“THE night on which the Penitentiary was burned, I was quietly sitting down at home. It was about 10 o'clock when the alarm was first sounded. As soon as I found out where it was, I at once hurried to the place. I was then a member of the fire company. When I got there, the flames were rapidly doing their work. The wind was high, and we found it impossible to get any water. The fire then was burning furiously around the front entrance, thus shutting off all possible means of escape. I shall never forget the awfulness of the scene. It seems as plain before me, as if it had happened last night.

The prisoners were all shut up in their cells, and we still found it impossible to stop the flames. Oh! if you could have seen the poor fellows countenances, lighted up by the red light of the flames, and heard their piercing cries, you couldn't have helped doing something to save them, even though they were cutthroats, and rogues.

There was only one way we could get them out, that was to cut through the walls. But we couldn't get a ladder; so Captain — , one of the bravest firemen that ever lived, got on top my shoulders, and cut a hole in the wall, through which we were able to get all of the prisoners out without any injury. We handed them down, one at a time, to the soldiers, who kept them from getting away. During all this time the flames were spreading like wild-fire over the whole building. But I was perfectly reckless; in fact, I forgot all about the fire, though the flames were hissing, and popping, and the flakes falling all around me.

I was very much struck with the conduct of the last prisoner we got out. Just as we were about pulling him out of the fire, he ran back into his cell to get his Bible. Captain — hallooed to him, telling him he had better save himself, and let his Bible alone. But the prisoner thought differently. May-be 'twas the Bible his mother had given him when he was a boy.

The prisoners were all marched on the capitol square, and kept under guard.

“I SAILED in the ship Harriett, Captain Johnson, from Norfolk, with one hundred and sixty souls on board. The weather was bright and cheerful, and our passage out was very pleasant, with the exception of a violent storm just before reaching the coast. A storm at sea, was something I never saw before. And when I saw the great waves rolling and pitching, and heard the wild winds moaning through the rigging, and the timbers of the vessel creaking and groaning like they were going to come to pieces every minute, I was very much frightened. But presently the winds died away, the waves became quiet and smooth again, and the bright blue sky looked as clear as if a cloud had never darkened it.

On the 17th of March we came in sight of land—the land of Africa—the land where my fathers died—the land whose soil I long had desired to tread.

On landing we went to the house of Jack Lewis, who had once lived in Richmond. He received us with great cordiality. I staid with him until I could make arrangements for my accommodation.

The people looked very much like those I left at home. The natives, at the colony, were almost in a state of nakedness. Two or three of the boys (natives) waited on me with a great deal of politeness. They spoke broken English quite well.

The country was as beautiful as any I ever saw, and was thickly covered with a heavy growth of trees common to that climate.

The soil I also found quite rich, and produced nearly all the grains and vegetables I had been used to at home.

During my visit to Africa, I took a trip of several hundred miles into the interior of the country. I found the people much more intelligent than I had expected. They also treated me with the greatest kindness, saying to me—‘If you come from Mr. Carey's country (meaning America) you will be treated with great kindness,’

After remaining several weeks in this portion of the country, I returned to the colony.

During my trip I saw many things entirely new to me. There were numbers of vessels in one of the rivers getting slaves for Cuba. It made my heart sick to witness the cruelty with which they were treated. They were all securely ironed to prevent their escape, and put up in stalls and fed, like cattle, on wheat bran.

I also saw a blacksmith, sitting down on the sand, his legs crossed like a tailor's, his anvil, bellows, hammers, &c., all around him. Even in this position, he could beat me working all to pieces. I really felt ashamed of myself. After all, these Africans are not such barbarians as people make out.

After remaining several months in and about the colony, I left for home in the brig Liberia, Captain Sharp. Our voyage was very pleasant, and in November I reached Philadelphia, having been absent from America about eight months.

I was the only passenger, with the exception of one native, who was anxious to see our country. He, however, remained but a short time before returning.

I was met with great cordiality in Philadelphia, Baltimore and Richmond. Since this time I have been quietly following my calling.

I have lived in Richmond, I have labored in Richmond, I hope to die and be buried in Richmond.”

We cannot close this chapter without adding a little anecdote, which we very much suspect lies at the bottom of our blacksmith's returning America.

“Before leaving Richmond, Captain — presented me with a choice lot of sample tobacco, which I took out with me. I prized it very highly; so much so, that I slept with it under my head during the entire voyage. No sooner had we gotten to the coast, than a number of the natives boarded our vessel. They kissed my hands, and gave many other tokens of friendship. They looked so honest, that I never once suspected anything wrong. They spoke broken English quite well. They told me if I would give them my sample tobacco, they would land me and all my goods. This I readily consented to do. Just as soon, however, as they got my tobacco, they completely forgot my language, and I couldn't get one word out of them. They no speak English then. I paid them in advance, only to find myself completely sold by people whom I thought were perfect barbarians.

