morning he resumed his march to Wicklow, where he was to stay for a few days, and if all remained quiet he was to proceed to Hacketstown, a small town on the confines of the counties of Wicklow and Carlow, there to await further orders. Grana Hall was but ten miles distant, in another direction, however, across the hills; so here we separated. He advised me not to set out until the following day, when a corps of yeomanry would be marching part of the way, as the news had arrived a few days previously that a strong body of the rebels, under the command of Holt, had passed Wicklow Gap, and were dispersed in small parties in the vicinity. I promised to abide by his instructions, but after an hour's wandering through the little town, then no better than a hamlet, I felt so lonely and dull, and withal so impatient to reach my journey's end, that I ordered my horse, and despite my landlord's warnings and entreaties, set out alone, leaving directions to have my portmanteau sent on with the yeomanry. This was the commencement of my misfortunes.

For six miles I rode in safety across wild hills and romantic glens, the people on the wayside "clamping" their turf, and moulding their potatoes, and the children sporting in the fields, or lounging at the cabin doors in the sun, the pictures of happiness and contentment. I began to think the rebellion was a sham, and all the stories I had heard about it were lies; and that in short there was no rebellion. About mid-day I arrived at the village of Aughrim, in the midst of a barren district surrounded by grim hills, of savage aspect, covered thickly with grey rocks, that looked stern and forbidding, as the hot sun gleamed fiercely upon them. Here I fed the Lyanna, and had a tumbler of whisky-punch, an Irishman's beverage at all times, and in all seasons. In summer he drinks it "to keep out the hate," and in winter to "dhrive out the could." Thus fortified, we again proceeded. A crowd of the villagers assembled to see me start, observing me apparently with great curiosity, and I noticed that the women shook their heads, and looked at me with a pitying expression of countenance; but nothing was said.

My road now lay along the banks of a mountain stream, amidst the same wild uninteresting scenery, but after about two miles it turned abruptly at right angles into a wide and rather romantic glen. The hills on each side were well wooded, or covered with heather, and rose from the river's brink almost perpendicularly. The water boiled fiercely along, amongst the huge boulder stones which from time to time had rolled down from the mountain side, and the willows along the bank leaned over, waving in the evening breeze, like a lover drinking in the music of his mistress' voice. The road was cut in the side of the hill, and was full of windings, caused by the irregularities of the ground. The long arms of the mountain ash threw their shade across it, save where, here and there, the sun flung in a fostering ray upon green banks covered with bluebells and daisies. He was already sinking in the west, and his light, as it fell athwart the hill side, shed a

golden hue on the tree tops beyond the stream, while the clear rich notes of the blackbirds were gently wafted across through the balmy air. There was no extended prospect, I could at no point see more than ten yards in advance: on my right the hill rose perpendicularly; on my left was the river, more wood, and another steep ascent. It was exactly the time, the clime, and the spot for lovers to whisper their vows, or children to sport and gambol.

A sudden and rather steep incline brought the road almost on a level with the river, and at the bottom, the latter was spanned by a small rustic stone bridge, across which a sort of lane led up into the wood on the other side. Lounging in various attitudes at the corner, were five or six men, some smoking, but all armed, as I could see the steel gleaming in the sun, while still at some distance. At the first moment of surprise, I felt considerably alarmed, and, "I am free to confess," rather disposed to turn and fly. But further reflection convinced me that my safest course was to advance boldly, as if unconscious of danger, for if the objects of my fear were friends, flight would make me ridiculous; if enemies, it would be useless, as one well-aimed ball would cut short my career long before I could reach the turn of the road. I rode on; a short thick-set man, with thin pale face, but rather intelligent features, and a black beard of at least a week's growth, advanced, armed with a musket and bayonet, and planted himself in the centre of the road straight in my way, looking at me with the calm, imperturbable air of one who had a duty to perform, and meant to perform it, though it was a matter of no personal interest in the world to him. This was encouraging: these are a yeomanry piquet, thought I, stationed here as a measure of precaution to examine all passersby; but it is curious that they are not all in uniform; ah, perhaps it's not necessary unless at head quarters. It took but a second to console myself with reflections like these. I was roused by a peremptory order to stop. I pulled up the party on the bridge stared at me with silence, while their companion seized the horse by the bridle, and said in a tone phlegmatic as his manner

"Where are ye from, an' where are ye goin' to "
"From Rathdrum last."
"Ye're an Orangeman!"

"No, I'm not: I know nothing and care nothing about orange or green."

