crowned by the towering snow-clad summit of the Great Volcano, gleaming in the evening sky.
To the last hour of our stay in the city of Mexico, we made ample experience of the instability and fickleness of the people with whom we had to do. On the very morning of our proposed departure, after endless troubles in getting together the bipeds and quadrupeds deemed necessary for our journey, Mariano's defection was announced with many signs of sorrow by Garcia; and in despair, we had to hire the first rogue who offered himself, on his own terms.
However, set out we did, on the evening of April the 19th, our party consisting of our three selves, Mr. E., an English artist, and his domestic—our two mozos, Garcia and Jose Maria—and lastly, an arriero with three beasts of burden. Our fat mule Macho, who had never stirred out of Don Floresco's stable during our month's stay in the city, issued forth as fat and sleek as a dormouse, and testified his joy at his escape by kicking every one who approached him.
A little after dusk we entered San Augustin de los Cuestos, and found a tolerable posada, where we hired our apartments, and spent the night. I have surely not omitted to describe what the traveller's accommodation in these Mexican inns consists of—four walls, a roof, and a mud floor—a table sometimes, but not often—a bench perchance, but very seldom—and very frequently nothing to eat but what you bring with you, and nothing to drink but bad water—with a convenient answer to every observation or question, "Quien sabe?" and to every civil requisition, "No hay; nada, signor!"
I say nothing of our array and mode of equipment, as they were precisely the same as on our upward journey from the coast, with the exception, as you will remark, of a diminished train of baggage and baggage mules. Our present arriero reminded us of Espindola, by his dogged honesty and general desire to oblige; though in other respects very inferior to him. Garcia was not a
