And "God shutteth not up His mercies forever in displeasure!" We can only shiver and turn our thoughts away from the bright light that went out in such utter darkness. Poor, guilty, unhappy John Wilkes Booth!
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH
Mr. R. E. J. Miles—His two Horses, and our Woful Experience with the Substitute "Wild Horse of Tartary."
But there, just as I start to speak of my third season, I seem to look into a pair of big, mild eyes that say: "Can it be that you mean to pass me by? Do you forget that 'twas I who turned the great sensation scene of a play into a side-splitting farce?" And I shake my head and answer, truthfully: "I cannot forget, I shall never forget your work that night in Columbus, when you appeared as the 'fiery, untamed steed' (may Heaven forgive you) in 'Mazeppa.'"
Mr. Robert E. J. Miles, or "All the Alphabet Miles," as he was frequently called, was starring at that time in the Horse Drama, doing such plays as "The Cataract of the Ganges," "Mazeppa," "Sixteen-String Jack," etc. "Mazeppa" was the favorite in Columbus, and both the star and manager regretted they had billed the other plays in advance, as there would have been more money in "Mazeppa" alone. Mr. Miles carried with him two horses; the one for the "Wild Horse of Tartary" was an exquisitely formed, satin-coated creature, who looked wickedly at you from the tail of her blazing eye, who bared her teeth savagely, and struck out with her fore-feet, as well as lashed out with the hind ones. When she came rearing, plunging, biting, snapping, whirling, and kicking her way on to the stage, the scarlet lining of her dilating nostrils and the foam flying from her mouth made our screams very natural ones, and the women in front used to huddle close to their companions, or even cover their faces.
One creature only did this beautiful vixen love—R. E. J. Miles. She fawned upon him like a dog; she did tricks like a dog for him, but she was a terror to the rest of mankind, and really it was a thrilling scene when Mazeppa was stripped and bound, his head tail-ward, his feet mane-ward, to the back of that maddened beast. She seemed to bite and tear at him, and when set free she stood straight up for a dreadful moment, in which she really endangered his life, then, with a wild neigh, she tore up the "runs," as if fiends pursued her, with the man stretched helplessly along her inky back. The curtain used to go up again and again—it was so very effective.
For a horse to get from the level stage clear above the "flies," under the very roof, the platforms or runs he mounts on have to zig-zag across the mountain background.
At each angle, out of sight of the audience, there is a railed platform, large enough for the horse to turn upon and make the next upward rush.
The other horse travelling with Mr. Miles was an entirely different proposition. He would have been described, according to the State he happened to be in, as a pie-bald, a skew-bald, a pinto, or a calico horse. He was very large, mostly of a satiny white, with big, absurdly shaped markings of bright bay. He was one of the breed of horses that in livery stables are always known as "Doctor" or "Judge." Benevolence beamed from his large, clear eyes, and he looked so mildly wise, one half expected to see him put on spectacles. The boy at the stable said one day, as he fed him: "I wouldn't wunder if this ol' parson of 'er a hoss asked a blessin' on them there oats—I wouldn't!"
I don't know whether old Bob—as he was called—had any speed or not, but if he had it was useless to him, for, alas! he was never allowed to reach the goal under any circumstances. He was always ridden by the villain, and therefore had to be overtaken, and besides that he generally had to carry double, as the desperado usually fled holding the fainting heroine before him. Though old Bob successfully leaped chasms thus heavily handicapped—for truly he was a mighty jumper—nevertheless he was compelled to accept defeat, as Mr. Miles always came rushing up on the black horse to the rescue. He was very lucky indeed, if he didn't have to roll about and die, and he was a very impatient dead horse, often amusing the audience by lifting his head to see if the curtain was not down yet, and then dropping dead again with a sigh the whole house could hear.