winding up mountains. At every turn of the
road, the ingenio we have quitted grows
smaller and smaller, till the planter's residence,
the big engine-shed, and the negro
cottages become mere toys under our gaze.
Now we are descending. Our sure-footed
animals understand the kind of travelling
perfectly, and, placing their fore-paws together,
like horses trained for a circus,
slide down with the greatest ease.

Somebody ahead has exclaimed, "Miren!"
We look, and behold a distant view of Don
Miguel's cafetal. The path has become
narrower, and we are encompassed by short
thick hedges, dotted with red and black
berries of a form not unlike diminutive
olives. I pick and open one of these berries,
and somebody observing, " Quo café tan
abundante!" I discover that what I have
plucked is coffee in a raw state.

"Que admirable es la naturaleza!" sings
a Spanish dramatist. Nature is, indeed,
much to be admired, especially when
you are viewing her in the shape of
orange groves, where oranges, for the
trouble of picking them, hang invitingly
over your very mouth, seeming to say,
"Eat me, stranger." Some are small and
green as gooseberries; others are big as
your head, and of a bright orange hue.
Next on the carte of nature's dessert are
the heart-shaped, smooth-skinned mangoes,
with their massive and symmetrical tree.
They are followed by a procession of lime-trees,
citrons, nisperos, granadas, marañones,
anones, zapotes, mamoncillos, and
a host of other fruits with strange shapes
and equally odd Hispano-Indian appellations.
I grieve to relate that the king of
fruits the—princely pine-apple—is far from
being the exalted personage you would
have expected him to be. Like a bachelor
cabbage, he grovels in solitary state under
our feet! Similarly, do we play at marbles
with pomegranates, and practise tilting at
the ring with citrons. Throw into the
scene a few parasite and plantain trees with
slender trunks and colossal leaves; fill in
the foreground with gigantic ferns, aloes,
and palmettoes, and the background with
spotless blue; select for yourself from the
nearest hothouse where specimens of exotic
plants are nursed, and you are with us,
dear—and none the less dear for being
imaginative—reader!

Distant barking denotes that we are
within ear-shot of our destination; and anon
a couple of Don Miguel's faithful dogs
come bounding along the road towards us.

"Hey, Esperules, old girl! What, and
Tocólo too?" Don Miguel caresses them
in turn as each leaps to his saddle. A
dozen more lie in ambush at the gate
which leads to the coffee grounds, and
through which we are now passing. The
mayoral, with his wife and children, turn
out to meet and welcome us. Crowds of
Africans pay us homage and grin with
delight. We halt in the patio and a score
of half-naked grooms assist us in alighting,
and watch and help us at our lightest
movement. As it is evening dusk when we
arrive, and as we are exhausted with our
day's pilgrimage, we betake ourselves to
our dormitories without a word. Here we
are served by stalwart domestics, who
bathe our burning feet in lukewarm water,
and sponge our irritated bodies with diluted
aguardiente. A clean shirt of fine linen; a
fresh suit of whity-brown drill; a toy cup
of black coffee; and we are refreshed and
ready to do justice to dinner; to the aijaco
of chicken and native vegetables; to the
bacalao or stock-fish, with tomato sauce;
to the boiled meat, cabbage, chocho, bacon
and garbanzos; to the stewed goat, with
accompaniment of yams, baked bananas,
pumpkin and Indian corn; to the guava
jellies and guanavana preserves mashed up
with insipid Creole cheese; to the juicy
mangoes cut up in slices in the midst of
Catalan wine and sugar; to the excellent
black coffee, and home made cigars. These
we discuss in the broad balcony without,
where, seated on leather-bottomed chairs,
we pass the rest of the evening.

The second overseer, with his staff of
field slaves, fills the yard which faces us.
The faithful vassals have ended their day's
toil, and are come to beg the evening blessing
of their lord and master. Blacks of
both sexes and all ages stand before us in
a row; some with machete reaping-knives
under their arms, or bundles of maloja-fodder
for the stable supply; others with
the empty baskets into which they have
been plucking the ripe coffee berry. Their
evening costume consists of a loose garment
of coarse canvas. The women wear
head-dresses of gaily-coloured handkerchiefs
twisted and tied in a peculiar fashion;
the men have broad-brimmed straw
hats and imitation panamas. The second
overseer, with his inseparable whip, leans
against our balcony with the air of a showman,
as each black approaches with crossed
arms to crave his or her master's blessing.

"La ben'dicion, miamo."

"It is given," says miamo Don Miguel
with the supremest indifference.