to our lot to share the common fate of humanity, we shall, at least, repose near our kindred and friends, in some beautiful spot, where those we have loved shall moulder beside us, until the dust we cherished in life shall be as blent as were the spirits that animated it. We love to think that our graves will not be solitary or unvisited. But, on this dismal shore, where the Shadow of Death for ever hangs over the prospect, the grave is not a resting-place, even for tired spirits, and the soul seems to perish as well as the body!
******
I came home with as capital a "fit of the blues" as ever was born in London of a gloomy November day and a melancholy temper; and I must confess that I passed the night somewhat nervously. What with the heat and exercise, our bodies were rather tired; but what with the vomito, the sad walk, and a little excitability, I do not remember to have slept a wink. In addition to these annoyances, there was a continual hubbub in the square under our windows all night long. First of all, the guard was to be set, and that produced drumming, fifing, braying of trumpets, and bustle of troops; next, my bed was too short for me; then, just as I was coaxing myself into a doze, I discovered that the servant had neglected to put down the net, and consequently, came the onset of a colony of thirsty mosquitos, ravenous for the fresh blood of a foreigner, after having dulled their beaks a whole season on Mexican skins; next, the clock on the opposite tower struck every quarter, and that was backed, with equal regularity, by the watchman under the portales who prefaced his song with an "Ave Maria Purissima" that would have waked the dead. And thus from hour to hour I tossed and tumbled, while the clock struck, the watchmen howled, and the mosquitos sucked—occasionally amusing myself by trying to feel some of the symptoms of the vomito! But day at length broke, and a cold bath and a hearty breakfast perfectly reestablished me.
One of my fellow-travellers who was anxious to avoid the risk of waiting in Vera Cruz for the diligence, informed me about ten o'clock, that he had made arrangements for a "litera" to carry him to Xalapa, there to await the stage and rejoin our party. He was so good as to offer me a part of his couch, which I eagerly accepted, and immediately set to work packing my extra luggage for the Arrieros, as the diligence, and the muleteers who accompany literas, will carry but a limited burden. At four the litera arrived, but the muleteers would allow but one passenger! There was nothing but submission. Pancho had his bundles strapped on, stepped into his vehicle, or rather stretched, out on its bed, lighted his cigar, tied on a Guayaquil sombrero, and waved us farewell.
A litera is an article of rather curious conveyance. Here is a drawing of it. The pencil speaks better to the mind than any description I
