The fiesta of St. Andrew was celebrated with some novel features, and particularly commended itself to the muchachos. It was signalized by “un baile de los demonios,” a dance of the devils. The devils were dressed in the most fantastic manner, wore masks, and sported barbed tails. One shrouded in black displayed a grinning death’s head beneath his half-parted veil, and kept time to the music with a pair of veritable thigh bones. The dance, I should think, had been borrowed from the Indians; the music certainly was. It was almost unearthly, such as Cortez describes on the night of his retreat from Mexico, “which carried terror to the very souls of the Christians.” It is impossible to describe the strange instruments. One consisted of a large calabash, over which was stretched the skin of some animal; this, when pressed in, recoiled with a dull, sullen noise, like the suppressed bellow of a wild beast, and the wail of some of the long reeds was like that of a man in the agonies of a violent death. The devils went whisking through the principal streets, followed by a gaping crowd, and entered all the principal houses, where, after a dance in the courtyard, they expected either to receive a rial or two, or to be treated to a dram of agua ardiente. They favored me with an extra display of their demoniacal abilities,—but were high-spirited devils, and declined to receive money from a stranger. Another class of dancers, dressed in a profusion of tinsel, but not aspiring to the distinction of devils, parade the streets on certain saints’ days, visiting all the houses where the heads of the family bear the name of the saint, where they expect a gratuity or a treat, in return for an exhibition of their skill. As I soon lost all track of the saints, I do not remember which were supposed to be propitious to this kind of diversion.