December 31st, Santiago, midnight.—Mules arrived for us to recross the Cordillera to return to Buenos Aires—a large drove—two mules for each person—spare ones for the baggage. At one o'clock in the morning the mules were laden and ready—went across the street to the fonda, to get some breakfast, which was laid for vis at one end of a long table—at the other end were two Scotchmen sitting without their coats, waistcoats, or neckcloths—(midsummer.)

They had been drinking-in the new year—in their heads there was “mair brandy than brains,” yet their hearts were still true to their “auld respected mither.” The room was evidently moving round them—they were singing (with action) “Auld lang syne,” and the one that was pitted with the small-pox seemed to feel it as much as the other they held out glasses to us, and begged us to join them—we declined—amusing contrast between them and the gravity of my party, drinking tea, with their pistols in their belts, and prepared for a long journey—full chorus of Rule Britannia, then God save the King; shook hands with the two Scotchmen—drank half a glass of their brandy, and then mounting our mules—we groped along in the dark towards the black mountains of the Cordillera.