On Horseback

Dudley Warner Charles

Description

pubOne.info present you this new edition. "The way to mount a horse"- said the Professor.

Sujets

• USA
• États-Unis

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819945888
• Langue: English

Extrait

ON HORSEBACK
By Charles Dudley Warner
I
“The way to mount a horse”— said the Professor.
“If you have no ladder— put in the Friend ofHumanity. ”
The Professor had ridden through the war for theUnion on the right side, enjoying a much better view of it than ifhe had walked, and knew as much about a horse as a person ought toknow for the sake of his character. The man who can recite thetales of the Canterbury Pilgrims, on horseback, giving thecontemporary pronunciation, never missing an accent by reason ofthe trot, and at the same time witch North Carolina and a strip ofEast Tennessee with his noble horsemanship, is a kind of LiteraryCentaur of whose double instruction any Friend of Humanity may beglad to avail himself.
“The way to mount a horse is to grasp the mane withthe left hand holding the bridle-rein, put your left foot in thestirrup, with the right hand on the back of the saddle, and— -”
Just then the horse stepped quickly around on hishind feet, and looked the Professor in the face. TheSuperintendents of Affairs, who occupy the flagging in front of thehotel, seated in cane-bottomed chairs tilted back, smiled. Theseuseful persons appear to have a life-lease of this portion of thecity pavement, and pretty effectually block it up nearly all dayand evening. When a lady wishes to make her way through theblockade, it is the habit of these observers of life to rise andmake room, touching their hats, while she picks her way through,and goes down the street with a pretty consciousness of the fluttershe has caused. The war has not changed the Southern habit ofsitting out-of-doors, but has added a new element of streetpicturesqueness in groups of colored people lounging about thecorners. There appears to be more leisure than ever.
The scene of this little lesson in horsemanship wasthe old town of Abingdon, in southwest Virginia, on the Virginiaand East Tennessee railway; a town of ancient respectability, whichgave birth to the Johnstons and Floyds and other notable people; atown, that still preserves the flavor of excellent tobacco and,something of the easy-going habits of the days of slavery, and is asort of educational center, where the young ladies of the regionadd the final graces of intellectual life in moral philosophy andthe use of the globes to their natural gifts. The mansion of thelate and left Floyd is now a seminary, and not far from it is theStonewall Jackson Institute, in the midst of a grove of splendidoaks, whose stately boles and wide-spreading branches give adignity to educational life. The distinction of the region is itssuperb oak-trees. As it was vacation in these institutions oflearning, the travelers did not see any of the vines thattraditionally cling to the oak.
The Professor and the Friend of Humanity were aboutstarting on a journey, across country southward, through regionsabout which the people of Abingdon could give little usefulinformation. If the travelers had known the capacities andresources of the country, they would not have started without asupply train, or the establishment of bases of provisions inadvance. But, as the Professor remarked, knowledge is somethingthat one acquires when he has no use for it. The horses weresaddled; the riders were equipped with flannel shirts and leatherleggings; the saddle-bags were stuffed with clean linen, andnovels, and sonnets of Shakespeare, and other baggage, it wouldhave been well if they had been stuffed with hard-tack, for in reallife meat is more than raiment.
The hotel, in front of which there is cultivated somuch of what the Germans call sitzfleisch, is a fair type of themajority of Southern hotels, and differs from the same class in theNorth in being left a little more to run itself. The onlyinformation we obtained about it was from its porter at thestation, who replied to the question, “Is it the best? ” “Wewarrant you perfect satisfaction in every respect. ” This seems tobe only a formula of expression, for we found that the statementwas highly colored. It was left to our imagination to conjecturehow the big chambers of the old house, with their gapingfireplaces, might have looked when furnished and filled with gaycompany, and we got what satisfaction we could out of a bygonebustle and mint-julep hilarity. In our struggles with the porter toobtain the little items of soap, water, and towels, we wereconvinced that we had arrived too late, and that for perfectsatisfaction we should have been here before the war. It was notalways as now. In colonial days the accommodations and prices atinns were regulated by law. In the old records in the court-housewe read that if we had been here in 1777, we could have had agallon of good rum for sixteen shillings; a quart bowl of rum toddymade with loaf sugar for two shillings, or with brown sugar for oneshilling and sixpence. In 1779 prices had risen. Good rum sold forfour pounds a gallon. It was ordered that a warm dinner should costtwelve shillings, a cold dinner nine shillings, and a goodbreakfast twelve shillings. But the item that pleased us most, andmade us regret our late advent, was that for two shillings we couldhave had a “good lodging, with clean sheets. ” The colonists werefastidious people.
