Fear of cows

 T.S. Eliot was afraid of cows. He wrote a poem about it, “The Country Walk.” It begins:

Of all the beasts that God allows 
In England’s green and pleasant land, 
I most of all dislike the Cows: 
Their ways I do not understand.

 

He says that’s a trait that rustics — people like me — would scorn.

 

You may reply, to fear a Cow 
Is Cowardice the rustic scorns; 
But still your reason must allow 
That I am weak, and she has horns.

 

The old cowhands of my grandfather’s generation would never have admitted to a fear of cows, but all of them professed a healthy respect.

I have been kicked, stomped, butted and hooked. Because of my own stupidity and inattention, I was roughed up by a Brahma bull that weighed more than a ton. I imagine that I have encountered cattle-inspired fear in a way Eliot did not. What I can’t understand is the casual, almost charming, way he gives in to it.

I’m trying to imagine what the opposite of this situation would look like. Imagine a rustic, like me, who goes to the big city but is afraid of getting on the subway or into a cab. Because he’s afraid to travel, he doesn’t get out and see the city, doesn’t sample the food, doesn’t meet the natives, doesn’t see the sights that interest them.

Because he gives into fear, he doesn’t see anything but a hotel room. Yet he comes back speaking disparagingly of big cities and city slickers.

I wouldn’t trust that voice.
Maybe that comparison is not fair. But when Eliot speaks, I am skeptical. A lot of Eliot’s poetry has an underlying sensibility that is alien to me.