SIX WEEKS IN SOUTHERN MEXICO.
they resorted to a novel expedient. A man bit his tail! It had the required effect,—the bull let fly a kick that sickened that unhappy man, dashed at the bars again, and escaped.
Crowds of dirty women surrounded the fences, and a dozen drunken musicians drew doleful strains from battered instruments. Now and then, some ragged boy set off a rocket,—the Mexicans always send off their fireworks by daylight,—and everybody was industriously engaged in getting drunk. They lay outside all night in stupid inebriety, all—as one of them told us—"for the glory of God!" and we passed them next morning as we set off at daylight. There was an elevated platform, with seats for the élite and fashion,—a dozen or so of Indian ladies, who, we could not fail to notice, wore no stockings, though they spread most gorgeous sunshades.
Half the day previous we had seen a white line drawn across these red hills, which was the road we reached that morning. It seemed interminable, for it climbed from hill to hill, turning and twisting, but ever ascending. Large gangs of Indians were at work trying to render the roads passable for a carriage for General Diaz, who was soon to be installed Governor of Oaxaca. As such a vehicle had never yet passed over those roads, it was anticipated that the noble General would experience a lively jolting. As we reached somewhere near the summit of the higher ridge, after long hours of toil, we had behind us a last view of Orizaba, its cone of snow rising above the mountains and over the long interval of hills and valleys. It is a speaking commentary upon the necessarily tortuous roads of this mountainous country, that this volcano should still be in sight after three days' travel.
Four leagues from Dominguillo we reached a pass in the hills, locally celebrated as the spot where an untutored Indian, with a handful of men to help him, kept at bay three thousand French troops, by mounting a few cannon at a point that swept the road. High above the trail rise the stupendous cliffs, backed by high hills that prevent a road from being made in any other place. After taking breakfast, in a small Indian hut; of tortillas, frijoles, and mescal, eaten off the dirty floor, we
