The Rifle Rangers | Page 5

purple legumes, the "algarobo"
(carob-tree), and the thorny "mezquite"; and, rising over all the rest, I
descry the tall, slender stem of the Fouquiera splendens, with panicles
of cube-shaped crimson flowers.
There is less of animal life here; but even these wild ridges have their
denizens. The cochineal insect crawls upon the cactus leaf, and huge
winged ants build their clay nests upon the branches of the acacia-tree.
The ant-bear squats upon the ground, and projects his glutinous tongue
over the beaten highway, where the busy insects rob the mimosse of
their aromatic leaves. The armadillo, with his bands and rhomboidal
scales, takes refuge in the dry recesses of the rocks, or, clewing himself
up, rolls over the cliff to escape his pursuer. Herds of cattle, half wild,
roam through the glassy glades or over the tufted ridges, lowing for
water; and black vultures (zopilotes) sail through the cloudless heavens,
waiting for some scene of death to be enacted in the thickets below.
Here, too, I pass through scenes of cultivation. Here is the hut of the
peon and the rancho of the small proprietor; but they are structures of a
more substantial kind than in the region of the palm. They are of stone.
Here, too, is the hacienda, with its low white walls and prison-like
windows; and the pueblita, with its church and cross and gaily-painted
steeple. Here the Indian corn takes the place of the sugarcane, and I ride
through wide fields of the broad-leafed tobacco-plant. Here grow the
jalap and the guaiacum, the sweet-scented sassafras and the sanitary
copaiba.
I ride onward, climbing steep ridges and descending into chasms
(barrancas) that yawn deeply and gloomily. Many of these are
thousands of feet in depth; and the road that enables me to reach their
bottoms is often no more than a narrow ledge of the impending cliff,
running terrace-like over a foaming torrent.
Still onward and upward I go, until the "foot-hills" are passed, and I
enter a defile of the mountains themselves--a pass of the Mexican
Andes.

I ride through, under the shadow of dark forests and rocks of blue
porphyry. I emerge upon the other side of the sierra. A new scene opens
before my eyes--a scene of such soft loveliness that I suddenly rein up
my horse, and gaze upon it with mingled feelings of admiration and
astonishment. I am looking upon one of the "valles" of Mexico, those
great table-plains that lie within the Cordilleras of the Andes, thousands
of feet above ocean-level, and, along with these mountains, stretching
from the tropic almost to the shores of the Arctic Sea.
The plain before me is level, as though its surface were liquid. I see
mountains bounding it on all sides; but there are passes through them
that lead into other plains (valus). These mountains have no foot-hills.
They stand up directly from the plain itself, sometimes with sloping
conical sides--sometimes in precipitous cliffs.
I ride into the plain and survey its features. There is no resemblance to
the land I have left--the tierra caliente. I am now in the tierra templada.
New objects present themselves--a new aspect is before, a new
atmosphere around me. The air is colder, but it is only the temperature
of spring. To me it feels chilly, coming so lately from the hot lands
below; and I fold my cloak closely around me, and ride on.
The view is open, for the valu is almost treeless. The scene is no longer
wild. The earth has a cultivated aspect--an aspect of civilisation: for
these high plateaux--the tierras templadas--are the seat of Mexican
civilisation. Here are the towns--the great cities, with their rich
cathedrals and convents--here dwells the bulk of the population. Here
the rancho is built of unburnt bricks (adobe's)--a mud cabin, often
inclosed by hedges of the columnar cactus. Here are whole villages of
such huts, inhabited by the dark-skinned descendants of the ancient
Aztecs.
Fertile fields are around me. I behold the maguey of culture (Agave
Americana), in all its giant proportions. The lance-like blades of the zea
maize wave with a rich rustling in the breeze, for here that beautiful
plant grows in its greatest luxuriance. Immense plains are covered with
wheat, with capsicum, and the Spanish bean (frijoles). My eyes are
gladdened by the sight of roses climbing along the wall or twining the

portal. Here, too, the potato (Solanum tuberosum) flourishes in its
native soil; the pear and the pomegranate, the quince and the apple, are
seen in the orchard; and the cereals of the temperate zone grow side by
side with the Cucurbitacece of the tropics.
I pass from one valu into another, by crossing a low ridge of the
dividing mountains. Mark the change! A surface of green is before me,
reaching on all sides