dense forest spread out on every side its sea of foliage. The road was as smooth as a bowling-green, and we swung along over the levels, up hill and down, until we passed the Puente De Tesmeluca, over a stream dashing from a mountain ravine like a shower of silver from among the verdure. After again ascending another mountain, and following its descent on the other side, we reached the village of Rio Frio, a collection of the miserable huts of coal-burners, and the nest and nursery of as fierce a brood of robbers as haunt the forests. In proof of this, and, moreover, that the Cross, in this land, is no "sign of redemption" the sacred emblem was again spread out on every side, as yesterday in the Barranca Secca, marking the grave of some murdered traveller. We were once more in the fields of romance and robbery; yet, well guarded to-day by a vigilant troop, and in good spirits at the near termination of our trials, we again launched forth for our final ride. Leaving this narrow and desolate ravine among the hills, the road once more ascends by a series of short windings through the pine woods, among which the wind whistled cold and shrill as over our winter plains; and, thus gradually scaling the last mountain on our route, while the increased guard scoured the recesses of the forest, we reached the lofty summit in about an hour, and rolled for some distance along a level table land, catching glimpses, occasionally, of a distant horizon to the west, apparently as illimitable as the sea. The edge of the mountain was soon turned, and as the coach dipped forward on the descent of the western slope, a sudden clearing in the forest disclosed the magnificent Valley of Mexico.
The sight of land to the sea-worn sailor —the sight of home to the wanderer, who has not beheld for years the scene of his boyhood— are not hailed with more thrilling delight than was the exclamation from one of our passengers as he announced this prospect.
I am really afraid to describe this valley to you, as I dislike to deal in hyperboles. I have seen the Simplon—the Spleugen—the view from Rhigi—the "wide and winding Rhine"—and the prospect from Vesuvius over the lovely bay of Naples, its indolent waves sleeping in the warm sunshine on their purple bed—but none of these scenes compare with the Valley of Mexico. They want some one of the elements of grandeur, all of which are gathered here. Although the highest triumphs of human genius and art may disappoint you, Nature never does. The conceptions of Him who laid the foundations of the mountains, and poured the waters of the seas from his open palm, can never be reached by the fancies of men. And if, after all the exaggerated descriptions of St. Peter's and the Pyramids, we feel sick with disappointment when we stand before them, it is never so with the sublime creations of the Almighty.
You would, therefore, no doubt, most readily spare my attempting to give by the pen a description of what even the more graphic pencil has ever failed faithfully to convey. But I feel in some measure bound to make for you a catalogue of this valley's features, though I am confident I must fail to describe or paint them.
