No people in the West Country had ever yet dreamed of such things as
gigs, or any other wheel conveyance to take them to fair or market: so
we must either go on foot, or jog into town on horseback. If your horse
will carry double, you may be honoured with the company of a lady on a
pillion behind you. If possible, decline the favour, unless the lass is
young and fair; for to take one who wishes to pass for a maiden lady of
a certain age is often as great a punishment as was ever invented in
Purgatory, for the time. But if you cannot decently get rid of Miss
Priscilla, or Aunt Jenefer, pray the Lord grant you an extra dose of
patience.
First, before mounting Dobbin, you must have a handkerchief fastened
round your middle for her to grasp with her long bony fins, because she
does not think it decorous forsooth to put her arm round your waist and
hug you comfortably, like a less-affected girl might, to steady herself
on a rough road: with such a one we can jog along as happy as Darby and
Joan. Fasten the handkerchief with a bow-knot, and if Priscilla gets
too tormenting you can slip the knot and let her tumble off in going up
hill.
As soon as Dobbin begins to trot she will be working her bony knuckles
into your ribs: when she wants to take snuff or perform any other
never-ending fidgety movements, the arm will be slipped inside the
nackan, as far as her bony sharp elbow, which will be bored into the
small of your back like a spit.
The lanes, in many places, are more like rocky water-courses than
roads, and so narrow that a horse and panniers can scarcely pass
between the high furzy hedges, and so uneven that one must be
constantly on the look out to keep the nag from stumbling. However, you
will be kept pretty straight and steady, with the dame pulling on the
handkerchief behind, and the hard-mouthed horse dragging on the bridle
in front (to get his head the nearer the ground, the better to see
where he may tumble down without cutting his knees), till the girths
give away. Dobbin gives a grunt, and down you tumble, heels over head,
in going down some such rocky lane as that which crossed Trelew hill a
short time ago. Ten to one but in the tumble you will be under. There
is not the least danger of the lady being hurt, because with the
protection of her cork-rump and the long stays of leather and steel,
wood and whalebone, in which she is encased, the old girl is as safe
from harm as a lobster in its shell, or a warrior in his coat of mail.
Her first concern will be to see if the cordial bottle of
brandy-and-cloves is safe and sound among all the things in her
knapsack of a pocket; then, if her pattens or clogs are fast and firm
to the bow of her pillion.
The horse has long kicked himself clear of all the trappings, and
galloped off toward home: yet take it easy, sit ye down and drain the
bottle until you have sucked out the last drop. But hearken! There is a
regular drove of market-women, you may know by their clatter, coming
down the hill. Get up quick do, and shake yourselves straight, before
they arrive, for you don’t know what a story the old dames will make of
it before they leave the butter-market; above all, they delight to
overhaul such a precise piece of prudery as Miss Priscilla, who, by
pretending to be shocked into “high strikes” at what are most innocent
things to the simple, shows as plain as a pike-staff that something bad
is always uppermost in her thoughts.
The runaway horse is caught and brought back, by some of the market
folks; the girths mended with a piece of rope-yarn; and from the rock
at the bottom of the hill you mount again. The worst of the road being
passed, you will get on like fighting cocks, and tune your pipes for
the new song of
“Moll Brooks [23] is gone to the wars.
Vezy vazzy vumfra.
She will never return no more.
Ran tan tore, ran tan tore.”