On the morning of that same day, our Amy at her fatherʼs side, in the
pretty porch of the Rectory, uttered the following wisdom: “Darling
Papples, Papelikidion—is there any other diminutivicle half good enough
for you, or stupid enough for me?—my own father (thatʼs best of all),
you must not ride Coræbus to–day”.
“Amy amata, peramata a me, aim of my life, amicula, in the name of
sweet sense, why not”?
“Because, pa, he has had ten great long carrots, and my best hat full
of new oats; and I know he will throw you off”.
“Scrupulum injecisti. I shouldnʼt like to come off to–day. And
it rained the night before last”. So said the rector, proudly
contemplating a pair of new kerseymeres, which Channing the clerk had
made upon trial. “Nevertheless, I think that I have read enough on the
subject to hold on by his mane, if he does not kick unreasonably. And
if he gives me time to soothe him—that horse is fond of Greek—and,
after all, the ground is soft”.
“No, dad, I donʼt think it is prudent. And you wonʼt have me there, you
know”.
“My own pet, that is too true. And with all your knowledge of riding!
Why, my own seems quite theoretical by the side of yours. And yet I
have kept my seat under very trying circumstances. You remember the
time when Coræbus met the trahea”?
“Yes, pa; but he hadnʼt had any oats; and I was there to advise you”.
“True, my child, quite true. But I threw my equilibrium just as a
hunter does. And I think I could do it again. I bore in mind what
Xenophon says——”
“Pa, here he is! And he does look so fat, I know he will be restive”.
“Prepare your Aunt Doxyʼs mind, my dear, not to scold more than she
can help, in case of the worst—I mean, if the legs of my trousers want
rubbing. How rash of me, to be sure, to have put them on to–day! Prius
dementat. I trust sincerely—and old Channing is so proud of them, and
he says the cut is so fashionable. Nevertheless, I heard our Clayton,
as he went down the gravelwalk, treating, with what he himself would
have called ‘colores orationis’, upon Uncle Johnʼs new bags; _θύλακοι_,
I suppose he meant, as opposed to _ἀναξυρίδες_. I was glad that the
subject possessed so lively an interest for him; notwithstanding
which, I was very glad Mr. Channing did not hear him”.
“The impudence! Well, I am astonished. And to see the things he brought
back from Oxford—quince–coloured, with a stripe that wide, like one of
my fancy gourds. Iʼll be sure to have it out with him. No, I canʼt,
though; I forgot”. And Amy looked down with a rosy smile, remembering
the delicacy of the subject. “But I am quite sure of one thing, pa: Mr.
Cradock would never have done it. Ræbus, donʼt kick up the gravel. Do
you suppose we can roll every day? Oh, you are so fat, you darling”!
“When the sides are deep”, said the rector, quoting from Xenophon, “and
somewhat protuberant at the stomach, the horse is generally more easy
to ride. What a comfort, Amy! Stronger, moreover, and more capable of
enjoying food”.
“He has enjoyed a rare lot this morning. At least I hope you have, you
sweetest. Why, pa, I declare you are whistling”!
“It also behoves a horseman to know that it is a time–honoured precept
to soothe the steed by whistling, and rouse him by a sharp sound made
between the tongue and the palate”.
“Oh, father, donʼt do that. Promise me now, dear, wonʼt you”?
“I will promise you, my child, because I donʼt know how to do it. I
tried very hard last Wednesday, and only produced a guttural. But I
think I shall understand it, after six or seven visiting days. At
least, if the air is sharp”.
“No, pa, I hope you wonʼt. It would be so reckless of you; and I know
you will get a sore throat”.
“Sweet of my world, cor cordium, you have wrapped me with three
involucres tighter than any hazel–nut. They will all go into my pocket
the moment I am round the corner”.
“No, daddy, you wonʼt be so cruel. And after the rime this morning!
Ræbus will tell if you do. Wonʼt you now, my pretty”?
Coræbus was a handsome pony, but not a handsome doer. He could go at
a rare pace when he liked, but he did not often like it. His wind was
short, and so was his temper, and he looked at things unpleasantly.
