to the personal appearance of the horse. I
protest against the conventional idea of
beauty, as attached to that animal. I think
his nose too long, his forehead too low, and
his legs (except in the case of the cart-horse)
ridiculously thin by comparison with the
size of his body. Again, considering how
big an animal he is, I object to the
contemptible delicacy of his constitution. Is he
not the sickliest creature in creation? Does
any child catch cold as easily as a horse?
Does he not sprain his fetlock, for all his
appearance of superior strength, as easily as
I sprained my ankle? Furthermore, to take
him from another point of view, what a
helpless wretch he is! No fine lady requires
more constant waiting-on than a horse.
Other animals can make their own toilette:
he must have a groom. You will tell me
that this is because we want to make his
coat artificially glossy. Glossy! Come home
with me, and see my cat,—my clever cat,
who can groom herself! Look at your own
dog! See how the intelligent creature curry-
combs himself with his own honest teeth!
Then, again, what a fool the horse is, what a
poor, nervous fool! He will start at a piece
of white paper in the road as if it was a lion.
His one idea, when he hears a noise that he
is not accustomed to, is to run away from it.
What do you say to those two common
instances of the sense and courage of this
absurdly overpraised animal? I might
multiply them to two hundred, if I chose to
exert my mind and waste my breath, which
I never do. I prefer coming at once to my
last charge against the horse, which is the
most serious of all, because it affects his
moral character. I accuse him boldly, in his
capacity of servant to man, of slyness and
treachery. I brand him publickly, no matter
how mild he may look about the eyes, or how
sleek he may be about the coat, as a systematic
betrayer, whenever he can get the chance,
of the confidence reposed in him. What do
you mean by laughing and shaking your head
at me?"

"Oh, Thomas, Thomas! " said Goodchild.
"You had better give me my hat; you had
better let me get you that physic."

"I will let you get anything you like,
including a composing draught for yourself,"
said Thomas, irritably alluding to his fellow-
apprentice's inexhaustible activity, "if you
will only sit quiet for five minutes longer,
and hear me out. I say again the horse is a
betrayer of the confidence reposed in him;
and that opinion, let me add, is drawn from
my own personal experience, and is not based
on any fanciful theory whatever. You shall
have two instances, two overwhelming
instances. Let me start the first of these by
asking, what is the distinguishing quality
which the Shetland Pony has arrogated to
himself, and is still perpetually trumpeting
through the world by means of popular
report and books on Natural History? I
see the answer in your face: it is the quality
of being Sure-Footed. He professes to have
other virtues, such as hardiness and strength,
which you may discover on trial; but the
one thing which he insists on your believing,
when you get on his back, is that he may be
safely depended on not to tumble down with
you. Very good. Some years ago, I was in
Shetland with a party of friends. They
insisted on taking me with them to the top of
a precipice that overhung the sea. It was a
great distance off, but they all determined to
walk to it except me. I was wiser then
than I was with you at Carrock, and I determined
to be carried to the precipice. There
was no carriage road in the island, and
nobody offered (in consequence, as I suppose, of
the imperfectly-civilised state of the country)
to bring me a sedan-chair, which is naturally
what I should have liked best. A Shetland
pony was produced instead. I remembered
my Natural History, I recalled popular
report, and I got on the little beast's back,
as any other man would have done in my
position, placing implicit confidence in the
sureness of his feet. And how did he repay
that confidence? Brother Francis, carry your
mind on from morning to noon. Picture to
yourself a howling wilderness of grass and
bog, bounded by low stony hills. Pick out
one particular spot in that imaginary scene,
and sketch me in it, with outstretched arms,
curved back, and heels in the air, plunging
headforemost into a black patch of water and
mud. Place just behind me the legs, the
body, and the head of a sure-footed Shetland
pony, all stretched flat on the ground, and
you will have produced an accurate
representation of a very lamentable fact. And
the moral device, Francis, of this picture will
be to testify that when gentlemen put
confidence in the legs of Shetland ponies, they
will find to their cost that they are leaning
on nothing but broken reeds. There is my
first instance—and what have you got to say to that?"

"Nothing, but that I want my hat,"
answered Goodchild, starting up and walking
restlessly about the room.

"You shall have it in a minute," rejoined
Thomas. "My second instance "—
(Goodchild groaned, and sat down again)—
"My second instance is more appropriate to the
present time and place, for it refers to a
race-horse. Two years ago an excellent
friend of mine, who was desirous of
prevailing on me to take regular exercise, and
who was well enough acquainted with the
weakness of my legs to expect no very active
compliance with his wishes on their part,
offered to make me a present of one of his
horses. Hearing that the animal in question,
had started in life on the turf, I declined
accepting the gift with many thanks; adding,
by way of explanation, that I looked on a
race-horse as a kind of embodied hurricane,
upon which no sane man of my character and