HORSES

"It doesn't make any difference what you do in the
bedroom as long as you don't do it in the street
and frighten the horses."

-Mrs. Patrick Campbell

HORSE LEGENDS

Bucephalos (Greek).

The celebrated charger of Alexander the Great.
Alexander was the only person who could mount
him, and he always knelt down to take up his master.
He was thirty years old at death, and Alexander built
a city for his mausoleum, which he called Bucephala.
The word means "ox-head."

Marengo

Napoleon's horse was Marengo.
Marengo was the white stallion which
Napoleon rode at Waterloo. Its remains are
now in the Museum of the United Services,
London. Copenhagen was Wellington's
charger at Waterloo. It died in 1835 at
the age of twenty-seven.  

 Incitatus.

The horse of the Roman Emperor Caligula,
made priest and consul.  It had an ivory manger,
and drank wine out of a golden pail.
The word means "spurred on."

 -BREWER:  Dictionary of Phrase and Fable

"Stand, Bayard, stand! The steed obeyed

With arching neck, and bended head,

And glaring eye, and quivering ear,

As if he loved his lord to hear."

-Sir W. Scott: Lady of the Lake

While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk,

as I could not eat grass.  In the daytime I ran by her side,

and at night I lay down close by her.  When it was hot

we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and

when it was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to

go out to work in the daytime, and come back in the evening.

-Black Beauty  (Anna Sewell)

BALLAD OF THE ABSENT MARE

Say a prayer for the cowboy, his mare's run away
and he'll walk til he finds her, his darling, his stray
But the river's in flood and the roads are awash
and the bridges break up in the panic of loss

And there's nothing to follow, there's nowhere to go
She's gone like the summer, she's gone like the snow
And the crickets are breaking his heart with their song
as the day caves in and the night is all wrong

Did he dream, was it she who went galloping past
and bent down the fern and broke open the grass
and printed the mud with the iron and the gold
that he nailed to her feet when he was the lord

And though she goes grazing a minute away
he tracks her all night and he tracks her all day;
blind to her presence except to compare
his injury here with her punishment there

Then at home on his branch in the highest tree
a songbird sings out so suddenly
Oh the sun is warm and the soft winds ride
on the willow trees by the riverside

And the world is sweet and the world is wide
and she's there where the light and the darkness divide
and the stream's coming off her, she's huge and she's shy
and she steps on the moon when she paws at the sky

And she comes to his hand but she's not really tame
She longs to be lost and he longs for the same
And she'll bolt and she'll plunge through the first open pass
to roll and to feed in the sweet mountain grass

Or she'll make a break for the high plateau
where there's nothing above and there's nothing below
And it's time for their burden, it's time for the whip
Will she walk through the flame, can he shoot from the hip

So he binds himself to the galloping mare
and she binds herself to the rider there
and there is no space but there's left and right
and there is no time but there's day and night

And he leans on her neck and he whispers low
Whither thou goest I will go
And they turn as one and they head for the plain
no need for the whip, no need for the rein

Now the clasp of this union, who fastens it tight
who snaps it asunder the very next night?
Some say the rider, some say the mare
some say love's like the smoke, beyond all repair

But my darling says, Leonard, just let it go by,
that old silhouette on the great Western sky
So I pick out a tune and they move right along
and they're gone like the smoke, they're gone like this song.

-Leonard Cohen

"He doth nothing but talk of his horse."

-William Shakespeare. The Merchant of Venice.

The Horse, Hunter and Stag

              

Moral:  If you allow men to use you for your own purposes,

they will use you for theirs.

-Aesop's Fables

"Did you ever see an unhappy horse? Did you ever see a bird that had the blues? One reason why birds and horses are not unhappy is because they are not trying to impress other birds and horses."

-Dale Carnegie

"Horse sense is the thing a horse has

which keeps it from betting on people."

-W.C. Fields

         My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she was steady and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; "but," said she, "there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; and there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own. Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they don't mean it, but they do it for all that.

         I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name."

-Black Beauty (Anna Sewell)

The oil painting of this Andalusian Horse
is by the renowned German artist Renata Blank

Horse Symbolism

The horse is quite often a solar symbol, and in the Bible it is one of intelligence. According to its color, a horse may symbolize either destruction or victory (fiery-red and white, respectively). It is a maternal archetype, and it might also symbolize "impulsiveness, impetuosity of desire, the instinctive impulses that motivate man. This association of the horse with darker human drives, such as virility and sexuality, has been resented by numerous writers [Nietzsche]. In dreams, the black horse of death and destruction is synonmous with misery"

-Dictionary of Symbolism, Allison Protas

Lindy's Thoughts

 Here is what the horse symbolizes to me:  Beauty, grace, power, agility, speed, intelligence, and nobility. In addition, they symbolize everything that is good, and desirable, and laudable, and commendable about life and living things.  They are the dearest, most loyal, most courageous, most intelligent, most beautiful, most powerful, fastest, sleekest, and most graceful of man's domesticated servants. They have served man with honor, integrity, courage, loyalty, devotion, unfaltering generosity, unquestioning obedience, and cheerful disregard for their own well being, for thousands of years.  A horse will easily give up its life for its master. (And thousands of them have certainly done so, down through the ages.)

