were not to come to her with the soft tones or the tears of sympathy;
then she went on thus, rather pluckily, I think:

"No counsel I ask, and no pity I need,
But bring me, O bring me, my gallant young steed,
With his high-arched neck and his nostril spread wide;
His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride.
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein,
The strength to my spirit returneth again,
The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind,
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind,--
My pride lifts its head, for a season, bowed down,
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown."

Now if the simple American girl prepared for a lonely gallop through the
woods, could so have thrilled with the fulness, joy, and strength of
young life; could have felt so royal, mounted on a half-broken, roughly-
groomed western colt (for that's what the "steed" really was), with few
fine points and no pedigree to speak of--what must the glorious exercise
have been to that great little Queen, re-enthroned on thoroughbred,
"highly-groomed," magnificent English horse-flesh?

Her Majesty has always been constant in her equine loves. Six of her
saddle-horses, splendidly caparisoned, walked proudly, as so many
Archbishops, in the coronation procession; and in the royal stables of
London and Windsor, her old favorites have been most tenderly cared for.
When she could no longer use them, she still petted them, and never
reproached them for having "outlived their usefulness."

Another writer from America, James Gordon Bennett, sent home, this