have weighed from twelve hundred to two thousand pounds. The sea-lions, or lobos de marina (wolf of the sea), as the Spaniards term them, have the slowest respiration of any known animal. They will sleep at the bottom of the sea, for half to three-quarters of an hour, then rouse themselves, come to the surface to breathe, play around for a few minutes perhaps, and then descend for another nap. When asleep in the open air they lie as motionless as if really dead, and do not rouse readily. They are therefore readily approached at such times, and a stranger to their habits, seeing no sign of life, would be sure to be led into the error of our lady friend. On being suddenly awakened they are likely to dash indiscriminately at the first object in sight, and, especially when their young are in danger, they will make a somewhat determined attack. Though provided with teeth not unlike those of a dog, their offensive capacities are not of a very high order, and their attacks on human enemies are seldom if ever attended with fatal, or, for the matter of that, very serious results.
Leaving the natural bridge, we rode over the arch on horseback—carriages pass over it without difficulty—and visited an embarcadero, half a mile or less farther in towards Santa Cruz. This embarcadero is a mere cleft in the limestone bluff, the sides of which are worn into a thousand fantastic forms by the waves. The water inside is deep, but the heavy ground-swell, rolling in at almost all times, tosses the vessels, which come in here to load with lime and lumber, about like so many footballs, and