“Well, thin, it ill becomes a cunyuch that's nayther wan thing nor t'other to be ridin' so nate a baste, when honester min's thrampin' on foot. An' if ye're not Orange yerself, ye belong to the breed anyhow, for how the divil else would ye get into sich a nist o' Tory hunthers as Ra'dhrum! Get down, I tell ye;" and suiting the action to the word, he pulled my left foot from the stirrup, and with a smart push sent me sprawling on the road at the other side. I rose, covered with dust and boiling with rage. But what happened afterwards I must reserve for another chapter.

IT has been the custom for several hundred years for those amongst the Swiss peasantry who can find no occupation at home, to serve for hire in the armies of foreign monarchs. Having been always celebrated for their fidelity to those whose cause they have once undertaken, most of the kings of Europe have kept them as a body-guard.

The dangerous nature of the calling they follow is, however, perfectly well known, both to themselves and their rélations, and consequently, when a young man leaves home with the intention of seeking his fortune in foreign armies, both he and they but too keenly feel the uncertainty of his return. His reappearance is, therefore, hailed by his own friends and the other villagers with as much joy as if he had risen from the dead.

The return of one of these wanderers is portrayed in the accompanying engraving. And the artist has delineated with

wondrous skill and feeling, the unexpected joy, the home made happy.

The mother, busied with her household work, is seen in the corner of the kitchen: the father, whose locks time has whitened, and who is now quite deaf, is regarding the old family Bible which lies open on his knee. That book to him is something beside divine: it is a volume that wakes up old memories, deep and tender. There he has inscribed the births, the marriages, and, alas! the deaths in two or three instances, of those he loves. By him stands his grandchild, full of joy and surprise, telling good news, news that makes the heart leap up with gladness. It is the decline of the day. The sun is sinking, and a flood of golden light is on the scene. The mother has been speaking of by-past days, speaking in an undertone, and whispering to herself the name of one who is to her most dear. She has been thinking of her son, far

A RUGGED soil, black coarse sand upon the shore; black and ferruginous rocks, rising abruptly in the form of needles; rank and luxuriant vegetation, which is pressed together as if for want of space; limpid waters, which reflect the everlasting blue of the sky; half tame birds which give charm and animation to those splendid solitudes;-such are some of the leading characteristics of the four volcanic islands of the little bay of Biaffra, at the extremity of the immense Gulf of Guinea. All these peculiarities appear to owe their origin to some volcanic eruption of nature. The little island of Anno-Bom to the south, is nothing but a volcano; its sides are covered with herbage, and the crater is filled almost to the edge with pure water, calm at the surface, the depth of which has never

of government at St. Thomas, in the little town of Santa Anna de Chaves. The most remarkable object in St. Thomas is the lofty column called the Pico de San Thomé-represented in our engraving-which rises like a colossal tower, the last vestige of some edifice constructed by giants. This natural column, which is from three to four hundred yards in height, and is one hundred and fifty yards in circumference at the base, presents various shades of colour, ac.. cording to the direction at which the light falls upon it. Some mosses, some tufts of plants, grow. here and there upon its surface, which is channelled in various places by the fall of the rain, and by fissures which descend in spiral irregularities from the summit to the ground.

By

yet been fathomed. Fernando Po to the north, is not less luxuriant. The centre of Prince's Island, in which grows the pandanus, of which we have already given an engraving, is justly celebrated among travellers as containing some of the most splendid scenery in the world.

The island of St. Thomas, which lies rather nearer to the mainland, has rather more resemblance to the general characteristics of the African soil. The surface is mountainous, traversed by deep ravines, and in the central district, towards the west coast, there is a high peak, the ascent of which is rendered almost impossible by the richness of the vegetation which clothes its sides.

-Fernando Po belongs to England; the other three islands are the property of Portugal, which has established the seat

a singular contrast with these, vast proportions, the huge trees, which surround the base of this immense obelisk, appear only like diminutive shrubs. Few living beings are ever seen in the neighbourhood, save the dwarf-birds and their species. Innumerable flocks of parrots, the size of our house-sparrows, with a plumage glittering with a thousand different colours under the rays of the sun, are seen flying in every direction. These beautiful birds live upon the wild fruits they find in abundance at St. Thomas; but as they are also very fond of millet and maize, which this island does not produce, they often alight upon the coast of Africa, and ravage the field, but they never venture to Prince's Island, because they would there meet with a very unpleasant recep tion from the grey paroquets.

SKETCHES OF SPANISH AMERICA.

