you by a dexterous flank movement of a
cunning caballero manoeuvring behind
your back, or by the savage cavalry charge
of the Gorman bagman opposite. Seize
the dish when you can, and hold on to it
like grim Death with one hand, till you
have filled your plate. Never mind if the
lady next you looks pleadingly, piteously,
upon you. She is the weaker vessel. Let
her wait. Fill yourself with puchero, for
yon will get nothing else in the way of
refreshment, save chocolate and cigars, for
the next twelve hours. There is a proverb
which justifies the most brutal selfishness
in this regard, and which I may translate
thus:
             He who lets puchero pass
             Is either in love, or asleep, or an ass.

Clutch it, then, for when it has once
glided away you will never see it again.

For a wonder the puchero at the
diligence dinner at Sant' Augustin del Palmar
was not punctual. We had had soup; we
had had frijoles (black beans fried in oil),
we had had a seethed kid; but no puchero
made its appearance. The traveller next
to me, a stout, black-whiskered man, in a
full suit of black velveteen, enormous gold
rings in his ears, and a parti-coloured silk
sash round his waist, grew impatient.

"Caballeros." he cried, after another five
minutes' delay, "I am a plain man. I
am a Catalan. Juan Estrellada is well
known in Barcelona. But human patience
has its limits. I propose that if the
puchero is not at once brought in that
we rob this house and throw the landlord
out of window." The proposal was a
startling one; but the Catalan looked as if
he meant it; and I was much moved to
remark that a murmur seemingly not of
disapprobation ran round the table. A
gentleman in a cloak, two guests off,
remarked gutturally, "Es preciso;" which
may he taken as equivalent to "ditto to
Mr. Burke," and to an opinion that
robbing the establishment was the right kind
of thing to do. You are so continually
falling among thieves in Mexico that your
moral sense of law grows blunted, and you
feel inclined when people come to you for
wool, to send them away shorn.Fortunately
for the landlord the majority of
the guests were philosophers, and had
betaken themselves to smoking; and,
fortunately for ourselves, just as the Catalan
seemed to be preparing to put his resolution
to the vote two sallow Indian boys
came staggering in with the charger of
puchero between them, and we fought for
the meal like so many wolves, and I didn't
come off the worst, I can assure you.

It was when I had secured, with great
internal joy and contentment, the last remaining
black-pudding in the dish, that I noticed
that my right-hand neighbour—the Catalan
was on the left — had suffered the puchero
to pass. He told me that he ate but once
a day; that he preferred to dine at six or
seven; and that this was a fast day, too,
and that he must keep his "ayuno." I had
noticed him, when we alighted, clad in a
black cassock and a tremendous " shovel"—
which brought the Barber of Seville and
Basilio to my mind at once, trotting up
and down, saying his breviary, and puffing
at a very big cigar. This was our Canonigo.
The good old man! I can see his happy,
beaming face now, his smile, calm as a
mountain pool environed by tall cliffs, his
clear, bright, trusting eyes. I can hear his
frank, simple discourse: not very erudite,
certainly, often revealing a curious
inexperience of the world and its ways, but
infinitely full of candour, and modesty, and
charity. He held a prebendal stall in the
cathedral of San Luis Potosi, to which he
was now returning, viâ Puebla and Mexico
city, having journeyed down to Jalapa to
see a brother, in high military command,
who lay sick in that unwholesome city. I
call him "our" Canonigo, for my friend
and travelling companion, who had been
separated from me by stress of company at
the inn dinner-table, rejoining me, when
we went into the colonnade to smoke,
recognised the prebendary of San Luis
Potosi as an old friend, and embraced him
affectionately. The old gentleman was
travelling in a rusty old berline of his own,
but gave heartrending accounts of the
hardships of the road he had endured since
he left Jalapa. The post-houses were,
indeed, very short of mules, to begin with;
some thousands of those useful animals
having been impressed by the French
commissariat and transport corps. We had
been tolerably successful in the way of
mules, simply because my friend, among
his other attributes, was an army
contractor, and had most of the post-masters
under his thumb; but the poor Canonigo
had been frequently left for hours,
destitute of cattle, at some wayside venta.
It is not at all pleasant, I assure you, so
to cool your heels and your coach wheels,
while the Indian hostess sits on the ground,
tearing her long black hair, and wringing
her sinewy brown hands, and crying out
that the Mala Gente—the brigands — are