Abingdon, prettily situated on rolling hills, and acouple of thousand feet above the sea, with views of mountain peaksto the south, is a cheerful and not too exciting place for a briefsojourn, and hospitable and helpful to the stranger. We had dined—so much, at least, the public would expect of us— with a descendantof Pocahontas; we had assisted on Sunday morning at the dedicationof a new brick Methodist church, the finest edifice in the region—a dedication that took a long time, since the bishop would notproceed with it until money enough was raised in open meeting topay the balance due on it: a religious act, though it did give abusiness aspect to the place at the time; and we had been the lightspots in the evening service at the most aristocratic church ofcolor. The irresponsibility of this amiable race was exhibited inthe tardiness with which they assembled: at the appointed timenobody was there except the sexton; it was three quarters of anhour before the congregation began to saunter in, and the sermonwas nearly over before the pews were at all filled. Perhaps thesermon was not new, but it was fervid, and at times the ablepreacher roared so that articulate sounds were lost in the generaleffect. It was precisely these passages of cataracts of sound andhard breathing which excited the liveliest responses, — “Yes, Lord,” and “Glory to God. ” Most of these responses came from the “Amencorner. ” The sermon contained the usual vivid description of thelast judgment— ah, and I fancied that the congregation did not getthe ordinary satisfaction out of it. Fashion had entered the fold,and the singing was mostly executed by a choir in the duskygallery, who thinly and harshly warbled the emotional hymns. Itoccupied the minister a long time to give out the notices of theweek, and there was not an evening or afternoon that had not itsmeetings, its literary or social gathering, its picnic or fair forthe benefit of the church, its Dorcas society, or some occasion ofreligious sociability. The raising of funds appeared to be theburden on the preacher's mind. Two collections were taken up. Atthe first, the boxes appeared to get no supply except from the twowhite trash present. But the second was more successful. After thesermon was over, an elder took his place at a table within therails, and the real business of the evening began. Somebody in theAmen corner struck up a tune that had no end, but a mighty power ofsetting the congregation in motion. The leader had a voice like thepleasant droning of a bag-pipe, and the faculty of emitting acontinuous note like that instrument, without stopping to breathe.It went on and on like a Bach fugue, winding and whining its way,turning the corners of the lines of the catch without a break. Theeffect was soon visible in the emotional crowd: feet began to movein a regular cadence and voices to join in, with spurts ofejaculation; and soon, with an air of martyrdom, the members beganto leave their seats and pass before the table and deposit theircontributions. It was a cent contribution, and we found it verydifficult, under the contagious influence of the hum from the Amencorner, not to rise and go forward and deposit a cent. If anythingcould extract the pennies from a reluctant worldling, it would bethe buzzing of this tune. It went on and on, until the houseappeared to be drained dry of its cash; and we inferred by thestopping of the melody that the preacher's salary was secure forthe time being. On inquiring, we ascertained that the pecuniaryflood that evening had risen to the height of a dollar and sixtycents.
All was ready for the start. It should have beenearly in the morning, but it was not; for Virginia is not only oneof the blessed regions where one can get a late breakfast, butwhere it is almost impossible to get an early one. At ten A. M. thetwo horsemen rode away out of sight of the Abingdon spectators,down the eastern turnpike. The day was warm, but the air was fullof vitality and the spirit of adventure. It was the 22d of July.The horses were not ambitious, but went on at an easy fox-trot thatpermits observation and encourages conversation. It had beenstipulated that the horses should be good walkers, the oneessential thing in a horseback journey. Few horses, even in acountry where riding is general, are trained to walk fast. We hearmuch of horses that can walk five miles an hour, but they are asrare as white elephants. Our horses were only fair walkers. Werealized how necessary this accomplishment is, for between theTennessee line and Asheville, North Carolina, there is scarcely amile of trotting-ground.
We soon turned southward and descended into theHolston River Valley. Beyond lay the Tennessee hills andconspicuous White-Top Mountain (5530