CHAP. VIII. An Excursion.

If one could reckon on prosperity as a certain possession, the envy of the malicious would prove shaftless; in fact there are dispositions to whom envy is a grateful incense. Now I will not allow this was my case, but it is certain that during my temporary splendour, I was an object of some consideration to the Asses of my acquaintance. Balaam would smile on me en passant, and if possible give me a word of advice, while Juba regarded me with a sort of jealous glance, that seemed to say a great deal. I knew he was an ill bred Donkey, but never having given him any personal offence, could not tamely submit to his scorn. When he sneered, I carried my head with more than donkey stateliness; and once, upon hearing him tauntingly say, “how proud I am!” could not forbear by replying “that I hoped I deserved my present good fortune.”

It could not gratify my feelings to see other Asses less comfortable than I was. No! I was beginning to understand the mutability of donkey happiness, and rather strove to enjoy the present moment, than trust myself to calculate on its durability.

Not any of the kindnesses the amiable lady Harriet bestowed on me, more sensibly gratified my taste, than those occasional feeds of corn I received from her pretty hands; and my appearance was so considerably improved by these indulgencies, I was actually proving plump, when I perceived by the activity of the domestics, that the family were upon the eve of quitting Tunbridge. My spirits drooped at the bare idea of separation, but when I heard my Lord desire Philip to take me home, I thought I should have fallen to the earth. Lady Harriet patted my sides, venting her regrets in so sweet a manner, I knew not how to make enough of her. “Good bye, poor fellow,” said she, “Philip, pray tell Mr. Staples he is such a good tempered Donkey, I hope he will always keep him, and if we come to Tunbridge next year, I am sure Papa will let me have him again.”

Philip promised to obey his young lady, but I saw him smile at her innocent zeal.

“You wont get into such snug quarters in a hurry,” rejoined he, as we pursued our way to my home. It is no less singular than true, that every domestic in Lord Hampton’s family had treated me with uniform kindness, nor can I account for this, but by supposing that the active and humane characters of the Earl and his Lady effected this laudable imitation.

They never spoke to their servants, but in the most obliging language; the consequence was, that a degree of willingness and order was observable in their household, which I never met with in any other family; yet there was no profusion, none of those mistaken indulgences which spoil servants, and expose their employers, to imposition.

Ah! happy days: I could grow eloquent in my regrets on this subject; but time presses, and my tale is to be told. Philip did not omit to give me due praise when consigning me to my master.

“It’s all very well,” said Mr. Staples, “but I’m glad the job’s over, for I could have made treble the money of him by day-work, only I didn’t like to offend his lordship.”

Philip had nothing further to say, and I was left to my fate. The ill-fitting saddle was again put on, and although the evening was rather advanced I took my stand on the hill. It was not many minutes ere a large fat woman singled me out, and with the assistance of a livery servant, mounted my back. It was in vain the man told her she had better wait till a side-saddle could be got.

“Dont talk to me John,” said she, “why I hasn’t the least fear in the world; I tell you I used to ride when I was quite a girl, and with nothing but a halter round the horse’s neck could go a smart trot: do you think I can’t manage a Ass?”

John smiled, and seemed to think that as she was not now a girl, but a fat, unwieldy old woman, it was not a case in point.

Perfectly, indifferent to this lady’s juvenile sports, I only felt I had a grievous load to carry, and exerted all my strength to get through my task with credit.

Greatly as I admired the scenery of Tunbridge, I found the soil peculiarly unfavourable to my progress. Its deep sandy roads added so considerably to my fatigue: I was forced to stop to take breath. My rider intent on shewing her skill, attributed this to obstinacy, and using her whip with energy, forgot the want of the pommel and fell from her seat. John was so cruel as to laugh, while I, yet held fast in her grasp by the reins, in struggling to get free, dragged her a few paces in the sand.

“You stupid booby, stop the Ass,” exclaimed the enraged lady; “I shall spoil my pelisse.”

“Let go the reins,” said John, half averting his risible features. She did so, and I very humbly stood still and looked on. John was in the act of wiping the dust from the soiled garb, when a lady and gentleman approached.

“Ha! is it you Mrs. Price,” said the gentleman half smiling, “I hope you are not hurt?”

“O no Sir George, I’m a famous horsewoman, but these Donkeys are such hopstropolous animals there’s no managing them.”

“What made you venture to ride without a proper saddle?” inquired the lady.

“O my lady, I has no fears, I never had when I was a girl.”

“But pray do not run such a hazard again,” resumed the lady, “it is very imprudent.”