I have always said that one has never known a wonderful friend, unless one has had the grand good fortune to have known a good horse.  Horses are such benign spirits: They band together to protect their little ones, they eat grass and do not attack other species, and they do not kill for food.   They are so loving, and so loyal. They cheerfully and courageously do whatever they are asked to do.  They will run until their hearts explode, or their legs break in two.  They will pull huge burdens without complaint, and they have carried heavy people who bounce around on sore backs all day.  They listen, they comprehend, and they sense what is asked of them and they deliver -- unquestionably, courageously, wholeheartedly -- and with a beauty, power, and grace that no other species can match.

Horses will grit their teeth and jump over impossibly high fences -- fences higher than those which keep them in their pastures.  They will jump into a pool of water if asked -- not knowing how deep the water will be, or whether the water will be shallow and full of rocks which might break their fragile little legs. They will pull huge pallets full of impossibly heavy loads -- burdens which make one's joints ache to look at them. And they make huge ruts in the dirt while they struggle to move them, and, after a time, miraculously, the pallets move. They will accept confinement in a sunless, dank, dusty little stall, leaving it only to enter a round race course, where they pound the dirt with their hooves and circle round, and round, and round unendingly -- in pain, and for no reason, except for a cheap thrill for some owner.

Horses buck for a reason.  Either they have been spoiled by poor treatment, they are afraid of whoever is on top of them, or they are in unbearable pain.   At rodeos, in order to get a horse to buck, a cruel strap is tightened around a horse's tender flanks, until the discomfort is so great that the horse will buck. The horse is then guided (usually by the use of an electronic prod, which delivers a stunning voltage) into a chute just big enough so the horse can stand. The cowboy then jumps on top of the unfortunate creature, and the gate is opened.  The cowboy rakes his metal spurs into both sides of the horse's neck until the horse jumps out of the chute, and keeps kicking the horse as hard as he can on both sides of his neck with those cruel metal spurs (which sometimes draw blood) until the horse bucks and bucks and bucks. Sometimes the horse is lucky enough to divest himself of the cowboy..........    Sometimes.........   But there is still the cruel flank strap.

My question is this:  Why do we ask these noble creatures to do these things for our entertainment, and for our cheap thrills?  --  Just because we know that they will not refuse?  Think about this question.  The answer escapes me.  Horses' suffering torments me.  They do not deserve this treatment.  They are such noble creatures, and they deserve to be honored and revered and treasured, -- not tormented, exploited, and abused.  .................   Again, please think about it.

-Lindy 

"I don't mind what Congress does, as long as

they don't do it in the streets and frighten the horses."

-Victor Hugo

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A Tale from Dostoevsky

"Near the front steps of the tavern stands a wagon, a strange wagon, though.  It is one of those big wagons used to carry boxes or wine barrels, usually drawn by huge dray horses.  . . . [A] small skinny sorrel mare was hitched to one of those big wagons.  This peasants' nag was the kind that (and he had seen it often) finds pulling an ordinary cart difficult if it is piled high with wood or hay, and especially if it gets stuck in the mud or in a rut.  Every time this happens peasants beat her painfully, so painfully, with whips, right along the muzzle and around the eyes, and he always grieved so, grieved so to be watching this, that he almost wept, and it always ended with his mother leading him away from the window. Suddenly a noisy din goes up:  hulks of peasants come pouring out of the tavern, shouting, singing, balalaikas strumming, drunk, blind drunk, in red and blue shorts, coats flung over their shoulders.  "All aboard, everybody get in!"one yells.  He is still young.  He has a thick neck and a beefy red face.  "All aboard, I'll take everybody!"  Laughter and exclamations ring out.  "Look at that nag!  He says he's going to take everybody!"

"What's wrong with you, Mikolka, you nuts or something, hitching that little mare up to the big wagon!"

"Listen you guys, I bet that sorrel's twenty if she's a day!"

"All aboard, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouts again.  He leaps first onto the wagon, takes the reins up front, and stands at full height.  "Matvey took the bay," he shouts from the wagon, "but this little mare, I tell you, you guys, she breaks my heart.  She don't earn her keep, so if I kill her, so what!  All aboard, I say!  I'll make her gallop!  She'll gallop, all right!" He takes the whip in his hands and gets ready gleefully to flog the sorrel.

"Well, come on, let's get aboard!" the crowd laughs.  "Did you hear that, she's gonna gallop!"

"She ain't galloped for ten years!"

"She'll skip!"

"Don't worry, you guys, take your whips.  Come on, let's go!"

Okay, let her have it!"

