HORSES.
Do not be in a hurry to accuse us of coxcombry on seeing the heading of
this chapter. Horses!—a glorious word indeed for the pen of a literary
man. _Musa pedestris_ (the muse goes on foot), says Horace, and all
Parnassus together had but a single horse in its stable,—the well known
Pegasus; and he, if we may believe Schiller’s ballad, was a beast with
wings, and not at all easy to harness. We are no sportsman, alas, and we
deeply regret the fact, for we are as fond of horses as though we had an
income of five hundred thousand francs a year, and entirely agree with
the Arabs in their contempt for people who are forced to walk. A horse
is the natural pedestal for a man, and the perfect existence is that of
the Centaur,—that ingenious mythological invention.
However, notwithstanding that we are a simple man of letters, we once
had horses. About the year 1843 or 1844, when engaged in sifting the
sands of journalism through the sieve of the daily newspapers, enough
golden particles appeared, to allow of the hope that, in addition to
dogs, cats, and magpies, we might be able to find food for a couple of
pets of larger size. At first it was a pair of Shetland ponies, about
the size of a large dog, and shaggy as bears, who looked at us through
their long, black manes with such friendly faces that we felt much more
inclined to take them with us into the parlor than to send them to their
stable. They helped themselves to sugar out of our pockets, just like
trained horses. For use, however, they were entirely too small. They
would have answered very well to carry an English child eight years old,
or as coach horses to Tom Thumb; but, even at that date, we were blessed
with the same athletic frame as now, and crowned with the same plenteous
flesh which still characterizes us, and which we have been enabled to
support, without giving way under its weight, for forty consecutive
years. The difference in size between master and beasts was quite too
apparent to the eye, though it must be said for the ponies that they
made no difficulty at all about drawing their light phaeton, to which
they were fastened by a tiny harness of pale fawn-colored leather, which
looked as though it might have been purchased at a toy-shop.
At that time illustrated comic journals were not so plentiful as to-day,
but there were plenty in existence to caricature us and our equipage. Of
course, with the exaggeration permissible in such cases, we were
invested with elephantine proportions, like those of Ganesa, the Indian
god of wisdom, while the ponies dwindled to the size of puppies,—or,
even less, to that of rats and mice. It is true that, without great
difficulty, we might have carried the little creatures, one under each
arm, and the phaeton to boot upon our back. For a moment we debated the
possibility of harnessing four, but this Liliputian four-in-hand would
have been still more conspicuous. With great regret therefore (for we
had already grown fond of the gentle creatures) we exchanged them for a
pair of dappled-gray ponies of a larger size, with strong necks, wide
chests, and massive shoulders, which, though far enough from being
Mecklenburgers, at least looked capable of drawing grown people about.
They were mares,—one named Jane and the other Betsey.
In appearance they were as much alike as two drops of water. Never was a
better match so far as looks went; but in proportion as Jane was
mettlesome, Betsey was indolent. While the former pulled at the collar,
the other trotted by her side contentedly, shirking work, and giving
herself no sort of trouble. These two animals, of the same breed, the
same age, fated to live in stalls side by side, felt for each other the
strongest antipathy. They could not endure each other, fought in the
stable, and snapped and bit when prancing in the traces. Nothing could
reconcile them. It was a pity too, for with their brush-like manes cut
like those of the horses of the Parthenon, their snorting nostrils and
eyes dilated with fury, they presented rather a triumphant appearance
when going up and down the Champs Elysées.
We were obliged to look for a substitute for Betsey, and found one in a
small mare with skin of a somewhat lighter color,—for the shade we
wanted could not be exactly matched. Jane approved at once of this
new-comer, with whom she seemed charmed, and did the honors of the
stable in the most graceful way. The tenderest friendship was soon
established between them; Jane would rest her head on the shoulder of
Blanche,—thus named because her shade of gray bordered on white,—and
when let loose in the courtyard for an airing, they would play together
like dogs or children. If one was driven out in single harness, the
other, left behind, seemed sad, gave signs of feeling lonely, and, when
far away she heard the hoofs of her comrade sounding on the pavement,
she raised a joyful neighing like the blast of a trumpet, to which her
approaching friend never failed to respond.
They came to be harnessed with remarkable docility, and would go of
their own accord to their proper places on either side of the pole. Like
all animals who are loved and kindly treated, Jane and Blanche soon
acquired the most perfect confidence and familiarity. They would follow
us about on their hind legs like dogs, and when we stood still, put
their heads on our shoulders to be petted. Jane loved bread, Blanche
sugar. Both of them adored watermelon rind, and there was nothing that
they would not do to obtain these dainties.
