In passing to-day along the deep sand road, calling itself the street of
Darien, my notice was attracted by an extremely handsome and
intelligent-looking poodle, standing by a little wizen-looking
knife-grinder, whose features were evidently European, though he was
nearly as black as a negro who, strange to say, was discoursing with him
in very tolerable French. The impulse of curiosity led me to accost the
man at the grindstone, when his companion immediately made off. The
itinerant artisan was from Aix in Provence; think of wandering thence to
Darien in Georgia! I asked him about the negro who was talking to him; he
said he knew nothing of him, but that he was a slave belonging to
somebody in the town. And upon my expressing surprise at his having left
his own beautiful and pleasant country for this dreary distant region, he
answered, with a shrug and a smile, 'Oui, madame, c'est vrai; c'est un
joli pays, mais dans ce pays-là, quand un homme n'a rien, c'est rien pour
toujours.' A property which many no doubt have come hither, like the
little French knife-grinder, to increase, without succeeding in the
struggle much better than he appeared to have done.

* * * * *


Dear E----, Having made a fresh and, as I thought, more promising purchase
of fishing-tackle, Jack and I betook ourselves to the river, and succeeded
in securing some immense cat-fish, of which, to tell you the truth, I am
most horribly afraid when I have caught them. The dexterity necessary for
taking them off the hook so as to avoid the spikes on their backs, and the
spikes on each side of their gills, the former having to be pressed down,
and the two others pressed up, before you can get any purchase on the
slimy beast (for it is smooth skinned and without scales, to add to the
difficulty)--these conditions, I say, make the catching of cat-fish