first place that I can well remember, was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a ploughed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master’s house, which stood by the roadside; at the top of the meadow was a plantation of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank.
Whilst I was young I lived upon my mother’s milk, as I could not eat grass. In the day time I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot, we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold, we had a nice warm shed near the plantation.
As soon as I was old enough to eat grass, my mother used to go out to work in the day time, and came back in the evening.
There were six young colts in the meadow beside 10 me, they were all older than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field, as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would frequently bite and kick as well as gallop.
One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said,
“I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who live here are very good colts; but they are cart-horse colts, and of course, they have not learned manners. You have been well bred and well born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s advice; I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.
Our master was a good kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children; we were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate, she would 11 neigh with joy and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, “Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?” I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favourites. My mother always took him to the town on a market day in a light gig.
There was a ploughboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted, he would have, what he called, fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.
One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field; but he was there, watching what was going on: over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master, we trotted up nearer to see what went on.
“Bad boy!” he said, “bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first time, nor the second, but it shall be the last—there—take your money and go home, I shall not want you on my farm again.” So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were well off.
Before I was two years old, a circumstance happened, which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night and a light mist still hung over the plantations and meadows. I, and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field, when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, “There are the hounds!” and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother, and an old riding horse of our master’s were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it.
“They have found a hare,” said my mother, “and if they come this way, we shall see the hunt.”
And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a “yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o,” at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horse-back, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, 13 and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here, it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.
“They have lost the scent,” said the old horse, “perhaps the hare will get off.”
“What hare?” I said.
“Oh! I don’t know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the plantation; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;” and before long the dogs began their “yo! yo, o, o!” again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.
“Now we shall see the hare,” said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by, and made for the plantation. On came the dogs, they burst over the bank, leapt the stream, and came dashing across the field, followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.
As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look, there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.
“His neck is broke,” said my mother.
“And serve him right too,” said one of the colts.
I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.
“Well! no,” she said, “you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don’t know.”
Whilst my mother was saying this, we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master’s house. I heard afterwards that it was young George Gordon, the squire’s only son, a fine tall young man, and the pride of his family.
There was now riding off in all directions to the 15 doctor’s, to the farrier’s, and no doubt to Squire Gordon’s, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master’s house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.
My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was “Rob Roy;” he was a good bold horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterwards.
Not many days after, we heard the church bell tolling for a long time; and looking over the gate we saw a long strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but ’twas all for one little hare.
was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft, and was bright black. I had one white foot, and a pretty white star on my forehead: I was thought very handsome; my master would not sell me till I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men, and colts ought not to work like horses till they were quite grown up.
When I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He examined my eyes, my mouth and my legs; he felt them all down; and then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him; he seemed to like me, and said “when he has been well broken in, he will do very well.” My master said he would break me in himself, as he should not like me to be frightened or hurt, and he lost no time about it, for the next day he began.
Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I will describe it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle and to carry on his back a man, woman, or child; to go just the way they wish, and to go quietly. Beside this, he has to learn to wear a collar, a crupper, and a breeching, and to stand still whilst they are put on; then to 17 have a cart or a chaise fixed behind him, so that he cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him: and he must go fast or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will of his own; but always do his master’s will, even though he may be very tired or hungry; but the worst of all is, when his harness is once on, he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you will see this breaking in is a great thing.
I had of course long been used to a halter and a headstall, and to be led about in the field and lanes quietly, but now I was to have a bit and bridle; my master gave me some oats as usual, and after a good deal of coaxing, he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle fixed, but it was a nasty thing! Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it feels; a great piece of cold hard steel as thick as a man’s finger to be pushed into one’s mouth, between one’s teeth and over one’s tongue, with the ends coming out at the corner of your mouth, and held fast there by straps over your head, under your throat, round your nose, and under your chin; so that no way in the world can you get rid of the nasty hard thing; it is very bad! yes, very bad! at least I thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out, and all horses did when they were grown up; and so, what with the nice oats, and what with my master’s pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I got to wear my bit and bridle.18
Next came the saddle, but that was not half so bad; my master put it on my back very gently, whilst old Daniel held my head; he then made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the time; then I had a few oats, then a little leading about, and this he did every day till I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At length one morning, my master got on my back and rode me round the meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I felt rather proud to carry my master, and as he continued to ride me a little every day, I soon became accustomed to it.
