we settle down.

Our tongues, under red-tape discipline, keep mum, but inwardly we protest against this deprivation, brought about by the wild-goose chase on which we were ordered. Well, to-morrow the State of Georgia is expected down from Beaufort, and she will bring us a mail, we hope. The morrow comes, and at daydawn she heaves in sight, just halting as she nears the flagship, to report herself returned all right, and then down toward us—with a mail, we trust. She is hardly ten ship's lengths away, when she spies a sail to southward, notifies us, and we both make chase. She is deeply laden, we but lightly, so we soon outstrip her, and overtake the sail, which is a schooner, and looks suspicious, very. We order her to 'heave to,' which order is wilfully or unwittingly misunderstood. At any rate she does not slacken her speed, till she finds our guns brought to bear, and we nearly running her down. Then she stops: we send a boat with officers and men to board her and see if we have really a prize, and all is excitement. One officer offers his share for ten dollars—another for twenty—a third for a V, and one for fifty cents; but would-be salesmen of their shares are far more numerous than buyers. And soon the boat returns, reporting the vessel as bound for Port Royal, with coffee, sugar, and sutlers' stores. Her papers are all right, and she may go on without further hinderance. Now back to the State of Georgia for our mails. 'Our mails! our mails!' is the hungry cry of our almost home-sick hearts. As we get within hailing distance, we sing out for our letters, and are answered: 'While you were chasing the schooner, we left your mail on board the Iroquois.' 'The devil you did!' say some in bitter disappointment, but red tape demands that we wait till the flagship sees fit to signal us to come for letters. The hours pass wearily. We have waited weeks for home news, and, now that it is here, we must wait again—a day, two days—a week even, if it suits the flagship's convenience. At last the signals float and read: 'Letters for the –; come and get them.'

At last! The seals are broken and we read the news. One tells of a sick mother, dying, and longing to see her son. Another is from M–'s lady love: we know by the way he blushes, the fine hand and closely written pages, and various other symptoms. And our fleet of ironclads are busy at Charleston. Heaven help the cause they work for! Now we must hasten with our answers, to have them ready for sending at a moment's notice, when it is signalled: 'A vessel bound North, and will carry your mails, if ready.'

As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.' Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look, perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks, seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land. We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but no—she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever catching one, go to bed with the blues.

The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the Massachusetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.

Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land. Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels, surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim, as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer, safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers, we ought to rank with Diogenes.

The next day is filled with growl and 'ifs' and 'ands,' and 'if this had been so and so,' and 'but for that neglect, which we shall know how to avoid next time,' etc., etc. The afternoon of another day comes on, and then a sail is descried, and off we go after it. Seven or eight miles' run brings us close to it; still it pays no attention, but keeps straight on. The captain orders a ball to be fired across her bows, which explodes so near as to splash great jets of water over them. Her crew and captain strike sail, and let go halliards, while they fly behind masts, down cockpit, or wherever they can get for safety. Finding no further harm is meant than to bring them to, they answer back our hail—say they are going to Beaufort, quite a different direction from the one they are heading—and seem generally confused. As an excuse they say their compass is out of order, and as they appear to be wreckers, we allow them to go on without further molestation, and steam back to our moorings, consoling ourselves by the fact that these bootless chases are using up coal, and thereby hastening the time of our going to Beaufort to coal up, where we shall have a chance to step once more on terra firma.

Another night passes, and there are no indications of runners having tried to escape us; but at sunrise we see, far to the south, a schooner, and soon the flagship signals that a prize has been taken by one of our fleet. It looks very much like the schooner we let go yesterday, and our head officers swear, if it is that schooner, never to let another go so easily. One declares the vessel is loaded with cotton, and worth at least $100,000, but that, notwithstanding, he will sell his share for $500 in good gold. No one bids so high. Our ensign offers his for one dollar, and the paymaster sells his to the surgeon for fifty cents, the magnificence of which bargain the latter learns from the captain, who says his share will be about seven and a half cents! We steam alongside, and learn that our prize is the schooner St. George, bound for Wilmington, via the Bermudas, with a cargo of salt, saltpetre, etc., and worth perhaps four thousand dollars. We send our prize list on board the flagship, and have a nice chat over the capture. It puts us in good humor, and our vessels chassée around each other till afternoon, when we separate, to hear shortly that the schooner, on being searched, has disclosed rich merchandise, gold, Whitworth guns, &c., hidden under her nominal cargo of salt. So hurra again for our prize list! This almost makes up for the loss of the steamer.

