Black Beauty

Part II

22 Earl­shall

The next morn­ing af­ter break­fast Joe put Mer­rylegs in­to the mis­tress’ low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good-​by to us, and Mer­rylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the sad­dle on Gin­ger and the lead­ing rein on me, and rode us across the coun­try about fif­teen miles to Earl­shall Park, where the Earl of W—- lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of sta­bling. We went in­to the yard through a stone gate­way, and John asked for Mr. York. It was some time be­fore he came. He was a fine-​look­ing, mid­dle-​aged man, and his voice said at once that he ex­pect­ed to be obeyed. He was very friend­ly and po­lite to John, and af­ter giv­ing us a slight look he called a groom to take us to our box­es, and in­vit­ed John to take some re­fresh­ment.

We were tak­en to a light, airy sta­ble, and placed in box­es ad­join­ing each oth­er, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half an hour John and Mr. York, who was to be our new coach­man, came in to see us.

“Now, Mr. Man­ly,” he said, af­ter care­ful­ly look­ing at us both, “I can see no fault in these hors­es; but we all know that hors­es have their pe­cu­liar­ities as well as men, and that some­times they need dif­fer­ent treat­ment. I should like to know if there is any­thing par­tic­ular in ei­ther of these that you would like to men­tion.”

“Well,” said John, “I don’t be­lieve there is a bet­ter pair of hors­es in the coun­try, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not alike. The black one is the most per­fect tem­per I ev­er knew; I sup­pose he has nev­er known a hard word or a blow since he was foaled, and all his plea­sure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chest­nut, I fan­cy, must have had bad treat­ment; we heard as much from the deal­er. She came to us snap­pish and sus­pi­cious, but when she found what sort of place ours was, it all went off by de­grees; for three years I have nev­er seen the small­est sign of tem­per, and if she is well treat­ed there is not a bet­ter, more will­ing an­imal than she is. But she is nat­ural­ly a more ir­ri­ta­ble con­sti­tu­tion than the black horse; flies tease her more; any­thing wrong in the har­ness frets her more; and if she were ill-​used or un­fair­ly treat­ed she would not be un­like­ly to give tit for tat. You know that many high-​met­tled hors­es will do so.”

“Of course,” said York, “I quite un­der­stand; but you know it is not easy in sta­bles like these to have all the grooms just what they should be. I do my best, and there I must leave it. I’ll re­mem­ber what you have said about the mare.”

They were go­ing out of the sta­ble, when John stopped and said, “I had bet­ter men­tion that we have nev­er used the check-​rein with ei­ther of them; the black horse nev­er had one on, and the deal­er said it was the gag-​bit that spoiled the oth­er’s tem­per.”

“Well,” said York, “if they come here they must wear the check-​rein. I pre­fer a loose rein my­self, and his lord­ship is al­ways very rea­son­able about hors­es; but my la­dy — that’s an­oth­er thing; she will have style, and if her car­riage hors­es are not reined up tight she wouldn’t look at them. I al­ways stand out against the gag-​bit, and shall do so, but it must be tight up when my la­dy rides!”

“I am sor­ry for it, very sor­ry,” said John; “but I must go now, or I shall lose the train.”

He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time; his voice sound­ed very sad.

I held my face close to him; that was all I could do to say good-​by; and then he was gone, and I have nev­er seen him since.

The next day Lord W—- came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our ap­pear­ance.

“I have great con­fi­dence in these hors­es,” he said, “from the char­ac­ter my friend Mr. Gor­don has giv­en me of them. Of course they are not a match in col­or, but my idea is that they will do very well for the car­riage while we are in the coun­try. Be­fore we go to Lon­don I must try to match Baron; the black horse, I be­lieve, is per­fect for rid­ing.”

York then told him what John had said about us.

“Well,” said he, “you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the check-​rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a lit­tle hu­mor­ing at first. I’ll men­tion it to your la­dy.”

In the af­ter­noon we were har­nessed and put in the car­riage, and as the sta­ble clock struck three we were led round to the front of the house. It was all very grand, and three or four times as large as the old house at Birtwick, but not half so pleas­ant, if a horse may have an opin­ion. Two foot­men were stand­ing ready, dressed in drab liv­ery, with scar­let breech­es and white stock­ings. Present­ly we heard the rustling sound of silk as my la­dy came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round to look at us; she was a tall, proud-​look­ing wom­an, and did not seem pleased about some­thing, but she said noth­ing, and got in­to the car­riage. This was the first time of wear­ing a check-​rein, and I must say, though it cer­tain­ly was a nui­sance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head high­er than I was ac­cus­tomed to car­ry it. I felt anx­ious about Gin­ger, but she seemed to be qui­et and con­tent.

The next day at three o’clock we were again at the door, and the foot­men as be­fore; we heard the silk dress rus­tle and the la­dy came down the steps, and in an im­pe­ri­ous voice she said, “York, you must put those hors­es’ heads high­er; they are not fit to be seen.”

York got down, and said very re­spect­ful­ly, “I beg your par­don, my la­dy, but these hors­es have not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by de­grees; but if your la­dy­ship pleas­es I can take them up a lit­tle more.”

“Do so,” she said.

York came round to our heads and short­ened the rein him­self — one hole, I think; ev­ery lit­tle makes a dif­fer­ence, be it for bet­ter or worse, and that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I be­gan to un­der­stand what I had heard of. Of course, I want­ed to put my head for­ward and take the car­riage up with a will, as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull with my head up now, and that took all the spir­it out of me, and the strain came on my back and legs. When we came in Gin­ger said, “Now you see what it is like; but this is not bad, and if it does not get much worse than this I shall say noth­ing about it, for we are very well treat­ed here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let ‘em look out! I can’t bear it, and I won’t.”

Day by day, hole by hole, our bear­ing reins were short­ened, and in­stead of look­ing for­ward with plea­sure to hav­ing my har­ness put on, as I used to do, I be­gan to dread it. Gin­ger, too, seemed rest­less, though she said very lit­tle. At last I thought the worst was over; for sev­er­al days there was no more short­en­ing, and I de­ter­mined to make the best of it and do my du­ty, though it was now a con­stant ha­rass in­stead of a plea­sure; but the worst was not come.

23 A Strike for Lib­er­ty

One day my la­dy came down lat­er than usu­al, and the silk rus­tled more than ev­er.

“Drive to the Duchess of B—-’s,” she said, and then af­ter a pause, “Are you nev­er go­ing to get those hors­es’ heads up, York? Raise them at once and let us have no more of this hu­mor­ing and non­sense.”

York came to me first, while the groom stood at Gin­ger’s head. He drew my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was al­most in­tol­er­able; then he went to Gin­ger, who was im­pa­tient­ly jerk­ing her head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good idea of what was com­ing, and the mo­ment York took the rein off the ter­ret in or­der to short­en it she took her op­por­tu­ni­ty and reared up so sud­den­ly that York had his nose rough­ly hit and his hat knocked off; the groom was near­ly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her head; but she was a match for them, and went on plung­ing, rear­ing, and kick­ing in a most des­per­ate man­ner. At last she kicked right over the car­riage pole and fell down, af­ter giv­ing me a se­vere blow on my near quar­ter. There is no know­ing what fur­ther mis­chief she might have done had not York prompt­ly sat him­self down flat on her head to pre­vent her strug­gling, at the same time call­ing out, “Un­buck­le the black horse! Run for the winch and un­screw the car­riage pole! Cut the trace here, some­body, if you can’t un­hitch it!” One of the foot­men ran for the winch, and an­oth­er brought a knife from the house. The groom soon set me free from Gin­ger and the car­riage, and led me to my box. He just turned me in as I was and ran back to York. I was much ex­cit­ed by what had hap­pened, and if I had ev­er been used to kick or rear I am sure I should have done it then; but I nev­er had, and there I stood, an­gry, sore in my leg, my head still strained up to the ter­ret on the sad­dle, and no pow­er to get it down. I was very mis­er­able and felt much in­clined to kick the first per­son who came near me.

