I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly useful
animals; some may think them handsome and graceful: this is, as yet,
an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in all
sketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as
picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take to
themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do not
object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the
brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the
distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I would
have you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament
and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not used
to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level
with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of
one of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For I
should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have
been told that, when heated with passion, as these beasts often are,
it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their heads
explode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow a
vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they
are often seen--that is, those of them that are troubled with weak
eyes--walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as a
protection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the real
reason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is. I think,
myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies
who wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point. I
_will_ wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting,
and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge
Battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day, it is _so_
shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to
accommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as my
brother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, are
in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the
weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next day, in order that
their health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up Charles
River. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, and
usurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightful
promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to
it; and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and then
advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge,
_in spite_ of the cows, and assert my independence. I followed his
advice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage of
the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that
direction. As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at
the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to the
abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they
promenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of their
captains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastily
turned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove of
infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, was
rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? I
was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. My
plans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue
parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more
enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the
river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of
speechless agony! On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind
of dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans,--and
all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite
sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me,
and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.
An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at
Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and
visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very
unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time
unless it blew more of a breeze."