village of Guapulo. Here is an elegant stone church dedicated
to the Virgin of Guadaloupe, to which the faithful make an annual
pilgrimage. Thence the road led us through the valley of the
Guaillabamba (a tributary to the Esmeraldas), here and there blessed
with signs of intelligent life--a mud hut, and little green fields of
cane and alfalfa, and dotted with trees of wild cherry and myrtle, but
having that air of sadness and death-like repose so inseparable from a
Quitonian landscape. The greater part of this day's ride was over a
rolling country so barren and dreary it was almost repulsive. What a
pity the sun shines on so much useless territory!

Just before sunset we arrived at Itulcachi, a great cattle estate at the
foot of the eastern chain of mountains. The hacienda had seen better
days, and was poorly fitted to entertain man or beast. The major-domo,
however, managed to make some small potato soup, and find us shelter for
the night. In the room allotted us there were three immense
kneading-troughs and two bread-boards to match, for a grist-mill and
bakery were connected with the establishment. In default of beds, we
made use of this furniture. Five wiser men have slept in better berths,
but few have slept more soundly than we did in the bread-trays of
Itulcachi.

The following day we advanced five miles to Tablon, an Indian hamlet on
the mountain side. Here we waited over night for our cargo train, which
had loitered on the road. This was the only spot in South America where
we found milk to our stomachs' content; Itulcachi, with its herds of
cattle, did not yield a drop. Our dormitory was a mud hovel, without an
aperture for light or ventilation, and in this dark hole we all slept on
a heap of barley. Splendid was the view westward from Tablon. Below us
were the beautiful valleys of Chillo and Puembo, separated by the
isolated mountain of Ilalo; around them, in an imposing semicircle,
stood Cayambi, Imbabura, Pichincha, Corazon, Iliniza, Ruminagui,
Cotopaxi, Sincholagua, and Antisana. As the sun went down in his glory
behind the western range, the rocky head of Pichincha stood out in bold
relief, and cast a long shadow over the plain. At this halting-place we
made the mortifying discovery that the bare-legged Indian who had
trotted by our side as a guide and body-servant, and whom we had ordered
about with all the indifference of a surly slaveholder, was none other
than his Excellency Eugenio Mancheno, govern