Though he may be able to recognize one here and one there, he is himself recognized by none. Like another Rip Van Winkle, he appears to awaken from a life-long dream, to find everything around him changed.

So it was with me. I found one of my friends, the oldest of them all, and one whom I did not expect to see again. I had to give my name, for he did not recognize me, and I saw that now I was a stranger. "How is A?" I asked. "He is dead.” “And B?" "Dead." There I halted, not daring to pursue my inquiries further. "What! all dead?" They are all dead.”

Such are my impressions on revisiting Vera Cruz, and to me the city is like a tomb.

Yet this little Oriental city, hid away at the farther end of the Gulf of Mexico, is in itself not unattractive. Oriental I call it, for it is of Moorish descent, and its lineage is visible in its cupolas of white, rose-color, and blue, overtopped here and there by Christian spires; in its houses painted bright red, yellow, or blue; in its flat terraces with their pyramidal ornaments. Cities are more enduring than men, and Vera Cruz has become young again, with its dwellings newly painted, its white bell-towers, its enameled cupolas, its new houses and monuments. There is a holiday air about it, and a faint Haussmann breeze has come across the Atlantic. The plaza, which, when last I saw it, was paved with angular stones, covered with filth, and cut up by muddy brooks, is now a delightful square, planted with palms and other trees, robed in verdure, and paved with marble. In the middle we see a handsome fountain, while all around it are fine cafés, stores, the cathedral, the municipal palace, and other structures that vie with one another in giving it a fit surrounding. In the daytime the air is cool in the plaza; in the evening long lines of promenaders and of pretty Mexican ladies fill the walks. It is like one vast greenhouse.

FROM VERA CRUZ TO THE CITY OF MEXICO.

May 1, 1880.-The train left at 11.30 P. M., and during the night we traversed one of the most picturesque portions of the route. At daybreak we reached the plateau of Orizaba, and the prospect was delightful. On all sides rose mountains tinged with the brightest colors by the rising sun. The volcano of Orizaba commanded them all with its snowy cone. We sped through coffee-plantations and vast fields of tobacco and bananas. We crossed