Be­fore long, how­ev­er, Gin­ger was led in by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave his or­ders, and then came to look at me. In a mo­ment he let down my head.

“Con­found these check-​reins!” he said to him­self; “I thought we should have some mis­chief soon. Mas­ter will be sore­ly vexed. But there, if a wom­an’s hus­band can’t rule her of course a ser­vant can’t; so I wash my hands of it, and if she can’t get to the duchess’ gar­den par­ty I can’t help it.”

York did not say this be­fore the men; he al­ways spoke re­spect­ful­ly when they were by. Now he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he or­dered it to be sponged with hot wa­ter, and then some lo­tion was put on.

Lord W—- was much put out when he learned what had hap­pened; he blamed York for giv­ing way to his mis­tress, to which he replied that in fu­ture he would much pre­fer to re­ceive his or­ders on­ly from his lord­ship; but I think noth­ing came of it, for things went on the same as be­fore. I thought York might have stood up bet­ter for his hors­es, but per­haps I am no judge.

Gin­ger was nev­er put in­to the car­riage again, but when she was well of her bruis­es one of the Lord W—-’s younger sons said he should like to have her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the car­riage, and had a fresh part­ner called Max; he had al­ways been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it.

“Well,” he said, “I bear it be­cause I must; but it is short­en­ing my life, and it will short­en yours too if you have to stick to it.”

“Do you think,” I said, “that our mas­ters know how bad it is for us?”

“I can’t say,” he replied, “but the deal­ers and the horse-​doc­tors know it very well. I was at a deal­er’s once, who was train­ing me and an­oth­er horse to go as a pair; he was get­ting our heads up, as he said, a lit­tle high­er and a lit­tle high­er ev­ery day. A gen­tle­man who was there asked him why he did so. `Be­cause,’ said he, `peo­ple won’t buy them un­less we do. The Lon­don peo­ple al­ways want their hors­es to car­ry their heads high and to step high. Of course it is very bad for the hors­es, but then it is good for trade. The hors­es soon wear up, or get dis­eased, and they come for an­oth­er pair.’ That,” said Max, “is what he said in my hear­ing, and you can judge for your­self.”

What I suf­fered with that rein for four long months in my la­dy’s car­riage it would be hard to de­scribe; but I am quite sure that, had it last­ed much longer, ei­ther my health or my tem­per would have giv­en way. Be­fore that, I nev­er knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the ac­tion of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the con­strained po­si­tion of my head and throat, al­ways caused me to froth at the mouth more or less. Some peo­ple think it very fine to see this, and say, “What fine spir­it­ed crea­tures!” But it is just as un­nat­ural for hors­es as for men to foam at the mouth; it is a sure sign of some dis­com­fort, and should be at­tend­ed to. Be­sides this, there was a pres­sure on my wind­pipe, which of­ten made my breath­ing very un­com­fort­able; when I re­turned from my work my neck and chest were strained and painful, my mouth and tongue ten­der, and I felt worn and de­pressed.

In my old home I al­ways knew that John and my mas­ter were my friends; but here, al­though in many ways I was well treat­ed, I had no friend. York might have known, and very like­ly did know, how that rein ha­rassed me; but I sup­pose he took it as a mat­ter of course that it could not be helped; at any rate, noth­ing was done to re­lieve me.

24 The La­dy Anne, or a Run­away Horse

Ear­ly in the spring, Lord W—- and part of his fam­ily went up to Lon­don, and took York with them. I and Gin­ger and some oth­er hors­es were left at home for use, and the head groom was left in charge.

The La­dy Har­ri­et, who re­mained at the hall, was a great in­valid, and nev­er went out in the car­riage, and the La­dy Anne pre­ferred rid­ing on horse­back with her broth­er or cousins. She was a per­fect horse­wom­an, and as gay and gen­tle as she was beau­ti­ful. She chose me for her horse, and named me “Black Auster”. I en­joyed these rides very much in the clear cold air, some­times with Gin­ger, some­times with Lizzie. This Lizzie was a bright bay mare, al­most thor­ough­bred, and a great fa­vorite with the gen­tle­men, on ac­count of her fine ac­tion and live­ly spir­it; but Gin­ger, who knew more of her than I did, told me she was rather ner­vous.

There was a gen­tle­man of the name of Blan­tyre stay­ing at the hall; he al­ways rode Lizzie, and praised her so much that one day La­dy Anne or­dered the side-​sad­dle to be put on her, and the oth­er sad­dle on me. When we came to the door the gen­tle­man seemed very un­easy.

“How is this?” he said. “Are you tired of your good Black Auster?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she replied, “but I am ami­able enough to let you ride him for once, and I will try your charm­ing Lizzie. You must con­fess that in size and ap­pear­ance she is far more like a la­dy’s horse than my own fa­vorite.”

“Do let me ad­vise you not to mount her,” he said; “she is a charm­ing crea­ture, but she is too ner­vous for a la­dy. I as­sure you, she is not per­fect­ly safe; let me beg you to have the sad­dles changed.”

“My dear cousin,” said La­dy Anne, laugh­ing, “pray do not trou­ble your good care­ful head about me. I have been a horse­wom­an ev­er since I was a ba­by, and I have fol­lowed the hounds a great many times, though I know you do not ap­prove of ladies hunt­ing; but still that is the fact, and I in­tend to try this Lizzie that you gen­tle­men are all so fond of; so please help me to mount, like a good friend as you are.”

There was no more to be said; he placed her care­ful­ly on the sad­dle, looked to the bit and curb, gave the reins gen­tly in­to her hand, and then mount­ed me. Just as we were mov­ing off a foot­man came out with a slip of pa­per and mes­sage from the La­dy Har­ri­et. “Would they ask this ques­tion for her at Dr. Ash­ley’s, and bring the an­swer?”

The vil­lage was about a mile off, and the doc­tor’s house was the last in it. We went along gay­ly enough till we came to his gate. There was a short drive up to the house be­tween tall ev­er­greens.

Blan­tyre alight­ed at the gate, and was go­ing to open it for La­dy Anne, but she said, “I will wait for you here, and you can hang Auster’s rein on the gate.”

He looked at her doubt­ful­ly. “I will not be five min­utes,” he said.

“Oh, do not hur­ry your­self; Lizzie and I shall not run away from you.”

He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hid­den among the trees. Lizzie was stand­ing qui­et­ly by the side of the road a few paces off, with her back to me. My young mis­tress was sit­ting eas­ily with a loose rein, hum­ming a lit­tle song. I lis­tened to my rid­er’s foot­steps un­til they reached the house, and heard him knock at the door. There was a mead­ow on the op­po­site side of the road, the gate of which stood open; just then some cart hors­es and sev­er­al young colts came trot­ting out in a very dis­or­der­ly man­ner, while a boy be­hind was crack­ing a great whip. The colts were wild and frol­ic­some, and one of them bolt­ed across the road and blun­dered up against Lizzie’s hind legs, and whether it was the stupid colt, or the loud crack­ing of the whip, or both to­geth­er, I can­not say, but she gave a vi­olent kick, and dashed off in­to a head­long gal­lop. It was so sud­den that La­dy Anne was near­ly un­seat­ed, but she soon re­cov­ered her­self. I gave a loud, shrill neigh for help; again and again I neighed, paw­ing the ground im­pa­tient­ly, and toss­ing my head to get the rein loose. I had not long to wait. Blan­tyre came run­ning to the gate; he looked anx­ious­ly about, and just caught sight of the fly­ing fig­ure, now far away on the road. In an in­stant he sprang to the sad­dle. I need­ed no whip, no spur, for I was as ea­ger as my rid­er; he saw it, and giv­ing me a free rein, and lean­ing a lit­tle for­ward, we dashed af­ter them.

