was no pavement, with leaves and flowers, or as the Poet would call it, "the early incense of the spring." They prayed without books, for their devotion was the language of the heart, and their rustic offering seemed like the humble tribute of the children of nature to nature's God.—In the evening, I took a ride with the English gentlemen to witness an Indian fête, at a hamlet called the Barrio del Angel, about half a league from the town.
The Indians of whom I have above spoken, are not properly residents in the town or in the suburbs, but country or provincial people. The class of inhabitants which met my observation this evening, appeared to be somewhat more civilized; many of them wore shoes and stockings, the men trowsers, and the women petticoats to their ankles. The latter were deeply flounced at the bottom with a bordering different from the petticoat itself, which was a bright scarlet or some other gorgeous colour. There was, however, a neatness
