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CHAPTER VI.
HORSES.
Do not be in a hurry to accuse us of
coxcombry on seeing the heading of
this chapter. Horses!—a glorious word
indeed for the pen of a literary man.
Musa pedestris (the muse goes on foot),
says Horace, and all Parnassus together
had but a single horse in its stable,—the
well known Pegasus; and he, if we may
believe Schiller's ballad, was a beast with
wings, and not at all easy to harness. We
are no sportsman, alas, and we deeply regret
the fact, for we are as fond of horses
as though we had an income of five hundred
thousand francs a year, and entirely
agree with the Arabs in their contempt for
