_The Tumbler, or its Affinities._
We cannot narrate all the varieties of patients the Doctor had to deal
with. We leave the ladies' cases out of the question, though he strongly
recommended to them his great receipt--a ride on horseback.
Of all the difficult cases the Doctor had to deal with, was that of a
little stingy, dyspeptic, middle aged pin-man, retired from business,
and resident in Pimlico.
He was never satisfied. No one could convince him that he was not a good
rider, though he had caused more broken-kneed horses in one month, than
any other rider had made in twelve months. He literally went by the name
of Tumble-down-Pincushion. It was no use furnishing him with a good
horse; down it would come before long, and the little man would roll
over like a pincushion; pick himself up, and declare it was the fault
of the horse.
[Illustration]
He would exasperate his Doctor, and his Doctor's friend, by pretending
to show them how a man ought to sit on horseback; and truly, if ever
there was a contrast visible, it was in the upright figure of John
Tattsall on horseback, and Mr. Jeremiah Hinchman, the retired pin-man of
Pimlico. John always knew how to make the most of a horse. Mr. Hinchman
never did make any thing but the least of himself and of his horse also.
There was a strange affinity between his horse and himself,--at least,
between him and one, a favourite rat-tailed sorrel gray. If it tumbled
down, it was never disturbed: it was so accustomed to the affinity with
the ground, that its knees became hardened with a species of horney
excrescence, that seldom showed any thing but dirt, if it did tumble.
Nor did the little man either, for having a remarkably light weight in
the saddle, and a prominent disposition to bend over his horse's neck,
he generally cast a very light summersault in his exit from the seat to
the ground.
"I wish," he said one day to Mr. Tattsall, in no very amiable mood, "I
wish you would put me in some way of not falling off the
tumble-down-horses which you sent me."
"Sir," said Tattsall, "I would not let you ride a horse of mine, till
you had paid for it as your own, or paid me the price of it, by way of
insurance against the surety of his being a tumbler in your hands. You
say you are suited with a very quiet tumbler, and one that takes it easy
when he is down. You want yourself to be made to take it as easy as your
horse; and, now, sir, to prove my readiness to serve you as a customer,
and to serve you well too, I will put you into a way of having such
affinity with your horse, that you shall tumble off no more."
"If you do," said Mr. Hinchman, "I will forgive you for having sent me
twenty horses, not one of which could keep its legs, or keep me on his
back."
John was not easily puzzled.
"Sir," said he, "you must manage the thing your own self. Only just hear
my proposed plan. Let an incision be made in two places upon each flap
of the saddle; let a thong pass under the saddle-flap, and tie it
yourself over your knee. You will then never fall off; but be enabled to
keep your seat until your horse shall rise again with ease, and you thus
prove the truth of the motto
The Tumbler, or its Affinities.
Affinity is defined by Johnson, to be relation by marriage, as opposed
to consanguinity,--by others, as relation or agreeableness between
things. No one could think of Mr. Hinchman being of the same
consanguinity as his horse Tumbler, but as a relation of agreeableness
between two things, in this latter, the tumbler had his affinity with
his master.
Thus they kept the road together,
Whether fine or foul the weather;
And when they tumbled, both went down;
And when they rose, they both went on.
So on they went, and all men's eyes
Saw Tumblers with Affinities.