Soon after this we reached the town of Cartago, from which we were to strike upwards over the Quindio mountains. The town was of considerable size, and at one time, I have no doubt, was as flourishing as others in the province. The curse of war had fallen upon it. Many of the houses were empty,--their owners having been killed on their own thresholds, or carried off to be shot, or sent to work at the fortifications of Cartagena or other places on the coast. I saw here a larger number of slaves--negroes and negresses--than at any other place we had passed through. The latter were dressed in blue petticoats, without any other garments. They came in numbers from the river-side, carrying huge pitchers or leathern bottles of water on their heads, and walking gracefully and perfectly upright. I remember a group we passed in the outskirts of the town, who appeared to take life very easily: the women, in the most scanty raiment, with huge necklaces, were seated on the ground chatting and laughing; the men, their only garment a shirt, were lazily smoking their cigars. Forgetting that I was to be ignorant of Spanish, I spoke to them, when, turning round, I saw a person passing in the uniform of an officer. He looked at me for a moment, but making no remark, passed on, and I thought no more about the matter. Only a very small remnant, I should say, of the ancient inhabitants now remain, though the traces of their former existence are everywhere to be seen, showing that at one time they must have been very numerous. They have been destroyed in vast numbers by the severity of their relentless and avaricious taskmasters. Thousands and tens of thousands of poor Indians have perished from famine, the sword, and the pestilence, or have died with hearts broken by the loss of liberty, or from being compelled to labour in the gold-mines with constitutions unequal to the performance of their hard task-work.