They were as wise as serpents, but not as harmless as doves. Our people told me afterwards they were perfect African Yankees.

After this trick, I could not help sitting down, looking towards America, taking a good cry, and saying to myself,

“THOUGH it has been some thirty-five or forty years since Lafayette visited Richmond, yet I still remember it very well (1824). He reached here in the winter. When he landed at Rocketts, he was met by a large number of soldiers, and thousands of visitors from all parts of the state.”

We throw in a little extract from the pen of an eye witness.

“Many a revolutionary soldier left the comforts of home to welcome one who had partaken of the same dangers and hardships; and mothers brought their children to see and to impress on their youthful minds the memory of the man who was beloved by Washington.”

We resume our narrative—

“He came through the streets in an open carriage, drawn by four milk-white horses. The sight was really beautiful. His hat was under his arm all the way, and he was all the time bowing to the ladies who were looking out of the windows, and shaking their handkerchiefs towards him. The streets were crowded with people, from whom went up a continued shout of ‘Welcome, Lafayette.’

He was a fine looking man, thick, well set. His hair was slightly gray. I think he was one of the humblest persons I ever saw to be so great a man. He was also very much opposed to display.

He had fought for us, and every body loved him, every body praised him. I remember myself when he passed through our country before going to Yorktown.”

There are many other incidents in the life of this noble-hearted negro, which we should like to mention, but they are familiar to most of our citizens.

We cannot commence our last chapter without commending the persevering industry which enabled him at an early period in his life to purchase his freedom at a cost above eight hundred dollars.

We would also add, that for half a century has he been a consistent member of the Baptist church.

Such a man needs no praise at our hands. Fifty years' walk and conversation, without reproach, in the midst of any people, is certainly the highest praise which can be conferred on any one—be he rich or poor, bond or free.

THAT which clothes the name and character of GILBERT HUNT with peculiar interest, is the noble part which he bore in the memorable burning of the Richmond Theatre, in 1811. His strong and brawny arm was the means of saving many a soul from the jaws of the devouring flames, and some of the first families in our state and city now point to him with feelings of mingled pride and gratitude for his self-sacrificing conduct on that awful night which shrouded so many happy hearts with gloom, and rendered so many joyous circles lonely and desolate.

Long may he yet live in the enjoyment of one of the most precious boons earth can afford, the remembrance of those for whom one has endangered even life itself.—May his last days be his best.

(Before giving the account of this memorial scene, as narrated almost entirely in the simple but graphic language of this magnanimous old negro, we deem it advisable to draw one or two extracts from other sources, feeling assured that they will be perused with interest by our readers.)

It is not often that a domestic calamity is so mortal in its character, and so widespread in its influence, as to merit a place in general history; but now one presents itself, which has formed an era in the life of Virginia, never to be forgotten. (1811.) During the winter of this year, unwonted gaiety prevailed in Richmond; brilliant assemblies followed each other in quick succession; the theatre was open and sustained by in uncommon histrionic talent; the fascinations of the season had drawn together, from every part of the state, the young, the beautiful, the gay. On Thursday night, the 26th of December, the theatre was crowded to excess. Six hundred persons had assembled within it, embracing the fashion, the wealth, and the honour of the state. A new drama was to be presented, for the benefit of Placide, a favourite actor; and it was to be followed by the pantomime of “The Bleeding Nun.” The wild legend on which this spectacle was founded, had lost none of its power under the pen of Monk Lewis, and, even in pantomime, it had awakened great interests. The regular piece had been played; the pantomime had commenced; already the curtain had risen upon the second act, when sparks of fire were seen to fall from the scenery on the back part of the stage. A moment after, Mr. Robertson, one of the actors, ran forward, and waving his hand toward the ceiling, called aloud, “The house is on fire!” His voice carried a thrill of horror through the assembly. All rose and pressed for the doors of the building.

The spectators in the pit escaped without difficulty; the passage leading from it to the outer exit was broad, and had those in the boxes descended by the pillars, many would have been saved. Some who were thrown down by violence, were thus preserved. But the crowd from the boxes pressed into the lobbies, and it was here, among the refined and the lovely, that the scene became most appalling. The building was soon wrapped in flames; volumes of thick, black vapour penetrated every part, and produced suffocation; the fire approaching, caught those nearest to it; piercing shrieks rose above the sound of a mass of human beings struggling for life. The weak were trampled under foot, and strong men, frantic with fear, passed over the heads of all before them, in their way towards the doors or windows of the theatre.—The windows even of the upper lobby were sought; many who sprang from them perished by the fall; many were seen with garments on fire as they descended, and died soon afterwards from their wounds; few who were saved by this means escaped entirely unhurt.