Newspaper Page Text
THE sum* SENTINEL
SHED
EVE.IV T
y,i\
ip j f . A X &/ CO.
T r YN T Editor.
( . Jn Randolph street.
Citcr l i Department.
„ “... Caroline lee iientz.
Co.vnccrf-
Written fox the sentinel.!
Ti. STOLEN CHILD. !
fi SKETCH FROM LIFE.
[’ BY CAROLINE LEE HF.NTZ. !
/'Think not the heart in ebon mould
/ To nature’s softest touch is cold,
/ Or that the negro's skin contains
I No bright or animated.veins,
/ Where, though no blush its course betrays,
I The blood in all its wildness plays.”
might call this Elliott-ville,” said Mrs. !
Alliott to her husband, as they wandered
fibout the grounds of the habitation which he
had just rented, and which were beautiful in
vernal bloom. ’‘l have counted at least sev- !
en houses in this single green inclosure.”
‘•Each about as large as a humming bird’s I
nest,” answered her husband laughingly, j
“ This white building, with green blinds and
broad piazza, is our parlor. The one on the ;
light, with low, slanting roof, containing j
three rooms, will accommodate us with a!
sitting room, dormitory and refreshment ‘
room. \ omler, under the shade of the chest- j
‘nut boughs, is my library, and study. Eve- !
ry building has its appropriate office, and
dotting, as they do, this smooth green sward, i
have quite a novel and picturesque effect.” ;
“What a sinjrular taste the architect must i
P ... !
have had !” said the lady. “These little cab- |
ins remind me of a watering place, and far j
down in that w ild-looking glen, behind the |
buildings, I bear the murmur of a gushing
spring. How charming! But there is a
house quite remote from .this cluster, embo- j
omed in a grove of young oaks. Thai looks
as if it might be a chapel, from its devout, j
sequestered appearance.”
“You can convert it into one, if yon please.
But here comes our darling Bessy. She w ill
revive here in this pure, sweet air. It is al
most like living in the country.”
A young black girl approached, hearing in
her arms an infant of about nine months old.
The child was exceedingly fair and delicate,
and the clear blue of the heavens was paint
ed on the mirror of its soft, smiling eyes. It
was lovely, hot wanted the rosy charm of
health, the spring, the bound, that belongs to
vigorous infancy. The child seemed to have
inherited from its mother, extreme delicacy i
of constitution, for Mrs. Elliott’s cheek was j
pale as the white rose she had just gathered, |
ami her figure was slender, even to fragility. |
•“Have you succeeded in your search ?”
she asked in a tremulous voice, of her bus- j
band, casting a tearful glance at little Bessy, I
who, now seated on the grass, by her sable
attendant, looked round w ith a pleased and
wandering expression.
“I have,” he replied, “and think you will
be perfectly satisfied. She is a young mu
latto woman, of the name of Dilsy, witli a
little hoy. about one year old. She is free,
and lives by herself, taking in sewing and
washing. Her husband is dead, and there
seems to be no obstacle to her accepting the
situation in our family you are anxious to
have filled.”
“I cannot hear the idea of her having a
colored nurse,” said the mother, gazing anx
iously on the sweet pale infant playing in the
grass, “but I would make any sacrifice for
our mutual health. I should like to see this
woman.”
“Yonder she comes now’, leading her lil
tle boy,” exclaimed Mr. Elliott, pointing to
wards the gate. “I told her to come imme
diately, thinking she would recommend her
self, better than 1 could do it for her.”
“She has a very prepossessing counte
nance,’’ said Mrs. Elliott, watching with in
terest the advancing figure of Dilsy. “1
think I could trust her.”
Dilsy walked slowly, accommodating her
movements to those of her little boy, who
waded through the long grass by her side,
his black, w oolly head popping up and down,
with marvellous quickness, as if his journey
were more upward than onward. Dilsy was
tall and well formed, and moved with the na
tive grace of an African, Her complexion
w,as a clear golden brown, and what was ve
ry remarkable in one of her color, her lips
had a tmge of redness which beautified her
whole face. She wore a party-colored hand
kerchief round her head, but her hair was
visible below it, and the crispy wool of the
African wars straightened and burnished in
her, into Indian glossiness and length. She
had an indolent, reposing countenance, ex
ceedingly pleasant and rather handsome.
