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rest, from Dan to Beersheba, from Toluca to La Gabia, all was barren. By twelve o'clock, we might have fancied ourselves passing over the burning plains of Mesopotamia, notwithstanding an occasional cold breeze which swept across us for a moment, serving only to make us feel the heat with greater force. Then barranca followed barranca. The horses climbed up one crag, and slid down another. By two o'clock we were all starving with hunger, but nothing was to be had. Even Nebuchadnezzar would have found himself at a nonplus. The Count de B —— contrived to buy some graniditas and parched corn from an Indian, which kept us quiet for a little while; and we tried to console ourselves by listening to our arrieros, who struck up some wild songs in chorus, as they drove the wearied mules up the burning hills. Every Indian that we met, assured us that La Gabia was "cerquita", quite near—"detras Iomita," behind the little hill; and every little hill that we passed presented to our view another little hill, but no signs of the much wished-for dwelling. A more barren, treeless and uninteresting country than this road (on which we have unanimously revenged ourselves by giving it the name of "the road of the three hundred barrancas,") led us through, I never beheld. However, "it's a long lane that has no turning," as we say in Scotland; and between three and four. La Gabia was actually in sight; a long, low building, whose entrance appeared to us the very gates of Eden. We were all, but especially me, who had ridden with my veil up, from a curiosity to see where my horse was going, burnt to the color of Pawnee Indians.