Whether then my spirit that night found its way out at the nose, (for I sleep with my mouth shut) and actually sallied out seeking adventures; or whether the spectrum of the Horse floated into my chamber; or some benevolent genius or dæmon assumed the well-known and welcome form; or whether the dream were merely a dream,— _si fuè en espiritu, ò fuè en cuerpo, no sè; que yo solo sè, que no lo sè;_[2] so however it was that in the visions of the night I mounted Nobs. Tell me not of Astolfo's hippogriff, or Pacolet's wooden steed; nor Of that wonderous horse of brass Whereon the Tartar King did pass; nor of Alborak, who was the best beast for a night-journey that ever man bestrode. Tell me not even of Pegasus! I have ridden him many a time; by day and by night have I ridden him; high and low, far and wide, round the earth, and about it, and over it, and under it. I know all his earth-paces, and his sky-paces. I have tried him at a walk, at an amble, at a trot, at a canter, at a hand-gallop, at full gallop and at full speed. I have proved him in the _manége_ with single turns and the _manége_ with double turns, his bounds, his curvets, his _pirouettes_, and his _pistes_, his _croupade_ and his _balotade_, his gallop-galliard and his capriole. I have been on him when he has glided through the sky with wings outstretched and motionless, like a kite or a summer cloud; I have bestrode him when he went up like a bittern with a strong spiral flight, round, round and round, and upward, upward, upward, circling and rising still; and again when he has gone full sail, or full fly, with his tail as straight as a comet's behind him. But for a hobby or a night horse, Pegasus is nothing to Nobs. [Footnote 2: Calderon.] Where did we go on that memorable night? What did we see?—What did we do?—Or rather what did we not see! and what did we not perform! CHAPTER IV. A. I. A CONVERSATION AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. _Tel condamne mon Coq-à-l'âne qui un jour en justifiera le bon sens._ LA PRETIEUSE. I went down to breakfast as usual overflowing with joyous thoughts. For mirth and for music the skylark is but a type of me. I warbled a few wood notes wild, and then full of the unborn work, addressed myself to my wife's eldest sister, and asked if she would permit me to dedicate the Book to her. “What book?” she replied. “The History,” said I, “of Dr. Daniel Dove of Doncaster, and his Horse Nobs.” She answered, “No indeed! I will have no such nonsense dedicated to me!”—and with that she drew up her upper lip, and the lower region of the nose. I turned to my wife's youngest sister: “Shall I have the pleasure of dedicating it to you?” She raised her eyes, inclined her head forwards with a smile of negation, and begged leave to decline the honour. “Commandante,” said I, to my wife and Commandress, “shall I dedicate it then to you?” My Commandante made answer, “not unless you have something better to dedicate.”