s, and seems to ask for bits of bread and sugar and other
delicacies, all of which are conferred upon him forthwith. I am sure
he has more sense than a dog, and a great deal more affection than
most men. I don't care how _slang_ and "bad style" people may think
me, but I feel every one of those strong flat black legs, and look
into his hoofs, hind-feet and all, and turn his rug up to see that he
has been properly cleaned and treated as he deserves; for I _love_
Brilliant, and Brilliant loves me. It has sometimes been my lot to
have an aching heart, as I conclude it is the lot of all here below.
Like the rest of my fellow-creatures, I have been stung by
ingratitude, lacerated by indifference where I had a right to expect
attachment; or, worst of all, forced to confess myself deceived where
I had bestowed regard and esteem. When I feel sore and unhappy on any
or all of these points, nothing consoles and softens me so much as the
affection of a dumb animal, more particularly a horse. His honest
grave face seems to sympathize in one's grief, without obtruding the
impertinence of curiosity or the mockery of consolation. He gives
freely the affection one has been disappointed in finding elsewhere,
and seems to stand by one in his brute vigour and generous unreasoning
nature like a true friend. I always feel inclined to pour my griefs
into poor Brilliant's unintelligent ears, and many a tear have I shed
nestling close to my favourite, with my arms round him like a child's
round its nurse's neck. That very afternoon, when I had made sure
there was no one else in the stable, I leaned my head against
Brilliant's firm warm neck, and sobbed, like a fool as I was.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Gentlemen think it right to affect a contempt for stag-hunting, and
many a battle have I had with Cousin John when he has provoked me by
"pooh-poohing" that exhilarating amusement. I generally get the best
of the argument. I put a few pertinent questions to him which he
cannot answer satisfactorily. I ask him, "What is your principal
object in going out hunting? Is it to learn the habits of the wild
animal, or to watch the instinct of the hound that pursues him? Do you
enjoy seeing a fox _walked_ to death, as you call it, on a cold
scenting day--or do you care for the finest hunting run that ever was
seen in a woodland country? Have I not heard you say a hundred times,
when questioned as to your morning sport, 'Oh, wretched! hounds never
went any