“And pray, what sort of a road may that be?” says some eastern traveller, who has been accustomed to connect no ideas with a railroad, but those of smoothness or speed.

Know, then, innocent eastern friend, that in benighted regions of the west, where the mud is of unfathomable and sublime depth, roads are made of round rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated over in their pristine freshness with earth, turf, and whatsoever may come to hand, and then the rejoicing native calleth it a road, and straightway essayeth to ride thereupon.  In process of time, the rains wash off all the turf and grass aforesaid, move the logs hither and thither, in picturesque positions, up, down and crosswise, with divers chasms and ruts of black mud intervening.

Over such a road as this our senator went stumbling along, making moral reflections as continuously as under the circumstances could be expected,—­the carriage proceeding along much as follows,—­bump! bump! bump! slush! down in the mud!—­the senator, woman and child, reversing their positions so suddenly as to come, without any very accurate adjustment, against the windows of the down-hill side.  Carriage sticks fast, while Cudjoe on the outside is heard making a great muster among the horses.  After various ineffectual pullings and twitchings, just as the senator is losing all patience, the carriage suddenly rights itself with a bounce,—­two front wheels go down into another abyss, and senator, woman, and child, all tumble promiscuously on to the front seat,—­senator’s hat is jammed over his eyes and nose quite unceremoniously, and he considers himself fairly extinguished;—­child cries, and Cudjoe on the outside delivers animated addresses to the horses, who are kicking, and floundering, and straining under repeated cracks of the whip.  Carriage springs up, with another bounce,—­down go the hind wheels,—­senator, woman, and child, fly over on to the back seat, his elbows encountering her bonnet, and both her feet being jammed into his hat, which flies off in the concussion.  After a few moments the “slough” is passed, and the horses stop, panting;—­the senator finds his hat, the woman straightens her bonnet and hushes her child, and they brace themselves for what is yet to come.

For a while only the continuous bump! bump! intermingled, just by way of variety, with divers side plunges and compound shakes; and they begin to flatter themselves that they are not so badly off, after all.  At last, with a square plunge, which puts all on to their feet and then down into their seats with incredible quickness, the carriage stops,—­and, after much outside commotion, Cudjoe appears at the door.

“Please, sir, it’s powerful bad spot, this’ yer.  I don’t know how we’s to get clar out.  I’m a thinkin’ we’ll have to be a gettin’ rails.”

The senator despairingly steps out, picking gingerly for some firm foothold; down goes one foot an immeasurable depth,—­he tries to pull it up, loses his balance, and tumbles over into the mud, and is fished out, in a very despairing condition, by Cudjoe.