<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XV.</h2>
<p class="p2">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”.</p>
<p>“Amy amata, peramata a me, aim of my life,
amicula, in the name of sweet sense, why not”?</p>
<p>“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”.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</SPAN></span>
he gives me time to soothe him—that horse is fond
of Greek—and, after all, the ground is soft”.</p>
<p>“No, dad, I donʼt think it is prudent. And you
wonʼt have me there, you know”.</p>
<p>“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”?</p>
<p>“Yes, pa; but he hadnʼt had any oats; and I
was there to advise you”.</p>
<p>“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—— ”</p>
<p>“Pa, here he is! And he does look so fat, I
know he will be restive”.</p>
<p>“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; <i>θύλακοι</i>, I suppose he meant, as opposed to
<i>ἀναξυρίδες</i>. I was glad that the subject possessed so
lively an interest for him; notwithstanding which,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</SPAN></span>
I was very glad Mr. Channing did not hear
him”.</p>
<p>“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”!</p>
<p>“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”.</p>
<p>“He has enjoyed a rare lot this morning. At
least I hope you have, you sweetest. Why, pa, I
declare you are whistling”!</p>
<p>“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”.</p>
<p>“Oh, father, donʼt do that. Promise me now,
dear, wonʼt you”?</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</SPAN></span>
think I shall understand it, after six or seven
visiting days. At least, if the air is sharp”.</p>
<p>“No, pa, I hope you wonʼt. It would be so
reckless of you; and I know you will get a sore
throat”.</p>
<p>“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”.</p>
<p>“No, daddy, you wonʼt be so cruel. And after
the rime this morning! Ræbus will tell if you
do. Wonʼt you now, my pretty”?</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</SPAN></span>
some detriment. But let us not overtask his
patience; here he comes again. Jem, my boy,
lead him up to the chair”.</p>
<p>“Any jam in your pocket, father”?</p>
<p>“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’”.</p>
<p>“How could they be otherwise, pa, when the
horse is between them”?</p>
<p>“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”.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<hr class="chap" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</SPAN></span></p>
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