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ringing, triumphant shout of the original

"When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made;
All the world wondered,
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!"

is evidently lost in the changed version:

"Honor the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old-

How they rode onward."

When will poets learn to trust their own inspiration against all the cool criticism of the uninspired?

We have noticed this volume at

length, because, in the swarm of wretched books, it is so refreshing to meet a work which belongs to literature and the world. It is idle to ask whether it is worthy of Tennyson. Men of a certain power can no more do what is unworthy of them, than June can bear unworthy roses. If Tennyson sings, the poetry is as sure as light when the sun rises. And it is always the same sun, whether the day be a little darker or lighter. No man need feel that he was born too late, and in an age of exhausted human genius, when, as Tennyson and Thackeray conclude a poem and a novel, Dickens takes up the wondrous tale.

LIVING IN THE COUNTRY.

A Horse of another color-Ancient and Modern Points of a Horse-A suspected Organ and Retrograde Movement-Mr. Sparrowgrass buys the Horse that belongs to the Man's Brother-A valuable Hint as to Stable-building-A Morning Ride, and a Discovery-Old Dockweed-An Evening Ride, and a Catastrophe.

"IT

rains very hard," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, looking out of the window next morning. Sure enough, the rain was sweeping broadcast over the country, and the four Sparrowgrassii were flattening a quartette of noses against the window-panes, believing most faithfully the man would bring the horse that belonged to his brother, in spite of the elements. It was hoping against hope: no man having a horse to sell will trot him out in a rain-storm, unless he intend to sell him a bargain-but childhood is so credulous! The succeeding morning was bright, however, and down came the horse. He had been very cleverly groomed, and looked pleasant under the saddle. The man led him back and forth before the door. "There, Squire, 's as good a hos as ever stood on iron." Mrs. Sparrowgrass asked me what he meant by that. I replied it was a figurative way of expressing, in horse-talk, that he was as good a horse as ever stood in shoe-leather. "He's a handsome hos, Squire," said the man. replied that he did seem to be a goodlooking animal, but, said I, "he does not quite come up to the description of a horse I have read." "Whose hos was it?" said he. I replied it was the horse of Adonis. He said he didn't know him, but, he added, "there is so many hosses stolen, that the descriptions are stuck up

I

now pretty common." To put him at his ease for he seemed to think I suspected him of having stolen the horse), I told him the description I meant had been written some hundreds of years ago by Shakespeare, and repeated it— "Round-hooft, short-joynted, fetlocks shag and long,

Broad brest, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide,

High crest, short ears, strait legs, and passing strong,

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide."

"Squire," said he, "that will do for a song, but it ain't no p'ints of a good hos. Trotters now-a-days go in all shapes, big heads and little heads, big eyes and little eyes, short ears or long ones, thick tail and no tail; so as they have sound legs, good l'in, good barrel, and good stifle, and wind, Squire, and speed well, they'll fetch a price. Now, this animal is what I call a hos, Squire; he's got the p'ints, he's stylish, he's close-ribbed, a free goer, kind in harness-single or double-a good feeder." I asked him if being a good feeder was a desirable quality. He replied it was; "of course," said he, "if your hos is off his feed, he ain't good for nothin'. But what is the use," he added, "of me tellin' you the p'ints of a good hos? You're a hos man, Squire: you know-" "It seems to me," said I, "there is something

the matter with that left eye." "No, sir," said he, and with that he pulled down the horse's head, and, rapidly crooking his fore-finger at the suspected organ, said, "see thar-don't wink a bit." "But he should wink," I replied. "Not onless his eyes are weak," he said. To satisfy myself, I asked the man to let me take the bridle. He did so, and, as soon as I took hold of it, the horse started off in a remarkable retrograde movement, dragging me with him into my best bed of hybrid roses. Finding we were trampling down all the best plants, that had cost at auction from three-and-sixpence to seven shillings a-piece, and that the more I pulled, the more he backed, I finally let him have his own way, and jammed him stern-foremost into our largest climbingrose that had been all summer prickling itself, in order to look as much like a vegetable porcupine as possible. This unexpected bit of satire in his rear changed his retrograde movement to a sidelong bound, by which he flirted off half the pots on the balusters, upsetting my gladioluses and tuberoses in the pod, and leaving great splashes of mould, geraniums, and red pottery in the gravel walk. By this time his owner had managed to give him two pretty severe cuts with the whip, which made him unmanageable, so I let him go. We had a pleasant time catching him again, when he got among the Lima bean-poles; but his owner led him back with a very self-satisfied expression. Playful, ain't he, Squire?" I replied that I thought he was, and asked him if it was usual for his horse to play such pranks. He said it was not. "You see, Squire, he feels his oats, and hain't been out of the stable for a month. Use him, and he's as kind as a kitten." With that he put his foot in the stirrup, and mounted. The animal really looked very well as he moved around the grass plot, and, as Mrs. Sparrowgrass seemed to fancy him, I took a written guarantee that he was sound, and bought him. What I gave for him is a secret; I have not even told Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

