No! his colour was chesnut; and it is a saying founded on experience that a chesnut horse is always a good one, and will do more work than any horse of the same size of any other colour. The horse which Wellington rode at the Battle of Waterloo for fifteen hours without dismounting, was a small chesnut horse. This was the ‘thorough-bred red chestnut-charger’ mentioned by Sir George Head when he relates an anecdote of the Duke of Wellington and Sir Thomas Picton, who, contrary to the Duke's intentions, seemed at that moment likely to bring on an engagement, not long after the battle of Orthez. Having learnt where Sir Thomas was, the Duke set spurs to his horse; the horse “tossed up its head with a snort and impetuously sprang forward at full speed, and in a few minutes, _ventre à terre_, transported its gallant rider, his white cloak streaming in the breeze, to the identical copse distant about half a mile from whence the firing of the skirmishers proceeded. As horse and rider furiously careered towards the spot, I fancied,” says Sir George, “I perceived by the motion of the animal's tail, a type, through the medium of the spur, of the quickened energies of the noble Commander, on the moment when for the first time he caught view of Picton.” This famous horse, named Copenhagen because he was foaled about the time of the expedition against that City, died on the 12th of February, 1836, at Strathfieldsaye of old age; there, where he had passed the last ten years of his life in perfect freedom, he was buried, and by the Duke's orders a salute was fired over his grave. The Duchess used to wear a bracelet made of his hair. Would that I had some of thine in a broche, O Nobs! Copenhagen has been wrongly described in a newspaper as slightly made. A jockey hearing this said of a horse, would say, “_aye a thready thing_;” but Copenhagen was a large horse in a small compass, as compact a thorough bred horse as ever run a race,—which he had done before he was bought and sold to the Duke in Spain. “He was as sweet gentle a creature,” says a right good old friend of mine, “as I ever patted, and he came of a gentle race, by the mother's side; she was Meteora, daughter of Meteor, and the best trait in her master's character, Westminster's Marquis, was that his eyes dropped tears when they told him she had won a race, but being over weighted had been much flogged.” He was worthy, like the horses of the Greek Patriarch Theophylact, to have been fed with pistachios, dates, dried grapes, and figs steeped in the finest wines,—that is to say if he would have preferred this diet to good oats, clean hay, and sometimes in case of extraordinary exertion an allowance of bread soaked in ale.