For about a mile and a half the road ran straight, and then bent to the right, af­ter which it di­vid­ed in­to two roads. Long be­fore we came to the bend she was out of sight. Which way had she turned? A wom­an was stand­ing at her gar­den gate, shad­ing her eyes with her hand, and look­ing ea­ger­ly up the road. Scarce­ly draw­ing the rein, Blan­tyre shout­ed, “Which way?” “To the right!” cried the wom­an, point­ing with her hand, and away we went up the right-​hand road; then for a mo­ment we caught sight of her; an­oth­er bend and she was hid­den again. Sev­er­al times we caught glimpses, and then lost them. We scarce­ly seemed to gain ground up­on them at all. An old road-​mender was stand­ing near a heap of stones, his shov­el dropped and his hands raised. As we came near he made a sign to speak. Blan­tyre drew the rein a lit­tle. “To the com­mon, to the com­mon, sir; she has turned off there.” I knew this com­mon very well; it was for the most part very un­even ground, cov­ered with heather and dark-​green furze bush­es, with here and there a scrub­by old thorn-​tree; there were al­so open spaces of fine short grass, with ant-​hills and mole-​turns ev­ery­where; the worst place I ev­er knew for a head­long gal­lop.

We had hard­ly turned on the com­mon, when we caught sight again of the green habit fly­ing on be­fore us. My la­dy’s hat was gone, and her long brown hair was stream­ing be­hind her. Her head and body were thrown back, as if she were pulling with all her re­main­ing strength, and as if that strength were near­ly ex­haust­ed. It was clear that the rough­ness of the ground had very much less­ened Lizzie’s speed, and there seemed a chance that we might over­take her.

While we were on the high­road, Blan­tyre had giv­en me my head; but now, with a light hand and a prac­ticed eye, he guid­ed me over the ground in such a mas­ter­ly man­ner that my pace was scarce­ly slack­ened, and we were de­cid­ed­ly gain­ing on them.

About halfway across the heath there had been a wide dike re­cent­ly cut, and the earth from the cut­ting was cast up rough­ly on the oth­er side. Sure­ly this would stop them! But no; with scarce­ly a pause Lizzie took the leap, stum­bled among the rough clods and fell. Blan­tyre groaned, “Now, Auster, do your best!” He gave me a steady rein. I gath­ered my­self well to­geth­er and with one de­ter­mined leap cleared both dike and bank.

Mo­tion­less among the heather, with her face to the earth, lay my poor young mis­tress. Blan­tyre kneeled down and called her name: there was no sound. Gen­tly he turned her face up­ward: it was ghast­ly white and the eyes were closed. “An­nie, dear An­nie, do speak!” But there was no an­swer. He un­but­toned her habit, loos­ened her col­lar, felt her hands and wrist, then start­ed up and looked wild­ly round him for help.

At no great dis­tance there were two men cut­ting turf, who, see­ing Lizzie run­ning wild with­out a rid­er, had left their work to catch her.

Blan­tyre’s hal­loo soon brought them to the spot. The fore­most man seemed much trou­bled at the sight, and asked what he could do.

“Can you ride?”

“Well, sir, I bean’t much of a horse­man, but I’d risk my neck for the La­dy Anne; she was un­com­mon good to my wife in the win­ter.”

“Then mount this horse, my friend — your neck will be quite safe — and ride to the doc­tor’s and ask him to come in­stant­ly; then on to the hall; tell them all that you know, and bid them send me the car­riage, with La­dy Anne’s maid and help. I shall stay here.”

“All right, sir, I’ll do my best, and I pray God the dear young la­dy may open her eyes soon.” Then, see­ing the oth­er man, he called out, “Here, Joe, run for some wa­ter, and tell my mis­sis to come as quick as she can to the La­dy Anne.”

He then some­how scram­bled in­to the sad­dle, and with a “Gee up” and a clap on my sides with both his legs, he start­ed on his jour­ney, mak­ing a lit­tle cir­cuit to avoid the dike. He had no whip, which seemed to trou­ble him; but my pace soon cured that dif­fi­cul­ty, and he found the best thing he could do was to stick to the sad­dle and hold me in, which he did man­ful­ly. I shook him as lit­tle as I could help, but once or twice on the rough ground he called out, “Steady! Woah! Steady!” On the high­road we were all right; and at the doc­tor’s and the hall he did his er­rand like a good man and true. They asked him in to take a drop of some­thing. “No, no,” he said; “I’ll be back to ‘em again by a short cut through the fields, and be there afore the car­riage.”

There was a great deal of hur­ry and ex­cite­ment af­ter the news be­came known. I was just turned in­to my box; the sad­dle and bri­dle were tak­en off, and a cloth thrown over me.

Gin­ger was sad­dled and sent off in great haste for Lord George, and I soon heard the car­riage roll out of the yard.

It seemed a long time be­fore Gin­ger came back, and be­fore we were left alone; and then she told me all that she had seen.

“I can’t tell much,” she said. “We went a gal­lop near­ly all the way, and got there just as the doc­tor rode up. There was a wom­an sit­ting on the ground with the la­dy’s head in her lap. The doc­tor poured some­thing in­to her mouth, but all that I heard was, `She is not dead.’ Then I was led off by a man to a lit­tle dis­tance. Af­ter awhile she was tak­en to the car­riage, and we came home to­geth­er. I heard my mas­ter say to a gen­tle­man who stopped him to in­quire, that he hoped no bones were bro­ken, but that she had not spo­ken yet.”

When Lord George took Gin­ger for hunt­ing, York shook his head; he said it ought to be a steady hand to train a horse for the first sea­son, and not a ran­dom rid­er like Lord George.

Gin­ger used to like it very much, but some­times when she came back I could see that she had been very much strained, and now and then she gave a short cough. She had too much spir­it to com­plain, but I could not help feel­ing anx­ious about her.

Two days af­ter the ac­ci­dent Blan­tyre paid me a vis­it; he pat­ted me and praised me very much; he told Lord George that he was sure the horse knew of An­nie’s dan­ger as well as he did. “I could not have held him in if I would,” said he, “she ought nev­er to ride any oth­er horse.” I found by their con­ver­sa­tion that my young mis­tress was now out of dan­ger, and would soon be able to ride again. This was good news to me and I looked for­ward to a hap­py life.

25 Reuben Smith

Now I must say a lit­tle about Reuben Smith, who was left in charge of the sta­bles when York went to Lon­don. No one more thor­ough­ly un­der­stood his busi­ness than he did, and when he was all right there could not be a more faith­ful or valu­able man. He was gen­tle and very clever in his man­age­ment of hors­es, and could doc­tor them al­most as well as a far­ri­er, for he had lived two years with a vet­eri­nary sur­geon. He was a first-​rate driv­er; he could take a four-​in-​hand or a tan­dem as eas­ily as a pair. He was a hand­some man, a good schol­ar, and had very pleas­ant man­ners. I be­lieve ev­ery­body liked him; cer­tain­ly the hors­es did. The on­ly won­der was that he should be in an un­der sit­ua­tion and not in the place of a head coach­man like York; but he had one great fault and that was the love of drink. He was not like some men, al­ways at it; he used to keep steady for weeks or months to­geth­er, and then he would break out and have a “bout” of it, as York called it, and be a dis­grace to him­self, a ter­ror to his wife, and a nui­sance to all that had to do with him. He was, how­ev­er, so use­ful that two or three times York had hushed the mat­ter up and kept it from the earl’s knowl­edge; but one night, when Reuben had to drive a par­ty home from a ball he was so drunk that he could not hold the reins, and a gen­tle­man of the par­ty had to mount the box and drive the ladies home. Of course, this could not be hid­den, and Reuben was at once dis­missed; his poor wife and lit­tle chil­dren had to turn out of the pret­ty cot­tage by the park gate and go where they could. Old Max told me all this, for it hap­pened a good while ago; but short­ly be­fore Gin­ger and I came Smith had been tak­en back again. York had in­ter­ced­ed for him with the earl, who is very kind-​heart­ed, and the man had promised faith­ful­ly that he would nev­er taste an­oth­er drop as long as he lived there. He had kept his promise so well that York thought he might be safe­ly trust­ed to fill his place while he was away, and he was so clever and hon­est that no one else seemed so well fit­ted for it.

