The other barrios have nothing of interest. They are thickly populated by the listless natives, who, as usual, live in their small huts, constructed with poles and mud. Nothing was to be observed like thrift or industry. They were the most wretched specimen of human beings that I saw in the country. The churches, too, like all things else around them, are growing old. Literally, every thing appears to be left here to take care of itself. The roads in the vicinity are narrow, broken, rocky pathways for mules. During my walks about the city I came to a sonato, reputed to be the largest in the province, supposed to be a portion of a subterraneous river; and caused, as I judged, by some great convulsion of nature. It presents a fine spectacle, resembling the mouth of a cavern, with its overhanging rocks and broken fragments left or worn away into the shape of inverted cones. Evidently, it was once hidden; and when or how it effected an opening, no one hereabouts can tell. All that the Indian knows is, that it affords him an abundant and good supply of water. The average depth of the water is twelve fathoms; while the distance from its surface to the surface of the ground above, is full fifty feet. The well itself has no perceptible outlet, and is about fifty feet in circumference. The surrounding rocks are principally calcareous, with a silicious intermixture. These sonatos are held in superstitious reverence by the Indians. They are reputed to be the places where most of their religious legends had their origin. [Illustration: SONATO near VALLADOLID.]