niversal love.

[13]I am aware that some Buddhist authors whom Arnold has followed in
his "Light of Asia" make Buddha but little better than a stale
prisoner, and would have us believe that the glimpses he got of the
ills that flesh is heir to were gained in spite of all precautions, as
he was occasionally taken out of his rose embowered, damsel filled
prison-house, and not as any prince 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,
Ea