As we are on the point of letting go our anchor, the distant boom of cannon is heard, and the flagship orders us to repair to the seat of danger with all speed. We haste away, and as we go, hear a third gun fired. It comes from the direction of the brig Perry, and we cut through the water toward it, at a twelve-knot rate, for a good half hour, but hearing no more firing, put in near the shore to watch for the rebel vessel, as we think those guns were intended to put us on our guard. It soon grows dark; lights are ordered out, and each man blinds his port. No talking above a whisper must be heard; we are to be still as an arctic night. Midnight passes, and lights still flicker along the shore. It is so dark we cannot see the land, though not more than a mile from it, and only know what it is by our compass and bearings, and the fires which lighten up the clouds in spots right over them. One, two, and three o'clock have passed; no sail or sound yet, and the night so dark we cannot see a ship's length away. Half past three, and we begin to heave anchor. The rattle of the chains is just enough to drown the sound of paddle wheels should a steamer approach, and the sound of her own wheels would in turn drown our noise; so if one does run in to land, it may be over us, for any warning we should have of its whereabout.

Suddenly the acting master jumps, looks for an instant across the bows into the thick darkness, and bids a boy report to the captain and lieutenant 'a vessel almost on us.' The man at the windlass is stopped, unshackles the chain, and lets the anchor go with a buoy attached. Captain and lieutenant come on deck, and order to blaze away with our fifty-pound Parrott. Crash! through the still air rings the sharp report, and the ball goes whizzing through the gloom, in the direction the vessel was seen. The bright flash of the gun, and the thick cloud of smoke make the darkness tenfold more impenetrable. For half an hour, we chase in every direction, then fire again toward the shore. It is just four; a gray light is working up through the mist, and we catch the faintest glimpse of the Daylight, one of our fleet. A few minutes later, and we see a speck near the shore, which the spyglass shows to be the steamer we chased and fired after in the night. The surf beats about her; in her frantic efforts to escape, she in the darkness has been run ashore by our close pursuit. We steam up, to get within range and destroy, if we cannot take her, when the Daylight, now discovering her, opens fire. Once, twice, three times she has banged away a broadside at the rebel sidewheel, and now the batteries on shore in turn open fire on her. The sea fog hangs like a shroud over and between us and the land, which looms up mysteriously, stretching its gray length along the western horizon. Spots of fire bursting from the midst of it, tear through the fog cloud right at us. It seems, in its vast, vague undefinedness, rather an old-time dragon, with mouth spouting fire and thunder, than harmless earth. The smoke of our own guns settles around us; our ears ring with our own firing: the excitement of the moment is intense. The jets of flame seem to spout right at one, and the inclination to dodge becomes very strong. The Daylight has stopped firing: what is the matter? The fog lifts slightly, and as the flagship advances to join in the fight, we see that the Daylight is moving back to reload and let her pass in, which she does, entering the circle of the rebel fire, between us and them. She finds it out quickly, for their guns are brought to bear on her, and the balls strike the water frightfully near. She turns, but, as she leaves the fiery circle, delivers, one after the other, a whole broadside of guns, followed by the Penobscot, who too gives them a few iron pills.