T hough, as we have said, her ow n complexion
had a bright golden tint, the child whom she
led by the hand, was as black as ebony. The
white of his eyes and the ivory of his teeth
gleamed dazzlingly from the little shining,
sable face they enlivened. His very short
frock exhibited to the fullest advantage his
round, glossy and w’ell proportioned limbs.
As he came near, he broke from his mother’s
hand, and began to make summersets in the
grass, with inconceivable rapidity, and to the
delight of little Bessy, who clapped her wax
en hands and laughed outright.
“Behave yourself, Jim!” said his mother;
but he was too much engaged in his antics
to heed her rebuke, and Mrs. Elliott told her
to let the children amuse themselves, while
she questioned her on the subject nearest her
heart. Her ow n health, and that of her in
fant, were so feeble that the physician had
urged upon her the necessity of transferring
her child to another nurse, as the only means
of restoring either. Mr. Elliott had been for
VOL. 111.
some time in search of a proper person, when j
Dilsy was recommended, who seemed to
possess every necessary qualification.
“We can g’vt? berthe chapel for her room,”
said Mrs. Elliott; and Dilsy and little Jim
took possession of the cabin, shaded by
young oaks, and the little fragile Bessy soon
derived health<and strength from the veins of
the handsome mulatto.
The only objection Mrs. Elliott could
make to Dilsy was, that she seemed deficient
in sensibility. never lavished on Bessy i
any of those endearing caresses which negro j
nurses usually bestow on their masters’ chil
dren. thus breaking down, as it were, the dark
wall ttiat separates the races from each oth- \
er. She w r as kind and attentive to her chasge, j
but as soon as she had fulfilled her duty, she
would transfer it without any demonstration
of affection to its other nurse, and occupy
herself calmly* with her accustomed work.
Neither did she manifest any tenderness for
her ow’ri child. She took great pride in dres
sing him neatly, and when the ladies, who
visited Mrs. Eiiiott, noticed the boy, praising
bis intelligence and sprightliness, she would j
look pleased, but she was singularly undem
onstrative, and it is not strange that Mrs.
Eiiiott, whose heart was always gushing
forth in the warmest expressions of love to 1
her child, should think Dilsy cold and un
feeling.
“Do you love Jim ?” asked she of her one I
day.
“Yes, mistress. To he sure, 1 does. He’s
my own childaiid I’m obliged to love him.” ;
“But you are not very fond of children,
are you ?”
“1 never cares about hugging and kissing
‘em as some does. I thinks and feels though,
and w ould do as much to keep harm from
’em, as any body else.”
This was a great deal for the quiet mulat
to to say. She was that rare, and some be
lieve fabulous character—a silent woman.
Spring, summer and autumn glided away,
and little Bessy frolicked with Jim about the
beautiful green*enclosure, the picture of rosy
° 4* s 1
health, as she w’as angel loveliness. Jim
had grown wonderfully. He w’as stout, !
strong, and brave as a little lion, and as full of
mischief and pranks as a monkey, lie could
jabber and dance for the entertainment of
Mrs. Elliott’s guests, and cut more capers for
the amusement of Bessy than necromancer
ever taught.
Dilsv’s mission was ended, for Bessy, as
the cooler season advanced, was gradually :
withdrawn from her nursing cares. Mrs. El
liott, however, who had become attached to
her, in spite of her cool, unitnpassioned man
ners, gave her permission to remain in the
chapel, (as she always called the shade-em- j
bosomed cabin,) and continue her usual oc
cupations.
There was a young man of about twenty,
whose father resided some where in the vi
cinity, but who was seldom seen at home. |
Indeed, he seemed to live on horse back,
dashing about on a wild, black horse, that no
one could venture to ride but himself. His
name was John Green, hut he was known
only by the appellation of Wild Jack. Wher
ever lie went the sound of clattering hoofs
preceded him—a cloud of dust followed, j
“Get out of the way—Wild Jack’s coming,” :
was the cry of the children in the street, as
they scampered towards the fence. In short,
he was the wild huntsman of the country,
and as he passed along, like a swift dark
cloud, a thrill of admiration was always exci
ted by his matchless horsemanship. It was
said he lived by gambling, for he was never
seen to work, yet the glitter of silver spark
led through tiie meshes of his purse, and its
clinking made constant music in the bar
room.
One evening, as Wild Jack was riding ra
ther more slowly than usual along a hack
road that- wound round the grounds of Mr. :
Elliott, he caught a glimpse of little Jim,
perched on the top of the fence, laughing and
clapping his hands, at the sight of the black
steed, and its shining, flowing mane. Jack j
reined jn Ids horse and rode directly up to the ;
fence where the child was seated.
