The present is the second of the series of Indian tales, commencing withthe "Trail-Hunter," and which will be completed in one more volume,entitled the "Trapper's Daughter." It must be understood, however, thateach of these volumes is complete in itself, although the charactersalready introduced to the reader are brought on the stage again, andcontinue their surprising adventures through succeeding works. For this,Gustave Aimard can quote the example of his predecessor, FenimoreCooper, whose "Deer Slayer," appears in a long succession of volumes,not necessarily connected, but which all repay perusal. I believe thatfew who have commenced with one volume of Cooper's Indian tales, buthave been anxious to follow the hero through the remainder of hisadventures; and I sincerely trust that a perusal of the "Pirates of thePrairies" may lead to a demand for the other volumes by the same author,which have already appeared, and for those which have still to follow.
LASCELLES WRAXALL.
Two months have elapsed since we left the Trail-Hunter commencing hisadventurous journey, and we are in the heart of the desert. Before usimmensity is unfolded. What pen, however eloquent, would venture todescribe those illimitable oceans of verdure to which the NorthAmericans have in their imagery, given the poetic and mysterious name ofthe Far West? That is to say, the truly unknown region, with its scenesat once grand and striking, soft and terrible; unbounded prairies inwhich may be found that rich and luxuriant Flora, against whose magicgrowth only the Indian can successfully struggle.
These plains, at the first glance, offer the dazzled eye of the rashtraveller who ventures on them a vast carpet of verdure embossed withflowers, furrowed by large streams; and they appear of a desperateregularity, mingling in the horizon with the azure of the sky.
It is only by degrees, when the sight grows accustomed to the picture,that, gradually mastering the details, the visitor notices here andthere rather lofty hills, the escarped sides of the water courses, and athousand unexpected accidents which agreeably break that monotony bywhich the eye is at first saddened, and which the lofty grass and thegiant productions of the Flora completely conceal.
How can we enumerate the products of this primitive nature, which forman inextricable confusion and interlacement, describing majestic curves,producing grand arcades, and offering, in a word, the most splendid andsublime spectacle it was ever given to man to admire through its eternalcontrasts and striking harmony?
Above the gigantic ferns, the mezquite, the cactuses, nopales,larches, and fruit-laden arbutuses, rise the mahogany tree with itsoblong leaves, the moriche, or pine tree, the abanijo, whose wideleaves are shaped like a fan, the pirijao, from which hang enormousclusters of golden fruit, the royal palm whose stem is denuded offoliage, and balances its majestic and tufted head at the slightestbreath; the Indian cane, the lemon tree, the guava, the plantain, thechinciroya, or intoxicating fruit, the oak, the pine tree, and the waxpalm, distilling its resinous gum.
Then, there are immense fields of dahlias, flowers whiter than the snowsof the Caffre de Perote or the Chimborazo, or redder than bl