ne
yourself reading a number of the Houyhnhnms Gazette, giving an account
of such an experiment.

"MAN-TAMING EXTRAORDINARY.

"The soft-hoofed semi-quadruped recently captured was subjected to the
art of our distinguished man-tamer in presence of a numerous
assembly. The animal was led in by two stout ponies, closely confined
by straps to prevent his sudden and dangerous tricks of
shoulder-hitting and foot-striking. His countenance expressed the
utmost degree of ferocity and cunning.

"The operator took a handful of _budding lilac-leaves_, and
crushing them slightly between his hoofs, so as to bring out their
peculiar fragrance, fastened them to the end of a long pole and held
them towards the creature. Its expression changed in an instant,--it
drew in their fragrance eagerly, and attempted to seize them with its
soft split hoofs. Having thus quieted his suspicious subject, the
operator proceeded to tie a _blue hyacinth_ to the end of the
pole and held it out towards the wild animal. The effect was
magical. Its eyes filled as if with raindrops, and its lips trembled
as it pressed them to the flower. After this it was perfectly quiet,
and brought a measure of corn to the man-tamer, without showing the
least disposition to strike with the feet or hit from the shoulder."

That will do for the Houyhnhnms Gazette.--Do you ever wonder why poets
talk so much about flowers? Did you ever hear of a poet who did not
talk about them? Don't you think a poem, which, for the sake of being
original, should leave them out, would be like those verses where the
letter _a_ or _e_ or some other is omitted? No,--they will
bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end
of time, always old and always new. Why should we be more shy of
repeating ourselves than the spring be tired of blossoms or the night
of stars? Look at Nature. She never wearies of saying over her floral
pater-noster. In the crevices of Cyclopean walls,--in the dust where
men lie, dust also,--on the mounds that bury huge cities, the Birs
Nemroud and the Babel-heap,--still that same sweet prayer and
benediction. The Amen! of Nature is always a flower.

Are you tired of my trivial personalities,--those splashes and streaks
of sentiment, sometimes perhaps of sentimentality, which you may see
when I show you my heart's corolla as if it were a tulip? Pray, do
not give yourself the trouble to fancy me an idiot whose conceit it is
to treat himself as an