The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes; that too was very hard at first. My master went with me to the smith’s forge, to see that I was not hurt or got any fright. The blacksmith took my feet in his hand one after the other, and cut away some of the hoof. It did not pain me, so I stood still on three legs till he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape of my foot, and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very stiff and heavy, but in time I got used to it.
And now having got so far, my master went on to break me to harness; there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff heavy collar just on my neck, and a bridle with great side-pieces against my eyes called blinkers, and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either side, but only straight in front of me; next there was a small saddle with a 19 nasty stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the crupper. I hated the crupper—to have my long tail doubled up and poked through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like kicking, but of course I could not kick such a good master, and so in time I got used to every thing, and could do my work as well as my mother.
I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a fortnight to a neighbouring farmer’s, who had a meadow which was skirted on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was turned in amongst them.
I shall never forget the first train that ran by. I was feeding quietly near the pales which separated the meadow from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance, and before I knew whence it came—with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing out of smoke—a long black train of something flew by, and was gone almost before I could draw my breath. I turned, and galloped to the further side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and there I stood snorting with astonishment and fear. In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly; these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful shriek and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful, but the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as the black frightful thing came puffing and grinding past.
For the first few days I could not feed in peace; 20 but as I found that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about the passing of a train, as the cows and sheep did.
Since then I have seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a steam engine; but thanks to my good master’s care, I am as fearless at railway stations as in my own stable.
Now if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way.
My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she was steady, and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse. She told me the better I behaved, the better I should be treated, and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master; “but,” said she, “there are a great many kinds of men; there are good thoughtful men like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve; but there are bad cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog to call their own. Beside, there are a great many foolish men, vain, ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think; these spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they don’t mean it, but they do it for all that. I hope you will fall into good hands; but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him; it is all a chance for us, but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and keep up your good name.”21
At this time I used to stand in the stable, and my coat was brushed every day till it shone like a rook’s wing. It was early in May, when there came a man from Squire Gordon’s, who took me away to the Hall. My master said “Good bye, Darkie; be a good horse, and always do your best.” I could not say ‘good bye,’ so I put my nose into his hand; he patted me kindly, and I left my first home. As I lived some years with Squire Gordon, I may as well tell something about the place.
Squire Gordon’s Park skirted the village of Birtwick. It was entered by a large iron gate, at which stood the first Lodge, and then you trotted along on a smooth road between clumps of large old trees; then another Lodge and another gate, which brought you to the house and the gardens. Beyond this lay the home paddock, the old orchard, and the stables. There was accommodation for many horses and carriages; but I need only describe the stable into which I was taken; this was very roomy, with four good stalls; a large swinging window opened into the yard, which made it pleasant and airy.
The first stall was a large square one, shut in behind with a wooden gate; the others were common 22 stalls, good stalls, but not nearly so large; it had a low rack for hay and a low manger for corn; it was called a loose box, because the horse that was put into it was not tied up, but left loose, to do as he liked. It is a great thing to have a loose box.
Into this fine box the groom put me; it was clean, sweet, and airy. I never was in a better box than that, and the sides were not so high, but that I could see all that went on through the iron rails that were at the top.
He gave me some very nice oats, he patted me, spoke kindly, and then went away.
When I had eaten my corn, I looked round. In the stall next to mine, stood a little fat grey pony, with a thick mane and tail, a very pretty head, and a pert little nose.
I put my head up to the iron rails at the top of my box, and said, “How do you do? what is your name?”
He turned round as far as his halter would allow, held his head up and said, “My name is Merrylegs: I am very handsome, I carry the young ladies on my back, and sometimes I take our mistress out in the low chair. They think a great deal of me, and so does James. Are you going to live next door to me in the box?”
I said “Yes.”
“Well then,” he said, “I hope you are good tempered; I do not like any one next door who bites.”
Just then a horse’s head looked over from the stall beyond; the ears were laid back, and the eye looked 23 rather ill-tempered. This was a tall chestnut mare with a long handsome neck; she looked across to me and said,
“So it is you who have turned me out of my box; it is a very strange thing for a colt like you, to come and turn a lady out of her own home.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, “I have turned no one out; the man who brought me put me here, and I had nothing to do with it; and as to my being a colt, I am turned four years old, and am a grown-up horse: I never had words yet with horse or mare, and it is my wish to live at peace.”
“Well,” she said, “we shall see; of course I do not want to have words with a young thing like you.” I said no more.
