PANAMA, NEW GRENADA,
Sunday, Jan. 17, 1849.
_James Gordon Bennett_: This being a very interesting locality of the
globe, at this time, I will strive to transmit daguerreotype views
of what transpires. I stopped at Cruces one night, where several
died, whose graves were dug by the natives (just below the earth’s
surface,) with little sticks and earthern bowls, which is the custom
of the country. In one case, the grave was not dug long enough, and
the neck was broken by turning the head over on the breast. I found
several American officers at Cruces, under the command of General
Persifer F. Smith, who had proceeded to Panama. Finding no mules in
Cruces, I wandered alone in the swamps in pursuit of one, amid rain,
lightning and thunder that shook the deep foundations of the earth,
and made the alligators show their hideous jaws. Through a flash of
lightning, I discovered a muletteer in the dark and deep perspective,
with whom, by signs and grim contortions, I contracted for a mule. The
tempest twilight passed, and the mild equator stars emerged from their
mysterious depths, and guided myself and muletteer from the dismal
swamp. I learn from a passenger who has just entered my apartment at
the Americano, that three emigrants were buried last night in the
mountains. Two more are supposed to be dying at the French hotel. God
only knows where all this will end. An aged passenger entered the gate
of the city about three hours since, whose locks were as white as the
untrodden snow, crying, with uplifted arms: “My children! my children!
O God! restore my beloved children.” He looked and enacted the
character of Lear more perfectly than I had ever seen it. The snow that
fell on Grandfather Whitehead and poor old Lear, were only wanting to
make it the most harrowing scene I ever witnessed. But unfortunately,
it has not snowed on the equator, since the advent of creation. The
old man’s children arrived about an hour since, and I had the pleasure
of bathing the father of the flock with brandy, which revived and
exhilarated him, and made him dance before me quite a reel. The old
fellow really danced wonderfully; I think I never saw a man of his
years step round so lively, alter I washed his exterior, and especially
his interior, with sparkling brandy. The old man has just told me that
a person went from his canoe into a thicket on the Chagres, and shot a
monkey, when all his tribe began to chatter wildly, and drop from the
trees upon him, and stole his hat, and scratched, and hit him severely,
and finally, about 400 monkeys chased him into the Chagres, where he
had to swim for his life until he was rescued by his comrades. Although
my brandy has made the old man extremely loquacious and facetious, yet
I believe his monkey story is as reliable as my snake and alligator
narratives.
(To be continued.)
Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.