AMONG the most vivid and cherished memories of my childhood are the descriptions which my grandfather, after his return from his mission as Minister to Mexico, was accustomed to give of that land of mystery and romance. What especially dazzled my imagination was the picture he drew of that world-renowned landmark of the navigator, the snow-capped peak of Orizaba, which, as the war-steamer that bore him to his destination neared the Mexican coast, stood out like a gigantic spectre against the clear blue sky. So, too, with the matchless view, from the plateau near Ario, of the marvellous volcano of Jorullo, which, almost within the memory of living men, sprang up, as if at the command of an enchanter, to the height of more than four thousand feet, amid the palm,