dure of the glade like an emerald. The vapor, rising from the sea, driven inland by the northern winds, here first strikes the mountains; and, lodging in rain and mist and dew among the cliffs, preserves that perennial green which covers this teeming region with constant freshness and luxuriance. Xalapa is consequently a "damp town," yet it enjoys a great reputation for salubrity. It is now the best season of the year; but scarcely a day passes without rain, while the thermometer ranges from 52° to 76°, according to the state of the clouds and winds. As soon as the mountains have discharged their vapors, the sun blazes forth with a fierceness and intensity, increased by the reflection from every hill, into the town, as to a focus.
Yet I saw enough to justify all the praises even of extravagant admirers. Its society is said to be excellent, and its women are the theme of the poets throughout the republic. As I descended from the top of St. Francisco and wended my way to the hotel, I met numbers of the fair doncellas lounging homeward from early mass. The stately step, the liquid eye, the pale yet brilliant cheek, and an indescribable look of tenderness, complete a picture of beauty rarely matched in northern climes, and elsewhere unequalled in Mexico.
After dispatching our breakfast, for which we paid (together with our night's lodging and dinner) the sum of four dollars, we mounted the diligence at 10 o'clock, prepared as usual for the robbers, and set out for Perote.
In driving from the town we passed through the public square; and in the market which is held there I first saw in perfection the profuse quantity of tropical fruits (and especially the chirimoya, and granadita) for which Xalapa is renowned. The market is supplied by the numerous small cultivators from the neighborhood, the females of whom bear a resemblance to our Northern Indians, which is perhaps even stranger and more remarkable than that of the men.
Maiz, the great staff of life for biped and quadruped in our western world, is chiefly used in the tortilla cakes of which we hear so much from Mexican travellers.
The sellers of these tough, buckskin victuals, sit in lines along the curb of the side-walks with their fresh cakes in baskets covered with clean napkins to preserve their warmth. There they wait patiently for purchasers; and as tortillas, with a little chilé or, red pepper boiled in lard, are indispensable at least twice a day for the mass of the people, they are quite sure of a ready sale.
With the great mass of Mexicans there is no such thing as domestic cookery. The laborer sallies forth with his clacos in his pocket, and two or three of them will purchase his cakes from an Indian woman. A few steps further on, another Indian woman has a pan boiling over a portable furnace, and containing the required beans or chilé. The hungry man squats down beside the seller—makes a breakfast or dinner table of his knees-holds out his tortilla spread flat on his hand or a ladle of chilé