From six to eight A. M., the vessels gather in a cluster at safe distance from the land, and the commanders of the different vessels repair on board the flagship to consult what next shall be done. Meanwhile the spyglass shows crowds of rebels along the shore, and great efforts seem to be making to get the steamer off. Puffs of steam and clouds of black smoke from her chimneys show that she is blowing off steam, firing up, and pushing hard against the shore. Now her paddle wheels are working; her stern is afloat. Again and again it is reported, 'She's getting herself off the beach; she'll soon be off!' but it does not appear to hasten the powers that be, who apparently have decided that, as it will not be high tide till nearly one P. M., she is safely aground till then.

Finally, after long delay, it is decided that all hands shall be piped to breakfast, and we go in for a regular fight afterward. So the boatswain blows his whistle, and each man goes to his mess. Breakfast is leisurely gone through with, and then the drum beats all to quarters. And now it looks like serious work. Men gather round their guns eager for battle, and the surgeon stands ready, instruments before him, for whatever may come. But hardly are they ready for the fight, when the rebel steamer, with its traitor flag floating high in air, has extricated itself from the beach, and is steaming down the coast as fast as it can go. The golden opportunity is lost—was lost when the morning hour was spent in unnecessary discussion, eating, and drinking. Still they try to make up for lost time by rapid firing now, for she may be taking in a precious and comforting cargo of arms and other stores of war. The shots fall close about her, but a little short. Whitworth guns protect her as she goes, for our steamers dare not venture too near land, lest some long-range ball smash through their steam chests. The batteries from which the rebels fired were mostly erected after the steamer ran ashore, and seemed to consist principally of field pieces and guns hastily drawn to the spot, with no earthworks to protect them. This speedy work of theirs was in strong contrast to our slow motions. With a spyglass we could see telegraph poles stretched along the shore. The steamer had probably not been ashore one hour, when eight miles south to the fort, and eight or ten miles north to Wilmington, the news had spread of its arrival, and busy hands bestirred themselves, dragging up guns and ammunition to cover their stranded prize. As soon as sunlight lit up the beach, squads of men were seen pulling at ropes to work the vessel off the sandy beach. While they were thus engaged, breakfast was being quietly eaten on board our vessels! We kept up our fire till the steamer got under the guns of the fort and out of our reach, and then retired; and so ended our chase in nothing but noise and smoke.

We have given the reader a clue to a little of the inefficiency of the Wilmington blockade. In our next paper, we shall endeavor to picture some of the effects of naval life on character, and the strange experiences one can have on shipboard, even in the monotony of life on a blockader.

BUCKLE, DRAPER; CHURCH AND STATE

FOURTH PAPER

In the first paper of this series, reference was made to the Principles of Unity and Individuality as dominating over distinctive epochs of the world's progress; and certain characteristics of each epoch were pointed out which may be briefly recapitulated. Up to a period of time which is commonly said to commence with the publication of Lord Bacon's Novum Organum, the preponderating tendency in all the affairs of Society—in Government, in Religion, in Thought, in Practical Activities—was convergent and toward Consolidation, Centralization, Order, or, in one word, Unity; with a minor reference only to Freedom, Independence, or Individuality. A change then took place, and the Tendency to Unity began to yield, as the major or chief tendency in society, to the opposite or divergent drift toward Disunity or Individuality, which gradually came to be pre-eminently active. The Spirit of Disintegration which thus arose, has exhibited and is still exhibiting itself in Religious affairs, by the destruction of the integrality of the Church, and its division into numerous sects; and in the State, by the Democratic principle of popular rule, as opposed to the Monarchical theory of the supremacy of one.

We have now arrived, in the course of our development as a race, at the culminating point of the second Stage of Progress—the Era of Individuality. The predominant tendency of our time in things Religious, Governmental, Intellectual, and Practical, is toward the utter rejection of all clogs upon the personal freedom of Man or Woman. This is seen by the neglect into which institutions of all kinds tend to fall, and the disrespect in which they are held; in the movements for the abolition of Slavery and Serfdom; in the recognition of the people's right of rule, even in Monarchical countries; more radically in the Woman's Rights Crusade, and in the absolute rejection, by the School of Reformers known as Individualists, of all governmental authority other than that voluntarily accepted, as an infringement of the individual's inherent right of self-sovereignty.

