Our last day at Tezcuco was spent in packing up antiquities to be sent to England, the express orders of the Government against such exportation to the contrary notwithstanding.  Next morning we rode off to Miraflores, passing on our way the curious stratum of alluvial soil containing pottery, &c., which I have described already.  Miraflores is a cotton-factory, in the opening of a picturesque gorge just at the edge of the plain of Mexico.  The machinery is American, for the mill dates from the time when it was considered expedient to prohibit the exportation of cotton-mill machinery from England; and having begun with American work, it naturally suits them to go on with it.  It is driven by a great Barker’s mill, which works in a sort of well, having an outlet into the valley, and roars as though it would tear the place down.  It is not common to see this kind of machine working on a large scale; but here, with a great fall of water, it does very well.  Otherwise the place was like an ordinary cotton-factory, and one cannot be surprised at people thinking that such establishments are a source of prosperity to the country.  They see a population hard at work and getting good wages, masters making great profits, and no end of bales going off to town; and do not consider that half the price of the cloth is wasted, and that the protection-duty sets the people to work which they cannot do to advantage, while it takes them away from occupations which their country is fit for.

Next morning took us to Amecameca, a town in a little plain at the foot of Popocatepetl, whose snow-covered top towers high up in the clouds, like Mont Blanc over Sallanches.  We had at one time cherished hopes of getting to the top of this grand volcano, but had heard such frightful reports of difficulties and dangers that we had concluded not to do more than look at it from a distance, the more especially as there had been a heavy fall of snow upon it a day or two before.  We presented our letter to the Spaniard who kept the great shop at Amecameca, and asked him, casually, about the mountain.  He assured us that the surface of the snow would be frozen over, and that instead of being a disadvantage the fall of snow was in our favour, for it was easier to climb over frozen snow than up a loose heap of volcanic ashes.  So we sent for the guide, a big man, who used to manage the sulphur-workings in the crater until that undertaking was given up.  He set to work to get things ready for the expedition, and we strolled out for a walk.

Close by the town is a “sacred mount,” with little stations, and on one day in the year numbers of pilgrims come to visit the place.  Near the top, the Indian lad who came with us showed us the mouth of a cavern, which leads by subterranean passages under the sea to Rome—­as caverns not unfrequently do in Roman Catholic countries!  What was more worth noticing was that here there was a cypress-tree, covered with votive offerings, like the great ahuchuete in the valley above Chalma; so that it is likely that the place was sacred long before chapels and stations were built upon it.  Our guide told us that whenever a man touched the tree, all feeling of weariness left him.  How characteristic this superstition is of a nation of carriers of burdens!