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It is a mooted point whether it is best to buy your horse before you build your stable, or build your stable before you buy your horse. A horse without a stable is like a bishop without a church. Our neighbor, who is very ingenious, built his stable to fit his horse. took the length of his horse and a little over, as the measure of the depth of his stable; then he built it. He had a place beside the stall for his Rocka

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way carriage. When he came to put the Rockaway in, he found he had not allowed for the shafts! The ceiling was too low to allow them to be erected, so he cut two square port-holes in the back of his stable and run his shafts through them, into the chicken-house behind. Of course, whenever he wanted to take out his carriage, he had to un-roost all his fowls, who would sit on his shafts, night and day. But that was better than building a new stable. For my part, I determined to avoid mistakes, by getting the horse and carriage both first, and then building the stable. This plan, being acceptable to Mrs. Sparrowgrass, was adopted, as judicious and expedient. In consequence, I found myself with a horse on my hands with no place to put him. Fortunately, I was acquainted with a very honest man who kept a livery stable, where I put him to board by the month, and in order that he might have plenty of good oats, I bought some, which I gave to the ostler for that purpose. The man of whom I bought the horse did not deceive me, when he represented him as a great feeder. He ate more oats than all the rest of the horses put together in that stable.

It is a good thing to have a saddlehorse in the country. The early morning ride, when dawn and dew freshen and flush the landscape, is comparable to no earthly, innocent pleasure. Look at yonder avenue of road-skirting trees. Those marelous trunks, yet moist, are ruddy as obelisks of jasper! And abovesee the leaves blushing at the east! Hark at the music! interminable chains of melody linking earth and sky with its delicious magic. The little, countless wood-birds are singing! and now rolls up from the mown meadow the fragrance of cut grass and clover.

"No print of sheep-track yet hath crushed a flower;

The spider's woof with silvery dew is hung As it was beaded ere the daylight hour: The hooked bramble just as it was strung, When on each leaf the night her crystals flung,

Then hurried off, the dawning to elude."

"The rutted road did never seem so clean,

There is no dust upon the way-side thorn, For every bud looks out as if but newly born."

Look at the river with its veil of blue mist! and the grim, gaunt old palisades, as amiable in their orient crowns as old princes, out of the direct line of succession, over the royal cradle of the heir apparent!

There is one thing about early riding in the country; you find out a great many things which perhaps you would not have found out under ordinary circumstances. The first thing I found out was that my horse had the heaves. I had been so wrapt up in the beauties of the morning, that I had not observed, what perhaps everybody in that vicinity had observed, namely, that the new horse had been waking up all the sleepers on both sides of the road with an asthmatic whistle, of half-amile power. My attention was called to the fact by the village teamster, old Dockweed, who came banging after me in his empty cart, shouting out my name as he came. I must say, I have always disliked old Dockweed's familiarity; he presumes too much upon my good nature, when he calls me Sparrygrass before ladies at the dépôt, and by my Christian name always on the Sabbath, when he is dressed up. On this occasion, what with the horse's vocal powers and old Dockweed's, the affair was pretty well blown over the village before breakfast. "Sparrygrass," he said, as he came up, "that your hos?" I replied, that the horse was my property. "Got the heaves, ain't he? got 'em bad." Just then a window was pushed open, and the white head of the old gentleman, who sits in the third pew in front of cur pew in church, was thrust out. "What's the matter with your horse?" said he. "Got the heaves," replied old Dockweed, "got 'em bad." Then, I heard smptoms of opening a blind on the other side of the road, and as I did not wish to run the gauntlet of such inquiries, I rode off on a cross road; but not before I heard, above the sound of pulmonary complaint, the voice of old Dockweed explaining to the other cottage. "Sparrygrass-got a hos-got the heaves-got 'em bad." I was so much ashamed, that I took a round-about road to the stable, and instead of coming home like a fresh and gallant cavalier, on a hand gallop, I walked my purchase to the stable and dismounted with a chastened spirit.

