religious book, as the Spaniards understand the word religion, and reflects great credit on the Church. But, with the slight evidence we have presented, no one would charge the work with being altogether a fiction, and Bernal Diaz a myth. All that can be said is, that we are left in that state of uncertainty in which every one finds himself who looks into a record that was within the control of the Inquisitorial censors.
Our stage-ride has been forgotten in discussing historical questions; and while we have been dwelling upon Cortéz and Bernal Diaz, we have crossed the plain, and been climbing the heights of Rio Frio, and now we begin to catch glances of the valley and of the city of Mexico—a city and valley so renowned in history and tradition, that it seems more like a city of the Old World than a town in the interior of the continent that Columbus discovered.
Truly it is an old city. It was an old city before Columbus was born—an old city in a new world. It is one of the links that binds the present age to ages long past and almost forgotten—a city where the present and the past are strangely mingled together.
In its streets are "penitents," wandering, in sackcloth and sandals, with a downcast look and a rope for self-castigation, among soldiers in new French uniforms and ladies in the latest Paris fashions.
This is not the time for a favorable view of the valley from this point. To see it in its full glory, we must look upon it at sunrise.