It was now ear­ly in April, and the fam­ily was ex­pect­ed home some time in May. The light brougham was to be fresh done up, and as Colonel Blan­tyre was obliged to re­turn to his reg­iment it was ar­ranged that Smith should drive him to the town in it, and ride back; for this pur­pose he took the sad­dle with him, and I was cho­sen for the jour­ney. At the sta­tion the colonel put some mon­ey in­to Smith’s hand and bid him good-​by, say­ing, “Take care of your young mis­tress, Reuben, and don’t let Black Auster be hacked about by any ran­dom young prig that wants to ride him — keep him for the la­dy.”

We left the car­riage at the mak­er’s, and Smith rode me to the White Li­on, and or­dered the hostler to feed me well, and have me ready for him at four o’clock. A nail in one of my front shoes had start­ed as I came along, but the hostler did not no­tice it till just about four o’clock. Smith did not come in­to the yard till five, and then he said he should not leave till six, as he had met with some old friends. The man then told him of the nail, and asked if he should have the shoe looked to.

“No,” said Smith, “that will be all right till we get home.”

He spoke in a very loud, off­hand way, and I thought it very un­like him not to see about the shoe, as he was gen­er­al­ly won­der­ful­ly par­tic­ular about loose nails in our shoes. He did not come at six nor sev­en, nor eight, and it was near­ly nine o’clock be­fore he called for me, and then it was with a loud, rough voice. He seemed in a very bad tem­per, and abused the hostler, though I could not tell what for.

The land­lord stood at the door and said, “Have a care, Mr. Smith!” but he an­swered an­gri­ly with an oath; and al­most be­fore he was out of the town he be­gan to gal­lop, fre­quent­ly giv­ing me a sharp cut with his whip, though I was go­ing at full speed. The moon had not yet risen, and it was very dark. The roads were stony, hav­ing been re­cent­ly mend­ed; go­ing over them at this pace, my shoe be­came loos­er, and as we neared the turn­pike gate it came off.

If Smith had been in his right sens­es he would have been sen­si­ble of some­thing wrong in my pace, but he was too drunk to no­tice.

Be­yond the turn­pike was a long piece of road, up­on which fresh stones had just been laid — large sharp stones, over which no horse could be driv­en quick­ly with­out risk of dan­ger. Over this road, with one shoe gone, I was forced to gal­lop at my ut­most speed, my rid­er mean­while cut­ting in­to me with his whip, and with wild curs­es urg­ing me to go still faster. Of course my shoe­less foot suf­fered dread­ful­ly; the hoof was bro­ken and split down to the very quick, and the in­side was ter­ri­bly cut by the sharp­ness of the stones.

This could not go on; no horse could keep his foot­ing un­der such cir­cum­stances; the pain was too great. I stum­bled, and fell with vi­olence on both my knees. Smith was flung off by my fall, and, ow­ing to the speed I was go­ing at, he must have fall­en with great force. I soon re­cov­ered my feet and limped to the side of the road, where it was free from stones. The moon had just risen above the hedge, and by its light I could see Smith ly­ing a few yards be­yond me. He did not rise; he made one slight ef­fort to do so, and then there was a heavy groan. I could have groaned, too, for I was suf­fer­ing in­tense pain both from my foot and knees; but hors­es are used to bear their pain in si­lence. I ut­tered no sound, but I stood there and lis­tened. One more heavy groan from Smith; but though he now lay in the full moon­light I could see no mo­tion. I could do noth­ing for him nor my­self, but, oh! how I lis­tened for the sound of horse, or wheels, or foot­steps! The road was not much fre­quent­ed, and at this time of the night we might stay for hours be­fore help came to us. I stood watch­ing and lis­ten­ing. It was a calm, sweet April night; there were no sounds but a few low notes of a nightin­gale, and noth­ing moved but the white clouds near the moon and a brown owl that flit­ted over the hedge. It made me think of the sum­mer nights long ago, when I used to lie be­side my moth­er in the green pleas­ant mead­ow at Farmer Grey’s.

26 How it End­ed

It must have been near­ly mid­night when I heard at a great dis­tance the sound of a horse’s feet. Some­times the sound died away, then it grew clear­er again and near­er. The road to Earl­shall led through woods that be­longed to the earl; the sound came in that di­rec­tion, and I hoped it might be some one com­ing in search of us. As the sound came near­er and near­er I was al­most sure I could dis­tin­guish Gin­ger’s step; a lit­tle near­er still, and I could tell she was in the dog-​cart. I neighed loud­ly, and was over­joyed to hear an an­swer­ing neigh from Gin­ger, and men’s voic­es. They came slow­ly over the stones, and stopped at the dark fig­ure that lay up­on the ground.

One of the men jumped out, and stooped down over it. “It is Reuben,” he said, “and he does not stir!”

The oth­er man fol­lowed, and bent over him. “He’s dead,” he said; “feel how cold his hands are.”

They raised him up, but there was no life, and his hair was soaked with blood. They laid him down again, and came and looked at me. They soon saw my cut knees.

“Why, the horse has been down and thrown him! Who would have thought the black horse would have done that? No­body thought he could fall. Reuben must have been ly­ing here for hours! Odd, too, that the horse has not moved from the place.”

Robert then at­tempt­ed to lead me for­ward. I made a step, but al­most fell again.

“Hal­loo! he’s bad in his foot as well as his knees. Look here — his hoof is cut all to pieces; he might well come down, poor fel­low! I tell you what, Ned, I’m afraid it hasn’t been all right with Reuben. Just think of his rid­ing a horse over these stones with­out a shoe! Why, if he had been in his right sens­es he would just as soon have tried to ride him over the moon. I’m afraid it has been the old thing over again. Poor Su­san! she looked aw­ful­ly pale when she came to my house to ask if he had not come home. She made be­lieve she was not a bit anx­ious, and talked of a lot of things that might have kept him. But for all that she begged me to go and meet him. But what must we do? There’s the horse to get home as well as the body, and that will be no easy mat­ter.”

Then fol­lowed a con­ver­sa­tion be­tween them, till it was agreed that Robert, as the groom, should lead me, and that Ned must take the body. It was a hard job to get it in­to the dog-​cart, for there was no one to hold Gin­ger; but she knew as well as I did what was go­ing on, and stood as still as a stone. I no­ticed that, be­cause, if she had a fault, it was that she was im­pa­tient in stand­ing.

Ned start­ed off very slow­ly with his sad load, and Robert came and looked at my foot again; then he took his hand­ker­chief and bound it close­ly round, and so he led me home. I shall nev­er for­get that night walk; it was more than three miles. Robert led me on very slow­ly, and I limped and hob­bled on as well as I could with great pain. I am sure he was sor­ry for me, for he of­ten pat­ted and en­cour­aged me, talk­ing to me in a pleas­ant voice.

At last I reached my own box, and had some corn; and af­ter Robert had wrapped up my knees in wet cloths, he tied up my foot in a bran poul­tice, to draw out the heat and cleanse it be­fore the horse-​doc­tor saw it in the morn­ing, and I man­aged to get my­self down on the straw, and slept in spite of the pain.

The next day af­ter the far­ri­er had ex­am­ined my wounds, he said he hoped the joint was not in­jured; and if so, I should not be spoiled for work, but I should nev­er lose the blem­ish. I be­lieve they did the best to make a good cure, but it was a long and painful one. Proud flesh, as they called it, came up in my knees, and was burned out with caus­tic; and when at last it was healed, they put a blis­ter­ing flu­id over the front of both knees to bring all the hair off; they had some rea­son for this, and I sup­pose it was all right.