In the afternoon when she went out, Merrylegs told me all about it.
“The thing is this,” said Merrylegs, “Ginger has a bad habit of biting and snapping; that is why they call her Ginger, and when she was in the loose box, she used to snap very much. One day she bit James in the arm and made it bleed, and so Miss Flora and Miss Jessie, who are very fond of me, were afraid to come into the stable. They used to bring me nice things to eat, an apple or a carrot, or a piece of bread, but after Ginger stood in that box, they dare not come, and I missed them very much. I hope they will now come again, if you do not bite or snap.”
I told him I never bit anything but grass, hay and corn, and could not think what pleasure Ginger found it.24
“Well, I don’t think she does find pleasure,” says Merrylegs, “it is just a bad habit; she says no one was ever kind to her, and why should she not bite? Of course it is a very bad habit; but I am sure, if all she says be true, she must have been very ill-used before she came here. John does all he can to please her, and James does all he can, and our master never uses a whip if a horse acts right; so I think she might be good-tempered here; you see,” he said with a wise look, “I am twelve years old; I know a great deal, and I can tell you there is not a better place for a horse all round the country than this. John is the best groom that ever was, he has been here fourteen years; and you never saw such a kind boy as James is, so that it is all Ginger’s own fault that she did not stay in that box.”25
The name of the coachman was John Manly; he had a wife and one little child, and they lived in the coachman’s cottage, very near the stables.
The next morning he took me into the yard and gave me a good grooming, and just as I was going into my box with my coat soft and bright, the Squire came in to look at me, and seemed pleased. “John,” he said, “I meant to have tried the new horse this morning, but I have other business. You may as well take him a round after breakfast; go by the common and the Highwood, and back by the watermill and the river, that will shew his paces.”
“I will, sir,” said John. After breakfast he came and fitted me with a bridle. He was very particular in letting out and taking in the straps, to fit my head comfortably; then he brought the saddle, that was not broad enough for my back; he saw it in a minute and went for another, which fitted nicely. He rode me first slowly, then a trot, then a canter, and when we were on the common he gave me a light touch with his whip, and we had a splendid gallop.
“Ho, ho! my boy,” he said, as he pulled me up, “you would like to follow the hounds, I think.”26
As we came back through the Park we met the Squire and Mrs. Gordon walking; they stopped, and John jumped off.
“Well, John, how does he go?”
“First-rate, sir,” answered John, “he is as fleet as a deer, and has a fine spirit too; but the lightest touch of the rein will guide him. Down at the end of the common we met one of those travelling carts hung all over with baskets, rugs, and such like; you know, sir, many horses will not pass those carts quietly; he just took a good look at it, and then went on as quiet and pleasant as could be. They were shooting rabbits near the Highwood, and a gun went off close by; he pulled up a little and looked, but did not stir a step to right or left. I just held the rein steady and did not hurry him, and it’s my opinion he has not been frightened or ill-used while he was young.”
“That’s well,” said the Squire, “I will try him myself to-morrow.”
The next day I was brought up for my master. I remembered my mother’s counsel and my good old master’s, and I tried to do exactly what he wanted me to do. I found he was a very good rider, and thoughtful for his horse too. When he came home, the lady was at the hall door as he rode up.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “how do you like him?”
“He is exactly what John said,” he replied, “a pleasanter creature I never wish to mount. What shall we call him?”27
“Would you like Ebony?” said she, “he is as black as ebony.”
“No, not Ebony.”
“Will you call him ‘Blackbird,’ like your uncle’s old horse?”
“No, he is far handsomer than old Blackbird ever was.”
“Yes,” she said, “he is really quite a beauty, and he has such a sweet good-tempered face and such a fine intelligent eye—what do you say to calling him ‘Black Beauty?’”
“Black Beauty, why yes, I think that is a very good name; if you like, it shall be his name,” and so it was.
When John went into the stable, he told James that master and mistress had chosen a good sensible English name for me, that meant something, not like Marengo, or Pegasus, or Abdallah. They both laughed, and James said, “If it was not for bringing back the past, I should have named him ‘Rob Roy,’ for I never saw two horses more alike.”
“That’s no wonder,” said John, “didn’t you know that farmer Grey’s old Duchess was the mother of them both?”
I had never heard that before, and so poor Bob Boy who was killed at that hunt was my brother! I did not wonder that my mother was so troubled. It seems that horses have no relations; at least, they never know each other after they are sold.