If only men were not so odiously ferocious and brutal as they too often
are, how happily and good-naturedly animals would play about them! This
being, who can think, can speak, can do so many things which they cannot
understand, fills their dimly understood thoughts, and is for them a
perpetual astonishment and mystery. How frequently animals look at us
with eyes which are full of questionings—questionings to which we cannot
reply, as we have not the key to their language! They have a language,
nevertheless, by which, through sounds and intonations which we scarcely
notice, they exchange ideas,—confused, perhaps, but still ideas, such as
creatures of their sphere of sentiment and action can understand. Less
stupid in this one instance than ourselves, they succeed in learning a
few words of our idiom, but not enough to enable them to talk with us.
These words are mostly answers to our demands upon them, so our
intercourse is naturally brief. But that animals talk with each other no
one can doubt who has ever lived familiarly with dogs, cats, horses, or
any other sort of beasts.
As an example of this, Jane, who by nature was perfectly fearless,
shying at no obstacle whatever, and afraid of nothing, changed her
character after living for a few months in the same stable with Blanche,
and began to exhibit sudden and unaccountable fears. Her more timid
companion had, without doubt, told her ghost stories at night. At times,
when dashing along in the dusk through the Bois de Boulogne, Blanche
would stop short and shy sharply to one side as if to avoid some
phantom, which, invisible to us, had appeared to her. Trembling all
over, with loud breathings, and body covered with sweat, she would rear
straight on end if we tried to make her go on by touching her with the
whip. Jane could not force her to follow, however hard she might try. In
these cases there was nothing to be done but to get out, cover Blanche’s
eyes and lead her along for a few paces till the vision took flight.
Jane ended with allowing herself to be conquered by these terrors, which
Blanche, when safely back in her stable, doubtless explained to her in
full. We must frankly own that when, in the middle of a dusky lane
checkered by moonlight into fantastic lights and shadows, Blanche,
usually so docile,—Blanche, who, to excite her into a gallop, needed
nothing heavier than that whip of Queen Mab’s which was made of
cricket’s bone with gossamer lash,—planted herself suddenly on her four
feet as though some spectre had seized her bridle, and with
unconquerable obstinacy refused to move a step forward, we could not
prevent a cold chill from running down our spine. Searching the shadow
with unquiet glances, we almost imagined that we could detect therein
the ghastly countenance of one of Goya’s “Caprices,” where in reality
were only innocent silhouettes of leafy birch-trees or beeches.
It was one of our great pleasures to drive these charming animals
ourselves, and an intimate understanding was soon established between
us. If we held the reins in our hands, it was mainly for the look of the
thing. The least click of the tongue sufficed to guide them to right or
to left, to make them go slower or bring them to a stop. In a very short
time they learned all our habits. They went of their own accord to the
newspaper office, to the printers, to the editors, to the Bois de
Boulogne, to the houses where we dined on particular days of the week,
all with such exactitude that at last it became absolutely compromising.
By consulting Jane or Blanche any one could have procured the address of
our most mysterious visiting-places. If, while pursuing some interesting
or tender conversation, we forgot the flight of time, they would recall
it to our minds by neighing, and stamping with their hoofs under the
balcony.
Notwithstanding the pleasantness of going about the city in a phaeton
with our little friends to pull it, we could not help sometimes finding
the wind sharp and the rain cold, when those months came in so fitly
christened in the Republican calendar as “Brumaire, Frimaire, Pluviôse,
Ventôse, and Nivôse.” We therefore purchased a blue coupé lined with
white reps, so small that people compared it to one belonging to the
most famous dwarf of the day, an insult about which we were troubled
very little. A brown coupé lined with garnet succeeded the blue, and was
replaced at a later date with one of the color of a crow’s eye
upholstered with deep blue; for we luxuriated in carriages, in spite of
being nothing but a poor scribbler, with no income stated in the big
book, and no legacies left us for years back; and our ponies, though
nourished on literature, so to speak, with nouns for hay, adjectives in
place of oats, and adverbs instead of straw, were none the less fat and
glossy because of that. Alas, just then came, no one knew exactly why,
the Revolution of February. Paving-stones were being dug up on all sides
to serve patriotic ends, and the streets were no longer accessible for
wheeled vehicles. We might easily have scaled the barricades with our
agile ponies and their light equipage, but unluckily we had no credit
left anywhere but at the cook-shop. Horses cannot be fed on roast
chicken. The horizon was lowering with heavy black clouds, across which
red lightnings flashed. Money took alarm, and made haste to conceal
itself. The newspaper for which we wrote suspended publication, and we
thought ourselves fortunate when a purchaser turned up and took horses,
harnesses, and carriages off our hands at a quarter of their value. It
was a bitter grief to us to have them go, and we will not swear that a
salt tear or two may not have dropped on the manes of Jane and Blanche
as they were led away.
They are driven past their old home occasionally by their new owner; and
always the light feet make an instant’s pause under the windows, to
testify that they have not forgotten the dwelling where they were once
so cared for and so tenderly loved. Then we breathe a bitter and
sympathetic sigh, and say in the depths of our heart, “Poor Jane! Poor
Blanche! Are they happy?”
In the overwhelming of our tiny fortunes theirs is the only loss which
caused us a real regret.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.