As Smith’s death had been so sud­den, and no one was there to see it, there was an in­quest held. The land­lord and hostler at the White Li­on, with sev­er­al oth­er peo­ple, gave ev­idence that he was in­tox­icat­ed when he start­ed from the inn. The keep­er of the toll-​gate said he rode at a hard gal­lop through the gate; and my shoe was picked up among the stones, so that the case was quite plain to them, and I was cleared of all blame.

Ev­ery­body pitied Su­san. She was near­ly out of her mind; she kept say­ing over and over again, “Oh! he was so good — so good! It was all that cursed drink; why will they sell that cursed drink? Oh Reuben, Reuben!” So she went on till af­ter he was buried; and then, as she had no home or re­la­tions, she, with her six lit­tle chil­dren, was obliged once more to leave the pleas­ant home by the tall oak-​trees, and go in­to that great gloomy Union House.

27 Ru­ined and Go­ing Down­hill

As soon as my knees were suf­fi­cient­ly healed I was turned in­to a small mead­ow for a month or two; no oth­er crea­ture was there; and though I en­joyed the lib­er­ty and the sweet grass, yet I had been so long used to so­ci­ety that I felt very lone­ly. Gin­ger and I had be­come fast friends, and now I missed her com­pa­ny ex­treme­ly. I of­ten neighed when I heard hors­es’ feet pass­ing in the road, but I sel­dom got an an­swer; till one morn­ing the gate was opened, and who should come in but dear old Gin­ger. The man slipped off her hal­ter, and left her there. With a joy­ful whin­ny I trot­ted up to her; we were both glad to meet, but I soon found that it was not for our plea­sure that she was brought to be with me. Her sto­ry would be too long to tell, but the end of it was that she had been ru­ined by hard rid­ing, and was now turned off to see what rest would do.

Lord George was young and would take no warn­ing; he was a hard rid­er, and would hunt when­ev­er he could get the chance, quite care­less of his horse. Soon af­ter I left the sta­ble there was a steeplechase, and he de­ter­mined to ride. Though the groom told him she was a lit­tle strained, and was not fit for the race, he did not be­lieve it, and on the day of the race urged Gin­ger to keep up with the fore­most rid­ers. With her high spir­it, she strained her­self to the ut­most; she came in with the first three hors­es, but her wind was touched, be­sides which he was too heavy for her, and her back was strained. “And so,” she said, “here we are, ru­ined in the prime of our youth and strength, you by a drunk­ard, and I by a fool; it is very hard.” We both felt in our­selves that we were not what we had been. How­ev­er, that did not spoil the plea­sure we had in each oth­er’s com­pa­ny; we did not gal­lop about as we once did, but we used to feed, and lie down to­geth­er, and stand for hours un­der one of the shady lime-​trees with our heads close to each oth­er; and so we passed our time till the fam­ily re­turned from town.

One day we saw the earl come in­to the mead­ow, and York was with him. See­ing who it was, we stood still un­der our lime-​tree, and let them come up to us. They ex­am­ined us care­ful­ly. The earl seemed much an­noyed.

“There is three hun­dred pounds flung away for no earth­ly use,” said he; “but what I care most for is that these hors­es of my old friend, who thought they would find a good home with me, are ru­ined. The mare shall have a twelve-​month’s run, and we shall see what that will do for her; but the black one, he must be sold; ’tis a great pity, but I could not have knees like these in my sta­bles.”

“No, my lord, of course not,” said York; “but he might get a place where ap­pear­ance is not of much con­se­quence, and still be well treat­ed. I know a man in Bath, the mas­ter of some liv­ery sta­bles, who of­ten wants a good horse at a low fig­ure; I know he looks well af­ter his hors­es. The in­quest cleared the horse’s char­ac­ter, and your lord­ship’s rec­om­men­da­tion, or mine, would be suf­fi­cient war­rant for him.”

“You had bet­ter write to him, York. I should be more par­tic­ular about the place than the mon­ey he would fetch.”

Af­ter this they left us.

“They’ll soon take you away,” said Gin­ger, “and I shall lose the on­ly friend I have, and most like­ly we shall nev­er see each oth­er again. ‘Tis a hard world!”

About a week af­ter this Robert came in­to the field with a hal­ter, which he slipped over my head, and led me away. There was no leave-​tak­ing of Gin­ger; we neighed to each oth­er as I was led off, and she trot­ted anx­ious­ly along by the hedge, call­ing to me as long as she could hear the sound of my feet.

Through the rec­om­men­da­tion of York, I was bought by the mas­ter of the liv­ery sta­bles. I had to go by train, which was new to me, and re­quired a good deal of courage the first time; but as I found the puff­ing, rush­ing, whistling, and, more than all, the trem­bling of the horse-​box in which I stood did me no re­al harm, I soon took it qui­et­ly.

When I reached the end of my jour­ney I found my­self in a tol­er­ably com­fort­able sta­ble, and well at­tend­ed to. These sta­bles were not so airy and pleas­ant as those I had been used to. The stalls were laid on a slope in­stead of be­ing lev­el, and as my head was kept tied to the manger, I was obliged al­ways to stand on the slope, which was very fa­tigu­ing. Men do not seem to know yet that hors­es can do more work if they can stand com­fort­ably and can turn about; how­ev­er, I was well fed and well cleaned, and, on the whole, I think our mas­ter took as much care of us as he could. He kept a good many hors­es and car­riages of dif­fer­ent kinds for hire. Some­times his own men drove them; at oth­ers, the horse and chaise were let to gen­tle­men or ladies who drove them­selves.

28 A Job Horse and His Drivers

Hith­er­to I had al­ways been driv­en by peo­ple who at least knew how to drive; but in this place I was to get my ex­pe­ri­ence of all the dif­fer­ent kinds of bad and ig­no­rant driv­ing to which we hors­es are sub­ject­ed; for I was a “job horse”, and was let out to all sorts of peo­ple who wished to hire me; and as I was good-​tem­pered and gen­tle, I think I was of­ten­er let out to the ig­no­rant drivers than some of the oth­er hors­es, be­cause I could be de­pend­ed up­on. It would take a long time to tell of all the dif­fer­ent styles in which I was driv­en, but I will men­tion a few of them.

First, there were the tight-​rein drivers — men who seemed to think that all de­pend­ed on hold­ing the reins as hard as they could, nev­er re­lax­ing the pull on the horse’s mouth, or giv­ing him the least lib­er­ty of move­ment. They are al­ways talk­ing about “keep­ing the horse well in hand”, and “hold­ing a horse up”, just as if a horse was not made to hold him­self up.

Some poor, bro­ken-​down hors­es, whose mouths have been made hard and in­sen­si­ble by just such drivers as these, may, per­haps, find some sup­port in it; but for a horse who can de­pend up­on his own legs, and who has a ten­der mouth and is eas­ily guid­ed, it is not on­ly tor­ment­ing, but it is stupid.

Then there are the loose-​rein drivers, who let the reins lie eas­ily on our backs, and their own hand rest lazi­ly on their knees. Of course, such gen­tle­men have no con­trol over a horse, if any­thing hap­pens sud­den­ly. If a horse shies, or starts, or stum­bles, they are nowhere, and can­not help the horse or them­selves till the mis­chief is done. Of course, for my­self I had no ob­jec­tion to it, as I was not in the habit ei­ther of start­ing or stum­bling, and had on­ly been used to de­pend on my driv­er for guid­ance and en­cour­age­ment. Still, one likes to feel the rein a lit­tle in go­ing down­hill, and likes to know that one’s driv­er is not gone to sleep.

Be­sides, a sloven­ly way of driv­ing gets a horse in­to bad and of­ten lazy habits, and when he changes hands he has to be whipped out of them with more or less pain and trou­ble. Squire Gor­don al­ways kept us to our best paces and our best man­ners. He said that spoil­ing a horse and let­ting him get in­to bad habits was just as cru­el as spoil­ing a child, and both had to suf­fer for it af­ter­ward.