“Here, jump on to my saddle, and I 11 j
teach you how to ride, you little black ras
cal,” exclaimed the horseman, leaning for
ward, seizing the child by the arm and swing
ing him in front of himself, as it he had no
I more weight than a feather.
“Me feard,’’ said the child, shrinking from
; the fierce, bright eyes of Jack, that ran up
and down his plump little body, like live balls.
It was strange for him to express fear.
“ You afraid! why I took you for a man. 1
I’ll bring you back directly.”
Away he flew, and little Jim forgot his ter
rors in the delight of motion, and the charm
of novelty. Up hill and down hill they went,
over fields and creeks, and it was not till the
grey of evening began to darken the glow of
sunset, that the little equestrian returned to
, the shades of the chapel. Dilsy stood at the
j fence calling her truant boy, whose absence
she had just discovered.
“Here I be, mammy,” cried little Jim in a
tone of exultation, holding up a large paper
| of candy, with which the liberality of W ild
Jack had supplied him.
“You’ve got the smartest little fellow here
I ever saw,” said Jack, giving the child a
swing into his mother’s arms. “I’m going
( to make a first rate horseman of him. Don’t
i you waut to ride again, you young harlequin ?”
“Yes,” answered the delighted child, suck-
I ing a long stick of red candy, the seal of his
i friendly compact with the formidable Jack.
@1 )£ iSoutljOT ociittiid,
Dilsy was flattered by iiis notice of her
child, and when evening after evening, he
disappeared with the flying horseman, she
quietly awaited his return, without any mis
givings or apprehensions. As for little Jim,
he conceived a most extraordinary and pas
sionate love for Wild Jack. For hours be
fore his coming, he would mount the fence
and strain his eye balls and bend his ear, for
the dusty cloud and clattering hoofs he so
much loved to greet. Dilsy became more
and more reconciled to his new passion, as
it kept him still several hours on the top of
the fence, instead of gamboling about in her
way, as he formerly did.
Once Jim was gone longer than usual. It
grew quite dark, and yet his little woolly head
was not seen peeping in at the door, nor was
his childish voice heard exclaiming as usual—
“Me come back, mammy.”
Dilsy had worked hard during the day, and
was sitting by a warm, bright, lightwood fire.
It had been a clear frosty day, and the con
trast of the cold, bracing atmosphere abroad,
and the glowing beat within, disposed her to
a kind of luxurious drowsiness. The negro
sleeps as comfortably and sweetly in a split
bottomed chair, as ori a downy bed, and Dil
sy closed her weary eyes, and slept in happy
unconsciousness of the prolonged absence of
her child.
That night, before Mrs. Elliott retired to
rest, she stood by the couch of her sleeping
infant, gazing with a mother’s joy and grat
itude on its round, roseate cheek and white,
dimpled arms. She compared its present ap
pearance of health and strength with its for
mer waxen paleness and extreme fragility,
and her heart swelled with emotions of thank
fulness to Dilsy, who had been the instru
meut, in the hands of God, of her darling’s
restoration.
“Look at her,” she cried, turning to her
husband, while she shaded back the soft flax
en hair, from Bessy’s snowy forehead. “How
sweet, how placid, how well she looks!
That was a blessed day you brought Dilsy to
me. Had it not been for her, I do not think
Bessy could have survived the summer
months. She really is a treasure. 1 feel as
if I wanted to do something to prove my
gratitude to her.”
“Why, yon are proving it all the time, my
dear. Not a day passes that is not crown
ed by some act of loving kindness on your
part, towards this clever mulatto. lam sure
her lines have fallen in pleasant places. You
make almost as great a pet of Jim as you
do of Bessy. Is that fine dress for him ?”
pointing to a gay tunic of brilliant scarlet,
trimmed rather fantastically with black.
“Yes. I long for the morrow to come, to
see him dressed in this suit. The bright red
will set off so well his jetty skin. 1 really
think the hoy is handsome—he is so black
and shining and has such an intelligent, mer
ry face. 1 always wondered his mother did
not show more fondness for him—her only
child, too. Ido not think she has much sen
sibility, hut a great deal of principle.”
“All mothers are not as foolish as you are,
my dear,” said lie with an affectionate smile,
and Mrs. Elliott felt, though lie called her
foolish, he did not condemn her folly. She
fell asleep with the vision of little Jim, ar
rayed m his scarlet clothes, dancing before
her eves.
