The Pacific in sight; presently the wooden roof
of the railway in view, shining white in the fierce
sun. The Bay of Panama, the church towers, the
little islands dotting the sea, and the volcanic hills
at the back of the tower—these present a
picturesque effect. Driving to the hotel through the
streets we are less charmed; general idea being
ruin, poverty, dirt, and pigs. These are lean,
debilitated pigs, which decline moving one inch out
of the way as the omnibus, with, its mules and
brisk Jamaica driver, approach,—close upon
them; must the poor beasts inevitably be crushed?
Happily not. With a short remonstrative grunt,
they slowly remove about one clear inch from the
mules' feet, and are saved. The dogs are lean
and languid, and a horribly mongrel race; the
human beings ditto, every tint from deep inky-
black to the palest yellow being seen; the
children swarm quite as extensively as the pigs.
Men, women, children, and beasts are equally
disinclined either to "move on" or out of the
way. I don't like the look of the butchers'
stalls in the market-place; I don't admire meat
torn in long lean slips, dry as hard leather,
sunning as it hangs; I don't find it odoriferous, but
Frank says, "This is the back of the town—the
outskirts." Ah, yes, like Stratford, Bow, and
Whitechapel; the market-place is decidedly not
West-end.

Past the market-place, and entering the town,
there is an improvement. Some walls have been
commenced, but never finished, called the
barriers; beyond is a large old church in the main
street, with a little oratory or small chapel
beside it, where a lady is kneeling, while a
wretched cripple halts at the door, meditating
apparently whether he shall seek redress for his
many infirmities from a patron saint. There are
shops—stores, rather—restaurants such as you
see in primitive French towns, more churches,
and a fine cathedral standing in the lonely
plaza, old enough but not infirm. Our hotel is
good, considering everything; but the bill long
enough to shorten the weight in our purses. We
are told the proprietor pays one hundred pounds
per month for his house; therefore the thought
of those daily inevitable two baths per diem
at a dollar each seems less terribly exorbitant.
Pride feels no pain, neither must a clean
skin. A bottle of vin ordinaire, which in Paris
might be worth eight sous, at a dollar: that is
hard. We might dispense with wine if not
with water.

To take a stroll through the streets of Panama
to that fashionable promenade, the Ramparts,
may have its charms; and to people determined
like ourselves, not to feel discouragement, I
suppose it had. True, the streets are stony and the
pavement uneven; occasionally a shower of dirty
water is thrown over you as you walk under the
balconies; the lean pigs and the wretched
mongrels refuse to move. The streets are neither
sweet nor clean. But we were assured the
Ramparts would fully repay us.

To look far out to sea;—in the distance are
a couple of English frigates and an American
line-of-battle ship; the islands, Flamenco, kept
as a depôt for stores by the Yankees, the blue
hills of Taboga and Tabogilla—the sight is pretty,
but it is dismal. All this part looks gloomy,
deserted, and lifeless. You know, as you pace
up and down, that under your feet the wretched
prisoners are languishing; for the prison is built
under the Ramparts, and a deadly black hole
must it be; there are a couple of cannon,
guarded by two dirty, dilapidated, very
vilanous-looking soldiers, who may occasionally
be seen stretched full length on the wall, fast
asleep by their post. Two or three "loafers"
idle languidly aoout; now and then a native
nurse, very décolletée and very innocent of
crinoline, her hair adorned profusely with
ribbons, flowers, and combs, and some fat, pale
children pass by. But all life seems stagnant
and languishing. The whole place looks as if,
when the rest of the world had moved on, it
was left behind, forgotten or ignored.

Such were our reflections as we returned.
The hotel, with its slight bustle and movement,
seemed cheerful after the sight of the Ramparts,
and we agreed not to make that our daily
promenade.

The Panameños are not business-like. Greedy
aid avaricious to a degree, they yet seem
uninterested as to whether they sell or not. I
remember sending my boy to execute some
commissions. He returned saying, "The lady in
the store was at breakfast and could not attend
to him." On another occasion, although I sent
twice, I received for reply, "The gentleman was
out and had the key in his pocket."

English and Americans usually hire West
Indian or American negroes and negresses for
our servants; the natives are dull, lazy, and
dirty, neither willing nor capable of being taught.
As a rule, I found the Americans not to be
trusted. There is the utterly degraded, coarse,
brutal negro and mulatto (as a general rule I
prefer the genuine black man and woman too);
there is, also, the deeply hypocritical, Scripture-
quoting, psalm-singing Jamaica nigger, in whom
put not your trust; these are invariably arrant
impostors. Other blacks are zealous in service,
honest, faithful, painstaking, and foolish; they
become deeply attached to you, and show you all
sorts of delicate attentions in the way of offerings
of flowers, cakes, fruit, &c. They bear
your scoldings meekly, and, while the scolding is
fresh in their minds, profit by it; they have not
a shade of common sense nor judgment, they
know little of morality, they are untidy, variable
in spirits and health, pleasing in manner, likeable
with all their faults.

I have never heard a truthful report of the
climate of Panama. It is the fashion to report
it as a burning fiery furnace, and pestilential. I
would not call it either the one or the other. In
our house (it was a cool one) the thermometer
ranged from seventy-eight to eighty-four
degrees Fahrenheit. I never knew it higher. I
have even known the temperature to fall as low
as seventy-two, and after a good long spell of
Panama we feel that cold. The dry season,
commencing nominally in December and lasting