CHAPTER ONE.
THE LAND OF ANAHUAC.
Away over the dark, wild waves of the rolling Atlantic--away beyond the summer islands of the Western Ind--lies a lovely land.

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.
Go with us, tourist! Fear not.