Gradually, as in Dante's Commedia, after leaving Purgatory, typified by
Vera Cruz, we seemed to draw nearer to Paradise. The road is difficult, as
the approach to Paradise ought to be, and the extraordinary jolts were
sufficient to prevent us from being too much enraptured by the scenery,
which increased in beauty as we advanced. At Santa Fe and Sopilote we
changed horses, and at Tolome, one of the sites of the civil war, came to
the end of Santa Anna's twelve leagues of property.

We arrived at Puente Nacional, formerly Puente del Rey, celebrated as the
scene of many an engagement during the Revolution, and by occupying which,
Victoria frequently prevented the passage of the Spanish troops, and that
of the convoys of silver to the port. Here we stopped a short time to
admire the beautiful bridge thrown over the river Antigua, with its stone
arches, which brought Mrs. Ward's sketch to my recollection, though it is
very long since I saw the book. We were accompanied by the commander of the
fort. It is now a peaceful-looking scene. We walked to the bridge, pulled
branches of large white flowers, admired the rapid river dashing over the
rocks, and the fine, bold scenery that surrounds it. The village is a mere
collection of huts, with some fine trees.

It was difficult to believe, as we journeyed on, that we were now in the
midst of December. The air was soft and balmy. The heat, without being
oppressive, that of a July day in England. The road through a succession of
woody country; trees covered with every variety of blossom, and loaded with
the most delicious tropical fruits; flowers of every colour filling the air
with fragrance, and the most fantastical profusion of parasitical plants
intertwining the branches of the trees, and flinging their bright blossoms
over every bough. Palms, cocoas, oranges, lemons, succeeded one another,
and at one turn of the road, down in a lovely green valley, we caught a