John seemed very proud of me; he used to make my mane and tail almost as smooth as a lady’s hair, 28 and he would talk to me a great deal; of course I did not understand all he said, but I learned more and more to know what he meant, and what he wanted me to do. I grew very fond of him, he was so gentle and kind, he seemed to know just how a horse feels, and when he cleaned me, he knew the tender places, and the ticklish places; when he brushed my head, he went as carefully over my eyes as if they were his own, and never stirred up any ill temper.
James Howard, the stable boy, was just as gentle and pleasant in his way, so I thought myself well off. There was another man who helped in the yard, but he had very little to do with Ginger and me.
A few days after this I had to go out with Ginger in the carriage; I wondered how we should get on together; but except laying her ears back when I was led up to her, she behaved very well. She did her work honestly and did her full share, and I never wish to have a better partner in double harness. When we came to a hill, instead of slackening her pace, she would throw her weight right into the collar, and pull away straight up. We had both the same sort of courage at our work, and John had oftener to hold us in, than to urge us forward; he never had to use the whip with either of us; then our paces were much the same, and I found it very easy to keep step with her when trotting, which made it pleasant, and master always liked it when we kept step well, and so did John. After we had been 29 out two or three times together we grew quite friendly and sociable, which made me feel very much at home.
As for Merrylegs, he and I soon became great friends; he was such a cheerful, plucky, good-tempered little fellow, that he was a favorite with every one, and especially with Miss Jessie and Flora, who used to ride him about in the orchard, and have fine games with him and their little dog Frisky.
Our master had two other horses that stood in another stable. One was Justice, a roan cob, used for riding, or for the luggage cart; the other was an old brown hunter, named Sir Oliver; he was past work now, but was a great favorite with the master, who gave him the run of the park; he sometimes did a little light carting on the estate, or carried one of the young ladies when they rode out with their father; for he was very gentle, and could be trusted with a child as well as Merrylegs. The cob was a strong, well-made, good-tempered horse, and we sometimes had a little chat in the paddock, but of course I could not be so intimate with him as with Ginger, who stood in the same stable.30
I was quite happy in my new place, and if there was one thing that I missed, it must not be thought I was discontented; all who had to do with me were good, and I had a light airy stable and the best of food. What more could I want? Why, liberty! For three years and a half of my life I had had all the liberty I could wish for; but now, week after week, month after month, and no doubt year after year, I must stand up in a stable night and day except when I am wanted, and then I must be just as steady and quiet as any old horse who has worked twenty years. Straps here and straps there, a bit in my mouth, and blinkers over my eyes. Now, I am not complaining, for I know it must be so. I only mean to say that for a young horse full of strength and spirits who has been used to some large field or plain, where he can fling up his head, and toss up his tail and gallop away at full speed, then round and back again with a snort to his companions—I say it is hard never to have a bit more liberty to do as you like. Sometimes, when I have had less exercise than usual, I have felt so full of life and spring, that when John has taken me out to exercise, I really could not keep quiet; do what I would, it seemed as if I must jump, 31 or dance, or prance, and many a good shake I know I must have given him, specially at the first; but he was always good and patient.
“Steady, steady, my boy,” he would say, “wait a bit, and we’ll have a good swing, and soon get the tickle out of your feet.” Then as soon as we were out of the village, he would give me a few miles at a spanking trot, and then bring me back as fresh as before, only clear of the fidgets, as he called them. Spirited horses, when not enough exercised, are often called skittish, when it is only play; and some grooms will punish them, but our John did not, he knew it was only high spirits. Still, he had his own ways of making me understand by the tone of his voice, or the touch of the rein. If he was very serious and quite determined, I always knew it by his voice, and that, had more power with me than anything else, for I was very fond of him.
I ought to say, that sometimes we had our liberty for a few hours; this used to be on fine Sundays in the summer-time. The carriage never went out on Sundays, because the church was not far off.
It was a great treat to us to be turned out into the Home Paddock or the old orchard. The grass was so cool and soft to our feet; the air so sweet, and the freedom to do as we liked was so pleasant; to gallop, to lie down, and roll over on our backs, or to nibble the sweet grass. Then it was a very good time for talking, as we stood together under the shade of the large chestnut tree.
One day when Ginger and I were standing alone in the shade we had a great deal of talk; she wanted to know all about my bringing up and breaking in, and I told her.
