The shock was to us such as those who had watched at home the progress of events from day to day could perhaps hardly realize. The first intelligence I had of the war was the account of the Bull Run battle, next I heard of the firing on Sumter, and then of the riots in Baltimore, and the destruction of Norfolk Navy-Yard, and the capture of Harper's Ferry; and then followed an account of the universal arming and volunteering.
ARRIVAL IN BOSTON. We remained at Halifax not longer than was necessary to complete the repairs of the schooner, when we again put to sea, and in four days made the Boston Lights. We picked up a pilot out of the thickest fog that I have ever seen south of the Arctic Circle, and with a light wind stood into the harbor. As the night wore on the wind fell away almost to calm; the fog thickened more and more, if that were possible, as we sagged along over the dead waters toward the anchorage. The night was filled with an oppressive gloom. The lights hanging at the mast-heads of the vessels which we passed had the ghastly glimmer of tapers burning in a charnel-house. We saw no vessel moving but our own, and even those which lay at anchor seemed like phantom ships floating in the murky air. I never saw the ship's company so lifeless, or so depressed even in times of real danger.
The sun was beginning to pour into the atmosphere a dim light when we let go our anchor; but it did not seem that we were at home, or that a great city lay near by. No one was anxious to go ashore. It appeared as if each one anticipated some personal misfortune, and wished to postpone the shock foreboded by his fears. I landed on Long Wharf, and found my way into State Street. Two or three figures were