Be­sides, these drivers are of­ten care­less al­to­geth­er, and will at­tend to any­thing else more than their hors­es. I went out in the phaeton one day with one of them; he had a la­dy and two chil­dren be­hind. He flopped the reins about as we start­ed, and of course gave me sev­er­al un­mean­ing cuts with the whip, though I was fair­ly off. There had been a good deal of road-​mend­ing go­ing on, and even where the stones were not fresh­ly laid down there were a great many loose ones about. My driv­er was laugh­ing and jok­ing with the la­dy and the chil­dren, and talk­ing about the coun­try to the right and the left; but he nev­er thought it worth while to keep an eye on his horse or to drive on the smoothest parts of the road; and so it eas­ily hap­pened that I got a stone in one of my fore feet.

Now, if Mr. Gor­don or John, or in fact any good driv­er, had been there, he would have seen that some­thing was wrong be­fore I had gone three paces. Or even if it had been dark a prac­ticed hand would have felt by the rein that there was some­thing wrong in the step, and they would have got down and picked out the stone. But this man went on laugh­ing and talk­ing, while at ev­ery step the stone be­came more firm­ly wedged be­tween my shoe and the frog of my foot. The stone was sharp on the in­side and round on the out­side, which, as ev­ery one knows, is the most dan­ger­ous kind that a horse can pick up, at the same time cut­ting his foot and mak­ing him most li­able to stum­ble and fall.

Whether the man was part­ly blind or on­ly very care­less I can’t say, but he drove me with that stone in my foot for a good half-​mile be­fore he saw any­thing. By that time I was go­ing so lame with the pain that at last he saw it, and called out, “Well, here’s a go! Why, they have sent us out with a lame horse! What a shame!”

He then chucked the reins and flipped about with the whip, say­ing, “Now, then, it’s no use play­ing the old sol­dier with me; there’s the jour­ney to go, and it’s no use turn­ing lame and lazy.”

Just at this time a farmer came rid­ing up on a brown cob. He lift­ed his hat and pulled up.

“I beg your par­don, sir,” he said, “but I think there is some­thing the mat­ter with your horse; he goes very much as if he had a stone in his shoe. If you will al­low me I will look at his feet; these loose scat­tered stones are con­found­ed dan­ger­ous things for the hors­es.”

“He’s a hired horse,” said my driv­er. “I don’t know what’s the mat­ter with him, but it is a great shame to send out a lame beast like this.”

The farmer dis­mount­ed, and slip­ping his rein over his arm at once took up my near foot.

“Bless me, there’s a stone! Lame! I should think so!”

At first he tried to dis­lodge it with his hand, but as it was now very tight­ly wedged he drew a stone-​pick out of his pock­et, and very care­ful­ly and with some trou­ble got it out. Then hold­ing it up he said, “There, that’s the stone your horse had picked up. It is a won­der he did not fall down and break his knees in­to the bar­gain!”

“Well, to be sure!” said my driv­er; “that is a queer thing! I nev­er knew that hors­es picked up stones be­fore.”

“Didn’t you?” said the farmer rather con­temp­tu­ous­ly; “but they do, though, and the best of them will do it, and can’t help it some­times on such roads as these. And if you don’t want to lame your horse you must look sharp and get them out quick­ly. This foot is very much bruised,” he said, set­ting it gen­tly down and pat­ting me. “If I might ad­vise, sir, you had bet­ter drive him gen­tly for awhile; the foot is a good deal hurt, and the lame­ness will not go off di­rect­ly.”

Then mount­ing his cob and rais­ing his hat to the la­dy he trot­ted off.

When he was gone my driv­er be­gan to flop the reins about and whip the har­ness, by which I un­der­stood that I was to go on, which of course I did, glad that the stone was gone, but still in a good deal of pain.

This was the sort of ex­pe­ri­ence we job hors­es of­ten came in for.

29 Cock­neys

Then there is the steam-​en­gine style of driv­ing; these drivers were most­ly peo­ple from towns, who nev­er had a horse of their own and gen­er­al­ly trav­eled by rail.

They al­ways seemed to think that a horse was some­thing like a steam-​en­gine, on­ly small­er. At any rate, they think that if on­ly they pay for it a horse is bound to go just as far and just as fast and with just as heavy a load as they please. And be the roads heavy and mud­dy, or dry and good; be they stony or smooth, up­hill or down­hill, it is all the same — on, on, on, one must go, at the same pace, with no re­lief and no con­sid­er­ation.

These peo­ple nev­er think of get­ting out to walk up a steep hill. Oh, no, they have paid to ride, and ride they will! The horse? Oh, he’s used to it! What were hors­es made for, if not to drag peo­ple up­hill? Walk! A good joke in­deed! And so the whip is plied and the rein is chucked and of­ten a rough, scold­ing voice cries out, “Go along, you lazy beast!” And then an­oth­er slash of the whip, when all the time we are do­ing our very best to get along, un­com­plain­ing and obe­di­ent, though of­ten sore­ly ha­rassed and down-​heart­ed.

This steam-​en­gine style of driv­ing wears us up faster than any oth­er kind. I would far rather go twen­ty miles with a good con­sid­er­ate driv­er than I would go ten with some of these; it would take less out of me.

An­oth­er thing, they scarce­ly ev­er put on the brake, how­ev­er steep the down­hill may be, and thus bad ac­ci­dents some­times hap­pen; or if they do put it on, they of­ten for­get to take it off at the bot­tom of the hill, and more than once I have had to pull halfway up the next hill, with one of the wheels held by the brake, be­fore my driv­er chose to think about it; and that is a ter­ri­ble strain on a horse.

Then these cock­neys, in­stead of start­ing at an easy pace, as a gen­tle­man would do, gen­er­al­ly set off at full speed from the very sta­ble-​yard; and when they want to stop, they first whip us, and then pull up so sud­den­ly that we are near­ly thrown on our haunch­es, and our mouths jagged with the bit — they call that pulling up with a dash; and when they turn a cor­ner they do it as sharply as if there were no right side or wrong side of the road.

I well re­mem­ber one spring evening I and Ro­ry had been out for the day. (Ro­ry was the horse that most­ly went with me when a pair was or­dered, and a good hon­est fel­low he was.) We had our own driv­er, and as he was al­ways con­sid­er­ate and gen­tle with us, we had a very pleas­ant day. We were com­ing home at a good smart pace, about twi­light. Our road turned sharp to the left; but as we were close to the hedge on our own side, and there was plen­ty of room to pass, our driv­er did not pull us in. As we neared the cor­ner I heard a horse and two wheels com­ing rapid­ly down the hill to­ward us. The hedge was high, and I could see noth­ing, but the next mo­ment we were up­on each oth­er. Hap­pi­ly for me, I was on the side next the hedge. Ro­ry was on the left side of the pole, and had not even a shaft to pro­tect him. The man who was driv­ing was mak­ing straight for the cor­ner, and when he came in sight of us he had no time to pull over to his own side. The whole shock came up­on Ro­ry. The gig shaft ran right in­to the chest, mak­ing him stag­ger back with a cry that I shall nev­er for­get. The oth­er horse was thrown up­on his haunch­es and one shaft bro­ken. It turned out that it was a horse from our own sta­bles, with the high-​wheeled gig that the young men were so fond of.

The driv­er was one of those ran­dom, ig­no­rant fel­lows, who don’t even know which is their own side of the road, or, if they know, don’t care. And there was poor Ro­ry with his flesh torn open and bleed­ing, and the blood stream­ing down. They said if it had been a lit­tle more to one side it would have killed him; and a good thing for him, poor fel­low, if it had.

As it was, it was a long time be­fore the wound healed, and then he was sold for coal-​cart­ing; and what that is, up and down those steep hills, on­ly hors­es know. Some of the sights I saw there, where a horse had to come down­hill with a heav­ily load­ed two-​wheel cart be­hind him, on which no brake could be placed, make me sad even now to think of.