They pile into Mikolka's wagon, laughing and joking.  Six men climb aboard, and there is room for more.  They take a fat, red-faced peasant woman along with them.  She wears a red calico dress; she is plumed and beaded, with high-top shoes on her feet; she is cracking nuts and laughing.  In the crowd all around they're laughing too, and to tell the truth, it's hard not to laugh:  such a miserable runt of a mare trying to gallop with a load like that!  Two fellows in the wagon start using their whips, helping Mikolka.  They all shout "Gee-up!" and the mare strains with all her might, but not only does she not gallop, it is all she can do to move forward at all.  Her legs make a pethetic little pawing motions; she groans and cowers as the blows of three whips drop on her like hailstones.  The laughter in the crowd and in the wagon doubles, but Mikolka is beginning to lose his temper, and he flogs the little mare furiously, with quickened blows, exactly as through he really believed she could gallop.

"Let me get on, too, you guys," shouts a young fellow from the crowd who had worked up a taste for the occasion.

"All aboard!  All aboard, everybody!" Mikolka yells.  She'll pull everybody!  I'll whup 'er!"  And he lashes and lashes, no longer knowing why, hitting out in a frenzy. . .

Suddenly a volley of laughter erups that drowns out everything else. Unable to stand the intensified beating, the little mare in her impotence had begun to kick.  Even the old man, unable to restrain himself, breaks out laughing:  "Imagine, a bag of bones like that, and yet she kicks!"

Two young fellows from the crowd arm themselves with whips, intending to flog her, one from each side.

"On the muzzle!  Hit her around the eyes!  Right around the eyes!" Mikolka shouts.

"Hey, you guys," somebody shouts from the wagon, "let's have a song!"  And everybody in the wagon joins in.  There is a rowdy song, the clash of tambourines shrill whistling the refrains.  The peasant woman goes on cracking nuts and laughing.

He runs up to the mare, he runs out in front of her a little, he sees how she's being whipped around the eys, right around the eyes!"  He weeps. His heart heaves; his tears flow.  A blow glances across his face, but he does not feel it.  He wrings his hands, he shouts, he pushes his way toward the old graybeard shaking his head, disapproving of all of this.  A woman takes him by the hand and tries to lead him off, but he tears himself away and runs back to the horse.  She is on her last legs, but once again starts to kick.

"You damn bloody devil!" Mikolka scrams out in a fury.  He throws away his whip, bends down, and fishes a long thick shaft out from the bottom of the wagon.  Taking hold of it by one end with both hands, with an effort he swings it over the sorrel.

The shouts goes up:  "He's going to let her have it!  He'll kill her!"

"It's my business!"  Mikolka yells, and he brings the shaft down with all his might.  There is the sound of a heavy blow.  

Voices should from the crowd:  "Whup 'er!  Whip 'er!  Why stop!"

Mikolka swings again, and another blow comes down hard on the back of the unfortunate mare.  She sinks back on her haunches, only to leap up again.  She strains and strains with all the strength she has left, trying first in one direction and then in another to move the wagon.  Whichever side she tries, however, she is met by six whips, and the shaft rises again and falls a third, and then a fourth time, slowly and with great force. Mikolka is furious at not being able to kill her with one blow.

"She's got a lot of spunk!" they shout.

One of the sports shouts from the crowd:  "She's had it now, you guys! This is the end of her."

And someone else shouts:  "Go get an ax! Finish her off quick!"

"Eh, eat bugs, you crapper!" Mikolka yells furiously at the mare.  "Let me through."  He throws down the shaft, bends down into the wagon again and comes up with a crowbar.  "Watch it!" he shouts, and with all his might he deals the poor horse a shattering blow.  The mare staggers, sits back, is about to try pulling again, but the bar comes down full force on her back.  She falls to the ground as though all four legs had been knocked out from under her at once.

Beside himself, Mikolka, leaping from the wagon, yells:  "Let her have it!" A few drunk, red-faced young fellows grabwhat comes their way --whips, canes, a shaft--and run up to the dying mare.  Mikolka stands to one side and starts beating her across the back at random with the crowbar.  The mare stretches out her muzzle, draws a heavy breath, and dies.

"You butchered her!" they shout in the crowd.

"Why wouldn't she gallop?"

"It's my business!" Mikolka shouts, the crowbar in his hands, his eyes all bloodshot.  He stands there as though he were sorry there is nothing more to whip."

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Crime and Punishment 

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With deep gratitude:

Music:   Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14 in C#- "Moonlight"

Performed by Hisamori Bunji

With deep gratitude for graphics to the following: 

BCGrizzly.com
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GIF Animation Station
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Thanks, Amanda  :-)

Napoleon Bonaparte Internet Guide
Thanks, Paul  :-)

Visual Compendium of Roman Emperors

This is a wonderful site, full of lovely images of noble horses.
It has won lots of awards, and they are well-deserved.
Can't recommend this site too highly.
Thanks, Heinz  :-)

Here is a site which captivates the grace, power and
beauty of this wonderful species.  These images show
the incredible spirit of the equine world.

Redwings

 Check out this site -- it speaks for itself.
Read about premarin in the equine issues section.

Thanks, Gloria  :-)

Thanks, Larine

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