THE history of the colonisation of the two great divisions of America, their progress in civilisation, and their present condition, are, to the thoughtful man, subjects of the deepest interest, and offer to him a wide field for observation and inquiry. History loses here her dry formality and tedious details, and becomes a gorgeous romance filled with a succession of wild tales and striking incidents unparalleled in older and more prosaic countries. The most superficial observer is struck by the strange discrepancies and singular differences presented by the two great continents of North and South America; and, tracing back their history, we find in every portion of it the same opposing features. The early settlers on the northern continent were men of peace, who sought a refuge from religious or political persecution in their own countries; and who, in their newly acquired territory, practised only the arts of peace, anxiously avoiding collision with its wild inhabitants. Gradually the ancient forests fell before the sturdy pioneers, and fruitful fields and thriving towns flourished in their stead. The towns became mighty cities; the infant settlements grew into great states; and the little colony of fugitives rapidly expanded into a powerful nation, whose fleets now cover the once solitary ocean, whose railways pierce the trackless forests, and whose countless steamboats rudely break the silence that has for ages brooded over the vast lakes and noble rivers, turning their gloomy solitudes into great highways of commerce, and planting on their banks new towns, and fertile farms, and thriving villages. But the peaceful invaders have driven the Indian from his home; tribe after tribe have disappeared from the land of their forefathers; the pale-face dwells in the villages of the red-skin; and the plough glides smoothly over his deserted huntingground.

How different is the history and present aspect of the southern continent! How slight the resemblance between the first European settlers in the two countries! Between the pilgrim fathers and their exiled families, seeking only a quiet shelter, and coveting no treasure save the produce of their own toil, and the Spanish leaders, with their ruffian bands, burning with the thirst for gold, and, in their eagerness to allay it, slaughtering hundreds of thousands of the unoffending and half-civilised inhabitants, destroying their cities, devastating their country, and spreading ruin and desolation wherever they appeared. But whilst the emigrant Anglo-Saxon quietly ejected the Indian from his territory, and gradually became sole master of the land, the warlike and victorious Spaniard, over-burdened by his stolen riches, sank into apathy and indolence. The blood of the conquered and the conquerors mingled in their descendants; and the broken nations of Mexico and Peru, though at first slaves to the victors, became, by degrees, amalgamated with them. The mixed breed thus produced assumed an important place in the fabric of society; and though the man of pure Spanish descent still claims the first position, and pretends to be the aristocrat of the republic, yet few of the most wealthy, and scarce any of the middle and wealth-producing classes, are without a tinge of Indian blood.

The Indians of the mountainous districts still retain the language and many of the customs of their fathers; and in some instances, the ancient dislike to the invaders has descended to them. But the inhabitants of the low country present a singular mixture of races and of customs, and, though speaking one language, mingle the manners of the Moor, the Spaniard, and the aboriginal Peruvian. Their cities, too, exhibit in their architecture the same confusion. The streets, in Spanish fashion, crossing at right angles, enclose in the squares or cuadras, houses with all the peculiarities of Madrid, large, roomy, and secluded in deep courtyards. The centre of the city is occupied by the great square, on one side of which towers the magnificent cathedral richly decorated with Moresco ornament, and on another stands the palace of the government, plain, massive, and strong, fashioned like the stately residences of the royal

Incas, the ruins of which still exist in the city of Cuzco, the ancient capital of Peru.

Since the Spanish colonies threw off the yoke and declared themselves independent republics, they have been subject to repeated political convulsions and to frequent changes of government. But the revolutions have been usually shortlived, and governments have risen and been overturned with a rapidity unknown in other nations. Yet, amidst all these changes, society has remained the same; and though the influx of foreigners has introduced into it a new element, it continues to run on in its old channel; and Peru, with a thoroughly republican and democratic form of government, retains in all its social institutions the very essence of conservatism. With these peculiar characteristics, the manners of the Peruvians, their social usages, and domestic habits offer attractions to the traveller rarely found in more modernised communities; and the advantage of a short but familiar residence among them enables me to give, from personal observation, a sketch of these peculiarities.

The tract of country lying between the Andes and the Pacific is called Las Valles, and that included in the range of mountains La Montana. The former of these, to which we will at present confine ourselves, is more essentially Spanish than the high country, contains more of the appliances of civilisation, and exercises a greater influence over the destinies of the republic.