This Spirit of Individuality, this desire to throw off all trammels, and to live in the atmosphere of one's own personality, exhibits itself in a marked degree in the literature of our day. It is the animating spirit of John Stuart Mill's work 'On Liberty'—a work which, as the writer has elsewhere shown, was substantially borrowed, although without any openly avowed acknowledgment of indebtedness, from an American publication. It is this spirit which has inspired some of the most remarkable of Herbert Spencer's Essays; and is distinctively apparent in the Fourth one of the Propositions which Mr. Buckle affirms to be 'the basis of the history of civilization;' and in the general tenor of Prof. Draper's Intellectual Development of Europe.

The gist of this doctrine of Individuality, as it is now largely prevalent in respect to the institutions of the Church and the State, and which is squarely affirmed in the proposition above mentioned, is this: Men and Women do not wish nor do they need a Spiritual Society to teach them what to believe, nor a Political Society to teach them what to do. If they are simply left alone, they will thrive well enough. An Ecclesiastical Organization is not only useless, but positively injurious; it is a decided hinderance to the progress of humanity; and the same is true of a Civil Organization, except in so far as it serves the purpose of protection to person and property.

It is intended to show in this article the erroneousness of this doctrine; to point out that Religious and Political Institutions have, in the past, been great aids to human advancement; that they are still so; and will be in the future. In this manner we shall meet the arguments of those who regard such institutions as having always been unnecessary and a hinderance; and of those who, while considering them as essential in the past, believe that they are now becoming obsolete, are detrimental to the cause of human progress, and in the future to be wholly dispensed with.

Mankind in its entirety resembles a pyramid. At the base are the ignorant and superstitious nations of the earth, comprising the great majority of its inhabitants. A step higher includes the next greatest number of nations, in which the people are less ignorant and less degraded, but still very low as respects organization and culture. So, as we rise in the scale of national development, the lines of inclusion continually narrow, until we reach the apex, occupied by the most advanced nation or nations.

That which is true of nations is so of classes and of individuals composing classes. Every community has its natural aristocracy, its superior men and women. These constitute the top of the pyramid of Society; and comprise those in whom intellectual powers, moral purposes, and practical capacities are most highly developed and combined. Below them comes the somewhat larger body of persons who are less endowed in respect to the qualities just enumerated. Below these comes, in turn, the still greater congregation who are still less gifted; and so on, the number increasing as the range of general capacity decreases, until we reach the layer which embodies the great mass of Society; who, though measurably affectionate, well-intentioned, and docile, are ignorant, superstitious, and simple minded, wanting in any large degree of high moral purpose, and constantly prone to the development of the vicious and depraved passions incident to this lower stratum of life.

It is evident that to meet the needs of these widely different grades of individuals, widely different manners, customs, and institutions are indispensable. Culture, delicacy, and intelligence have their own attractions, which are wholly diverse from those of crudeness, coarseness, and simplicity. The surroundings which would bring happiness to the lover of art or the man of large mental endowment, would render miserable the peasant who still lacked the development to appreciate the elegancies of refinement; while the tidy cottage and plain comforts which might constitute the paradise of the humble and illiterate rustic, would be utterly inadequate to the requirements of larger and more highly organized natures.

The Constitution and Structure of Society should be of such a nature, therefore, for the purposes of human growth and happiness, as to allow the needs and wants of every one of its members to be adequately supplied. As yet there has been no such arrangement of our social organization. In nations governed by Monarchical or Aristocratic rule, the institutions of the country are made to satisfy the demands of the privileged classes; with scarcely any reference to the wants of the masses. In Democratic communities, the opposite method is adopted; and the character of their public organizations and of their public opinion—the latter always the most despotic of institutions—is determined by the average notions of the middle class, which ordinarily furnishes the bulk of the voters; with little consideration to the desires of the higher or the necessities of the lower orders.