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, with a face beaming all over with smiles, "how did you like your horse?" I replied that he was not quite so fine a saddle-horse as I had anticipated, but I added, brightening up, for good humor is sympathetic, "he will make a good horse, I think, after all, for you and the children to jog around with in a wagon." "Oh won't that be pleasant," said Mrs. Sparrowgrass."

Farewell, then, rural rides, and rural

roads o' mornings! Farewell song birds, and jasper colonnades, farewell misty river, and rocky palisades, farewell morning honey-breath, farewell stirrup and bridle, dawn and dew, we must jog on at a foot pace. After all, it is better for your horse to have the pulmonary complaint than have it yourself.

I had determined not to build a stable, nor to buy a carriage, until I had thoroughly tested my horse in harness. For this purpose, I hired a Rockaway of the stable-keeper. Then I put Mrs. Sparrowgrass and the young ones in the double seats, and took the ribbons for a little drive by the Nepperhan river road. The Nepperhan is a quiet stream that for centuries has wound its way through the ancient dorp of Yonkers. Geologists may trace the movements of time upon the rocky dial of the palisades, and estimate the age of the more modern Hudson by the foot-prints of scoriæ in the strata that fringe its banks, but it is impossible to escape the conviction, as you ride beside the Nepperhan, that it is a very old stream-that it is entirely independent of earthquakes-that its birth was of primeval antiquity-and, no doubt, that it meandered through Westchester valleys when the Hudson was only a fresh water lake, land-locked somewhere above Poughkeepsie. It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was sloping westward, the meadows

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-were all a-flame

In sunken light, and the mailed grasshopper Shrilled in the maize with ceaseless iteration."

We had passed Chicken Island, and the famous house with the stone gable and the one stone chimney, in which General Washington slept, as he made it a point to sleep in every old stone house in Westchester county, and had gone pretty far on the road, past the cemetery, when Mrs. Sparrowgrass said suddenly, "Dear, what is the matter with your horse." As I had been telling the children all the stories about the river on the way, I had managed to get my head pretty well inside of the carriage, and, at the time she spoke, was keeping a look-out in front with my back. The remark of Mrs. Sparrowgrass induced me to turn about, and I found the new horse behaving in a most unaccountable manner. He was going down hill with his nose almost to the ground, running the wagon first on this side and then on the other. I thought of the remark made by the man, and turning again to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,

said, "Playful, isn't he?" The next moment I heard something breaking away in front, and then the Rockaway gave a lurch and stood still. Upon examination I found the new horse had tumbled down, broken one shaft, gotten the other through the check rein so as to bring his head up with a round turn, and besides had managed to get one of the traces in a single hitch around his off hind leg. As soon as I had taken all the young ones and Mrs. Sparrowgrass out of the Rockaway, I set to work to liberate the horse, who was choking very fast with the check-rein. It is unpleasant to get your fishing line in a tangle when you are in a hurry for bites, but I never saw fishing line in such a tangle as that harness. However, I set to work with a penknife, and cut him out in such a way as to make getting home by our conveyance impossible. When he got up, he was the sleepiest looking horse I ever saw. "Mrs. Sparrowgrass," said I, "won't you stay here with the children until I go to the nearest farm-house?" Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied that she would. Then I took the horse with me to get him out of the way of the children, and went in search of assistance. The first thing the new horse did when he got about a quarter of a mile from the scene of the accident, was to tumble down a bank. Fortunately the bank was not over four feet high, but as I went with him, my trowsers were rent in a grievous place. While I was getting the new horse on his feet again, I saw a colored person approaching, who came to my assistance. The first thing he did was to pull out a large jack-knife, and the next thing he did was to open