Entering the country by its chief sea-port, Callao, we drop anchor in the bay opposite the town, and proceed to examine the strange scene which has suddenly opened to us. On one side of the harbour rises the lofty island of San Lorenzo, a huge barren rock, fourteen miles in circumference, and nearly fourteen hundred feet in height, abounding with seals and sealions, and the resort of innumerable sea-fowl, especially pelicans, of which thousands are seen hovering over the bay, flying fearlessly among the shipping, and occasionally diving with great velocity in search of fish. Stretching from the town towards San Lorenzo is a long, low, sandy point, on which Callao once stood before its destruction by the great earthquake of 1630. Numbers of strong arches of burnt bricks remain nearly level with the ground; and beneath these many excavations have been made by treasure-seekers in search of the wealth supposed to be buried in the ruins. These excavations are now filled with skulls and bones, the remains of those who were driven out of the fortress as useless mouths during its siege in the war of independence; and who either crawled into these recesses to perish miserably by famine, or--happier fate-died beneath the fire of the attacking fleet. The government disgracefully allows these ghastly mementoes of war to remain unburied and uncared for. The fortress of CallaoCastillo de la Independencia—is the largest and strongest fortification in South America, and at one time mounted four hundred pieces of cannon; but it does not now contain more than one hundred and twenty. For eighteen months after the declaration of independence, the flag of Spain waved over this solitary castle. During the whole of that period it was strongly besieged both by sea and land-the republican fleet being commanded by Lord Cochrane-and it was only after the original garrison of four thousand men had been reduced by famine and disease to a miserable remnant of two hundred, that the Spanish General Rodil surrendered. He capitulated on the 19th of February, 1826, and with him fell the Spanish power in South America-the last vestige of that once mighty empire. The fort is now more usefully employed as a bonded store, and casks and bales of merchandise replace the murderous piles of shot and shells. In one part of it are two dark, gloomy, and unhealthy vaults used as criminal prisons, and these are seldom untenanted by English sailors, sent there by the consul for some petty breach of discipline. I remember, on my first visit to this prison, being amused by seeing one of the soldiers on guard seated on a bench mending his wife's gown, while she sat on the ground beside him comfortably smoking a cigar.

The attention of the stranger in Callao is immediately attracted by the number of flag-staffs scattered over the town,

each pole being crowned by a large bird, called by the Spaniards Gallinazo á cabéza colorada (red-headed vulture), but known to English sailors as the turkey-buzzard. The streets and the roofs of the houses abound with these birds, which are the scavengers of the coast towns; and their services are much needed, for the inhabitants-according to our notions of cleanliness-are extremely filthy in their habits. Callao, in common with all the smaller Peruvian towns, presents to the traveller a mean and rather disagreeable aspect, arising from the lowness of the houses, the universally flat roofs, and the temporary structure of the buildings. The majority of the houses are mere sheds of reeds plastered with clay and roofed with grass matting; few of them possess the luxury of a glass window, and none of the meaner ones contain a fire-place; in many, the window is in the roof, a square opening, into which is fitted a wooden grating that can be raised or lowered at pleasure by a small line, which, passing over a pulley, hangs down in the middle of the room. But the frequency of earthquakes accounts for this slight style of building, and the total absence of rain renders sloping roofs and waterproof walls unnecessary. Every port on both the coasts of South America possesses its piscatoria, or "fisherman's bay," as the word is literally translated. This is the lowest part of the town, the Spanish Alsatia, where all the ruffians and vagabonds are located. In Callao the piscatoria is composed of rows of huts, built of reeds alone, without plaster, many of them wanting roofs, and all exceedingly well ventilated. Into this district it is dangerous for a well-dressed man to venture after night-fall, for the long knife of the Indian cholo is a ready weapon and is used with but scant ceremony.

The mole or landing-place at Callao is usually blocked up by huge heaps of wheat imported from Chili, and thrown loose upon the ground, with no other covering than a few mats spread carelessly over it to protect the grain from the heavy night dews. Surrounding these heaps are rows of botigas filled with Italia or pisco, a strong colourless spirit distilled from grapes, and chiefly obtained from the port of Piscowhence its name. The botiga is an earthern jar, in shape resembling a pear, pointed at the lower end and gradually increasing in bulk to the top, which is rounded over and ends in a narrow mouth-piece. This singular shape necessitates a constant reclining position, but it is found the most convenient for the mode of conveyance universally adopted- the backs of mules and asses. On each side of the pack-saddle is an iron hoop, in which the botiga is placed with the small end downwards; and in this manner spirits, oil, and other liquids, are conveyed across the trackless desert on the coast, and over the shapeless roads and frightful chasms of the snow-crowned Cordillera. The frequent accidents to which the botigas are liable from the falling of the mules, or from the collisions which ensue in the desperate rush that occurs on reaching water in the desert, have caused the occasional substitution of goat-skins as a means of conveyance. The mode of obtaining these skins is most barbarous. The goat is hung up alive by the horns, and an incision being made round the neck, the skin is torn off the struggling animal in such a manner that it forms a bag having only one seam. It is asserted that the skin is more easily stripped in this form when the animal is alive, and that the bags are also more durable; but such slight advantages do not warrant the detestable cruelty of the process. Wheeled carriages are rarely seen beyond the limits of the towns; and even between Callao and Lima, a distance of only seven miles over a tolerably level road, troops of asses are the chief means of transport. But the boricas (asses) with their picturesque drivers, and the six-horsed omnibuses which conveyed passengers between the port and city, will now be superseded by the railway recently opened; the first, and, I believe, the only one, in South America. A little incident connected with this railway is worth recording. During the progress of the works, the engineer, an Englishman, was taken seriously ill, and, his brain being affected, he was ultimately ordered home. The consequence was that the proceedings were at once suspended, and the completion of the miniature railway was delayed

