I have often thought that in the eye of no other animal is there so _reflective_ an expression, as in that of a horse. There is a depth of honesty and _goodness_ in that full shining glance, that vouches for the intrinsic worth of his character—that seems to denote courage, generosity, gratitude, all the nobler qualities which man would fain arrogate to himself, and a sensitive disposition, which is hurt, rather than angered, by an injury. When irritated, nay even maddened, by ill-usage, how soon he is soothed and appeased by a little judicious kindness! How he appreciates approbation! How willing he is to expend his force, his energies, his very life, for the sake of a kind word, or a well-timed caress from the hand he is so proud to obey! It seems to me that his is the brute nature which most resembles that of the best and bravest of the human race—true, loving, and courageous; writhing under injury, but giving all, freely and generously still; springing to the kind word or gesture, and always ready at the call of the voice he loves; game to the back-bone, and staunch to the last drop of his blood. This may seem a far-fetched parallel, and my reader may smile at me for a hot-brained enthusiast; but I love a good horse from my heart, and that’s the truth! Nevertheless, although the grey’s head and neck may have seemed to argue an Eastern origin, the size and power of his lengthy frame were as far removed as possible from the attenuated proportions, the spare lean quarters of the indigenous Arab. He looked like getting through deep ground, and _shooting_ well into the next field, whatever might be the size or nature of the fence that opposed his progress. I thought, on _such_ a horse as that, there was no obstacle should stop me in the Soakington country; and I felt a momentary disgust while I compared his noble beauty with the more plebeian appearance of Tipple Cider and Apple-Jack. “He looks a right good one,” said I, “and as fit to go as a man can get him. What is his name?” “We call him the ‘King of Diamonds,’” replied the groom, modestly accepting, and passing over, my compliment to his own skill, as implied in approval of the horse’s condition. “Next to him is ‘Prince Charming;’ and the chestnut mare’s name is ‘Beller Donner;’ and the bay in the far stall, he’s ‘Lady-Killer;’ that’s all our stud, sir,” he added, touching his hat. “We don’t keep any hack; they’re no use to _us_, hacks ain’t.” “I suppose the grey’s the best of them,” I observed, reverting to the beautiful animal who was now being covered up once more.