I. THE Republic of Mexico occupies the southwestern portion of North America, and lies between latitude 15° and 32° N, and longitude 86° 34′ and 117° 7′ W. It is bounded on the north and northeast by the United States, on the east by the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea, on the southeast by Balize, on the south by Guatemala and the Pacific Ocean, and on the west by the Pacific. Its extreme length from northwest to southeast is nineteen hundred and ninety miles; its greatest breadth from east to west, is seven hundred and fifty miles. It embraces an area of seven hundred and sixty-one thousand six hundred and forty square miles, being about equal in extent to twenty-six of our largest states. The population of nine million two hundred and seventy-six thousand persons is composed of Indians, Europeans and Negroes; descendants of Indians and Europeans and of Indians and Negroes mixed; the first named being in a majority of the whole. The climate embraces every degree from the torrid to the temperate. The most convenient routes for reaching the capital of the republic are by steamer from New York or New Orleans to Vera Cruz, thence by rail a distance of two hundred and sixty-three miles to the City of Mexico; or, by San Francisco along the Pacific Coast to Acapulco, thence overland by coach about three hundred miles. The latter route is, however, seldom traveled by Europeans or Americans, owing to the fact that the stage line is nearly always infested with daring and unscrupulous robbers, who frequently not only pillage but murder defenceless travelers. It is said of these bandits that when they do not choose to take life, desiring only plunder, they will rob in such a polite manner that the traveler almost feels to regret that he has not more, with which to enrich the gentlemanly highwaymen. The writer does not, however, desire at this time to enter into a description of the peculiar traits of the Mexican character, as developed by the many singular habits and customs which prevail among the Mexican people, but rather to give a short sketch of what he saw while traveling from New Orleans to the City of Mexico in November 1879. Leaving the first named city at 9 A.M. November 8th, we passed down the Mississippi River one hundred and twenty miles to the bar, crossing which, we entered the Gulf of Mexico. Along the entire route, on either side of the river, are many fine sugar plantations. The waving fields of growing cane forming a background for the white huts of the negro quarters, partially surrounding the elegant residences of the planters, afforded striking contrasts, presenting many pleasing views. As the steamer moved on to the Gulf, we soon discovered by the heaving surges caused by recent prevailing storms, that we were no longer steaming on the placid bosom of the old Mississippi. At 3 P.M. November 10, we anchored opposite Bagdad,-Matamoras, on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande, and distant from New Orleans five hundred and seventyfour miles. In the course of an hour our steamer was boarded by ten or a dozen Mexicans, who reached us by means of a 1 of the ill-fated steamship Havana, small row boat. They were mostly of the mixed race-part Negro and part Indian-dark, and rudely clad with thin cotton shirts and pants of the same material; from under the waistbands of the latter, prominently appeared the hilt of the keen edged dagger or wide-bladed bowie knife. Beneath the shade of the broad rimmed hat moved the erect, active form of the Indian, with countenance made repulsive by the blood of the Negro, indicated in the thick lip and restless eye. These men, with unclad feet, noiselessly ascended the ropes, climbed the bulwarks, and trod with cat-like motion the painted decks-coming without warning, and peering over one's shoulder with a "Buenos dios, Señor," had the tendency to produce a crawling feeling and a somewhat unfavorable impression of Mexico, because of this rude sample of the Aztec and Negro mixed Mexican. Weighing anchor at noon Tuesday, November 11, we steamed to Tampico, a distance of two hundred and twentyeight miles. Time, twenty-seven hours. Here a considerable quantity of freight | by means of lighters (small sailing boats) was discharged, and, in turn, the steamer received a number of tons of Istla, a durable fiber from the Maguey (Agavo) plant, and which is fast becoming an article of export for cordage purposes. The class of Mexicans meeting us at this point-anchoring outside the bar, we can hardly call it a harbor-were a decided❘ improvement on those seen at Matamoras. And, while the style of dress was much the same as that worn by their more northern countrymen, for a belt ornament they seemed to prefer the revolver to the knife, while a corresponding dignity marked their manner and movement. Sailing from here at 6.30 P.M., we lay off the bar at Tuxpan (pronounced Tuspan) at 9 A.M. November 13, distance ninety miles. Passing in towards the crescent-formed shores of the Gulf at this point, and beyond which, on the banks of the river, reposes the town of Tuxpan, we saw the remaining hull wrecked August 1877, on the hidden coral reef, outlying the deeper waters of the so-called harbor. Unfortunately, the Gulf of Mexico affords no harbor,deserving the name, anywhere between the mouth of the Rio Grande and Vera Cruz, nor at either of those ports. Even at the latter, the commercial city of the republic, vessels are frequently delayed for days, unable, during the prevalence of the "Northers," to receive or discharge cargoes. Thus the entire eastern coast of the Gulf causes the mariner anxiety and dread. Judging by the surroundings, and by what information the writer could secure, regarding the navigation of the river at Tuxpan, one would naturally conclude this to be a good point for the expenditure of Mexican government and state funds, in securing a safe harbor by opening the bar by means of jetties, confining the outflow of the river, and thus affording vessels a safe retreat inland. Could this be accomplished, it would doubtless be followed by the quick construction of a railroad direct to the capital, the distance being much shorter than from Vera Cruz to the City of Mexico, and it would traverse a much richer agricultural and mineral country, and would at the same time secure, it is said, great