ness that I could hardly have expected, from the sad introduction with which it was prefaced.
"In the year 1825, that is, ten years ago, an attempt at assassination was made in the streets of Mexico. This is, unhappily, such an every-day affair in the capital of Mexico, that the public mind would not have been called to it had it not been accompanied by some strange circumstances. These were so strange, that, instead of being briefly narrated in the last column of the journals, as is commonly the case, it figured among the events, more or less important, which have the privilege of engaging the attention of the idle inhabitants of Mexico for more than a week. A singular mystery, in fact, hung over this attempt at murder. Early in the morning, when the Paseo of Bucareli is quite solitary, a hackney-coach was seen standing in a retired part of the promenade. The coachman had descended from his box, and was standing prudently aside, as if he guessed the meaning of this early drive. Was it a man or a woman whom this coach of providence (you know that is the name given to the hackney-coaches in Mexico) had driven to a love appointment? The blinds, carefully drawn down, left every thing to conjecture; but it transpired afterward that a young female of dazzling beauty was in it, who, prompted by female vanity, was richly adorned with jewels for this occasion. The Creoles, you know, have a strange fancy for appearing to be as rich as they are beautiful; however, although that was the case with this young lady, she was still more beautiful than rich. A few minutes passed, when a man enveloped in a large cloak approached the vehicle. The coach man opened the door of the carriage, and the stranger sprang in precipitately. A meeting of this kind was
