he plain of Rumibamba, the
battle-field where Gonzalo Pizarro routed the first viceroy of Peru, and
the scene, two centuries later, of the nobler achievements of La
Condamine, which made it the classic ground of astronomy. On the
southern edge of the city rises Panecillo, reminding one of Mount Tabor
by its symmetrical form, and over-looking the beautiful and well-watered
plain of Turubamba. On the east flows the Rio Machangara, and just
beyond it stand the Puengasi hills hiding the Chillo valley, while the
weary sun goes early to rest behind the towering peaks of Pichincha. So
encircled is this sequestered spot, the traveler, approaching by the
Guayaquil road, sees only a part of it, and is disappointed; and even
when standing on Panecillo, with the entire city spread out before him,
he is not wholly satisfied. Buried between treeless, sombre sierras, and
isolated from the rest of the world by impassable roads and gigantic
Cordilleras, Quito appears to us of the commercial nineteenth century as
useless as the old feudal towns perched on the mountains of Middle
Europe. Not a chimney rises above the red-tiled roofs, telling of
homely hearths beneath. No busy hum greets the ear; there are bugles
instead of spindles, and jingling church bells in place of rattling
carriages. The wandering eye does not look for a railroad or a
telegraph, for even the highways, such as they are, seem deserted, and,
save the music made for soldiers and saints, all is silent. The very
mountains, too, with their snow-mantled heads, and their sides scarred
by volcanic eruptions and ruptured by earthquake shocks, have a
melancholy look. In the words of a great artist, "They look like a world
from which not only the human, but the spiritual presences had perished,
and the last of the archangels, building the great Andes for their
monuments, had laid themselves down to eternal rest, each in his
snow-white shroud."

But let us enter. Passing the ruined chapel "Del Senor del buen pasaje,"
and crossing by a substantial stone bridge the little Machangara
hastening to pay tribute to the Pacific, we leave behind us the dirty,
dilapidated suburbs of the capital. Soon we cross another bridge--the
Bridge of Buzzards--spanning a deep ravine, and gallop through the Plaza
de Santo Domingo. Very different are the sights and sounds from the stir
and style of Central Park. The scene has a semi-oriental cast--half
Indian, half Egyptian, as if this were the confluen