“Well,” said she, “if I had had your bringing up I might have been as good a temper as you are, but now I don’t believe I ever shall.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because it has been all so different with me,” she replied; “I never had any one, horse or man, that was kind to me, or that I cared to please, for in the first place I was taken from my mother as soon as I was weaned, and put with a lot of other young colts; none of them cared for me, and I cared for none of them. There was no kind master like yours to look after me, and talk to me, and bring me nice things to eat. The man that had the care of us never gave me a kind word in my life. I do not mean that he ill-used me, but he did not care for us one bit further than to see that we had plenty to eat and shelter in the winter. A footpath ran through our field, and very often the great boys passing through, would fling stones to make us gallop. I 33 was never hit, but one fine young colt was badly cut in the face, and I should think it would be a scar for life. We did not care for them, but of course it made us more wild, and we settled it in our minds that boys were our enemies. We had very good fun in the free meadows, galloping up and down and chasing each other round and round the field; then standing still under the shade of the trees. But when it came to breaking in, that was a bad time for me; several men came to catch me, and when at last they closed me in at one corner of the field, one caught me by the forelock, another caught me by the nose, and held it so tight I could hardly draw my breath; then another took my under jaw in his hard hand and wrenched my mouth open, and so by force they got on the halter and the bar into my mouth; then one dragged me along by the halter, another flogging behind, and this was the first experience I had of men’s kindness, it was all force; they did not give me a chance to know what they wanted. I was high bred and had a great deal of spirit, and was very wild, no doubt, and gave them I daresay plenty of trouble, but then it was dreadful to be shut up in a stall day after day instead of having my liberty, and I fretted and pined and wanted to get loose. You know yourself, it’s bad enough when you have a kind master and plenty of coaxing, but there was nothing of that sort for me.
“There was one—the old master, Ryder, who I think could soon have brought me round, and could have done anything with me, but he had given up 34 all the hard part of the trade to his son and to another experienced man, and he only came at times to oversee. His son was a strong, tall, bold man; they called him Samson, and he used to boast that he had never found a horse that could throw him. There was no gentleness in him as there was in his father, but only hardness, a hard voice, a hard eye, a hard hand, and I felt from the first that what he wanted was to wear all the spirit out of me, and just make me into a quiet, humble, obedient piece of horse-flesh. ‘Horse-flesh!’ Yes, that is all that he thought about,” and Ginger stamped her foot as if the very thought of him made her angry. And she went on; “If I did not do exactly what he wanted, he would get put out, and make me run round with that long rein in the training field till he had tired me out. I think he drank a good deal, and I am quite sure that the oftener he drank the worse it was for me. One day he had worked me hard in every way he could, and when I laid down I was tired and miserable, and angry; it all seemed so hard. The next morning he came for me early, and ran me round again for a long time. I had scarcely had an hour’s rest, when he came again for me with a saddle and bridle and a new kind of bit. I could never quite tell how it came about; he had only just mounted me on the training ground, when something I did put him out of temper, and he chucked me hard with the rein. The new bit was very painful, and I reared up suddenly, which angered him still more, and he began to flog me. I felt my whole 35 spirit set against him, and I began to kick, and plunge, and rear as I had never done before, and we had a regular fight: for a long time he stuck to the saddle and punished me cruelly with his whip and spurs, but my blood was thoroughly up, and I cared for nothing he could do if only I could get him off. At last, after a terrible struggle, I threw him off backwards. I heard him fall heavily on the turf, and without looking behind me, I galloped off to the other end of the field; there I turned round and saw my persecutor slowly rising from the ground and going into the stable. I stood under an oak tree and watched, but no one came to catch me. The time went on, the sun was very hot, the flies swarmed round me, and settled on my bleeding flanks where the spurs had dug in. I felt hungry, for I had not eaten since the early morning, but there was not enough grass in that meadow for a goose to live on. I wanted to lie down and rest, but with the saddle strapped tightly on, there was no comfort, and there was not a drop of water to drink. The afternoon wore on, and the sun got low. I saw the other colts led in, and I knew they were having a good feed.