Af­ter Ro­ry was dis­abled I of­ten went in the car­riage with a mare named Peg­gy, who stood in the next stall to mine. She was a strong, well-​made an­imal, of a bright dun col­or, beau­ti­ful­ly dap­pled, and with a dark-​brown mane and tail. There was no high breed­ing about her, but she was very pret­ty and re­mark­ably sweet-​tem­pered and will­ing. Still, there was an anx­ious look about her eye, by which I knew that she had some trou­ble. The first time we went out to­geth­er I thought she had a very odd pace; she seemed to go part­ly a trot, part­ly a can­ter, three or four paces, and then a lit­tle jump for­ward.

It was very un­pleas­ant for any horse who pulled with her, and made me quite fid­gety. When we got home I asked her what made her go in that odd, awk­ward way.

“Ah,” she said in a trou­bled man­ner, “I know my paces are very bad, but what can I do? It re­al­ly is not my fault; it is just be­cause my legs are so short. I stand near­ly as high as you, but your legs are a good three inch­es longer above your knee than mine, and of course you can take a much longer step and go much faster. You see I did not make my­self. I wish I could have done so; I would have had long legs then. All my trou­bles come from my short legs,” said Peg­gy, in a de­spond­ing tone.

“But how is it,” I said, “when you are so strong and good-​tem­pered and will­ing?”

“Why, you see,” said she, “men will go so fast, and if one can’t keep up to oth­er hors­es it is noth­ing but whip, whip, whip, all the time. And so I have had to keep up as I could, and have got in­to this ug­ly shuf­fling pace. It was not al­ways so; when I lived with my first mas­ter I al­ways went a good reg­ular trot, but then he was not in such a hur­ry. He was a young cler­gy­man in the coun­try, and a good, kind mas­ter he was. He had two church­es a good way apart, and a great deal of work, but he nev­er scold­ed or whipped me for not go­ing faster. He was very fond of me. I on­ly wish I was with him now; but he had to leave and go to a large town, and then I was sold to a farmer.

“Some farm­ers, you know, are cap­ital mas­ters; but I think this one was a low sort of man. He cared noth­ing about good hors­es or good driv­ing; he on­ly cared for go­ing fast. I went as fast as I could, but that would not do, and he was al­ways whip­ping; so I got in­to this way of mak­ing a spring for­ward to keep up. On mar­ket nights he used to stay very late at the inn, and then drive home at a gal­lop.

“One dark night he was gal­lop­ing home as usu­al, when all of a sud­den the wheel came against some great heavy thing in the road, and turned the gig over in a minute. He was thrown out and his arm bro­ken, and some of his ribs, I think. At any rate, it was the end of my liv­ing with him, and I was not sor­ry. But you see it will be the same ev­ery­where for me, if men must go so fast. I wish my legs were longer!”

Poor Peg­gy! I was very sor­ry for her, and I could not com­fort her, for I knew how hard it was up­on slow-​paced hors­es to be put with fast ones; all the whip­ping comes to their share, and they can’t help it.

She was of­ten used in the phaeton, and was very much liked by some of the ladies, be­cause she was so gen­tle; and some time af­ter this she was sold to two ladies who drove them­selves, and want­ed a safe, good horse.

I met her sev­er­al times out in the coun­try, go­ing a good steady pace, and look­ing as gay and con­tent­ed as a horse could be. I was very glad to see her, for she de­served a good place.

Af­ter she left us an­oth­er horse came in her stead. He was young, and had a bad name for shy­ing and start­ing, by which he had lost a good place. I asked him what made him shy.

“Well, I hard­ly know,” he said. “I was timid when I was young, and was a good deal fright­ened sev­er­al times, and if I saw any­thing strange I used to turn and look at it — you see, with our blink­ers one can’t see or un­der­stand what a thing is un­less one looks round — and then my mas­ter al­ways gave me a whip­ping, which of course made me start on, and did not make me less afraid. I think if he would have let me just look at things qui­et­ly, and see that there was noth­ing to hurt me, it would have been all right, and I should have got used to them. One day an old gen­tle­man was rid­ing with him, and a large piece of white pa­per or rag blew across just on one side of me. I shied and start­ed for­ward. My mas­ter as usu­al whipped me smart­ly, but the old man cried out, `You’re wrong! you’re wrong! You should nev­er whip a horse for shy­ing; he shies be­cause he is fright­ened, and you on­ly fright­en him more and make the habit worse.’ So I sup­pose all men don’t do so. I am sure I don’t want to shy for the sake of it; but how should one know what is dan­ger­ous and what is not, if one is nev­er al­lowed to get used to any­thing? I am nev­er afraid of what I know. Now I was brought up in a park where there were deer; of course I knew them as well as I did a sheep or a cow, but they are not com­mon, and I know many sen­si­ble hors­es who are fright­ened at them, and who kick up quite a shindy be­fore they will pass a pad­dock where there are deer.”

I knew what my com­pan­ion said was true, and I wished that ev­ery young horse had as good mas­ters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gor­don.

Of course we some­times came in for good driv­ing here. I re­mem­ber one morn­ing I was put in­to the light gig, and tak­en to a house in Pul­teney Street. Two gen­tle­men came out; the taller of them came round to my head; he looked at the bit and bri­dle, and just shift­ed the col­lar with his hand, to see if it fit­ted com­fort­ably.

“Do you con­sid­er this horse wants a curb?” he said to the hostler.

“Well,” said the man, “I should say he would go just as well with­out; he has an un­com­mon good mouth, and though he has a fine spir­it he has no vice; but we gen­er­al­ly find peo­ple like the curb.”

“I don’t like it,” said the gen­tle­man; “be so good as to take it off, and put the rein in at the cheek. An easy mouth is a great thing on a long jour­ney, is it not, old fel­low?” he said, pat­ting my neck.

Then he took the reins, and they both got up. I can re­mem­ber now how qui­et­ly he turned me round, and then with a light feel of the rein, and draw­ing the whip gen­tly across my back, we were off.

I arched my neck and set off at my best pace. I found I had some one be­hind me who knew how a good horse ought to be driv­en. It seemed like old times again, and made me feel quite gay.

This gen­tle­man took a great lik­ing to me, and af­ter try­ing me sev­er­al times with the sad­dle he pre­vailed up­on my mas­ter to sell me to a friend of his, who want­ed a safe, pleas­ant horse for rid­ing. And so it came to pass that in the sum­mer I was sold to Mr. Bar­ry.

30 A Thief

My new mas­ter was an un­mar­ried man. He lived at Bath, and was much en­gaged in busi­ness. His doc­tor ad­vised him to take horse ex­er­cise, and for this pur­pose he bought me. He hired a sta­ble a short dis­tance from his lodg­ings, and en­gaged a man named Filch­er as groom. My mas­ter knew very lit­tle about hors­es, but he treat­ed me well, and I should have had a good and easy place but for cir­cum­stances of which he was ig­no­rant. He or­dered the best hay with plen­ty of oats, crushed beans, and bran, with vetch­es, or rye grass, as the man might think need­ful. I heard the mas­ter give the or­der, so I knew there was plen­ty of good food, and I thought I was well off.

For a few days all went on well. I found that my groom un­der­stood his busi­ness. He kept the sta­ble clean and airy, and he groomed me thor­ough­ly; and was nev­er oth­er­wise than gen­tle. He had been an hostler in one of the great ho­tels in Bath. He had giv­en that up, and now cul­ti­vat­ed fruit and veg­eta­bles for the mar­ket, and his wife bred and fat­tened poul­try and rab­bits for sale. Af­ter awhile it seemed to me that my oats came very short; I had the beans, but bran was mixed with them in­stead of oats, of which there were very few; cer­tain­ly not more than a quar­ter of what there should have been. In two or three weeks this be­gan to tell up­on my strength and spir­its. The grass food, though very good, was not the thing to keep up my con­di­tion with­out corn. How­ev­er, I could not com­plain, nor make known my wants. So it went on for about two months; and I won­dered that my mas­ter did not see that some­thing was the mat­ter. How­ev­er, one af­ter­noon he rode out in­to the coun­try to see a friend of his, a gen­tle­man farmer, who lived on the road to Wells.

