rounded by her numerous retainers, we could easily imagine ourselves in a feudal castle of the middle ages. The illusion was deepened on seeing her two little Indian attendants, whom she had taken from the common herd and dressed as hacendados, in buckskin suits and silver buttons. I was not surprised at their satisfaction in their finery when Madame Iturbide assured me that, save the possibility of a single garment, these were their first clothes. These little brown-skinned monkeys were constantly bobbing in and out—with "si, niña" between each breath—bowing, and waiting on us with as much zeal as if on them devolved the sole dispensing of the honors and hospitalities of the mansion.
In the late evening we promenaded on the azotea while our hostess regaled us with delightful reminiscences of her life in Mexico. We inspected with the prince the whole interior working of the hacienda—visited the cows, the horses, and the finest specimens of swine I ever saw, so immense that they almost rivaled the cows.
Madame Iturbide told us that, in accordance with a long-established custom, the peons would sing at half-past four o'clock in the morning. Promptly at the hour, the recamarara awoke us to hear the song.
The place of assembling was near the family residence. The first that came, turning his face to the east, began singing, and continued until all had arrived, when they chanted in chorus,
The Alabado; or, Song of Praise to the Morning.
"Praised and uplifted (or upheld)
And also glorified
Be the divine sacrament!
Give us to-day sustenance!
Give us Thy divine grace!
And succor us, O Lord!
In the work of the day.
And thou, Mother of the Word,
Immaculate and pure conception,
I beseech thee from my heart
Not to forsake me, Mother mine."