“At last, just as the sun went down, I saw the old master come out with a sieve in his hand. He was a very fine old gentleman with quite white hair, but his voice was what I should know him by amongst a thousand. It was not high, nor yet low, but full, and clear, and kind, and when he gave orders it was so steady and decided, that everyone knew, both horses and men, that he expected to be 36 obeyed. He came quietly along, now and then shaking the oats about that he had in the sieve, and speaking cheerfully and gently to me, ‘Come along, lassie, come along, lassie; come along, come along.’ I stood still and let him come up; he held the oats to me and I began to eat without fear; his voice took all my fear away. He stood by, patting and stroking me whilst I was eating, and seeing the clots of blood on my side he seemed very vexed; ‘Poor lassie! it was a bad business, a bad business!’ then he quietly took the rein and led me to the stable; just at the door stood Samson. I laid my ears back and snapt at him. ‘Stand back,’ said the master, ‘and keep out of her way; you’ve done a bad day’s work for this filly.’
He growled out something about a vicious brute. ‘Hark ye,’ said the father, ‘a bad-tempered man will never make a good-tempered horse. You’ve not learned your trade yet, Samson.’ Then he led me into my box, took off the saddle and bridle with his own hands and tied me up; then he called for a pail of warm water and a sponge, took off his coat, and while the stable man held the pail, he sponged my sides a good while so tenderly that I was sure he knew how sore and bruised they were. ‘Whoa! my pretty one,’ he said, ‘stand still, stand still.’ His very voice did me good, and the bathing was very comfortable. The skin was so broken at the corners of my mouth that I could not eat the hay, the stalks hurt me. He looked closely at it, shook his head, and told the man to fetch a good bran mash and put some meal into it. How good that mash 37 was! and so soft and healing to my mouth. He stood by all the time I was eating, stroking me and talking to the man. ‘If a high-mettled creature like this,’ said he, ‘can’t be broken in by fair means, she will never be good for anything.’
“After that he often came to see me, and when my mouth was healed, the other breaker, Job, they called him, went on training me; he was steady and thoughtful, and I soon learned what he wanted.”
The next time that Ginger and I were together in the paddock, she told me about her first place. “After my breaking in,” she said, “I was bought by a dealer to match another chestnut horse. For some weeks he drove us together, and then we were sold to a fashionable gentleman, and were sent up to London. I had been driven with a bearing rein by the dealer, and I hated it worse than anything else; but in this place we were reined far tighter; the coachman and his master thinking we looked more stylish so. We were often driven about in the Park and other fashionable places. You who never had a bearing rein on, don’t know what it is, but I can tell you it is dreadful.
“I like to toss my head about, and hold it as high as any horse; but fancy now yourself, if you tossed your head up high and were obliged to hold it there, and that for hours together, not able to move it at all, except with a jerk still higher, your neck aching till you did not know how to bear it. Beside that, to have two bits instead of one; and mine was a sharp one, it hurt my tongue and my jaw, and the blood from my tongue coloured the froth that kept flying 39 from my lips, as I chafed and fretted at the bits and rein; it was worst when we had to stand by the hour waiting for our mistress at some grand party or entertainment; and if I fretted or stamped with impatience the whip was laid on. It was enough to drive one mad.”
“Did not your master take any thought for you?” I said.
“No,” said she, “he only cared to have a stylish turn-out, as they call it; I think he knew very little about horses, he left that to his coachman, who told him I was an irritable temper; that I had not been well broken to the bearing rein, but I should soon get used to it; but he was not the man to do it, for when I was in the stable, miserable and angry, instead of being soothed and quieted by kindness, I got only a surly word or a blow. If he had been civil, I would have tried to bear it. I was willing to work, and ready to work hard too; but to be tormented for nothing but their fancies, angered me. What right had they to make me suffer like that? Beside the soreness in my mouth and the pain in my neck, it always made my windpipe feel bad, and if I had stopped there long, I know it would have spoiled my breathing; but I grew more and more restless and irritable, I could not help it; and I began to snap and kick when any one came to harness me; for this the groom beat me, and one day, as they had just buckled us into the carriage, and were straining my head up with that rein, I began to plunge and kick with all my might. I soon broke a lot of 40 harness, and kicked myself clear; so that was an end of that place.
