The day of the diligence—of the good old-fashioned stagecoach—in Mexico is drawing to a close, for the railroad is pushing it from point to point, farther and farther into the wilderness and away from the larger towns and cities. But there are certain places to which, even after the advent of the engine, the coach will be preferred by travellers open to the beauty of scenery along the road, and who wish to lose none of the mountain views about the valley of Mexico. Cuernavaca is one of these: separated by mountains from the capital, the journey thither by diligence is one of the most interesting that can be made, for it is surrounded by the halo of one of the most adventurous exploits of Cortés, and lies in a valley open to the influences of a perfectly tropical climate.
At six in the morning, the diligence dashes out of the great portal of the Diligencias Generales, rattles through the streets awhile, and then takes to the open plain surrounding the city. A seat to Cuernavaca costs $4.50, and fifty cents extra for every arroba of luggage more than one. Nine mules constitute the complement to each team, and these are kept on the gallop by the driver, who cracks a very long whip with great energy, and by his assistant, who casts stones at their ears with an accuracy of aim as wonderful as it is effective.
I had secured a seat in the diligence with a special view to inspecting the scenes made famous by their connection with the ancient (Spanish) and comparatively recent (American) occupations of the valley by the respective armies of Cortés and Scott; but the jolting of the conveyance was such that I was sorely disappointed, as well as severely shaken, and we sped out of the city gate, which was menaced by the gallant Twiggs, and past Churubusco with its ruined walls, where the tide of battle surged and ebbed, and up into the foot-hills, with hardly a glimpse of most ancient Coyoacan, where Cortés held his headquarters during the siege of Mexico. Even Mexican mules must slacken their speed, however, when among the roughest of Mexican hills; and as they paused a little for breath, we craned our necks out of the windows for a backward glance at the great vale of Anahuac, which lay between us and the
