proach. Our only exertion has been to keep cool upon the pleasant deck, and to take enough exercise to be able to enjoy the frequent food provided by the admirable chef of the steamer.
The scenery is the same that Fernando Cortés looked upon, some three hundred years ago, when he, too, cast anchor about half a mile from the coast, and scanned the shore with an anxious eye, to find a suitable landing. Orizaba rose before him, as now we see it, stately, majestic, cold and forbidding, under its mantle of snow.
We must envy the adventurer, in spite of our advantages in the way of ease and comfort. He stood upon the cramped deck of his little vessel, surrounded by a handful of men, with a limited amount of provisions, and great uncertainty about the next supply. No town stretched out its sheltering walls before him; there was scarcely harborage for his ships. Yet he had the advantage of absolute novelty in his undertaking from the moment he himself, with his little band, led the way up the steep slope to Anahuac.
Every true traveller has some of the instincts of the explorer in him, and these instincts must make us envy the prospect which lay before Cortes as he approached in the Bay of Vera Cruz the real beginning of his enterprise. There was the shore of the new country, where he might plant his "rich city of the true cross." There was the cold mountain which might contain in its depths the treasure he was seeking, and beyond it was the rumored Empire he longed to conquer. At that moment, no fear, no
