Fortunately for the sentimental traveller, — as he who looks through the world for pleasure instead of profit may well be called, — this fair southern country has not yet been aroused to such sense of its importance as to require the sacrifice of its luxurious, unconscious loveliness upon the altar of interest. Twenty years hence, no doubt, there will be smoky piles of manufactories and workshops, teeming hives of tenement-houses, noise and confusion of traffic and travail, outside the City of Mexico; and it will be a goodly sight to see, since all these are but outward signs of inward thrift. But the glory of Ichabod will have departed. Now the approach to the capital begins thirty miles away. Beautiful and changeful still, in valley and plain and climbing mountain-tops, the consciousness of a new influence begins to force itself upon the senses. The country roads become broad avenues, winding between rows of massive cottonwoods through flourishing fields. The boundless tract of level land begins to show signs of more careful cultivation; water flashes everywhere in the sunlight; velvety green meadows take the place of parched and dust-covered plains. Hedges of century plants
