self-possessed. They have plenty of natural talent, and where it has been thoroughly cultivated, no women can surpass them. Of what is called literary society, there is of course none—
"No bustling Botherbys have they to shew 'em
That charming passage in the last new poem."
There is a little annual lying beside me, called "Calendario de las Señoritas Mejicanas," of which the preface, by Galvan, the editor, is very amusing.
"To none," he says, "better than to Mexican ladies, can I dedicate this mark of attention—(obsequio.) Their graceful attractions well deserve any trouble that may have been taken to please them. Their bodies are graceful as the palms of the desert; their hair, black as ebony, or golden as the rays of the sun, gracefully waves over their delicate shoulders; their glances are like the peaceful light of the moon. The Mexican ladies are not so white as the Europeans, but their whiteness is more agreeable to our eyes. Their words are soft, leading our hearts by gentleness, in the same manner as in their moments of just indignation they appal and confound us. Who can resist the magic of their song, always sweet, always gentle, and always natural? Let us leave to foreign ladies (las ultramarinas) these aflected and scientific manners of singing; here nature surpasses art, as happens in everything, notwithstanding the cavilings of the learned.
"And what shall I say of their souls? I shall say that in Europe the minds are more cultivated, but in Mexico the hearts are more amiable. Here they are