They passed on, and I found that my offended rider was the cook of Sir George and Lady R——.

Civil and considerate as their manner had been it did not meet the approbation of Mrs. Price.

They seemed to treat her expedition as a foolish frolic, ill suited to her age; and like the tenacious Juba the allusion touched her vanity. I rather think she would have expressed her anger, had not some of the inferior servants of the family joined us.

“Dear me ma’am, was it you that tumbled off the Donkey?” said a pretty giggling girl, “why Mr. Thomas and I saw you from the mount, we little thought it was you.”

“Then you see it was me,” replied the old Lady in a surly tone,—“but look if I’ve spoiled my pelisse. I’ll give Staples a good scolding for saying this was a quiet Donkey—an ugly, obstinate beast;”—and she made an effort to strike me. John interfered, and declaring there was not a Donkey in Tunbridge strong enough to carry her safely, diverted her rage from poor me. John now grew obstinate, and by persisting in his opinion, so completely deranged the temper of Mrs. Price, that I really expected it would end seriously.

“You had better lead the Donkey home,” said Thomas, addressing John, “and if Mrs. Price will lean on my arm I shall be happy to assist her down the hill.”

The offer was accepted, they departed, and John now indulged in a hearty laugh at the appearance of the fat lady.—But the consequences of this evening proved injurious to me; Mrs. Price took occasion to villify me, and actually prevented my being admitted into the family of Sir George R——. My Master vexed at this proscription, seemed disposed to vent his disappointment on me, though he had so recently asserted that day-work was preferable to a job—But this is only another proof that the good within our reach is seldom as highly valued as that which eludes our grasp.

Balaam welcomed me most cordially to our shed. Juba yet kept aloof, though I could understand by his restlessness that he listened to my description of the Hampton family, with any thing rather than a friendly disposition.

“You are yet a fortunate Animal” said old Balaam; “I hope you will conduct yourself with temper, now you have returned to more common duties, always remembering that while no more will be expected from you, than other Asses, that every body knows how far our abilities extend.”

“But the fat cook, my dear Sir,” said I, “was she not unreasonable in expecting me to carry her, under the disadvantages I have mentioned?”

“Undoubtedly,” resumed Balaam. “She, like my friend Juba, would submit to any indignity, provided her youth was not called in question.”—Here Juba was evidently agitated,—“but it wont do Jemmy,” continued Balaam, “freaks and frolic are natural in the young; while they disgrace the dignity of the more advanced in life.”

There was something so decisive in the language and manner of Balaam, I did not wonder that Juba should be awed to silence in his presence, but I certainly was surprised to find myself so much the object of his dislike. He never could be civil to me; if chance led us the same road, he ran himself almost to death in order to get before me: and at the stand, if I happened to be selected, he forgot the certain fatigue to which I was exposed, in the vexation of seeing me preferred. Experience had taught me, that it was possible to live on terms of amity, even with horses; for the humble hacks of Tunbridge evinced none of that hauteur I had borne with from Martello and other highly educated animals of that species. And I felt it as a lamentable drawback on my little portion of happiness, that an inhabitant of the same dwelling should so ill understand my feelings.

Naturally of a social disposition, I was beginning to give this matter some serious consideration, when the recollection of Master Fancourt’s conduct towards his sister recurred to my mind.

“What can be expected from an Ass, when rational beings so far commit themselves,” thought I. Again, the youth of Hubert Fancourt presented itself; but that was only another reason why the tendernesses and gentle feelings of childhood should have graced his manner.

The petulance of Juba, appeared less extraordinary on comparison, for he enjoyed not the blessing of parental care, or the leisure of independence. Amongst other incidents that attracted my notice at this period, was a party to Penshurst, to view the venerable mansion of the Sidneys. A well filled barouche, two ponies, and your humble servant formed the cavalcade, and pleasure was to be the order of the day.

My task was easy in the outset, being appointed to carry a young gentleman of light weight. I should have premised that a basket of provisions had been packed in the barouche, under the idea of dining on the grass.

We had performed about half our journey, when a boy who rode a pony, slackened his pace to speak to my rider. “Are you hungry, Ned?” said he.

Ned answered in the negative.

“Poh, I know you are, only you are so modest; I have persuaded Fanny that she is, you will join us, and you shall see what a row I’ll make.”—Riding off before Edward could reply, he hailed the carriage; it was some minutes ere the coachman heard him. Miss Fanny, who rode the other pony, seemed pleased with the joke; my rider declared it was altogether wrong.

