petty Mexican merchant seems to have chosen, for the display of European commodities, the dark arcades of the los Mercadores. At the time of my stay in Mexico, French innovation had not yet ventured to alter the picturesque appearance of these arcades, which, in their general aspect, bore a remarkable resemblance to the Piliers des Halles in Paris. The heavy arches are supported on one side by vast warehouses, on the other by pillars, at the foot of which are ranged shops (alacenas) well stocked with religious books, rosaries, daggers, and spurs. Close by these shops, as if to represent all the grades of trafficking, léperos, in rags, hawk about articles of glassware, and, sticking one of them on the tip of their finger, they search for customers with great eagerness. Every now and then the venders of wild duck ragouts, or tamales,[1] seated in the shade of the arches, strike in, amid the din of the crowd, with their well-known cry,[2] Aqui hay poto grande, mi alma; Señorito venga sted, or that as popular but shorter call, Tamales[3] queretanos. The passers-by and purchasers are as worthy of observation as the sellers. The ever-varying color of gowns and tapalos,[4] the gold of the mangas, and the motley color of the serapes, form, under the dim, hazy light which prevail in the pilastera, a brilliant mixture of different colors, which reminds one strongly of the most fantastical Venetian masquerades. In the evening, when the stalls and shops are closed, the Merchants' Arcades become a kind of political club. Seated on the threshold of the gates, or striding along in