This gen­tle­man had a very quick eye for hors­es; and af­ter he had wel­comed his friend he said, cast­ing his eye over me:

“It seems to me, Bar­ry, that your horse does not look so well as he did when you first had him; has he been well?”

“Yes, I be­lieve so,” said my mas­ter; “but he is not near­ly so live­ly as he was; my groom tells me that hors­es are al­ways dull and weak in the au­tumn, and that I must ex­pect it.”

“Au­tumn, fid­dle­sticks!” said the farmer. “Why, this is on­ly Au­gust; and with your light work and good food he ought not to go down like this, even if it was au­tumn. How do you feed him?”

My mas­ter told him. The oth­er shook his head slow­ly, and be­gan to feel me over.

“I can’t say who eats your corn, my dear fel­low, but I am much mis­tak­en if your horse gets it. Have you rid­den very fast?”

“No, very gen­tly.”

“Then just put your hand here,” said he, pass­ing his hand over my neck and shoul­der; “he is as warm and damp as a horse just come up from grass. I ad­vise you to look in­to your sta­ble a lit­tle more. I hate to be sus­pi­cious, and, thank heav­en, I have no cause to be, for I can trust my men, present or ab­sent; but there are mean scoundrels, wicked enough to rob a dumb beast of his food. You must look in­to it.” And turn­ing to his man, who had come to take me, “Give this horse a right good feed of bruised oats, and don’t stint him.”

“Dumb beasts!” Yes, we are; but if I could have spo­ken I could have told my mas­ter where his oats went to. My groom used to come ev­ery morn­ing about six o’clock, and with him a lit­tle boy, who al­ways had a cov­ered bas­ket with him. He used to go with his fa­ther in­to the har­ness-​room, where the corn was kept, and I could see them, when the door stood ajar, fill a lit­tle bag with oats out of the bin, and then he used to be off.

Five or six morn­ings af­ter this, just as the boy had left the sta­ble, the door was pushed open, and a po­lice­man walked in, hold­ing the child tight by the arm; an­oth­er po­lice­man fol­lowed, and locked the door on the in­side, say­ing, “Show me the place where your fa­ther keeps his rab­bits’ food.”

The boy looked very fright­ened and be­gan to cry; but there was no es­cape, and he led the way to the corn-​bin. Here the po­lice­man found an­oth­er emp­ty bag like that which was found full of oats in the boy’s bas­ket.

Filch­er was clean­ing my feet at the time, but they soon saw him, and though he blus­tered a good deal they walked him off to the “lock-​up”, and his boy with him. I heard af­ter­ward that the boy was not held to be guilty, but the man was sen­tenced to prison for two months.

31 A Hum­bug

My mas­ter was not im­me­di­ate­ly suit­ed, but in a few days my new groom came. He was a tall, good-​look­ing fel­low enough; but if ev­er there was a hum­bug in the shape of a groom Al­fred Smirk was the man. He was very civ­il to me, and nev­er used me ill; in fact, he did a great deal of stroking and pat­ting when his mas­ter was there to see it. He al­ways brushed my mane and tail with wa­ter and my hoofs with oil be­fore he brought me to the door, to make me look smart; but as to clean­ing my feet or look­ing to my shoes, or groom­ing me thor­ough­ly, he thought no more of that than if I had been a cow. He left my bit rusty, my sad­dle damp, and my crup­per stiff.

Al­fred Smirk con­sid­ered him­self very hand­some; he spent a great deal of time about his hair, whiskers and neck­tie, be­fore a lit­tle look­ing-​glass in the har­ness-​room. When his mas­ter was speak­ing to him it was al­ways, “Yes, sir; yes, sir” — touch­ing his hat at ev­ery word; and ev­ery one thought he was a very nice young man and that Mr. Bar­ry was very for­tu­nate to meet with him. I should say he was the lazi­est, most con­ceit­ed fel­low I ev­er came near. Of course, it was a great thing not to be ill-​used, but then a horse wants more than that. I had a loose box, and might have been very com­fort­able if he had not been too in­do­lent to clean it out. He nev­er took all the straw away, and the smell from what lay un­der­neath was very bad; while the strong va­pors that rose made my eyes smart and in­flame, and I did not feel the same ap­petite for my food.

One day his mas­ter came in and said, “Al­fred, the sta­ble smells rather strong; should not you give that stall a good scrub and throw down plen­ty of wa­ter?”

“Well, sir,” he said, touch­ing his cap, “I’ll do so if you please, sir; but it is rather dan­ger­ous, sir, throw­ing down wa­ter in a horse’s box; they are very apt to take cold, sir. I should not like to do him an in­jury, but I’ll do it if you please, sir.”

“Well,” said his mas­ter, “I should not like him to take cold; but I don’t like the smell of this sta­ble. Do you think the drains are all right?”

“Well, sir, now you men­tion it, I think the drain does some­times send back a smell; there may be some­thing wrong, sir.”

“Then send for the brick­lay­er and have it seen to,” said his mas­ter.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

The brick­lay­er came and pulled up a great many bricks, but found noth­ing amiss; so he put down some lime and charged the mas­ter five shillings, and the smell in my box was as bad as ev­er. But that was not all: stand­ing as I did on a quan­ti­ty of moist straw my feet grew un­healthy and ten­der, and the mas­ter used to say:

“I don’t know what is the mat­ter with this horse; he goes very fum­ble-​foot­ed. I am some­times afraid he will stum­ble.”

“Yes, sir,” said Al­fred, “I have no­ticed the same my­self, when I have ex­er­cised him.”

Now the fact was that he hard­ly ev­er did ex­er­cise me, and when the mas­ter was busy I of­ten stood for days to­geth­er with­out stretch­ing my legs at all, and yet be­ing fed just as high as if I were at hard work. This of­ten dis­or­dered my health, and made me some­times heavy and dull, but more of­ten rest­less and fever­ish. He nev­er even gave me a meal of green food or a bran mash, which would have cooled me, for he was al­to­geth­er as ig­no­rant as he was con­ceit­ed; and then, in­stead of ex­er­cise or change of food, I had to take horse balls and draughts; which, be­side the nui­sance of hav­ing them poured down my throat, used to make me feel ill and un­com­fort­able.

One day my feet were so ten­der that, trot­ting over some fresh stones with my mas­ter on my back, I made two such se­ri­ous stum­bles that, as he came down Lans­down in­to the city, he stopped at the far­ri­er’s, and asked him to see what was the mat­ter with me. The man took up my feet one by one and ex­am­ined them; then stand­ing up and dust­ing his hands one against the oth­er, he said:

“Your horse has got the `thrush’, and bad­ly, too; his feet are very ten­der; it is for­tu­nate that he has not been down. I won­der your groom has not seen to it be­fore. This is the sort of thing we find in foul sta­bles, where the lit­ter is nev­er prop­er­ly cleaned out. If you will send him here to-​mor­row I will at­tend to the hoof, and I will di­rect your man how to ap­ply the lin­iment which I will give him.”

The next day I had my feet thor­ough­ly cleansed and stuffed with tow soaked in some strong lo­tion; and an un­pleas­ant busi­ness it was.

The far­ri­er or­dered all the lit­ter to be tak­en out of my box day by day, and the floor kept very clean. Then I was to have bran mash­es, a lit­tle green food, and not so much corn, till my feet were well again. With this treat­ment I soon re­gained my spir­its; but Mr. Bar­ry was so much dis­gust­ed at be­ing twice de­ceived by his grooms that he de­ter­mined to give up keep­ing a horse, and to hire when he want­ed one. I was there­fore kept till my feet were quite sound, and was then sold again.