After ascending the run the horse and rider must remain high up in the lofty region of the “floats” until a change of scene permits them to descend unobserved, or the play requires their descent in public. A perilous, and consequently attractive, feat has been introduced into this play by one or two unusually reckless and daring riders, consisting of an extension of the run around the gallery of the theatre. Over this narrow road above the heads of the spectators, some hundred feet or more from the ground, amid the glare or the lights, the banging of the orchestra, and the thunders of the multitude, dashes the horse, bearing in triumph “the sensation rider of the world.” A single misstep, the displacement of a single plank in that frail support, and horse and rider would lie a mangled mass below. And this is the very reason the house is jammed with eager throngs—not that they wish the rider to meet the horrible death thus courted night after night, but it is certainly this possibility which renders the performance so attractive. Playing Mazeppa is not always the hight of felicity.
There is a story told of a horse who probably never had the honor of figuring on either posters or play bills, which we think may be appropriately recorded here. A traveler on a dark night presented himself at the door of a country inn, and demanded lodging. The landlord, after some general remarks, suddenly turned pale and asked his guest by what road he had come. Upon being informed he almost fainted with terror. On examination in the morning it was found that the horse ridden by the traveler had walked with safety the string piece of a long bridge, and maintained his footing on the single extended timber, scarcely a foot wide. The planks of the bridge had been torn up for repairs the day previous; a misstep of the sure footed animal would have precipitated himself and rider into a chasm a hundred feet below.
In Mazeppa and similar plays the horse is “worked” by his trainer or master who comes on the stage attired as one of the retinue or attendants. In other pieces the rider himself manages the horse. These horses are seldom used for any other purpose, as ordinary riding or driving would make their mouths hard and render them less easily controlled upon the stage. In the summer their shoes are taken off and they are allowed a holiday in the country pastures. Mr. Collins, an actor of considerable celebrity who played successfully all the range of equestrian characters, and who trained several of the most popular “star” horses, had a magnificent stallion of large size which was probably the handsomest horse in the profession. He was a trifle too large to display his speed to the best advantage in the theater, but on the road, where Mr. C. occasionally displayed his points, there were few animals who could contest the palm with him for speed. He was a fiery fellow, and if annoyed would bite his tormentor fiercely, and few cared to excite his anger. This was made a “point” of on the stage, Mr. C. plaguing him a little unnoticed by the public, and the spirit the horse displayed always “took” with the audience. Mr. C., however, found it necessary to keep out of reach of the animal’s teeth, or even his influence over the horse might not have preserved him from an uncomfortable nip.
Years ago when horse dramas reigned in the Broadway theaters, as well as in the less aristocratic locality of the Bowery, an enterprising manager determined to bring out Herne the Hunter, “in the highest style of the art.” A number of horses, circus men and innumerable supernumeraries were engaged, and the piece produced under the most horse-piece-cious circumstances. The eventful night arrived, the house was crammed. The play progressed, people came on and off the stage, talked, raced, shouted, went through traps, climbed canvas rocks, and indulged in all the customary motions of a grand “spectacle.” There has always been a natural feud between actors and circus folks. The ring people despise those who can only “cackle,” (flash term for talk), while the stage fellows say that folks who travel on their shape, and have no brains to back them up, are contemptible. In those days there was even less good feeling between the two professions than at present. The supes aspiring to the dignity of “the stage” were more intense in their antipathy to the riders than were the actors themselves, and being always ready for a lark, some of them procured a lot of a peculiar kind of tinder which is readily lighted and could be surreptitiously blown into a horse’s nostrils without the culprit being detected. Suddenly in the midst of the performance the horses became restive, and in a moment became unmanageable. Some reared and kicked, some broke through the stage, while others, trampling the foot lights under foot, plunged into the orchestra. All was confusion. An actor advances to the foot lights and assures the audience that they need feel no alarm—nothing of importance is amiss—it is “all right.” At this very moment two horses are murdering their riders in the orchestra. One of the men, literally impaled upon the spikes around the railing, presents a sickening, horrifying, spectacle as he writhes in his death agony. Of course the play was not concluded; the audience departed shocked at the awful sight they had witnessed, and the supes, who had intended no farther harm than a little amusement at the expense of the circus men, now bitterly repented their thoughtless folly. They did what they could to atone for trick by making up a purse for the benefit of the families of the principal victims of the unfortunate affair, but the horse drama had received its death blow on Broadway.
CHAPTER VI.
BREAKING AND TRAINING MULES—PERFORMING AND “COMIC” MULES.
Mules appear fated to labor under an unfavorable and unenviable reputation. Not only has that rather objectionable quality of stubbornness been supposed to exist in their disposition to such an undue degree as to give rise to the saying, “as stubborn as a mule,” but this general reputation for intelligence is by no means first rate. That the mule is by nature inclined to be rather stubborn is undoubtedly true, but it is very questionable whether the wonderful displays of this quality sometimes met with, are not actually as much due to the very measures adopted to overcome the fault as to the natural disposition of the animal. With proper treatment and a little judicious training the objectionable features in a mule’s disposition might be easily remedied.
A LAZY CURE FOR LAZINESS.
There is a clever invention attributed to a certain lazy Hindoo, for overcoming the proverbial laziness of the mule. It appears that the man was employed to oversee a mule working one of those primitive mills in use to this day in India. The man seems to have been slightly inclined toward laziness himself, and was anxious to contrive some plan which would enable him to keep the mule in motion and monopolize all the indolence himself. This he at last accomplished with the aid of a clever device, shown in the accompanying illustration, which explains itself. We give it as a curiosity in the “art of training animals,” without vouching for its strict fidelity to the truth.