The impression was not favourable. The place looked large, and very, very dirty; the dingy courtyard of the railway station gave me the heartache to look at it, and the promise of a most miserable place to live in was fulfilled when the ferret-faced man led me into the streets. Many horses I have met with, knowing that I have a literary turn of mind, have asked me to describe the great city; but I always decline to do so—it defies description: volumes might be written upon every foot of its paved way, and libraries filled with the wonders of a street. It is at once a paradise to pleasure-seekers, a desert to the friendless, a gold mine to the successful, a pit of destruction to the unfortunate; it contains every vanity and every pleasure of human existence; the poorest, the richest, the proudest, the meekest—the lost in vice, the raised in virtue; the very depths of vice, the highest aspiration and the noblest thought, can alike be found within its gates. Joy, hope, love, hatred, malice, and despair are all in the shadow of its walls, and lie hidden in the hearts of men not scattered here and there, but gathered close together in teeming millions.
The very thought of attempting to describe such a place drives me to despair: I leave it for an abler horse.
We kept on for half an hour, with nothing but houses on either side, and then I was led into a paved yard, where I saw a long row of stabling, all very clean and nice—more so than I could have expected, considering the place was in the heart of the great city. I spent ten days there, and then I, with a number of other horses, was put up for sale; but in the meantime my broken knees had been attended to by a very clever veterinary surgeon, who put them right in the most astonishing manner. I heard one of the ferret-faced men declare that it would take a very good pair of eyes to tell that I had been down, and as far as my sight went I was perfectly restored. I felt a little weakness, and nothing more.
A great number of people attended the sale, and we were all made very spruce for the occasion. The grooms trotted us up and down, and made us show off ourselves to the best advantage. Several of the bystanders seemed to take a great deal of notice of us, and these I afterwards noticed were the principal buyers.
One of the horses which accompanied me from Upton was put up first, and the bidding began—but slowly. Neither the auctioneer—a tall, stout, florid man—nor the public seemed to think much of him, and after a little haggling he was knocked down for twenty pounds. As he was led back to his stall I was led out, and the disgust written upon his face found vent in words.
‘Twenty pounds!’ he said, with an indignant neigh; ‘there’s a price! If I had dreamt of such a thing a month ago, I believe I should have drowned myself in the river.’
I shook my head to express my disapproval of such light talk, but could say nothing, as the groom who led me gave me a thump with the halter, and bade me ‘come up’—which I did by breaking into what was really a very pretty trot.
‘Now here, gentlemen,’ said the auctioneer, ‘is a very valuable lot, named Blossom, reared by Bayne, of Upton, a man who, as you are fully aware, never sends a bad lot into the market. This horse is rising four, and has never been in private hands, but he is thoroughly fit either to ride or drive. Take a look at him, gentlemen. Don’t be afraid of it; he can bear it—sound from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail.’
THE AUCTION.