orsemanship at every successive vehicle they passed.

The piece of turf which Benson had promised his friend was not quite so
smooth as Newmarket heath, but it was more than three-quarters of a mile
long, and sufficiently level to be a great improvement on the heavy and
sandy road. So unaccustomed, however, are Americans to "riding on
grass," that Edwards could not be persuaded to quit the main path until
Benson had repeatedly challenged him to a trot on the green. As soon as
the two horses were fairly along-side they went off, without waiting the
signal from their riders, at a pace which kept Ashburner at a
hand-gallop. For awhile they were neck-and-neck, Benson and Charlie
hauling against each other, the rider with his weight thrown back in the
stirrups and laboring to keep his "fast crab" from breaking, while the
mare struck out beautifully with a moderate pull of the rein. Then as
Benson, who carried no whip, began to get his horse more in hand, he
raised a series of yells in true jockey fashion, to encourage his own
animal and to break up Edwards's. The mare skipped--Tom caught her in an
instant, but she fell off in her stroke from being held up, and Charlie
headed her a length; then he gave her her head, and she broke--once,
twice, three times; and every time Benson drew in his horse, who was now
well settled down to his work, and waited for Edwards to come on. At
last, his mare and he both lost their tempers at once. She started for a
run, and he dropped the reins on her back and let her go. At the same
instant Benson stuck both spurs into Charlie, who was a rare combination
of trotter and runner, and away went the two at full gallop. Ashburner's
hack was left behind at once, but he could see them going on close
together, tooling their horses capitally; Edwards's riding, being the
more graceful, and Benson's the more workmanlike; the mare leading a
trifle, as he thought, and Charlie pressing her close. Suddenly Edwards
waved his cane as in triumph, but the next moment he and his mare
disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed them up, while Benson's horse
sheered off ten feet to the left.

TO ONE IN AFFLICTION.

By John R. Thompson.

From the Southern Literary Messenger.

Dear friend! if word of mine could seal
The bitter fount of all thy tears,
And, through the future's cloudy years,
Some glimpse of sunshine yet reveal--

That word I might not dare to speak:
A father