She was awakened by a cry so loud, so
thrilling, that it seemed as if something sharp
was stabbing her ears. It broke on the si
lence of night with terrible distinctness, and
sounded like the wail of a breaking heart.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Elliott,
starting from her pillow, “what cry is that?
It is in our own yard.”
Mr. Elliott sprang from the bed and has
tily dressing himself opened the door, letting
in as he did so a whole flood of moonlight.
Mrs. Elliott rose also, trembling with terror,
and wrapping herself in a large woolen
shawl, followed her husband into the piazza.
The cry rose again more distinctly. It came
nearer, and the words—
“My child ! my child ! They’ve stole my
child!” were audible mid shrieks of agony.
“It’s Dilsy !’’ cried Mrs. Elliott. “Oh ! hus
band, what is the matter? See her—running
up and clown the yard. Call her, for mer
cy’s sake, and find what she means.”
YV iiiie she was speaking, Dilsy came rush
ing to the gate, looking like a distracted
creatuie, with her hair loosely flying, tossing
her arms wildly above her I. ad.
“My child !” she shrieked. “Master—mis
tress —they’te stole him. I never see him no
more.’’
Here she wrung her hands and bursting
afresh into an exceeding loud and bitter cry,
was about to run off towards the street,
when Mr Elliott caught her by the arm and
forced her into the house.
“Let go!” she cried frantically. “YYild
Jack’s got him—lie never brought him back
—he never will bring him back again.”
The truth flashed upon Mr. Elliott’s mind,
lie had seen Jim before sunset, mounted in
front of the YY ild Huntsman, and from Dil
sy’s broken exclamations, he learned how
long he had been gone, how she bad awa
kened out ot a long, deep sleep, seated by
the cabin’s hearth, and how she remembered
waiting there f>r her boy, and wondering
that he did not come. She sought him and
called hint, till she was hoarse—sought him
in every nook anG corner of the cabin, sha
king the bed clothes as if he were a needle
i °
or a pin, that could be hidden in their seams—
then seizing a torch, forgetful of the moon
j light, and swinging it above her head, rush
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 25, 1852.
ed to the wood-pile, and hurled the sticks in
the air, sometimes imagining the end of a
blackened pine knot the head of her missing
child. At length came the horrible convic
tion that he was stolen, carried off, to be sold
to the slave-trader, and the cry which had
banished the slumbers of Mrs. Elliott, was
wrung from a mother’s breaking heart.
All that kindness and sympathy could do,
was done by Mrs. Elliott to soothe and com
fort the poor, half-distracted Dilsy. The
household was roused, a warm fire kindled
and warm covering wrapped round her chill
ed and shivering limbs. But Dilsy refused to
be comforted. The sensibility that had been
sleeping in the bottom of her heart, gushed
out in an overwhelming stream. Nor was
it sorrow alone that stirred the before un
sounded depths of her soul. The thirst of
vengeance mingled with the yearnings of
affection, and infused wormwood and gall
into the flowing brine. She threw herself on
the floor and tore her long Indian tresses,
calling on her Jim, her baby, her child, in the
most piteous and heart-rending accents.
“1 accused her of not feeling,” thought Mrs.
Elliott, wiping avvav her own fast falling
tears. “Ah! how little we know of what is
passing in the heart. Poor creature—what
can I do to comfort her?”
“I will go over this moment and see the
President,” exclaimed Mr. Elliott. “The vil
lain must be pursued and overtaken. Be
quiet, Dilsv—you shall have your boy again—
we’ll see about it.”
“God Almighty bless you, master—will
you ? God bless you —will you, master ?’*
cried Dilsy, springing up from the floor and
shaking hack her dishevelled hair, her eyes
glittering with excitement. “I thought no
body care for little negro—free, too. Oh.
Lordy ! Jimmy—little Jimmy! S’pose he
come back again!”
Covering her face with her hands, she burst
into an hysterical laugh, and picking up a
white muslin apron of little Bessy’s that had
fallen upon the floor, began to wipe her eyes
with it, without knowing what she was doing.
