But I am anticipating my subject. In another chapter I propose, on the authority of Professor Neumann, a learned Sinologist of Munich, to set forth the proofs that in the last year of the fifth century a Buddhist priest, bearing the cloister name of Hoei-schin, or Universal Compassion, returned from America, and gave for the first time an official account of the country which he had visited, which account was recorded, and now remains as a simple fact among the annual registers of the government. [TO BE CONTINUED.] * * * * * THE SPUR OF MONMOUTH. 'Twas a little brass half-circlet, Deep gnawed by rust and stain, That the farmer's urchin brought me, Plowed up on old Monmouth plain; On that spot where the hot June sunshine Once a fire more deadly knew, And a bloodier color reddened Where the red June roses blew;-- Where the moon of the early harvest Looked down through the shimmering leaves, And saw where the reaper of battle Had gathered big human sheaves. Old Monmouth, so touched with glory-- So tinted with burning shame-- As Washington's pride we remember, Or Lee's long tarnished name. 'Twas a little brass half-circlet; And knocking the rust away, And clearing the ends and the middle From their buried shroud of clay, I saw, through the damp of ages And the thick disfiguring grime, The buckle-heads and the rowel Of a spur of the olden time. And I said--what gallant horseman, Who revels and rides no more, Perhaps twenty years back, or fifty, On his heel that weapon wore? Was he riding away to his bridal, When the leather snapped in twain? Was he thrown and dragged by the stirrup, With the rough stones crushing his brain? Then I thought of the Revolution, Whose tide still onward rolls-- Of the free and the fearless riders Of the 'times that tried men's souls.' What if, in the day of battle That raged and rioted here, It had dropped from the foot of a soldier, As he rode in his mad career? What if it had ridden with Forman, When he leaped through the open door, With the British dragoon behind him, In his race o'er the granary floor? What if--but the brain grows dizzy With the thoughts of the rusted spur; What if it had fled with Clinton, Or charged with Aaron Burr? But bravely the farmer's urchin Had been scraping the rust away; And cleansed from the soil that swathed it, The spur before me lay. Here are holes in the outer circle-- No common heel it has known, For each space, I see by the setting, Once held some precious stone. And here--not far from the buckle-- Do my eyes deceive their sight?-- Two letters are here engraven, That initial a hero's might! 'G.W.'! Saints of heaven! Can such things in our lives occur? Do I grasp such a priceless treasure? Was this _George Washington's spur_?