etors of gold, and land, and houses; and moreover with an unimpeachable fame; for he who can fling gold dust in his neighbor's eyes, prevents him from seeing too clearly. But these favorites of the blind goddess are few and far between, and they have for the most part, with a view to greater security, become holders or sharers of banks at San Agustin, thus investing their fortune in a secure fund; more so decidedly, if we may believe the newspaper reports, than in the Bank of the United States at this present writing.
Time, in its revolutions, whirling all things out of their places, has made no change in the annual fête of San Agustin. Fashions alter. The graceful mantilla gradually gives place to the ungraceful bonnet. The old painted coach, moving slowly like a caravan, with Guido's Aurora painted on its gaudy panels, is dismissed for the London-built carriage. Old customs have passed away. The ladies no longer sit on the door-sills, eating roast duck with their fingers, or with the aid of tortillas. Even the Chinampas have become stationary, and have occasionally joined the Continent. But the annual fête of San Agustin is built on a more solid foundation than taste, or custom, or floating soil. It is founded upon that love of gambling, which is said to be a passion inherent in our nature, and which is certainly impregnated with the Mexican constitution, in man, woman and child. The beggars gamble at the corners of the streets, or under the arches; the little boys gamble in groups in the villages; the coachmen
