of high intelligence and tender sensibilities who loved his people and mingled freely with them would gain a knowledge of suffering and sorrow; but we are justified in passing all such fancies, not only on account of their intrinsic improbability, but because the great Asvaghosha, who wrote about the beginning of our era, knew nothing of them.

[14]To suppose that the Aryan races when they emigrated to India or Europe left behind them their most valuable possession, the Nisaean horse, is to suppose them lacking in the qualities of thrift and shrewdness which have distinguished their descendants. That the Nisaean horse of the table-lands of Asia was the horse of the armored knights of the middle ages and substantially the Percheron horse of France, I had a curious proof: In Layard's Nineveh is a picture of a Nisaean horse found among the ruins, which would have been taken as a good picture Of a Percheron stallion I once owned, who stood for the picture here drawn of what I regard as his undoubted ancestor.

[15]Marco Polo speaks of the breed of horses here attempted to be described as "excellent, large, strong and swift, said to be of the race of Alexander's Bucephalus."

[16]It is said that the Mongolians in their career of conquest could move an army of 500,000 fifty miles a day, a speed out of the question with all the facilities of modern warfare.

[17]See Bret Harte's beautiful poem, "Sell Patchin," and also an article on the "Horses of the Plains," in The Century, January, 1889.

BOOK II.

  She passed along, and then the king and prince
  With their attendants wheeled in line and moved
  Down to the royal stand, each to his place.

The trumpets sound, and now the games begin.

  But see the scornful curl of Culture's lip
  At such low sports! Dyspeptic preachers hear
  Harangue the sleepers on their sinfulness!
  Hear grave philosophers, so limp and frail
  They scarce can walk God's earth to breathe his air,
  Talk of the waste of time! Short-sighted men!
  God made the body just to fit the mind,
  Each part exact, no scrimping and no waste—
  Neglect the body and you cramp the soul.

  First brawny wrestlers, shining from the bath,
  Wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye,
  After long play clinch close, arms twined, knees locked,
  Each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still
  As if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop,
  Or else by power of magic changed to stone
  In that supremest moment, when a breath
  Or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale;
  And when they fall the shouts from hill to hill
  Sound like the voices of the mighty deep,
  As wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound shore.

  Then boxers, eye to eye and foot to foot,
  One arm at guard, the other raised to strike.

  The hurlers of the quoit next stand in line,
  Measure the distance with experienced eye,
  Adjust the rings, swing them with growing speed,
  Until at length on very tiptoe poised,
  Like Mercury just lighted on the earth,
  With mighty force they whirl them through the air.

  And then the spearmen, having for a mark
  A lion rampant, standing as in life,
  So distant that it seemed but half life-size,
  Each vital part marked with a little ring.
  And when the spears were hurled, six trembling stood
  Fixed in the beast, piercing each vital part,
  Leaving the victory in even scale.
  For these was set far off a lesser mark,
  Until at length by chance, not lack of skill,
  The victory so long in doubt was won.
  And then again the people wildly shout,
  The prince victor and nobly vanquished praised.

  Next runners, lithe and light, glide round the plain,
  Whose flying feet like Mercury's seemed winged,
  Their chests expanded, and their swinging arms
  Like oars to guide and speed their rapid course;
  And as they passed along the people cheered
  Each well-known master of the manly art.

  Then archers, with broad chests and brawny arms
  Such as the blacksmith's heavy hammer wields
  With quick, hard blows that make the anvil ring
  And myriad sparks from the hot iron fly;
  A golden eagle on a screen their mark,
  So distant that it seemed a sparrow's size—
  "For," said the prince, "let not this joyful day
  Give anguish to the smallest living thing."
  They strain their bows until their muscles seem
  Like knotted cords, the twelve strings twang at once,
  And the ground trembles as at the swelling tones
  Of mighty organs or the thunder's roll.
  Two arrows pierce the eagle, while the rest
  All pierce the screen. A second mark was set,
  When lo! high up in air two lines of swans,
  Having one leader, seek their northern nests,
  Their white plumes shining in the noonday sun,
  Calling each other in soft mellow notes.
  Instant one of the people cries "A mark!"
  Whereat the thousands shout "A mark! a mark!"
  One of the archers chose the leader, one the last.
  Their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates
  As if sore wounded, while the first came down
  Like a great eagle swooping for its prey,
  And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced,
  Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood.
  Whereat the people shout, and shout again,
  Until the hills repeat the mighty sound.
  The prince gently but sadly raised the bird,
  Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear,
  And gave to one to care for and to cure.

  And now the people for the chariot-race
  Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand,
  By folding doors hid from the public view,
  The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits
  And paw the ground, impatient for the start.
  The charioteers alert, with one strong hand
  Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash.
  Timour—a name that since has filled the world,
  A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept
  As with destruction's broom fair India's plains—
  With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds;
  Azim, from Cashmere's rugged lovely vale,
  His prancing Babylonians firmly held;
  Channa, from Ganges' broad and sacred stream,
  With bit and word checked his Nisaean three;
  While Devadatta, cousin to the prince,
  Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms
  As fondest mothers to their children use;
  "Atair, my pet! Mira, my baby, hush!
  Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!"
  With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide,
  And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw
  Some distant object in their desert home.

  At length the gates open as of themselves,
  When at the trumpet's sound the steeds dash forth
  As by one spirit moved, under tight rein,
  And neck and neck they thunder down the plain,
  While rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels.
  But weight, not lack of nerve or spirit, tells;
  Azim and Channa urge their steeds in vain,
  By Tartar and light Arab left behind
  As the light galley leaves the man-of-war;
  They sweat and labor ere a mile is gained,
  While their light rivals pass the royal