There was such a picture on the wall of the stable.

“Have you any horses,” I asked nervously, jerking my thumb toward the wall, “any horses that have been fed on just ordinary food?  Some that are a little tired?”

For I remembered how Mr. Winkle once engaged horses to take the Pickwickians out to Manor Farm and what mishaps befell them on the way.

“‘He don’t shy, does he?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“’Shy, sir?—­He wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a vagginload of monkeys with their tails burnt off.’”

But how Mr. Pickwick dropped his whip, how Mr. Winkle got off his tall horse to pick it up, how he tried in vain to remount while his horse went round and round, how they were all spilt out upon the bridge and how finally they walked to Manor Farm—­these things are known to everybody with an inch of reading.

“‘How far is it to Dingley Dell?’ they asked.

“‘Better er seven mile.’

“‘Is it a good road?’

“’No, t’ant.’...

“The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.”

“Have you any horses,” I repeated, “that have not been fed on Blat’s Food—­horses that are, so to speak, on a diet?”

In the farthest stalls, hidden from the sunlight and the invigorating infection of the day, two beasts were found with sunken chests and hollow eyes, who took us safely to our destination on their hands and knees.

As you may suspect, I do not enjoy riding.  There is, it is true, one saddle horse in North Carolina that fears me.  If time still spares him, that horse I could ride with content.  But I would rather trust myself on the top of a wobbly step-ladder than up the sides of most horses.  I am not quite of a mind, however, with Samuel Richardson who owned a hobby-horse and rode on his hearth-rug in the intervals of writing “Pamela.”  It is likely that when he had rescued her from an adventure of more than usual danger—­perhaps her villainous master has been concealed in her closet—­perhaps he has been hiding beneath her bed—­it is likely, having brought her safely off, the author locked her in the buttery against a fresh attack.  Then he felt, good man, in need of exercise.  So while he waits for tea and muffins, he leaps upon his rocking-horse and prances off.  As for the hobby-horse itself, I have not heard whether it was of the usual nursery type, or whether it was built in the likeness of the leather camels of a German steamship.

I need hardly say that these confessions of my cowardice are for your ear alone.  They must not get abroad to smirch me.  If on a country walk I have taken to my heels, you must not twit me with poltroonery.  If you charge me with such faint-heartedness while other persons are present, I’ll deny it flat.  When I sit in the company of ladies at dinner, I dissemble my true nature, as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat.  If then, you taunt me, for want of a better escape, I shall turn it to a jest.  I shall engage the table flippantly:  Hear how preposterously the fellow talks!—­he jests to satisfy a grudge.  In appearance I am whole as the marble, founded as a rock.