Tecepitlan appears on the left, embosomed in trees, at the base of hills—a city of priests, all Church property, till the day of vengeance came: now a city of poverty and fanaticism. Cyotepec, a pretty village, is passed; and ten miles from Guatitlan we stop to breakfast at Huahuatoca, a sleepy little town, but with a good table. I can not promise for the correctness of this spelling. It is phonetic, and that should be the only way to spell.
CACTUS, AND WOMAN KNEADING TORTILLAS.
Now comes barrenness of barrenness. For ten leagues, or nearly thirty miles, all is a wilderness. Rocks lie loose over the earth, which is baked, and hard, and worthless. Half-way, we change horses at a hacienda.
I watch the men gamble for cents, and the women make tortillas. The former bet on two who pitch, putting up eight or ten centavos on the throw. The latter are more sensible in their voca-
