A scamper into the Camp of Buenos Ayres is one of the greatest treats that the citizens of that town can enjoy. True, there is nothing to interest you in the scenery, nothing to admire in the goodness of the roads, and nothing to guide you in your journey but trees; still there is an indefinable charm in galloping with a good horse and a lively companion over the boundless green plain. With “the blue above” and “the green below” you rove free and unconfined--the fresh balmy air revivifying the blood which the rapid and easy motion sends thrilling through the whole frame. You feel etherialized. Without bounds to your progress or your prospects, away you go. No trace of art here to mar the simplicity of nature. The Arabs never were and never will be slaves, and now you are the Arabs of the plains--hurrah! hurrah! Tom Thorne and Richard Griffin appeared to consider themselves as Arabs of the plain, calculating from the rapidity with which they were scampering over the ground, clearing their way through herds of oxen, sheep, and horses, with long whips and loud huzzas. “Where, in the name of Nimrod, are we tearing to, Thorne?” said Griffin after a pause. “Sure we are out-stripping the wind; for a moment ago it was in our face, and now it is on our back.” “We are going to Mendoza’s country-house,” said Thorne, “to have some bantering with the ladies after our canter, and to let that awkward scrape of last night blow over, and be laughed at before I go back.--You have never been in the Camp before?” inquired Thorne. “Never.” “Then you have a great pleasure before you. A few days in the Camp refreshes one like a month’s sea-bathing. The air is so fresh, and every thing wears such a simple holiday aspect that it almost makes you forget that you are a sinner, and throw off bad habits, rise with the lark, drink milk, marry a wife, and become a patriarch.” “Well done, Thorne! and so it may yet.” “Then, you can ride and dance without getting weary, drink without getting seedy, and eat innumerable beef-steaks for breakfast without mustard; nay, you can even relish water without brandy, and sleep without cigars.” “Love and beef, Thorne, _versus_ cigars and brandy. You alternate between town and country till you resemble a rich rowley-powley pudding, solids and sweets, revolving round and round each other, making a most delicious _tout-en-semble_.” While our friends thus talk and canter to the place of their destination, let us take the liberty of introducing ourselves.