We stopped at length on the brink of a precipice on the summit of the hills, in a white radiance of moonlight that made the world almost unearthly. The snow-covered dome of the mountain looked as if bathed in molten silver faint home-lights glanced here and there, like fire-flies, from the obscure depths of the valley, three thousand feet below; a long, wavering line of forest fires ran like a glowing red snake up the opposite hillside. On the back platform of the rear car, the dark-eyed Spanish conductor sang Castilian love-songs and Italian airs to the accompaniment of his guitar; and, as the full, liquid tones rolled out upon the night, the doors of wayside cabins opened softly, and groups of silent, dark-eyed Indians gathered near to listen. The people seem to love music as they love flowers and birds, intuitively; and we were not surprised to learn that a conservatory for the education of promising voices was established in Mexico. The perfect simplicity and kindness with which this handsome young fellow entertained us through the long midsummer evening could only be possible in a country like this; and it was as charming as it was new in conductors.
On the journey toward Vera Cruz, the traveler,