In the mean time, Mr. Elliott, burning with
indignation for the outrage on the poor mu
latto, walked over, in the dead of night as it
was, to the President’s mansion, which was
not far from his own. He was one of the
Professors of the University, which was situ
ated on the beautiful hill, near which he re
sided, and when the President was roused
from bis slumbers by the voice of Mr. Elliott,
he naturally concluded that the stude'n ig-itftd
been detected in some tnidnighf_4epredation.
fle-ffSSTiintn of surpassing benevolence of
character, united to a stern and inflexible
sense of justice. He entered warmly into
Mr. Elliott’s plans for the recovery of the
child, and proposed that emissaries should he
dispatched on the three roads, which led from
the hill, in pursuit of the robber and his prey,
promising to bear his part of the expense,
and pledging himself for the other members
of the faculty’. Early the next morning,
three men, hired by the President and Pro
fessors, started in three different directions,
for the purpose of tracking the human blood
hound.
It has been said that self-interest alone
prompts the white man to be kind to the ne
gro race—that he feeds and clothes and warms
him because lie is his own property, and he
himself would sutler, if his slave were ne
glected or wronged. This may be the case
in some instances—but it certainly was not
in this. Here was a poor, humble, unprotec
ted mulatto, a free woman, with a free child.
She enriched no one, she belonged to no one;
her child was her own property, and its loss
impoverished no one but herself. And yet in
defence of this woman’s rights, for the re
covery of her stolen boy, were enlisted the
sympathies and influence of the dignified
President of a celebrated University and its
intelligent and learned Professors. YVas
this self-interest ? No ; it was divine philan
thropy—it was the acknowledgment of that
bond, which unites the great brotherhood of
mankind, and which is drawn closer and
closer by misfortunes and wrongs. Dilsy and
her child were of the lowly African race, and
yet how many hearts were now throbbing in
unison with hers—how many prayers were
ascending to heaven for the recovery of her
child !
[to be continued.]
[From the New-York Observer.]
CURIOUS NARRATIVE—A VISIT TO
JENNY LIND.
BY GRANT THORBURN.
Hitherto, the time, talents and conversa
tion of Miss Lind have been so much mono
polized by’ the good, the great and noble of
the land, that a small mortal like myself,
could not so much as see the hem of her
garment. Hearing that, to escape from the
heat, noise and fashionable crowd of New-
York, she was removing to the pleasant
heights in Brooklyn, I obtained from Mr.
Barnum a letter as follows:
New-York, 21st May, 1851.
The bearer, .Mr. Thorburn, is a man of the
highest respectability, a funny old Scotch
man, and an author, &c. Miss Lind will he
pleased to talk with him. He is a very cele
brated man—well known to all the Literati.
He is wealthy and don’t come begging.
(Signed,) P. T. BARNUM.
Armed with the missive, I stood by the
door of her mansion next morning at 9 A.
M. I rang —the servant appeared.
Says I, “This note is for Miss Lind, from
Mr. Barnum.”
Says he, “She aiut up.” u
“No matter,” says I, “the sun’s up—she
can read that note in bed. Tell her, if she’s
willing to see me. I will wait in the parlor
till Christmas, if she says so.” I knew she
; would not say so—it was only a figure of
speech, to denote the sincerity of my wish, j
The man looked in mv face without moving.
I dare say h thought I was crazy. “Go
ahead,” sa3’s I, “and deliver vour message.”
In two minutes he returned smiling—“ Miss
Lind says she won’t make you wait till
Christmas; please sit in the parlor—she will
be with you in ten minutes.”
I had never seen Miss Lind. The door
opened, I advanced, she met me with a quick
step, both hands extended. I held her right
hand in my left, her left in my right hand*
Approximating as near as common sense
would permit, and looking her in the face,
“And this is Jenny Lind,” said 1, returning
the gaze and advancing a foot. “And this is
Lau ie Todd,” said she. She placed a chair
in front of the sofa ; she sat on the sofa, 1 sat
on the chair; thus we looked on one another,
face to face, and thus the language of her
speaking eyes confirmed the words which
i dropped from her lips.
She remarked, she had read my history,
j (Laurie Todd,) about three years ago, in Eu
! rone; that she thought the description there
! given of the baptism of Rebecca, was the
! most interesting scene she ever read in the
| English books. She continued, “Can you
repeat that scene from memory ?” Says I,
“Death only can blot it out.” “Will you
oblige me?” she continued. Says I, “You
have seen the painting of the Goddess of
Liberty ; that is the costume which adorned
the person of the ladies at that period. Her
father had been already dead better than three
hundred days; the dress, therefore, was in
half mourning. Her hat was a small black
beaver, all the fashion at that time, the rim
turned up* on each side, so as to leave the
ears visible ; the hair was in a broad fold
resting between the shoulders, having the ex*
treme ends fastened with a pin on the crown.
