Land of the nopal and maguey--home of Moctezuma and Malinche!--I cannot
wring thy memories from my heart! Years may roll on, hand wax weak, and
heart grow old, but never till both are cold can I forget thee! I
_would_ not; for thee would I remember. Not for all the world would I
bathe my soul in the waters of Lethe. Blessed be memory for thy sake!
Bright land of Anahuac! my spirit mounts upon the aerial wings of Fancy,
and once more I stand upon thy shores! Over thy broad savannahs I spur
my noble steed, whose joyous neigh tells that he too is inspired by the
scene. I rest under the shade of the _corozo_ palm, and quaff the wine
of the _acrocomia_. I climb thy mountains of amygdaloid and porphyry--
thy crags of quartz, that yield the white silver and the yellow gold. I
cross thy fields of lava, rugged in outline, and yet more rugged with
their coverture of strange vegetable forms--acacias and cactus, yuccas
and zamias. I traverse thy table-plains through bristling rows of giant
aloes, whose sparkling juice cheers me on my path. I stand upon the
limits of eternal snow, crushing the Alpine lichen under my heel; while
down in the deep barranca, far down below, I behold the feathery fronds
of the palm, the wax-like foliage of the orange, the broad shining
leaves of the pothos, of arums, and bananas! O that I could again look
with living eye on these bright pictures, that even thus palely outlined
upon the retina of memory, impart pleasure to my soul!
Land of Moctezuma! I have other souvenirs of thee, more deeply graven
on my memory than these pictures of peace. Thou recallest scenes of
war. I traversed thy fields a foeman--sword in hand--and now, after
years gone by, many a wild scene of soldier-life springs up before me
with all the vividness of reality.
_The Bivouac_!--I sit by the night camp-fire; around are warlike forms
and bearded faces. The blazing log reflects the sheen of arms and
accoutrements--saddles, rifles, pistols, canteens, strewing the ground,
or hanging from the branches of adjacent trees. Picketed steeds loom
large in the darkness, their forms dimly outlined against the sombre
background of the forest. A solitary palm stands near, its curving
fronds looking hoary under the fire-light. The same light gleams upon
the fluted columns of the great organ-cactus, upon agaves and bromelias,
upon the silvery _tillandsia_, that drapes the tall trees as with a
toga.
The wild tale is told--the song is sung--the jest goes round--the hoarse
peal echoes through the aisles of the forest, frighting the parrot on
its perch, and the wolf upon his prowl. Little reck they who sing, and
jest, and laugh--little reck they of the morrow.
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_The Skirmish_!--Morning breaks. The fragrant forest is silent, and the
white blue light is just tinging the treetops. A shot rings upon the
air: it is the warning-gun of the picket-sentinel, who comes galloping
in upon the guard. The enemy approaches! `To horse!' the bugle thrills
in clear loud notes. The slumberers spring to their feet--they seize
their rifles, pistols, and sabres, and dash through the smouldering
fires till ashes cloud the air. The steeds snort and neigh; in a trice
they are saddled, bridled, and mounted; and away sweeps the troop along
the forest road.
The enemy is in sight--a band of _guerilleros_, in all their
picturesqueness of _manga_ and _serape_--of scarlet, purple, and gold.
Lances, with shining points and streaming pennons, o'ertop the trees.
The bugle sounds the charge; its notes are drowned by the charging
cheer. We meet our swarthy foemen face to face; spear-thrusts are
answered by pistol-shots; our sabres cross and clink, but our snorting
steeds rear back, and will not let us kill each other. We wheel and
meet again, with deadlier aim, and more determined arm; we strike
without remorse--we strike for freedom!
_The Battle-field_!--The serried columns and the bristling guns--the
roar of cannon and the roll of drums--the bugle's wildest notes, the
cheer, the charge--the struggle hand to hand--the falling foeman and his
dying groan--the rout, retreat, the hoarse huzza for victory! I well
remember, but I cannot paint them.
Land of Anahuac! thou recallest other scenes, far different from these--
scenes of tender love or stormy passion. The strife is o'er--the
war-drum has ceased to beat, and the bugle to bray; the steed stands
chafing in his stall, and the conqueror dallies in the halls of the
conquered. Love is now the victor, and the stern soldier, himself
subdued, is transformed into a suing lover. In gilded hall or garden
bower, behold him on bended knee, whispering his soft tale in the ear of
some dark-eyed _dongella_, Andalusian or Aztec!
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Lovely land! In truth have I sweet memories of thee; for who could
traverse thy fields without beholding some fair flower, ever after to be
borne upon his bosom! And yet, not all my souvenirs are glad. Pleasant
and painful, sweet and sad, they thrill my heart with alternate throes.
But the sad emotions have been tempered by time, and the glad ones, at
each returning tide, seem tinged with brighter glow. In thy bowers, as
elsewhere, roses must be plucked from thorns; but in memory's mellowed
light I see not the thorns--I behold only the bright and beautiful
roses.