Entering the iron gate of the hacienda, we found ourselves in an immense courtyard, into which open all the principal buildings of the estate, the house of the proprietor, the church—­which forms a necessary part of every hacienda—­the crushing-mill, and the boiling-houses.  Into the same great patio open the immense stables for the many riding-horses and the many hundreds of mules that carry the sugar and rum over the mountains to market, and the tienda, the shop of the estate, through which almost all the money paid to the labourers comes back to the proprietor in exchange for goods.  A mountain of fresh-cut canes stood near the door of the trapiche (the crushing-mill); and a gang of Indians were constantly going backwards and forwards carrying them in by armfuls; while a succession of mules were continually bringing in fresh supplies from the plantation to replenish the great heap.  The court-yard was littered all over, knee-deep, with dry cane-trash; and mules, just freed from their galling saddles, were rolling on their backs in it, kicking with all their legs at once, and evidently in a state of high enjoyment.  Part of one side of the square was a sort of wide cloister, and in it stood chairs and tables.

Here the business of the place was transacted, and the Administrador could look up from his ledger, and see pretty well what was going on all over the establishment.

It is very common for the owners of these haciendas to be absentees, and to leave the entire control of their estates to the administradors; but at Temisco, which is much better managed than most others, this is not the case, and the son of the proprietor generally lives there.  He was out riding, so we sent our horses to the stable, and lounged about eating sugar-canes till he should return.  Presently he came, a young man in a broad Mexican hat and white jacket and trousers, mounted on a splendid little horse, with his saddle glittering with silver, every inch a planter.  He welcomed us hospitably, and we sat down together in the cloister looking out on the courtyard.  Evening was closing in, and all at once the church-bell rang.  Crowds of Indian labourers in their white dresses came flocking in, hardly distinguishable in the twilight, and the sound of their footsteps deadened as they walked over the dry stubble that covered the ground.  All work ceased, every one uncovered and knelt down; while, through the open church-doors, we heard the Indian choir chanting the vesper hymn.  In the haciendas of Mexico every day ends thus.  Many times I heard the Oracion chanted at nightfall, but its effect never diminished by repetition, and to my mind it has always seemed the most impressive of religious services.

Then the Administrador seated himself behind a great book, and the calling over the “raya” began.  Every man in turn was called by name, and answered in a loud voice, “I praise God!;” then saying how much he had earned in the day, for the Administrador to write down.  “Juan Fernandez!”—­“Alabo a Dios, tres reales y medio:”  “I praise God, one and ninepence.”  “Jose Valdes!”—­“I praise God, eighteen pence, and sixpence for the boy;” and so on, through a couple of hundred names.