The Rifle Rangers — Mayne Reid

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