“After this, I was sent to to be sold; of course I could not be warranted free from vice, so nothing was said about that. My handsome appearance and good paces soon brought gentlemen to bid for me, and I was bought by another dealer; he tried me in all kinds of ways and with different bits, and he soon found out what I could not bear. At last he drove me quite without a bearing rein, and then sold me as a perfectly quiet horse to a gentleman in the country; he was a good master, and I was getting on very well, but his old groom left him and a new one came. This man was as hard-tempered and hard-handed as Samson; he always spoke in a rough impatient voice, and if I did not move in the stall the moment he wanted me, he would hit me above the hocks with the stable broom or the fork, whichever he might have in his hand. Every thing he did was rough, and I began to hate him; he wanted to make me afraid of him, but I was too high-mettled for that; and one day when he had aggravated me more than usual, I bit him, which of course put him in a great rage, and he began to hit me about the head with a riding whip. After that, he never dared to come into my stall again, either my heels or my teeth were ready for him, and he knew it. I was quite quiet with my master, but of course he listened to what the man said, and so I was sold again.
“The same dealer heard of me and said he thought 41 he knew one place where I should do well. ‘’Twas a pity,’ he said, ‘that such a fine horse should go to the bad, for want of a real good chance,’ and the end of it was that I came here not long before you did; but I had then made up my mind, that men were my natural enemies, and that I must defend myself. Of course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I wish I could think about things as you do; but I can’t after all I have gone through.”
“Well,” I said, “I think it would be a real shame if you were to bite or kick John or James.”
“I don’t mean to,” she said, “while they are good to me. I did bite James once pretty sharp, but John said, ‘Try her with kindness,’ and instead of punishing me as I expected, James came to me with his arm bound up, and brought me a bran mash and stroked me; and I have never snapped at him since, and I won’t either.”
I was sorry for Ginger, but of course I knew very little then, and I thought most likely she made the worst of it; however, I found that as the weeks went on, she grew much more gentle and cheerful, and had lost the watchful, defiant look that she used to turn on any strange person who came near her; and one day James said, “I do believe that mare is getting fond of me, she quite whinnied after me this morning when I had been rubbing her forehead.”
“Aye, aye, Jim, ’tis the Birtwick balls,” said John, “she’ll be as good as Black Beauty by and bye; kindness is all the physic she wants, poor thing!” 42 Master noticed the change too, and one day when he got out of the carriage and came to speak to us as he often did, he stroked her beautiful neck, “Well, my pretty one, well, how do things go with you now? you are a good bit happier than when you came to us, I think.”
She put her nose up to him in a friendly trustful way, while he rubbed it gently.
“We shall make a cure of her, John,” he said.
“Yes, sir, she’s wonderfully improved, she’s not the same creature that she was; it’s the Birtwick balls, sir,” said John, laughing.
This was a little joke of John’s; he used to say that a regular course of the Birtwick horse-balls would cure almost any vicious horse; these balls he said were made up of patience and gentleness, firmness and petting, one pound of each to be mixed up with half-a-pint of common sense, and given to the horse every day.43
Mr. Blomefield, the Vicar, had a large family of boys and girls; sometimes they used to come and play with Miss Jessie and Flora, one of the girls was as old as Miss Jessie; two of the boys were older, and there were several little ones. When they came, there was plenty of work for Merrylegs, for nothing pleased them so much as getting on him by turns and riding him all about the orchard and the home paddock, and this they would do by the hour together.
One afternoon he had been out with them a long time, and when James brought him in and put on his halter, he said,
“There, you rogue, mind how you behave yourself, or we shall get into trouble.”
“What have you been doing, Merrylegs?” I asked.
“Oh!” said he, tossing his little head, “I have only been giving those young people a lesson, they did not know when they had had enough, nor when I had had enough, so I just pitched them off backwards, was the only thing they could understand.”
“What?” said I, “you threw the children off? I thought you did know better than that! Did you throw Miss Jessie or Miss Flora?”44
He looked very much offended, and said:—
“Of course not, I would not do such a thing for the best oats that ever came into the stable; why I am as careful of our young ladies as the master could be, and as for the little ones, it is I who teach them to ride. When they seem frightened or a little unsteady on my back, I go as smooth and as quiet as old pussy when she is after a bird; and when they are all right, I go on again faster you see, just to use them to it; so don’t you trouble yourself preaching to me; I am the best friend, and the best riding master those children have. It is not them, it is the boys; boys,” said he, shaking his mane, “are quite different; they must be broken in, as we were broken in when we were colts, and just be taught what’s what. The other children had ridden me about for nearly two hours, and then the boys thought it was their turn, and so it was, and I was quite agreeable. They rode me by turns, and I galloped them about up and down the fields and all about the orchard for a good hour. They had each cut a great hazel stick for a riding whip, and laid it on a little too hard; but I took it in good part, till at last I thought we had had enough, so I stopped two or three times by way of a hint. Boys, you see, think a horse or pony is like a steam engine or a thrashing machine, and can go on as long and as fast as they please; they never think that a pony can get tired, or have any feelings; so as the one who was whipping me could not understand, I just rose up on my hind legs and let him slip off behind—that was all; he mounted me 45 again and I did the same. Then the other boy got up, and as soon as he began to use his stick I laid him on the grass, and so on, till they were able to understand, that was all. They are not bad boys; they don’t wish to be cruel. I like them very well; but you see I had to give them a lesson. When they brought me to James and told him, I think he was very angry to see such big sticks. He said they were only fit for drovers or gipsies, and not for young gentlemen.”
