From what we have said above, it appears that there are various standards of perfection for the horse’s form, and that there must be a certain vagueness in any general description which shall include them all. It is not a little remarkable that we are indebted to Terentius Varro, who wrote about the year 70 B.C., for a description of the horse which, in the opinion of so excellent a judge as Mr. Youatt, has scarcely been surpassed in modern times:—“We may prognosticate great things of a colt,” he says, “if, when running in the pastures, he is ambitious to get before his companions, and if, on coming to a river, he strives to be the first to plunge into it. His head should be small, his limbs clean and compact, his eyes bright and sparkling, his nostrils open and large, his ears placed near each other, his mane strong and full, his chest broad, his shoulders flat and sloping backwards, his loins broad and strong, his tail full and bushy, his legs straight and even, his knees broad and well knit, his hoofs hard and tough, and his veins large and swelling over all his body.” The English thoroughbred horse, perhaps the finest animal of his kind in the world, derives his descent almost wholly from the Arab and the Barb. Instead of giving a prosaic description of his _points_, which those who desire it may find in books of a more technical character than ours: we will put him bodily before the reader in Barry Cornwall’s vigorous lines:— THE BLOOD HORSE. “Gamarra is a noble steed; Strong, black, and of the desert breed; Full of fire, and full of bone; All his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane, a stormy river flowing; And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night; And his pace as swift as light. Look,—around his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins; Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man! He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O’Brien’s blood itself. He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn: But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab bred; And the last of that great line Trod like one of race divine!