horizon, behind which soon loomed up in solitary dignity the snow-capped
peak of Orizaba; and passing the Cangrejos and the island of
Sacrificios, we anchored off the fort of San Juan de Ulloa, where we
awaited a clean bill of health from the quarantine officers who came on
board.

The first impression made upon the mind by Vera Cruz is depressing. In
May the heat is intense. The town is situated in a low, swampy district,
and was then unprovided with the slightest artificial contrivance for
the betterment of its naturally unhygienic conditions. There was no
systematic drainage, and the entire refuse matter of an ignorant and
indolent population might have been left to fester under the rays of a
tropical sun during the dry season, had it not been for the zopilotes,
or turkey-buzzards, which, protected by law, had multiplied to such an
extent as to form a tolerably efficient body of scavengers. The steeples
and flat roofs of the low town were literally black with them. Their
dense black swarms, resting like a pall upon it, in striking contrast
with its white walls, gave the city, as one approached it from the sea,
an appearance of mourning. On our journey we had anchored at Santiago de
Cuba, where smallpox was raging, and now the health-officers hesitated
about letting us enter this plague-stricken place.

As time wore on, the excitement of our safe arrival gradually died out.
We gazed across the water at the inhospitable gates to this promised
land, where so many strangers pausing like ourselves had recently found
a grave. It seemed as though we were awaiting admittance to a funeral;
and when the tolling of some church or convent bell, frightening the
carrion-eating birds, caused a general flutter, the sight was strangely
suggestive of the pestilential death ever lurking below, ready to feed
upon the foreign visitor. One could scarcely help thinking of the dead