The War Trail | Page 2

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.
CHAPTER TWO.
A MEXICAN FRONTIER VILLAGE.
A Mexican pueblita on the banks of the Rio Bravo del Norte--a mere
rancheria, or hamlet. The quaint old church of Morisco-Italian style,
with its cupola of motley japan, the residence of the cura, and the
house of the alcalde, are the only stone structures in the place. These
constitute three sides of the piazza, a somewhat spacious square. The
remaining side is taken up with shops or dwellings of the common
people. They are built of large unburnt bricks (adobes), some of them
washed with lime, others gaudily coloured like the proscenium of a
theatre, but most of them uniform in their muddy and forbidding brown.
All have heavy jail-like doors, and windows without glass or sash. The
reja of iron bars, set vertically, opposes the burglar, not the weather.
From the four corners of the piazza, narrow, unpaved, dusty lanes lead

off to the country, for some distance bordered on both sides by the
adobe houses. Still farther out, on the skirts of the village, and sparsely
placed, are dwellings of frailer build, but more picturesque appearance;
they are ridge-roofed structures, of the split trunks of that gigantic lily,
the arborescent yucca. Its branches form the rafters, its tough fibrous
leaves the thatch. In these ranchitos dwell the poor peons, the
descendants of the conquered race.
The stone dwellings, and those of mud likewise, are flat-roofed, tiled or
cemented--sometimes tastefully japanned--with a parapet breast-high
running round the edge. This flat roof is the azotea, characteristic of
Mexican architecture.
When the sun is low and the evening cool, the azotea is a pleasant
lounging-place, especially when the proprietor of the house has a taste
for flowers; then it is converted into an aerial garden, and displays the
rich flora for which the picture-land of Mexico is justly celebrated. It is
just the place to enjoy a cigar, a glass of pinole, or, if you prefer it,
Catalan. The smoke is wafted away, and the open air gives a relish to
the beverage. Besides, your eye is feasted; you enjoy the privacy of a
drawing-room, while you command what is passing in the street. The
slight parapet gives security, while hindering a too free view from
below; you see, without being seen. The world moves on, busied with
earthly affairs, and does not think of looking up.
I stand upon such an azotea: it is that over the house of the alcalde; and
his being the tallest roof in the village, I command a view of all the
others. I can see beyond them all, and note the prominent features of
the surrounding country. My eye wanders with delight over the deep
rich verdure of its tropic vegetation; I can even distinguish its more
characteristic forms--the cactus, the yucca, and the agave. I observe that
the village is girdled by a belt of open ground--cultivated fields--where
the maize waves its silken tassels in the breeze, contrasting with the
darker leaves of the capsicums and bean-plants (frijoles). This open
ground is of limited extent. The chapparal, with its thorny thicket of
acacias, mimosae, ingas, and robinias--a perfect maze of leguminous
trees--hems it in; and so near is the verge of this jungle, that I can

distinguish its undergrowth of stemless sabal palms and bromelias--the
sun-scorched and scarlet leaves of the pita plant shining in the distance
like lists of fire.
This propinquity of the forest to the little pueblita bespeaks the
indolence of the inhabitants; perhaps not. It must be remembered