mentioned amidst mirth, and proceeded to give us the most interesting and able account of the minds and bodies of horses in general and ours in particular.  He ended with a story of a dinner-party at which he was a guest, probably against his will.  A young lady was so late that the party sat down to dinner without waiting longer.  Soon she arrived covered with blushes and confusion.  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but that horse was the limit, he ...”  “Perhaps it was a jibber,” suggested her hostess to help her out.  “No, he was a ——.  I heard the cabby tell him so several times.”

Titus Oates was the most cheerful and lovable old pessimist that you could imagine.  Often, after tethering and feeding our ponies at a night camp on the Barrier, we would watch the dog-teams coming up into camp.  “I’ll give these dogs ten days more,” he would murmur in a voice such as some people used when they heard of a British victory.  I am acquainted with so few dragoons that I do not know their general characteristics.  Few of them, I imagine, would have gone about with the slouch which characterized his method of locomotion, nor would many of them have dined in a hat so shabby that it was picked off the peg and passed round as a curiosity.

He came to look after the horses, and as an officer in the Inniskillings he, no doubt, had excellent training.  But his skill went far deeper than that.  There was little he didn’t know about horses, and the pity is that he did not choose our ponies for us in Siberia:  we should have had a very different lot.  In addition to his general charge of them all, Oates took as his own pony the aforesaid devil Christopher for the Southern Journey and for previous training.  We shall hear much more of Christopher, who appeared to have come down to the Antarctic to initiate the well-behaved inhabitants into all the vices of civilization, but from beginning to end Oates’ management of this animal might have proved a model to any governor of a lunatic asylum.  His tact, patience and courage, for Christopher was a very dangerous beast, remain some of the most vivid recollections of a very gallant gentleman.

In this connection let me add that no animals could have had more considerate and often self-sacrificing treatment than these ponies of ours.  Granted that they must be used at all (and I do not mean to enter into that question) they were fed, trained, and even clothed as friends and companions rather than as beasts of burden.  They were never hit, a condition to which they were clearly unaccustomed.  They lived far better than they had before, and all this was done for them in spite of the conditions under which we ourselves lived.  We became very fond of our beasts but we could not be blind to their faults.  The mind of a horse is a very limited concern, relying almost entirely upon memory.  He rivals our politicians in that he has little real intellect.  Consequently, when the pony was faced with conditions different from those to which he was