Perhaps he had been disappointed in love in the tenderness of his
youth. Nevertheless he had many good points, and next to himself loved
Amy. He would roll his black eyes, put his nose to her lips, and almost
leave oats to look at her. His colour varied sensitively according
to the season. In the height of summer, a dappled bay; towards the
autumnal equinox, a tendency to nuttiness; then a husky bristle of
deepest brown flaked with hairs of ginger; after the clips a fine
mouse–colour, with a spirited sense of nakedness, fierce whiskers, and
a love of buck jumps. Then ere the blessed Christmas–tide, nature began
to blanket him with a nap the colour of black frost; and so through
the grizzle of spring he came round to his proper bay once more. Amy
declared she could tell every month by the special hue of Coræbus; but,
albeit she was the most truthful of girls, her heart was many degrees
too warm for her lips to be always at dew–point.
Both in the stable and out of it, that pony had a bluff way with his
heels, which none but himself thought humorous. He never meant any
harm, however—it was only his mode of expressing himself; and he
liked to make a point when he felt his new shoes tingling. But as for
kicking his Amy, he was not quite so low as that. He would not even
jump about, when she was on his back, more than was just the proper
thing to display her skill and figure. “Oh, you sad Coræby”, always
brought him to sadness; and he expected a pat from her little gloved
hand, and cocked his tail with dignity the moment he received it.
Nevertheless, for her father, the rector of the parish, he entertained,
when the oats were plentiful, nonconformist sentiments, verging almost
upon scepticism. He liked him indeed, as the whole world must; he even
admired his learning, and turned up his eyes at the Greek; but he
was not impressed, as he should have been, by the sacerdotal office.
Fatal defect of all, he knew that the rector could not ride. John
Rosedew was a reasoning man, and uncommonly strong in the legs, but a
great deal too philosophical to fit himself over a horse well. He had
written a treatise upon the Pelethronian Lapiths (which he could never
be brought to read before a learned society), he knew all about the
Olympics and Pythics, and Xenophon gave him a text–book; but, for all
that, he never put his feet the right way into the stirrups.
“Look at him now”, said John, as the boy led the pony up and down,
while Amy was knotting the mufflers so that they never might come
undone again; “how beautifully Xenophon describes him! ‘When the horse
is excited to assume that artificial air which he adopts when he is
proud, he then delights in riding, becomes magnificent, terrific,
and attracts attention!’ And again, ‘persons beholding such a horse
pronounce him generous, free in his motions, fit for military exercise,
high–mettled, haughty, and both pleasant and terrible to look on’.
Pleasant, I suppose, for other people, and terrible for the rider. But
why our author insists so much upon the horse being taught to ‘rear
gracefully’, I am not horseman enough as yet to understand. It has
always appeared to me that Coræbus rears too much already. And then
the direction—ʼbut if after riding, and copious perspiration, and when
he has reared gracefully, he be relieved immediately both of the rider
and reins, there is little doubt that he will spontaneously advance
to rear when necessary’. What does that mean, I ask you? I never find
it necessary, except, indeed, when the little girls jump up and pull
my coat–tails, in their inquisition for apples, and then I am always
afraid that they may suffer some detriment. But let us not overtask
his patience; here he comes again. Jem, my boy, lead him up to the
chair”.
“Any jam in your pocket, father”?
“No, my child, not any. Your excellent Aunt Eudoxia has it all under
lock and key. Now I will mount according to Xenophon, though I do not
find that he anywhere prescribes a Windsor chair. ‘When he has well
prepared himself for the ascent, let him support his body with his left
hand, and stretching forth his right hand let him leap on horseback,
and when he mounts thus he will not present an uncomely spectacle to
those behind. There, I am up, most accurately; excellent horse, and
great writer! And now for the next direction: ‘We do not approve of the
same bearing a man has in a carriage, but that an upright posture be
observed, with the legs apart’”.
“How could they be otherwise, pa, when the horse is between them”?
“Your criticisms are rash, my child. Jem, how dare you laugh, sir? I
will buy a pair of spurs, I declare, the next time I go to Ringwood.
Good–bye, darling; Aunt Doxy will take you up to the park, when the sun
comes out, to see all the wonderful doings. I shall be home in time to
dress for the dinner at the Hall”.