Hers was very long, and very flaxen ; she
was clothed in a white garment, fine, neat,
and clean, her neck encircled with a black
bracelet, and around her waist was a black rib
bon. The train of her garment was hanging
on her left arm. The thought, that before
another hour the eyes of the whole congre
gation would he fastened on her alone,
: brought a faint blush on the cheek. When
j she walked up the middle aisle and sat down,
’ third pew from the pulpit, I thought I had
j n£ye.r beheld anything half as lovely.
“Lector.lad"g ended, the preacher pro
; claimed: ‘Let the pers™ pre: nt herself for
baptism.” She walked to tk e altar, a tall,
slim figure, straight as an Indian aHP u ’> with
a measured step, like a sentry on duty‘,4t§i
fore the tent of his general. While the min
ister was binding the vow of God upon her
heart, before the whole congregation, she
made the responses with the same thought
ful composure, as if none but the eye of
Omnipotence was there. While the minis
ter was slowly descending the fifteen steps
which led from the pulpit, she was untying
the strings which held on her hat. There
she stood, her black hat in one hand, a white
muslin ’kerchief i:i the other, her beautiful
and neatly arranged flaxen locks all exposed
under a blaze of light. When the minister
dropped the water on her white transparent
brow, she shut her eyes and turned her face
to heaven. As the crystal rolled down her
I blushing cheeks, I thought her face shone
like an angel’s, and I swore in my heart, if it
so willed heaven, that nothing but death
! should part us.”
Here M iss Lind stood up with excitement,
j “Stop, Grant.” she exclaimed. “You ought
to have been a painter—you place Rebecca
| before me.” “And why not ?” said I. “Per
haps her ransomed spirit is hovering over
that splendid Bible, and smiling to see two
kindred spirits enjoying a foretaste of pleas
ures so divine.” “I doubt it not,” she obser
| ved ; “for with Young, your English poet, I
believe that ‘Friends departed, are angels
sent from heaven on errands full of love.”—
“And with Paul,” I added, “they are minis
tering angels sent to minister to the heirs of
salvation.”
Here we entered invisible space and soar
ed to worlds on high. She repeated with
fine pathos, the beautiful legend current
among the peasantry of her native moun
tains. It concerned a mother, who, at the
dead watches in every night, visited the beds
of her six motherless babes, covering their
little hands, and smoothing their pillow. It is
a beautiful illusion.
We spoke of the especial care which God
takes of little children ; how many instances
are recorded in our weekly journals of chil
dren being left in the woods, for days, some
times for weeks, the weather inclement, the
feet naked, the clothes scant, yet found un
hurt. They were fed on manna from Heav
en, and the angel of the covenant muzzled
the mouth of the ravenous beast of prey. .
Having read Laurie Todd, she put several
explanatory questions about the yellow fever,
i and other scenes recorded, &c. On these
and similar subjects we conversed more than
an hour, without being interrupted, but the
time of departure was at hand. We rose si
multaneously. We held each other’s hands.
We promised to remember one another at our
evening sacrifice, that God would so prepare
our hearts that we might meet where the as
sembly never breaks up, where friendship
1 uever ends.
i Here the fountain of the great deep was
broken up; a big tear overflowed its banks.
I caught the infection. Now, I never saw
a tear on a woman’s cheek but I longed to
kiss it from its resting place ; that is to sa} r ,
provided the thing was practicable; and
whether or not I reduced this principle to
practice on the present occasion, I can’t
conceive that a sovereign people have any
right to enquire. Be this as it may, at that
time her lips were her own ; she had no
lord Goldschmidt to dispute an old man’s
privilege.
A CHIP FROM “OLD BLOCK.”
FUN ON THE ISTHMUS.
The following truthful description of a trip
across the Isthmus is from the pen of Albert
Delaus, Esq., one of Messrs. Weils, Fargo
& Co.’s agents in California :
It was about two o’clock in the morning,
when weary limbs and aching backs, bearing
deep indentations from the sharp corners of
trunks and boxes against which we leaned pre
vented all thoughts of sleep, that Old Block,
who had not closed his eyes, was struck
with a paralysis of misanthropy, and roar
ed out in a thrilling-crow-like voice,
“O, of the girls, dear men, beware,
O never fall in love,
’Tis better lead ap^-s —O you know where,
Than indulge in sentiment in this infernal boat”
A dear, soft, cheerful voice at his elbow in
stantly responded—
The men are all a fleeting show
For girls’ delusion given,
For up the Chagres as we row (pole,)
There’s not one true in seven.