until the arrival of another foreign engineer, as, throughout the puissant republic, not a single man could be found to carry on the work-road-making being a science not commonly taught in the schools of Lima.

'Pending the completion of the railway, we leave Callao in an airy omnibus driven by a negro, the six horses running three abreast. The carriage resounds with a perfect Babel of languages, and the faces of the passengers present every shade of colour, varying from the ruddy cheeks of the newly-arrived German, and the pallid countenance of the creole, to the rich brown of the mestizo, and the jetty black of the woolly-headed zambo. As we enter the high road, we notice on the left a stone obelisk that marks the spot to which a large frigate was carried from the harbour in the disastrous earthquake of 1746. On a small eminence to the right are the ruins of an old fort, above which stands the village of Bonavista, the barracks, and an English hospital. The road now enters the pampas, or, more correctly, the "plateau del Calloa," an undulating plain plentifully watered by little rivulets, but producing only harsh grass diversified by a field of stunted maize or a plantation of spreading plantains. The ground is covered with a yellow sulphurous powder strongly impregnated with nitre, and at a few miles distance are some extensive saltpetre works. From the absence of rain, the road is knee-deep in dust, and the troops of asses which we pass, and the cavalcades of horsemen who pass us, are completely enveloped in white clouds.

The compact little horses of the cavaliers move rapidly over the ground at a long swinging pace, an easy run, which never breaks into a gallop or subsides into the English trot. In fact, the latter pace is considered a great defect, and the horses are carefully trained to avoid it. Every horseman wears the poncho-a square cloak with a hole in the middle, through which the head is passed, the folds falling over the chest, shoulders, and back. This article of dress, common throughout the Spanish republics, is, in Peru, often made of the finest alpaca wool, and dyed in the most brilliant colours; and the cavalier, enveloped in one of these gaudy cloaks, with his head covered by a finely-worked Panama sombrero, has a very picturesque appearance. His horse is hidden beneath a profusion of coloured wool and leather fringes, with a multitude of straps and silver buckles. The heavy stirrups are of wood, beautifully carved and inlaid with silver, whilst his spurs of the same metal are of a most preposterous length, and terminate in rowels of three or four inches diameter. A full-sized pair of spurs contains three marks, or a pound and a half of silver.

Half way to Lima, the conveyance stops for a few minutes to water the horses. Here is a pulperia- a union of a dramshop and a general store,-and close to it stands a deserted convent and the old church of La Virgen del Carmen, with the usual accompaniment of a small picture of the crucifixion placed on a little table at the gate, and a plate to receive the contributions of the pious traveller. As we approach the city, which stands on an elevated plain at the foot of the Andes, the scenery is improved by large gardens filled with fruit-trees; and at about a mile from the gates commences the Alemada, a beautiful promenade between rows of trees planted on the road-side, and offering a grateful shade, cooled by a gentle stream that murmurs by the path. Close to the gate of the city stands a small inn, the whole front of which is covered by a gorgeous painting of the Sacramento diggings-a mode of ornament peculiar to Lima, The noble gate through which we pass claims a moment's notice, as it was built by an Irishman-bearing the euphonious name of Don Ambrosio O'Higgins at one time a small shopkeeper in the city, then a Chilian soldier, and ultimately a marquis and viceroy of Peru.

The appearance of the "City of the Kings" (so called from its having been founded on the 6th of January, the celebration of the Epiphany) is not by this entrance very inviting, the houses presenting only blank walls pierced by narrow apertures defended by rusty iron bars. But as we advance into the more frequented streets the scene changes. Noble