apparently business men, probably buyers of produce, one of whom spoke French, and kindly gave me information as we went along. The fifth was an officer, in a lieutenant's uniform. Reaching the end of our first stage, we found another team shut up in a yard, waiting. This time they were all horses, diverse in colour, wilder, and more spirited than the others. But they were soon harnessed up, and we quickly got under weigh, the driver now increasing our speed. As we descended a decline we went mostly at full gallop, to get across the mud in the stream at the bottom, and so have a good impetus for the rise on the other side, the old diligence, which had seen much service, swaying and rolling like a ship in a sea-way. By eleven o'clock we reached Santa Lucia, then only a village, with one so-called hotel, and a straggling street of native huts. Here we waited for an hour for breakfast: meat, boiled and roast, with vegetables; bread, cheese, and coffee, which we much appreciated. Then, with four new passengers and a fresh team of horses, we made a start for the town of San Jose, where we were to stop for the night. As we proceeded, the country opened out before us on every side, the rolling plain, with here and there a clump of trees to mark some native estancia, where a flock of sheep, and also cattle, could be seen feeding in absolute freedom, for there were no fences or divisions of any kind, neither was there anything in the way of cultivation. Occasionally a native came into view, galloping after a troop of horses, his poncho fluttering in the wind, and then, as he passed over a roll of the plain, like some phantom, would seem to disappear. The afternoon was drawing to a close when we saw far in front of us the golden rays of the now fast-declining sun reflected on the cupola of the large church, flanking the principal square of the country town of San Jose. Gradually the houses rise up on the horizon, and half an hour later we drive up with the usual flourish in front of the "Hotel Oriental." It was apparently an old house, situate in the main street. We dined in a long low room, with the addition of soup and a sweet, much as we had breakfasted. Within its walls more than one murder had been planned, and many a political "cabale" concocted; indeed, I was told that at the very table where I sat an officer was dining with some boon companions. When sipping their coffee he turned to them and said, "Tengo rabia voy a matar un Gringo," "I feel in a rage, I am going to kill a foreigner." He went straight out, and turning up the street, met an Italian stonemason returning home from work. He pierced him through with his sword, and, walking off to where he had left his horse, mounted, and rode away. The poor man died, but the matter was hushed up, and nothing more was heard about it. I soon went to bed, feeling tired, and my limbs ached from the bumping and confinement of the diligence for so many hours.