Right, by heavens, said I. There’s eight
of us—seven are in your category, and 1 be
ing the eighth, am true, for 1 don’t care a
snap for all the girls between Aspinwall and
Panama. A slap on the ear was the reply,
but the ice—no, not the ice, for it was hot as
young love—the fog was broke, and several
sweet voices lightened the weary watching
of the night, and songs and tales relieved our
wretchedness till dawn, when the boys roused
up our sable boatmen with—
We’ve sat all night till broad day light,
Now we’ll go on with the gals in the morning
The river had fallen about two feet, and
now we surmounted the rapids easily, and
then dancing from one side of the river to
the other forward and hack— dos-e.-dos, fre
quently down the middle again, as the whirl
ing current played the music. At eleven
o’clock, A. M., the magnificent bamboo bay
stack town of Gorgona greeted our glad
eyes, and with glorious stomachs we sat
down at the St. Louis Hotel to a rich repast
of raw ham, hard bread, and coffee without
milk.
As we again took our cramped places in
the boat, and stowed away our legs to the
best advantage, a little doubtful whether they
bel'dpged to us or somebody else, and though
it was alTi%&~~ ek • ak • humph! occasionally
that old rocking,'picking, rolling steamer
would come into ourTnW^ s and—ah !me
we wished ourselves in as gus4^l u arters on
the Chagres. Six miles to Cru2£® thef
mometer standing at 500—mercury codify ll
get higher for want of room—wonder if ft
ached as much as we did. Umbrellas at a
premium—Guano andjizzards baked on the
shore, alligators panting with heat, river boil
ing—especially in deep eddy holes, and thank
Heaven we are at last at Cruces, twenty
four hours going thirteen miles, and just able
to crawl to the St. Charles Hotel—up there
bv that old, odd, time honored, queer looking
church that is half a fortress, and tinselled
off with fanciful sea shells and loop holes.
The first thing to be done on your arrival
at Cruces is to go to bed or to hammock, in
order to let yourself down from your high
glee of coming up the river, so that you may
be prepared for the exquisite enjoyment on
the morrow of perambulating the charming
country on a palfrey to Panama. That’s
right, go to sleep—snooze away—augh !
augh! good night—good night—umplil How
that fellow snores—l hate snorers—and now,
dear reader, I would tell you something
about Cruces, but I suppose you have been
there and know all about i p yourself; besides,
just thinking of the oppressive beat, with the
salt ham, the hard yams, the sour bread,
the boiled beans and the one dollar for it,
touches my sensibilities to the quick, and you
will
Spare me, oh spare me,
A tea-table toasting.
Morning—hurry skurry—the mules are
ready. Ladies, put on your bloomers—you
that have none put on your husbands’
breeches, but for Heaven’s sake don’t keep
them on when you get home. As for ri
ding the paved road across the country on a
side saddle, that is out of the question, for
you need arms, legs (if you have any) hands
and feet on each side to enable you to stick
on. Nobody will laugh at you, for all do
alike there, and j’ou know the old adage,
“When you are in Turkey, do as the turkeys
do.” Here we go and now for fun. Yet the
memory of that infernal old boat makes mule
riding fun indeed—Ha! ha ! hippah ! rnula,
arriva rnula—no such thing, for here is the
first mud hole, and this an independent coun
try, and rnula stops to take a calm survey of
“All tilings here below.”
He’ll neither get up nor get in, but backs out
beautifully, and shows a strong desire to
have you get off—no matter at which end of
him. “Stranger, I’ll thank you to wallop this
perverse animal over the quarters with your
umbrella.” Umbrellas are useful in more
ways than one—slap, dash, crash—away
goes your sun protector into splinters—dash
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NO. 48.
goes your mule into the nit, and crash you
dash, splash over his head into the mud—ha !
ha ! ha ! it’ll rub off* when it’s dry—now mount
again and turn your mule t’other end fore
most — you’ll back him into Panama. By de
grees, however, you get warmed up and gain
courage, yonr mule gets good Matured, and
finally concludes to go forward head foremost.
Here you are at the first pass, a perfect mis
nomer for you can’t pass at. all, and for fear
of meeting a return train you shout with all
vour might to ascertain if any body is coming.
