34 MEXICO. 
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 
dashino- from a mountain ravine like a shower of silver from among the 
verdure. After again ascending another mountain, and following its de- 
scent 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 grad- 
ually 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 wan- 
derer, 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 M^hich 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. 
