Horses. 59 



dark passages of existence, without either the pride of the 

 soldier, the reason of the philosopher, or the hope of the 

 Christian — that is Evil, pure and unmixed ! 



Like all who love animals much, I know and remember 

 them as I know and remember men. During the war I 

 •had acquaintapces amongst the officers and soldiers, and 

 acquaintances amongst their horses likewise; and when 

 they rode forth to battle I was pretty nearly as anxious 

 about the animals as about the brave men who mounted 

 them. I remember a Garibaldian sergeant, whose red 

 shirt was frequently visible in my court-yard, a youth over- 

 flowing with life, to whom the excitement of a battle from 

 time to time was as necessary as that of a ball is to a lively 

 young lady. His way of riding was the nearest approach 

 to that of an enraptured bard on Pegasus that I ever 

 witnessed amongst the realities of the earth. My house 

 is situated something like a tower, with views in every 

 direction, and I used to amuse myself with watching him 

 from the upper windows when the fit of equestrian 

 inspiration was upon him. The red shirt flew first along 

 the high-road, then dashed suddenly down a lane ; a little 

 later you could see it flashing scarlet along the outskirts of 

 a distant wood ; then, after a brief eclipse, it reappeared in 

 the most unexpected places. The lad careered in this 

 way simply for his amusement, — for the pulsation of that 

 wild delight that his fiery nature needed. It is a fact that 

 he did not even hold the reins. When these mad fits of 

 equestrianism seized him, he flung the bridle on his 

 charger's neck, threw his arms high in the air, and then 

 made them revolve like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. 

 He accompanied these gestures with wild Italian cries, 

 and a double stroke of the spurs. No wonder if his horse 

 galloped ! And he did gallop. When the rider wanted to 



