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.'