------------------------------------------------

_The Skirmish_!--Morning breaks. The fragrant forest is silent, and the
white blue light is just tinging the treetops. A shot rings upon the
air: it is the warning-gun of the picket-sentinel, who comes galloping
in upon the guard. The enemy approaches! `To horse!' the bugle thrills
in clear loud notes. The slumberers spring to their feet--they seize
their rifles, pistols, and sabres, and dash through the smouldering
fires till ashes cloud the air. The steeds snort and neigh; in a trice
they are saddled, bridled, and mounted; and away sweeps the troop along
the forest road.

The enemy is in sight--a band of _guerilleros_, in all their
picturesqueness of _manga_ and _serape_--of scarlet, purple, and gold.
Lances, with shining points and streaming pennons, o'ertop the trees.

The bugle sounds the charge; its notes are drowned by the charging
cheer. We meet our swarthy foemen face to face; spear-thrusts are
answered by pistol-shots; our sabres cross and clink, but our snorting
steeds rear back, and will not let us kill each other. We wheel and
meet again, with deadlier aim, and more determined arm; we strike
without remorse--we strike for freedom!

_The Battle-field_!--The serried columns and the bristling guns--the
roar of cannon and the roll of drums--the bugle's wildest notes, the
cheer, the charge--the 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!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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 ha