noise of the wheels, muffled by the sand on the drive, scarcely reaches the ear, mingled as it is with the mur-mur of the water, the sighing of the wind through the evergreen leafage, and the buzzing of bees and humming-birds. The gilded carriage of the country and the plain European chariot are continually passing each other, and the gaudy trappings of the Mexican horses contrast strongly with the unaffected plainness of the English saddle, which wears a shabby appearance in the midst of this Oriental luxury. The ladies of fashion have laid aside for the promenade the saya and mantilla, to wear dresses which are only six months behind the last Parisian mode. Stretched in dreamy languor on their silk cushions, they allow their feet, the pride and admiration of Europeans, to remain in shoes, alas! ill fitted for them. The sorry appearance of their feet is hidden when in the carriages, through the open window of which you can only see their diadems of black hair, decorated with natural flowers, their seductive smile, and their gestures, in which vivacity and listlessness are so pleasingly blended. The fan is kept in a perpetual flutter at the carriage window, and speaking its own mysterious language. Swarms of pedestrians present a spectacle not less piquant; and the sad-colored garments of the Europeans are seen less frequently here than the variegated costumes of America.
After taking a few turns, the carriages quit the Alameda, the horsemen accompany them, and the whole crowd saunters carelessly past a strongly-grated window, which hangs over the path you must traverse before reaching a promenade called the Paseo of Bucareli.[1] One can hardly tell what hideous scenes are
- ↑ The name of the viceroy who presented it to the town.
