Well does it deserve the name. Come one moment to the corner of this piazza. Look down the long avenues. See the symmetrical verdant arches, formed by the boughs of the antique elms, bending toward each other in loving fraternity; and see the snow-white houses at their feet, their court-yards smiling with flowers; and see the still more smiling faces that glance behind their transparent windows. That will do—you have stared long enough at the demure beauty behind the green blinds. Look this way, and witness the refined taste exhibited in the graceful cottages, as they stand in relief against the dark back-ground of the forest,—the Grecian column, the Gothic arch, the Italian verandah, cottage and temple, all spread around you like the city of your dreams. Truly it seems, as it mostly is, the abode of retired gentlemen—a very Decameron sort of a place in this working-day world of ours. But, allons! Are we not Americans? _Why_ should we rest? To breakfast—behold a regular Yankee feast. Snow-white bread, and golden butter,—chickens that one short hour since dreamed of bins of corn and acres of oats on their roosts in the lofty barn,—steaks, pies, tea, preserves, the well-browned cakes, and last, not least, the sparkling amber cider. Blessings on the heart of the nice looking damsel at the coffee urn, with her red cheeks and neat check apron. But, egad! my dear friend—prudence! hold up—we have to ascend the mountain, and you will not find the feast that you are stowing away with such Dalgetty industry, likely to improve your wind. That last hot roll lengthens our ascent just one quarter of an hour. There! the horses are neighing, and impatiently champing the bit at the door. Are you ready? Come then. Look out, lest that fiery devil throw you on the bosom of our common mother, earth!—your bones would find her a step-dame—those flaming nostrils are sworn enemies to your long spur gaffs. But here we go! How balmy and delightful the cool air of the morning!—the verdant grass rises gracefully—the wild flower shakes its tiny bells, and drinks the dewy diamond glittering on its lips, as it waves gently o’er them. The rich yellow sun mocks the trees, as it rolls out their broad shadows on the velvet turf beneath—while from knoll and waving mullen stalk, the meadow-lark, with outstretched neck and piercing eye, utters his sweet notes in almost delirious rapture. We clear the broad meadows. Our very horses, with ears erect, gather speed with every bound, and seem ready to cry ha! ha! We are the fabled centaurs of old.