water, cool and clear, flows in streams from every part of the marvelous structure, sparkling, dripping, splashing, until it seems like some gigantic water-nymph just emerging with plentitude of blessings from the waves.
The centre of the city is the Grand Plaza, a plot of ground about a thousand feet square with a beautiful little garden in the centre. There are pleasant seats among the tall old trees, statuary and fountains tossing their bright spray into the air. There is a music-stand about which the crowd gather in the evenings.
It is not yet a hundred years since the streets of this city were lighted at night, and scarcely twenty-five since a moonlight walk was safe for either ladies or gentlemen. They are as orderly now as those of any city in America. The policemen stand with lanterns, about a hundred yards apart, all over the city.
Leading away from the western side of the Plaza is the San Cosme avenue, along which Cortez and his discomfited army fled through the darkness and the rain of that sad night in 1520. The palace he built is still owned by his descendants.
On the way to the Paseo Nuevo is the Alameda, a beautiful forest-park of ten or twelve acres surrounded by high stone walls and a moat. It is the chief promenade of the city. Well-kept walks and carriage-roads wind about under the grand old beeches, and a massive fountain plays in the centre. Here the birds have built their nests and reared their young undisturbed for generations, and the place is vocal with twitter and song and merry shouts of children.
There are sad memories haunting almost every corner of Mexico, and this beautiful Alameda is no exception. Long ago, when Rome was mistress here, the fires of the
