not remarkable for brilliancy, possessed a subdued lustre that
promised well for temper and disposition.

"Ten shillings a day,--make it three half-crowns by the week, sir.
You 'll never hit upon the like of him again," said the dealer,
hurriedly, as he passed me, on his other avocations.

"Better not lose him, sir; he's well known at Batty's, and they 'll
have him in the circus again if they see him. Wish you saw him with his
fore-legs on a table, ringing the bell for his breakfast.*'

"I'll take him by the week, though, probably, a day or two will be all I
shall need."

"Four hundred and twelve for Mr. Potts," Dycer screamed out. "Shoes
removed, and to be ready in the morning."

CHAPTER II. BLONDEL AND I SET OUT

I had heard and read frequently of the exhilarating sensations of horse
exercise. My fellow-students were full of stories of the hunting-field
and the race-course. Wherever, indeed, a horse figured in a narrative,
there was an almost certainty of meeting some incident to stir the
blood and warm up enthusiasm. Even the passing glimpses one caught of
sporting-prints in shop-windows were suggestive of the pleasure imparted
by a noble and chivalrous pastime. I never closed my eyes all night,
revolving such thoughts in my head. I had so worked up my enthusiasm
that I felt like one who is about to cross the frontier of some new land
where people, language, ways, and habits are all unknown to him. "By
this hour to-morrow night," thought I, "I shall be in the land of
strangers, who have never seen, nor so much as heard of me. There will
invade no traditions of the scoffs and jibes I have so long endured;
none will have received the disparaging estimate of my abilities, which
my class-fellows love to propagate; I shall simply be the traveller
who arrived at sundown mounted on a cream-colored palfrey,--a stranger,
sad-looking, but gentle, withal, of courteous address, blandly demanding
lodging for the night. 'Look to my horse, ostler,' shall I say, as I
enter the honeysuckle-covered porch of the inn. 'Blondel'--I will call
him Blondel--'is accustomed to kindly usage.'" With what quiet dignity,
the repose of a conscious position, do I follow the landlord as he shows
me to my room. It is humble, but neat and orderly. I am contented. I
tell him so. I am sated and wearied of luxury; sick of a gilded and
glittering existence. I am in search of repose and solitude. I order my
tea; and, if I ask the name of the v