Nobody coming ? then go ahead. A track
about a foot wide is before you, worn into the
rocks, widening as the sides slope, with holes
or steps worn into the rocks, into which the
mule carefullv puts one foot after the other,
and you just go up a kind of winding for
many rods, wondering how the deuce a iour
legged animal can climb such a place with
safety to himself or to you. lou are between
high rocks where you have not the comfort
even of seeing out at the top, for the dense
foliage of the tall trees above shuts out of
view the glorious sky, while before you huge
rocks, around which tire trail is carried, pre
vents a straightforward view of the case. Now
and then there is a little opening where mules
can pass—then again a defile, and so on al
ternately for miles, and if you should happen
to meet anybody in these defiles, the only
way to get by is for one party to lay down
and let the other crawl over him, for there is
no backing out.
I)o you know what a Spanish paved road
is, a real camino? About one hundred and
fifty years ago, in the full title of Spanish
improvements, before turnpikes were known
or railroads dreamed of, the enterprising
monks of Panama (1 have been told from
Acapulco) conceived the magnificent idea
of uniting the two oceans, hollowing an
Indian trail, they caused a cobble stone pave
ment to belaid in some places allot three leet
wide on the softer soil between Panama and
Cruces. In passing rocky deliles, the pave
ment was discontinued, and the water-worn
rocks smoothed ofT a little, twelve inches in
width. Wonderful to relate a track was made
over which a careful mule could go without
breaking bis neck, and the wortuy fathers
had thus united the two oceans by a road,
which a twelve year old Yankee boy would
now be ashamed to acknowledge. Yet it
became and still is a great thoroughfare.—
What the Lord does must be right, and what
his representatives do can’t be wrong. At
least, so think the Central Americans, tor up
to this hour, satisfied with the glory of what
the fathers did, they have suffered the road
to remain without repairs, and it is now bro
ken up, dilapidated by time, travel, and rush
ing floods, till the road has become worse
than when the pavement was made, and
resembles its great prototype, “Break
neck,” in New Y’ork, or somewhere else In
many places the ravines are worn below the
pavement four or five feet, aud you see it on
alevel with your head ; in others it is broken
up, |ind amid rocks and mud the mule slowly
roties his way—or now plunges perpendic
ular off ten bet or more into the mud, and
ysjsuddenly again, it you don t
slipover sof,l >’ slkie ovor
his tail. V -Ms ■ ,
The dense n>i(agJ,^ lre nUIGr
side, or the high rocks or deSleSj pic .t,>t
any extended view ; it is only
when on the brow of a high hill, that \t? u
can get a glimpse of the rugged
of the isthmus.
And this free and independent nation of
New Grenada have no idea of improvement.
As their fathers were so are they, and so they
will remain. The future destiny ol Central
America will be committed to others than
the Gallic race, and Anglo Saxon energy
will at least set an example, if not control
the improvement, commerce, and agriculture
of this rich portion of God’s footstool.
“How do you like the railroad, el capita
no ?” said I to our Chagres boatman.
“Malo—mucha inalo,” said he, “no boats
then—no work, no money, for us—bad, very
bad.”
“But 3*ou can cut wood and haul it to the
stations—it will employ you all in various
ways,” said I.
A shrug, which seemed to indicate tlie:e
would be no chance to take advantage of
travellers, was the only reply.
But hang it, we have not got across the
Isthmus yet, and it begins to rain—ugh! ugh !
Too hot for India rubbers—Umbrellas mu
led to pieces—so there is no other way only to
take it. If we stop at the few miserable mon
grel huts on the road we shan’t get to Pana
ma to-night, and, dear reader) I’m as anxious
to get through as you are.
Somehow the fun has all leaked out and
the ha ! ha’s! have turned into O, oh’s ! Ti
red, hungry, sore, sweating, swearing; laugh
ing is turned to groaning, poetry into the
dullest kind of prose, and you look back
with a kind of compunction of conscience
for grumbling at your easy passage up the
Chagres in the boat, and involuntarily wish
it could have brought you over the land route
too. Night is closing in—for five miles we
have a smooth road—only now and then a
rough remembrancer —when at length, after
passing through rows of hay stack houses
for a mile over a really good road, old half ru
inous antiquated buildings show their dusky
forms, and riding through the gate you stop
with aching limbs, a worn out and exhausted
frame, before a hotel, and pitiably exclaim, iu
the most lugubrious voice—t), oh! waiter,
help me-oil’-my-mu-umph!
Ain’t you glad, reader, that we’ve got to
Panama ? Old Block..