childhood have been taken in war, and bred up by the Spaniards, and who have returned to their countrymen when grown up; for, besides that they are actuated by a stronger hatred to the Spaniards, and a keener thirst for vengeance, from their acquaintance with places, and with the Spanish tongue, they dwell for a time with impunity in the Spanish towns, and as they use the same dress and language, are universally taken for Spaniards. Secure by this artifice, even in mid-day, and in the public market-place, they survey every thing, and enquire about whatever it is their interest to know; learn what military men are absent, or preparing for departure; what waggons are laden with merchandise, and whither they are bound, so that they are afterwards easily plundered by the savages in those immense deserts; not one of the waggoners or guards being able to prevent the slaughter, as men of this description are in general but ill provided with arms, and still worse with courage. The scouts, after having finished their journey and made an accurate report to their employers of all they have seen and heard, a council of war, and at the same time a drinking-party is appointed; for the Abipones think themselves ill fitted for deliberation with dry lips. The Cacique, the promoter of the expedition, in the course of the drinking, delivers his opinion on the affair, and enquires that of the rest. He animates his companions to carry on the thing with vigour, either by the example of their ancestors, or by the hope of glory or booty. Repeated draughts inflame both the bodies and minds of the drinkers: for the meed which they make of honey, or the alfaroba, immediately disorders the brain, like the strongest wine, an effect which is powerfully increased by the shouts of the intoxicated, by singing, and the noise of drums and gourds. The heroic deeds of their ancestors, and former victories, are generally the subjects of these savage songs. The spectacle is as ridiculous as it is possible to conceive. In every one of the Abipones, you would behold a thunderbolt of war. Each thinks himself a Hector, an Epaminondas, a Hannibal; and such they might be believed by all who beheld their faces covered with blood-red stains to render them more terrific, their arms and breasts full of scars, and their threatening eyes, and who listened to their ferocious and slaughter-breathing words. But could we look into their breasts, we should perceive that they were different within from what they appeared without. We should discover a shell without a kernel, an ass in a lion's skin, an ignis fatuus under thundering words, and vain rage unsupported by strength. Though, no longer masters of themselves, they crawl on the ground in a state of intoxication, at your bidding they will climb to Heaven itself, they will tear away the hinges of the globe, and had all the human race but one neck, like Caligula, they would end it at a blow. Were they as