The loud shouts of Master Arthur, (as this young Pickle was called) alarmed the barouche party, and when we overtook them, they were all standing up.—“What has happened?—Is Fanny safe? I hope Edward’s Donkey has behaved well?” were the several questions put at once.

“O we are all well enough,” replied Arthur, “but almost famished, I cannot go a foot without something to eat, and Fanny is quite faint.”

“Dear me she does look pale,” said Arthur’s mother, “what can we do?”

“Do? Why open your store basket, and hand us out something good,” said the undaunted Arthur. “But it is under the seat my dear,” said a second Lady entreatingly, “and it would disturb us to unpack it now.”

“Very well Ma’am, if you choose us all to be made ill, rather than suffer a trifling inconvenience it is no matter.”

“What a strange boy you are,” resumed his mother; “I suppose we must try what can be done.”

“Sister, you do very wrong,” replied the elderly Lady, “the whims of Arthur ought not to be indulged, I will answer for his being no more hungry at this moment than I am.”

“Aunt Jemima is thinking of the pigeon pie,” laughed Arthur, “dont deny it, I see it in your face;” the barouche party smiled;—“but we will be content with a few sandwiches, so dont look so cross.”

“That boy’s spirits never flag,” cried a gentleman with more lenity than prudence, “it is impossible to be angry with him.”

“I differ from you,” rejoined Mrs. Jemima, “Arthur is not so much a lively as a mischievous boy, and I see nothing to approve in that sort of talent which can only be indulged at the expense of other people’s feelings.”

“He is young, sister,” cried the mother of Arthur, “you should make allowances.—Dear me what have we done?” she continued, addressing a young Lady, who was assisting in opening the basket,—“I am afraid we have broken a bottle, well it can’t be helped, there my loves,” handing a paper of sandwiches to her son, “you must make these do till we get to Penshurst.” Arthur received the package, and ordering the coachman to go on, immediately dismounted.

“I dare say neither of you want these things,” said he “so let us give our cattle a luncheon.” Edward laughed at the folly of his friend, while Miss Fanny declared it would be quite amusing to see a Donkey eat sandwiches.

We soon devoured these trifles, to the no small amusement of Arthur. But now a new whim seized his fancy. “He begged Edward would exchange and let him ride the Donkey.” I anticipated evil from this, but had nothing to do but obey.

He then proposed a race.—This was positively rejected by Edward, “who exclaimed against the danger that might ensue to Miss Fanny, and the injustice of putting a Donkey in competition with a Horse.”

“Then good bye, I’m off,” said Arthur, “you shall see I will soon be up with the carriage.”

Alas! what was sport to him, was unutterable pain to me. The utmost exertion on my part could not satisfy this impatient Jehu. His spurs goaded my sides, and the incessant lash of his whip wounded even to torture, panting, smarting beneath his thoughtless hand, I found it impossible to effect his wish of overtaking the barouche. My best efforts had proved successless; the only alternative left was, to dismount him as carefully as I could, and thus tire him of my services.

Never had I encountered a more arduous attempt; his agility and strength were really surprising, and the blows I received, ere I accomplished my object nearly exhausted me. I succeeded at last, a friendly dunghill received my proud Master, while I, alarmed for the consequences of my resentment, scrambled on my feet, and at a gentle pace pursued the route of the carriage. I heard him halloo, and the rattling of some pebbles at my heels convinced me he expected I would return, or await his arrival, but I was not quite such an Ass as to do either.

My readers may know what it is to suffer from a fall, or a wound, but they can have no idea of the anguish a beast of burthen is from thoughtlessness, or cruelty too often doomed to suffer.—The pulsation, or throbbing of a trifling wound, will disorder the frame of a rational being.—Then what must it be, when the whole body is in a state of irritation; when every nerve and fibre seems stretched to the utmost; and the continued exertion of the wretched animal is expected and enforced even in the moment of its greatest suffering?

Blush! blush! ye scratched Ladies, and whimpering little gentlemen; or if ye think ye “have felt persecution, learn mercy.”

I do not believe Master Arthur was more cruel than many other boys;—but what are called high spirited boys, and Pickles, are for the most part very thoughtless, inconsiderate beings; and where these foibles exist, a degree of selfishness is generally observable. It was purely for his own amusement, that Arthur incommoded his mother and her friends, and it was by the same laudable motive he was actuated when lashing me almost to a mummy. Did any other of the party derive additional pleasure from his folly? The sequel of my recital shall decide. Keeping the carriage in my eye, I trotted on, till seeing it stop at an inn, I hastened to the destined goal.

