A HORSE'S LETTER.
[TRANSLATED FOR THE TEA-TABLE.]
Brooklyn Livery Stables,
January 20, 1874.
My dear Gentlemen and Ladies: I am aware that this is the first time a
horse has ever taken upon himself to address any member of the human
family. True, a second cousin of our household once addressed Balaam, but
his voice for public speaking was so poor that he got unmercifully
whacked, and never tried it again. We have endured in silence all the
outrages of many thousands of years, but feel it now time to make
remonstrance. Recent attentions have made us aware of our worth. During
the epizoötic epidemic we had at our stables innumerable calls from
doctors and judges and clergymen. Everybody asked about our health.
Groomsmen bathed our throats, and sat up with us nights, and furnished us
pocket-handkerchiefs. For the first time in years we had quiet Sundays.
We overheard a conversation that made us think that the commerce and the
fashion of the world waited the news from the stable. Telegraphs
announced our condition across the land and under the sea, and we came to
believe that this world was originally made for the horse, and man for
his groom.
But things are going back again to where they were. Yesterday I was
driven fifteen miles, jerked in the mouth, struck on the back, watered
when I was too warm; and instead of the six quarts of oats that my
driver ordered for me, I got two. Last week I was driven to a wedding,
and I heard music and quick feet and laughter that made the chandeliers
rattle, while I stood unblanketed in the cold. Sometimes the doctor hires
me, and I stand at twenty doors waiting for invalids to rehearse all
their pains. Then the minister hires me, and I have to stay till Mrs.
Tittle-Tattle has time to tell the dominie all the disagreeable things of
the parish.
The other night, after our owner had gone home and the hostlers were
asleep, we held an indignation meeting in our livery stable. "Old Sorrel"
presided, and there was a long line of vice-presidents and secretaries,
mottled bays and dappled grays and chestnuts, and Shetland and Arabian
ponies. "Charley," one of the old inhabitants of the stable, began a
speech, amid great stamping on the part of the audience. But he soon
broke down for lack of wind. For five years he had been suffering with
the "heaves." Then "Pompey," a venerable nag, took his place; and though
he had nothing to say, he held out his spavined leg, which dramatic
posture excited the utmost enthusiasm of the audience. "Fanny Shetland,"
the property of a lady, tried to damage the meeting by saying that horses
had no wrongs. She said, "Just look at my embroidered blanket. I never go
out when the weather is bad. Everybody who comes near pats me on the
shoulder. What can be more beautiful than going out on a sunshiny
afternoon to make an excursion through the park, amid the clatter of the
hoofs of the stallions? I walk, or pace, or canter, or gallop, as I
choose. Think of the beautiful life we live, with the prospect, after our
easy work is done, of going up and joining Elijah's horses of fire."
Next, I took the floor, and said that I was born in a warm, snug
Pennsylvania barn; was, on my father's side, descended from Bucephalus;
on my mother's side, from a steed that Queen Elizabeth rode in a steeple
chase. My youth was passed in clover pastures and under trusses of
sweet-smelling hay. I flung my heels in glee at the farmer when he came
to catch me. But on a dark day I was over-driven, and my joints
stiffened, and my fortunes went down, and my whole family was sold. My
brother, with head down and sprung in the knees, pulls the street car. My
sister makes her living on the tow path, hearing the canal boys swear. My
aunt died of the epizoötic. My uncle--blind, and afflicted with the bots,
the ringbone and the spring-halt--wanders about the commons, trying to
persuade somebody to shoot him. And here I stand, old and sick, to cry
out against the wrongs of horses--the saddles that gall, the spurs that
prick, the snaffles that pinch, the loads that kill.
At this a vicious-looking nag, with mane half pulled out, and a
"watch-eye," and feet "interfering," and a tail from which had been
subtracted enough hair to make six "waterfalls," squealed out the
suggestion that it was time for a rebellion, and she moved that we take
the field, and that all those who could kick should kick, and that all
those who could bite should bite, and that all those who could bolt
should bolt, and that all those who could run away should run away, and
that thus we fill the land with broken wagons and smashed heads, and
teach our oppressors that the day of retribution has come, and that our
down-trodden race will no more be trifled with.
When this resolution was put to vote, not one said "Aye," but all cried
"Nay, nay," and for the space of half an hour kept on neighing. Instead
of this harsh measure, it was voted that, by the hand of Henry Bergh,
president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I
should write this letter of remonstrance.
My dear gentlemen and ladies, remember that we, like yourselves, have
moods, and cannot always be frisky and cheerful. You do not slap your
grandmother in the face because this morning she does not feel as well as
usual; why, then do you slash us? Before you pound us, ask whether we
have been up late the night before, or had our meals at irregular hours,
or whether our spirits have been depressed by being kicked by a drunken
hostler. We have only about ten or twelve years in which to enjoy
ourselves, and then we go out to be shot into nothingness. Take care of
us while you may. Job's horse was "clothed with thunder," but all we ask
is a plain blanket. When we are sick, put us in a "horse-pital." Do not
strike us when we stumble or scare. Suppose you were in the harness and I
were in the wagon, I had the whip and you the traces, what an ardent
advocate you would be for kindness to the irrational creation! Do not let
the blacksmith drive the nail into the quick when he shoes me, or burn my
fetlocks with a hot file. Do not mistake the "dead-eye" that nature put
on my foreleg for a wart to be exterminated. Do not cut off my tail short
in fly-time. Keep the north wind out of our stables. Care for us at some
other time than during the epizoötics, so that we may see your kindness
is not selfish.
My dear friends, our interests are mutual. I am a silent partner in your
business. Under my sound hoof is the diamond of national prosperity.
Beyond my nostril the world's progress may not go. With thrift, and
wealth, and comfort, I daily race neck and neck. Be kind to me if you
want me to be useful to you. And near be the day when the red horse of
war shall be hocked and impotent, and the pale horse of death shall be
hurled back on his haunches, but the white horse of peace, and joy, and
triumph shall pass on, its rider with face like the sun, all nations
following!
Your most obedient servant,
Charley Bucephalus.