Sweet Amy kissed her hand, and curtseyed—as she loved to do to her
father; and, after two or three wayward sallies (repressed by Jem with
the gardening broom), Coræbus pricked his little ears, and shook
himself into a fair jog–trot. So with his elbows well stuck out, and
shaking merrily to and fro, his right hand ready to grasp the pommel in
case of consternation, and one leg projected beyond the other, after
the manner of a fowlʼs side–bone, away rode John Rosedew in excellent
spirits, to begin his Wednesday parochial tour.
Being duly victualled, and thoroughly found, for a voyage of long
duration and considerable hazard, the good ship “John Rosedew” set sail
every Wednesday for commerce with the neighbourhood. This expedition
was partly social, partly ministerial, in a great measure eleemosynary,
and entirely loving and amicable. There was no bombardment of
dissenters, no firing of red–hot shot at Papists, no up with the helm
and run him down, if any man launched on the mare magnum, or any frail
vessel missed stays. And yet there was no compromise, no grand circle
sailing, no luffing to a trade–wind; straight was the course, and the
chart most clear, and the good ship bound, with favour of God, for
a haven beyond the horizon. Barnacles and vile teredoes, algæ and
desmidious trailers:—I doubt if there be more sins in our hearts to
stop us from loving each other than parasites and leeching weeds to
clog a stout shipʼs bottom. Nevertheless she bears them on, beautifies
and cleanses them, until they come to temperate waters, where the harm
has failed them. So a good man carries with him those who carp and
fasten on him; content to take their little stings, if the utterance
purify them.
The parish of Nowelhurst straggles away far into the depths of the
forest. To the southward indeed it has moorland and heather, with
ridges, and spinneys, and views of the sea, and fir–trees naked and
worn to the deal by the chafing of the salt winds. But all away to the
west, north, and east, the dark woods hold dominion, and you seem to
step from the parish churchyard into the grave of ages. The village and
the village warren, the chase, and the Hall above them, are scooped
from out the forest shadow, in the shape of a hunting boot. Lay the
boot on its side with the heel to the east, and the top towards the
north, and we get pretty near the topography. The village scattered
along the warren forms the foot and instep, the chase descending at
right angles is the leg and ankle, the top will serve to represent
the house with its lawns and gardens, the back seam may run as the
little river which flows under Nowelhurst bridge. The shank of the
spur is the bridge and road, the rowel the church and rectory. Away to
the west beyond the toe, some quarter of a mile on the Ringwood–road,
stands the smithy kept by the well–known Roger Sweetland, who can
out–swear any man in the parish, and fears no one except Bull Garnet.
Our sketchy boot will leave unshown the whereabouts of the Garnet
cottage, unless we suppose the huntsman to insert just his toe in
the stirrup. Then the top of the iron rung will mark the house of the
steward, a furlong or so north–west of the village, with its back to
the lane which leads from the smithy to the Hall. And this lane is the
short cut from Nowelhurst Hall to Ringwood. It saves three–quarters of
a mile, and risks a little more than three–quarters of the neck. Large
and important as the house is, it has no high road to Ringwood, and
gets away with some difficulty even towards Lyndhurst or Lymington.
Bull Garnet was always down upon the barbarity of the approaches, but
Sir Cradock never felt sore on the subject, save perhaps for a week
at Christmas–tide. He had never been given to broad indiscriminate
hospitality, but loved his books and his easy–chair, and his friend of
ancient standing.
The sun came out and touched the trees with every kind of gilding,
as John Rosedew having done the village, and learned every gammerʼs
alloverishness, and every gafferʼs rheumatics, drew the snaffle upon
Coræbus longside of Job Smithʼs pigsty, and plunged southward into
the country. He saw how every tree was leaning forth its green with
yellowness; even proud of the novelty, like a child who has lost his
grandmother. And though he could not see very far, he observed a little
thing which he had never noticed before. It was that while the other
trees took their autumn evenly, the elm was brushed with a flaw of
gold while the rest of the tree was verdure. A single branch would
stand forth from the others, mellow against their freshness, like a
harvest–sheaf set up perhaps on the foreground of a grass–plot. The
rector thought immediately of the golden spray of Æneas, and how the
Brazilian manga glistens in the tropic moonlight. Then soothing his
pony with novel sounds, emulous of equestrianism, he struck into a
moorland track leading to distant cottages. Thence he would bear to the
eastward, arrive at his hostel by one oʼclock, visit the woodmen, and
home through the forest, with the evening shadows falling.