Mrs. Jemima, who first discovered me, looked horror struck, till the gentleman declared, it was impossible any serious accident could happen through a Donkey’s throwing his rider.

“How I rejoice Arthur did not ride the odious beast,” said the mother of my late tormentor.

“I hope poor Ned is safe,” replied Mrs. Jemima, “dear boy, I shall not know a moment of ease till I see him.”

“Dear me sister, how silly; dont you hear Mr. Powel says there’s nothing to fear? And Edward is so over cautious, so monstrous prudent, I should not wonder to find he had sent the Donkey on out of pure humanity.”

“Edward’s intentions are always good, always amiable,” replied Mrs. Jemima with calm displeasure.

This altercation as may be imagined, gave me no satisfaction, I rather apprehended further oppression when it should be known that I had presumed to escape from the brutality of Arthur.

The party alighted, and a footman was sent in pursuit of the stragglers. Had I been perfectly free from apprehension on my own account, it is certain I might have found amusement in the desultory conversation that ensued; for as every body was anxious respecting the absentees, not one would enter the inn, but kept lounging near the door.

“I’m sure I hear Arthur’s voice,” said his mother, and in the next moment a boy driving some pigs made his appearance.

“I dare say it was those nasty animals frightened the stupid Donkey,” she added.

“Have you overtaken two young gentlemen and a lady?” said Mrs. Jemima, addressing the pig-driver,—“one of the boys must be on foot,—have you seen them?”

“I only comed from yon field,” said the boy, pointing across the road,—“I’se seen nobody, not I.”

Mr. Powel had walked to some distance.

“Mr. Powel is waving his hankerchief,” said the young Lady, “I will run and inquire what it means.”

She returned in a few minutes,—“all is well Ma’am, Edward is with Mr. Powel, they will be here directly.”

“I trust you are not hurt my dear boy,” cried Mrs. Jemima, taking the hand of her favourite.

“It was not I who was thrown, but Arthur,” he replied,—“but make yourself easy Ma’am,” turning to the frightened mother,—“The Donkey only laid him on a dunghill and took french leave.”

“Why I thought you rode the Donkey Edward?” she resumed.

“I did, till Arthur entreated me to exchange, and conceiving he would really be less liable to accident, I instantly complied.”

“But you see, you did wrong,” pouted the discontented mother, “for the Donkey proved vicious.—I expected more prudence from you, Sir.”

“I am sorry I have disappointed you Ma’am,” added Edward, “but I am seldom so happy as to meet your approbation;” and turning away, he retraced the road a few paces.

“Sister! Sister!” said Mrs. Jemima, “this is unpardonable; if he had refused the request of Arthur, you would have upbraided him; but it is no matter, I do not forget that Edward is my nephew, though you do.”

“Why, indeed! I must say, Master Edward does not appear to blame in this matter,” said Mr. Powel, with great deference; “the charming spirits of my young friend Arthur are beyond a doubt very delightful, but my dear Mrs. Cosway, we must at times fear, least that which is really charming in his character should lead him into danger.” Miss Mowbray, who ventured no opinion in the hearing of her fretful friend, whispered Mrs. Jemima, “that, it seemed to escape the recollection of Mrs. Cosway, that her Pickle was infinitely more exposed to hazard with a half-bred Pony, than the poor Donkey; but, indeed I am astonished altogether!” she added, “not a word is said about Fanny, and it is she only that engages my thoughts.”

“Fanny rides remarkably well, my dear!” rejoined Mrs. Jemima, “though with you I regret to perceive my sister’s too evident partiality.”

By this time the equestrians made their appearance, and every thing and every body was forgotten in Mrs. Cosway’s joy at meeting her darling. Edward was assisting his cousin Fanny in alighting, when Mrs. Jemima turning to Arthur, inquired how it happened that “he again rode the Pony.”

“Ned made me mount him, because he said, my mother would take fright if she saw me walking; but has he not explained his plan? Then I will: he is a capital manager, he walked on first to tell you I had taken a roll on a dunghill, and prevent any false alarms.”

“Then it appears my nephew’s prudence did not forsake him,” retorted Mrs. Jemima, glancing reproachfully at her sister; “he was only so unfortunate as to be arraigned, before he was heard.”

“Come we are all safe and well now,” said Mrs. Cosway, “let us make the most of our time.” They entered the demesne of Penshurst, and I was turned into a field of stubble, where it was as impossible to make a meal, as to be reconciled to the idea that this was a day of pleasure. I must reserve what occurred in our journey home, and the enjoyment of the rational part of our company for a new chapter.