advantage over the other route in lighter grades, cheapness of construction, and ease of operation. Due west from Tuxpan stretches, as far as the eye can discern, a broad rich plain covered with the profuse vegetation of a tropical clime. On the north rises a high range of mountains; on the south and southwest, one of less magnitude. While in the west, in the midst of the plain alluded to, and distant perhaps thirty or forty miles, rises abruptly two pyramidal mountains, reaching an altitude, I should think, of two or three thousand feet. These are situated in a line north and south, seeming to have at the base no connection whatever. The one on the south is higher, and has a more perfect pyramidal form, finishing with a sharp point, with angles clearly defined; while the other slightly inclines MEXICO AND THE MEXICANS. southward, and is flattened at the summit. Ages ago these, doubtless, were active volcanoes. At 12:40 p.m. we again steamed southward, the gulf being smoother than at any time since leaving the mouth of the Mississippi river. | Fanned by the cooling breezes, which temper the warmer atmosphere of the coast, along which we were moving with the easy motion of nine miles an hour, the ride was delightful, and the momentary changing scenery, under the shifting lights and shadows of undulating hills and tropical trees and vines, was most enchanting. As the shadows deepened under the gathering folds of the later evening, and the stars one by one shone brightly from the deep blue of a cloudless sky, while their jeweled brightness was answered back by the phosphorous sparks, emitting light from the deep, dark swells, as they rolled from the sides of the good old ship and sparkled in the sheen of the screw-lashed waters, marking a broad track far in the wake; as the swelling motion of the dark, blue deep beyond was answered by the waving vine clad hills—the breezes kissing the one and the other—who could fail, while gazing, to rejoice in the beautiful harmony of nature, and in the wonderful works of God? Early on Friday morning, November 14, we entered the harbor of Vera Cruz, near the City of the True Cross, and midway between it and the fast decaying castle of San Juan Ulila, built by Hordando Cortes, in the early part of the sixteenth century. Disembarking by means of small row boats, we soon reached shore, landing at the government custom house. The writer, with many peculiar feelings, stood for the first time upon the soil of Mexico, and looked upon the quaint old city-the commercial port of the republic. 3 were in a foreign land, among a strange people, whose habits, ways and customs were all widely different from any with whom we had before been acquainted. Here we view white, blue and rose colored cupolas, houses painted bright red, yellow, orange, pink or blue; and sometimes a combination of all. These: with their flat terraces and pyramidal ornaments, all point to Oriental styles or Moorish designs. We visited, in the southern suburbs of the city, near the public park, the ruins. of a large church, which was partially demolished when the city was bombarded by the American forces under General Scott, in the war with Mexico. Originally a vast building, this church is now little more than a heap of ruins, marked by bare, blackened and fragmentary walls. Among the many fine church buildings still in a good state of preservation, and used in the Catholic service, are one or two, presenting, because of their magnitude and chaste style of archi-tecture, a very imposing appearance. One of these in particular, as we gazed upon its white enameled tower, which reaches to a great height, struck us as being splendidly proportioned and beau-tifully designed. The streets of the citycross at right angles, are narrow, cobble paved and incline to the centre, forming. there a drain or surface sewerage. Vul+ tures, swarming in myriads, are the scavengers of the city; picking up and devouring the garbage when thrown into the streets. These birds of carrion propensity, being protected by municipal law, are as tame as our common barn yard fowls. As the shades of night gather around this devoted Catholic city, these birds of prey hover in dark clouds upon the dome and roof of cathedral and church, contending with each other for the higher and more desirable points upon which to repose for the night. The public park, though not extensive, presents some attractive features; mil Meditation under the surroundings was of but short duration, for strange sounds, made in an apparently rapidly spoken language, confused by the noises of lum-lions of fire-flies, during the early evenbering old drays, with wheels twice as large as the scrawny, little mules that hauled them over the rough cobble paved streets, brought the realization that we ing, mingle in the grasses and flit through the air like shooting stars, affording a sight at once strange and novel. The Plaza, planted with palm and other trees, robed in rich verdure, and the walks paved with marble and cement, is really a delightful square, in the midst of which, we see a handsome fountain, bordered by a broad circular marble walk, on the outer edge of which are arranged comfortable seats. The Plaza affords, in the midst of the trees, during the day, places of rest for sweet singing, many hued birds, and of amusement for the active squirrel and playful monkey as they skip the limbs, leaping from sun light to shadow, and from shadow to sunlight. During the heat of the day-we mention it as experienced on November 14th, equal to a July day in New York, and warmer than we ever felt in Utah-few people resort to this place of pleasure; but when the cooler breezes of evening begin to close the oozing pores of perspiring humanity, thousands of people gather here; among them the lively Frenchman, the cautious Englishman, the genial German, the observing Yankee, the polite Spaniard, the athletic African, and the sharp, quick, musical speaking Mexican, and last, but not the least, the lithe, small and graceful Indian, descendant of a proud Aztec race. Here male and female, white, brown and black, congregate and promenade, while listening to strains of sweet, and of discordant music, mingling with a confused cry of numerous toy, pottery, fruit and lottery ticket vendors. Amid this animated scene, made bright by the many colored Chinese lanterns, casting changeable lights upon flower and moss festooned booths and bowers, the writer made notes for future writings, and, while doing so, the deep toned bell of the cathedral clock tolled the hour of eleven. In thirty minutes the night express will bear us towards the spot where hundreds of years ago, an eagle, with a serpent in his talons, sitting upon a cactus tree growing from the cleft of a rock, washed by the waters of Lake Tezcuco, marked the place where was built the Aztec city of Tenochlitland, (afterwards called Mexico,) the home of the MonteMoses Thatcher. zumas. Every person has two educations-one which he receives from others, and one, more important, which he gives himself.