its walls before he becomes sufficiently disenthralled from the spells of climate and national scenery, in order to do justice to the other American capitals. Mexico, unquestionably, is the queen of Spanish cities on this side of the Atlantic; but, in external taste, in modern elegance, and an agreeable combination of splendor and comfort, it does not compare favorably with the chief towns in the United States.
Built in regular, square blocks, on a dead level, it wants the picturesque breaks or abruptness, which are only found on inequalities of surface. Its houses, erected around quadrangles—with a court yard or patio in the centre of each,—are stern and massive edifices; but they have rather the air of castles designed for defence or seclusion, than of habitations whose cheerful portals extend a hearty welcome to every passer. They partake of the age in which they were constructed, and of the traditionary architecture of Southern Europe. Yet,—in the pellucid air of these lofty regions,—with its fancifully frescoed walls basking in the pure sunshine, and relieved against the dark background of surrounding mountains;—its streets filled with a motly and picturesque crowd;—its towers and domes breaking the regular evenness of the flat roofed dwellings,—and