"The longest tail and the fullest mane I ever
saw. But here he comes." And with the word,
there advanced towards us, at a sort of easy
amble, a small-sized cream-coloured horse, with
white mane and tail. Knowing nothing of
horseflesh, I was fain to content myself with
such observations as other studies might supply
me with; and so I closely examined his head,
which was largely developed in the frontal
region, with moral qualities fairly displayed.
He had memory large, and individuality strong;
nor was wit, if it exist in the race, deficient.
Over the orbital region the depressions were
deep enough to contain my closed fist, and when
I remarked upon them to the groom, he said,
"'Tis his teeth will tell you the rayson of that;"
a remark which I suspect was a sarcasm upon
my general ignorance.

I liked the creature's eye. It was soft, mild,
and contemplative; and although 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.

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-
coloured 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 honey-
suckle-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, bu
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 village, I take care
to show by my inattention that I have not heard
the answer, nor do I care for it.

Now I should like to hear how they are
canvassing me in the bar, and what they think of
me in the stable. I am, doubtless, a peer, or a
peer's eldest son. I am a great writer, the
wondrous poet of the day; or the pre-Raphaelite
artist; or I am a youth heart-broken by
infidelity in love; or mayhap, a dreadful criminal.
I liked this last the best, the interest was so
intense; not to say that there is, to men who
are not constitutionally courageous, a strong
pleasure in being able to excite terror in others.

But I hear a horse's feet on the silent street.
I look out. Day is just breaking. Tim is holding
Blondel at the door. My hour of adventure has
struck, and noiselessly descending the stairs, I
issue forth.

"He is a trifle tender on the fore-feet, your
honour," said Tim, as I mounted, "but when
you get him off the stones on a nice piece of
soft road, he'll go like a four-year old."

"But he is young, Tim, isn't he?" I asked,
as I tendered him my half-crown.
" Well, not to tell your honour a lie, he is
not," said Tim, with the energy of a man whose
veracity had cost him little less than a spasm.

"How old would you call him, then?" I
asked, in that affected ease that seemed to say,
"Not that it matters to me if he were
Methuselah."

"I couldn't come to his age exactly, your
honour," he replied, "but I remember seeing him
fifteen years ago, dancing a hornpipe, more,
by token for his own benefit; it was at Cooke's
Circus in Abbey-street, and there wasn't a hair's
difference between him now, and then, except,
perhaps, that he had a star on the forehead,
where you just see the mark a little darker
now."

"But that is a star, plain enough," said I,
half vexed.

"Well, it is, and it is not," muttered Tim,
doggedly, for he was not quite satisfied with my
right to disagree with him.

"He's gentle, at all events?" I said, more
confidently.

"He's a lamb!" replied Tim. " If you were
to see the way he lets the Turks run over his
back, when he's wounded in Timour the Tartar,
you wouldn't believe he was a livin' baste."

"Poor fellow!" said I, caressing him. He
turned his mild eye upon me, and we were
friends from that hour.

What a glorious morning it was, as I gained
the outskirts of the city, and entered one of
those shady alleys that lead to the foot of the
Dublin mountains! The birds were opening