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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 TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,. ..$2 00 “ “ ** “ “ in six morihs, 2 50 “ “ “ •* “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - $1 00 “ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor cl those wild advertise largely. 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..