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.