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the new horse's mouth and run the blade two or three times inside of the new horse's gums. Then the new horse commenced bleeding. "Dah, sah," said the man, shutting up his jack-knife, "ef 't han't been for dat yer, your hos would a' bin a goner." "What was the matter with him?" said I. "Oh, he's ony jis got de blind staggers, das all." Say," said he, before I was half indignant enough at the man who had sold me such an animal, "say, ain't your name Sparrowgrass?" I replied that my name was Sparrowgrass. "Oh," said he, "I knows you, I brung some fowls once down to you place. I heerd about you, and you hos. Dats de hos dats got de heaves so bad, leh! leh! You better sell dat hos." I determined to take his advice, and employed him to lead my purchase to the nearest place where he would be cared for. Then I went back to the Rockaway, but met Mrs. Sparrowgrass and the children on the road coming to meet me. She had left a man in charge of the Rockaway. When we got to the Rockaway we found the man missing, also the whip and one cushion. We got another person to take care of the Rockaway, and had a pleasant walk home by moonlight. I think a moonlight night delicious upon the Hud

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EXPERIENCES IN MOUNT LEBANON.

THE climate of Beirut is depressingly hot during the summer, and most of the well-to-do foreign residents, and many natives, take wing in the month of June for some cool nest on Mt. Lebanon. The Hakeem invited me to count myself one of his nomadic family, and make a trial of life in the Syrian highlands. Various mules and horses were loaded with baggage and people, and dispatched in small caravans up the rough highways and byways of the mountain. The last party consisted of the Hakeem and his wife, myself, and an under-sized four-year-old individual, whom a certain grave missionary used to designate, in his kindly way, as the "small lad."

A sort of little Saharah has been formed south of Beirut by the sands of the sea; and this youthful desert, like its bigger brethren in various parts of the world, is continually encroaching on the green earth around it. With a barren intolerance, like the zeal of atheists, it seems to consider grass a nuisance, flowers a deformity, and trees a desecration of the soil. Every year, like an insidious disease, it creeps stealthily nearer the city, and has already sheeted over many once verdurous places with its shifting, glittering sterility. As it lay in herbless, pulverous heaps among the enclosures of perished gardens, it seemed to me a glaring image of the unproductiveness and death which has crept over the once intellectual and vigorous Orient. A very small degree of energy, on the part of the Beirutees, would save their land from its fatal presence; inasmuch as a single hedge of the large native cactus will resist its advances for many years, fronting as firmly against its desultory hostility as Napoleon's old infantry against the wild cavalry of the Mamelukes. Of late, something has been done in this way-not by the people, but by the government. Various pashas in Syria have signalized their respective advents by planting groves of pine across the track of the sandy crusade. These trees flourish courageously under difficulties, arrest the evil, at least so far as their shadow extends, and in time restore the soil beneath them to some degree of fertility.

Notwithstanding the labors of these

philanthropic pines, we had to walk our horses through abundant sand-rolls before reaching the green valley of the Nahr-Beirut. To our right rustled the faded green foliage of an enormous olive grove; to our left steamed the hot little delta of the river, richly productive of mulberry-trees and fever and ague. A few moments carried us across the green level, and brought us to the base of the long ascent. Mount Lebanon roads seem to have been constructed by goats for the use of goats; but Syrian horses, never having seen anything better, scramble up them with wonderful contentedness and agility. Mountaineers, from lofty dove-cotes of villages, met us continually on the way, often laden with produce for the city, yet skipping as lightly as birds down the steep rocky slopes. Women passed us, heavily burdened, not stooping under the weight, however, but stepping with a singular perpendicular strut, which eventually becomes habitual at all times. Many were provided with help-meets, in the shape of mules and donkeys, and put upon them the responsibility of backing the market merchandise down the difficult roads. Almost every one of these people gave us a pleasant smile as they met us, and, putting one hand to the breast, wished, May God bless your morning!"

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Under this hail of benedictions, we clambered one huge steep after another, stumbled into deep, fervent valleys, and rose on the opposite side to still more airy eminences. Beirut and its gardens draped themselves in the loveliness of distance; the sea grew grand and glorious, and immeasurable beneath us; white sails fluttered into sight on its horizon, and seemed to wave to us, as if in encouragement; long vistas opened down terraced valleys, dark-green at the bottom, with lemon and orange-trees, and mingling afar with other chasms of verdure; flatroofed villages looked up at us in wonder from deep recesses, or down in contempt from dizzy elevations above; and to the east rose the great uneven ridge of Lebanon, bare, brown, and trackless, or crowned in its higher regions with a chaplet of glittering snow.

A shocking bad goat-track tumbled

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