-Gibbon. EBULLITION. WE have all noticed in what a turbulent state water is when it boils, but probably we are not all acquainted with the cause of this agitation. Heat has a tendency to expand, and hence when a vessel of water is placed over a fire, the liquid below, being nearest to the fire, is warmed first and is expanded, and then begins to rise, while the colder water sinks and goes through the same change itself, and thus there is established a constant upper current along the sides of the vessel, with a downward current in the center. But when all is heated to a point marked on Fahrenheit's thermometer 212°, the water begins to change its character, that is, it slowly transforms itself into steam, but in order to do this it must also expand so as to occupy seventeen hundred times more space than it did before, and this requires a great deal of heat. Now, as the heat comes through the bottom or sides of the vessel, it is here that the water is first converted into bubbles of steam, and these, rising to the surface, because of their lightness, produce the agitation. But before the boiling commences, a peculiar singing sound is heard, called simmering. This will need some explanation. The bubbles of gas formed on the bottom rise, but the higher up they go the colder the water becomes, as all has not yet been raised to the temperature of 212°. The steam bubbles are therefore reduced to liquid again, or if seen, they would seem to burst, and in doing so a sound is produced, but so many of these little explosions occur, and in such rapid succession that they produce | in the Alps, over sixteen thousand feet one continuous sound. When water is heated under the ordinary pressure of the atmosphere at the level of the sea, a higher temperature than 212° cannot be reached, no matter how hot a fire is used. The only effect of increased heat will be to cause it to boil away more rapidly. If an ordinary tin vessel be placed over the fire, without water in it, the solder will soon melt away and the vessel fall to pieces. There is no danger of this, however, when there is water in it; for just as soon as the solder is heated a little above 212°, the heat is conducted to the water, and there used in heating it and converting it into steam. Those bubbles spoken of as rising from the bottom of the vessel in the case of boiling water, continue to increase in size as they ascend. But steam and all kinds of gases are so elastic that the slightest change in pressure produces a change in volume. So when these bubbles are first formed at the bottom, they have the whole weight of the water above, compressing them, but as they rise the pressure decreases, and consequently they increase in size. The pressure of the atmosphere amounts to about fifteen pounds on the square inch, and it is this compressing force that prevents the water from expanding into steam until a temperature of 212° is reached. All the extra heat is now transformed into force to overcome the weight of the air. Now if this pressure is partly removed, it will not be necessary to raise the water to so high a temperature in order to make it boil. In fact, when the weight of the air is removed almost entirely, water will boil even a little above the freezing point. So the boiling point is not always the same, even in the same place, as the atmosphere is sometimes lighter than at other times. So when we ascend mountains we leave much air below us, and hence the weight above decreases. Water will boil, then, high up above the level of the sea, at a much lower temperature than 212°. On the top of Mont Blanc, high, water will boil at about 180°. To illustrate the above facts, we would have to make use of an air pump, and by placing the water with a thermometer in it under the receiver and exhausting the air, we would observe how the boiling point lowers as the air is removed. The experiment of Franklin is much simpler and also illustrates the same principle: A glass flask that may be heated over a spirit lamp is partly filled with water, and heated until the water gives off steam, and then it is tightly corked and turned upside down. Immediately the ebullition ceases, because the steam thus corked up exerts its pressure on the water and prevents it from boiling unless more heat is applied. Now if we pour cold water over the flask, ebullition starts in again very briskly, but soon stops until more cold water is poured on. This may be continued until the water in the flask is cold. This seems rather paradoxical, but the principles explained above will show us why at once. The effect of pouring cold water is to condense the steam which collects in little globules on the sides of the vessel, and this removes the pressure from the surface of the water to such an extent that it can boil again, even though much below 212°. But the steam thus generated soon collects above, and having no means of escape, presses down so heavily on the water that it stops ebullition again, until it is condensed by pouring on more cold water. On looking across the column of steam that comes from the spout of a teakettle, it is invisible within an inch or so from the spout, but beyond that it appears like a cloud of smoke, and this we are accustomed to call steam, but in reality the steam is what came from the spout invisible, and what we see is the same condensed into little globules of liquid water so small that they readily float about in the air for a time. When a drop of water falls on a hot stove, it does not flatten, but still retains its spherical form, but all the time growing smaller, and dancing about from one place to another, until it becomes quite |