THE RIFLE RANGERS

CHAPTER ONE.

THE LAND OF ANAHUAC.

Away over the dark, wild waves of the rolling Atlantic--away beyond the
summer islands of the Western Ind--lies a lovely land. Its
surface-aspect carries the hue of the emerald; its sky is sapphire; its
sun is a globe of gold. It is the land of Anahuac!

The tourist turns his face to the Orient--the poet sings the gone
glories of Greece--the painter elaborates the hackneyed pictures of
Apennine and Alp--the novelist turns the skulking thief of Italy into a
picturesque bandit, or, Don Quixote-like, betaking himself into the
misty middle age, entertains the romantic miss and milliner's apprentice
with stories of raven steeds, of plumed and impossible heroes. All--
painter, poet, tourist, and novelist--in search of the bright and
beautiful, the poetic and the picturesque--turn their backs upon this
lovely land.

Shall we? No! Westward, like the Genoese, we boldly venture--over the
dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through among the sunny islands
of Ind--westward to the land of Anahuac. Let us debark upon its shores;
let us pierce the secret depths of its forests; let us climb its mighty
mountains, and traverse its table-plains.

Go with us, tourist! Fear not. You shall look upon scenes grand and
gloomy, bright and beautiful. Poet! you shall find themes for poesy
worthy its loftiest strains. Painter! for you there are pictures fresh
from the hand of God. Writer! there are stories still untold by the
author-artist--legends of love and hate, of gratitude and revenge, of
falsehood and devotion, of noble virtue and ignoble crime--legends
redolent of romance, rich in reality.

Thither we steer, over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic;
through the summer islands of the Western Ind; onward--onward to the
shores of Anahuac!