The Rifle Rangers | Page 2

like a ribbon of silver, the selvage
of the Mexican Sea. It separates the turquoise blue of the water from
the emerald green of the forest, contrasting with each by its dazzling
whiteness. Its surface is far from being level, as is usual with the
ocean-strand. On the contrary, its millions of sparkling atoms, rendered
light by the burning sun of the tropic, have been lifted on the wings of
the wind, and thrown into hills and ridges hundreds of feet in height,
and trending in every direction like the wreaths of a great snow-drift. I
advance with difficulty over these naked ridges, where no vegetation
finds nourishment in the inorganic heap. I drag myself wearily along,
sinking deeply at every step. I climb sand-hills of strange and fantastic
shapes, cones, and domes, and roof-like ridges, where the sportive wind
seems to have played with the plastic mass, as children with potter's
clay. I encounter huge basins like the craters of volcanoes, formed by
the circling swirl; deep chasms and valleys, whose sides are walls of
sand, steep, often vertical, and not unfrequently impending with
comb-like escarpments.

All these features may be changed in a single night, by the magical
breath of the "norther". The hill to-day may become the valley
to-morrow, and the elevated ridge have given place to the sunken
chasm.
Upon the summits of these sand-heights I am fanned by the cool breeze
from the Gulf. I descend into the sheltered gorges, and am burned by a
tropic sun, whose beams, reflected from a thousand crystals, torture my
eyes and brain. In these parts the traveller is often the victim of the
coup-de-soleil.
Yonder comes the "norte" Along the northern horizon the sky suddenly
changes from light blue to a dark lead colour. Sometimes rumbling
thunder with arrowy lightning portends the change; but if neither seen
nor heard, it is soon felt. The hot atmosphere, that, but a moment before,
encased me in its glowing embrace, is suddenly pierced by a chill
breeze, that causes my skin to creep and my frame to shiver. In its icy
breath there is fever--there is death; for it carries on its wings the
dreaded "vomito". The breeze becomes a strong wind--a tempest. The
sand is lifted upwards, and floats through the air in dun clouds, here
settling down, and there rising up again. I dare not face it, any more
than I would the blast of the simoom. I should be blinded if I did, or
blistered by the "scud" of the angular atoms. The "norther" continues
for hours, sometimes for days. It departs as suddenly as it came,
carrying its baneful influence to lands farther south.
It is past, and the sand-hills have assumed a different shape. The ridges
trend differently. Some have disappeared, and valleys yawn open where
they stood!
Such are the shores of Anahuac--the shores of the Mexican Sea.
Without commerce--almost harbourless--a waste of sand; but a waste of
striking appearance and picturesque beauty.
----
To horse and inwards! Adieu to the bright blue waters of the Gulf!

We have crossed the sand-ridges of the coast, and are riding through
the shadowy aisles of the forest. It is a tropical forest. The outlines of
the leaves, their breadth, their glowing colours all reveal this. The eye
roams with delight over a frondage that partakes equally of the gold
and the green. It revels along waxen leaves, as those of the magnolia,
the plantain, and the banana. It is led upward by the rounded trunks of
the palms, that like columns appear to support the leafy canopy above.
It penetrates the network of vines, or follows the diagonal direction of
gigantic llianas, that creep like monster serpents from tree to tree. It
gazes with pleased wonder upon the huge bamboo-briars and tree-ferns.
Wherever it turns, flowers open their corollas to meet its delighted
glance--tropical tree-flowers, blossoms of the scarlet vine, and
trumpet-shaped tubes of the bignonia.
I turn my eyes to every side, and gaze upon a flora to me strange and
interesting. I behold the tall stems of the palma real, rising one hundred
feet without leaf or branch, and supporting a parachute of feathery
fronds that wave to the slightest impulse of the breeze. Beside it I see
its constant companion, the Indian cane--a small palm-tree, whose
slender trunk and low stature contrast oddly with the colossal
proportions of its lordly protector. I behold the corozo--of the same
genus with the palma real--its light feathery frondage streaming
outwards and bending downwards, as if to protect from the hot sun the
globe-shaped nuts that hang in grape-like clusters beneath. I see the
abanico, with its enormous fan-shaped leaves; the wax-palm distilling
its resinous gum; and the acrocomia, with its thorny trunk and
enormous racemes of golden fruits. By