“If I had been you,” said Ginger, “I would have given those boys a good kick, and that would have given them a lesson.”
“No doubt you would,” said Merrylegs, “but then I am not quite such a fool, (begging your pardon) as to anger our master or make James ashamed of me; besides those children are under my charge when they are riding; I tell you they are trusted to me. Why, only the other day I heard our master say to Mrs. Blomefield, ‘My dear madam, you need not be anxious about the children, my old Merrylegs will take as much care of them as you or I could: I assure you I would not sell that pony for any money, he is so perfectly good-tempered and trustworthy;’ and do you think I am such an ungrateful brute, as to forget all the kind treatment I have had here for five years, and all the trust they place in me, and turn vicious because a couple of ignorant boys used me badly? No! no! you never had a good place where they were kind to you; and so you don’t know, and I’m sorry for you, but I can tell you good places 46 make good horses. I wouldn’t vex our people for anything; I love them, I do,” said Merrylegs, and he gave a low, “ho, ho, ho,” through his nose, as he used to do in the morning when he heard James’s footstep at the door.
“Besides,” he went on, “if I took to kicking, where should I be? why, sold off in a jiffy, and no character, and I might find myself slaved about under a butcher’s boy, or worked to death at some seaside place where no one cared for me, except to find out how fast I could go, or be flogged along in some cart with three or four great men in it going out for a Sunday spree, as I have often seen in the place I lived in before I came here; no,” said he, shaking his head, “I hope I shall never come to that.”
Ginger and I were not of the regular tall carriage horse breed, we had more of the racing blood in us. We stood about fifteen and a half hands high; we were therefore just as good for riding as we were for driving, and our master used to say that he disliked either horse or man that could do but one thing; and as he did not want to show off in the London Parks, he preferred a more active and useful kind of horse. As for us, our greatest pleasure was when we were saddled for a riding party; the master on Ginger, the mistress on me, and the young ladies on Sir Oliver and Merrylegs. It was so cheerful to be trotting and cantering all together, that it always put us in high spirits. I had the best of it, for I always carried the mistress; her weight was little, her voice was sweet, and her hand was so light on the rein, that I was guided almost without feeling it.
Oh! if people knew what a comfort to horses a light hand is, and how it keeps a good mouth and a good temper, they surely would not chuck, and drag, and pull at the rein as they often do. Our mouths are so tender, that where they have not been spoiled 48 or hardened with bad or ignorant treatment, they feel the slightest movement of the driver’s hand, and we know in an instant what is required of us. My mouth had never been spoiled, and I believe that was why the mistress preferred me to Ginger, although her paces were certainly quite as good. She used often to envy me, and said it was all the fault of the breaking in, and the gag bit in London, that her mouth was not so perfect as mine; and then old Sir Oliver would say, “There, there! don’t vex yourself; you have the greatest honour; a mare that can carry a tall man of our master’s weight, with all your spring and sprightly action, does not need to hold her head down because she does not carry the lady; we horses must take things as they come, and always be contented and willing so long as we are kindly used.”
I had often wondered how it was, that Sir Oliver had such a very short tail; it really was only six or seven niches long, with a tassel of hair hanging from it; and on one of our holidays in the orchard I ventured to ask him by what accident it was that he had lost his tail. “Accident!” he snorted with a fierce look, “it was no accident! it was a cruel, shameful, cold-blooded act! When I was young I was taken to a place where these cruel things were done; I was tied up, and made fast so that I could not stir, and then they came and cut off my long beautiful tail, through the flesh, and through the bone, and took it away.”
“How dreadful!” I exclaimed.49
“Dreadful! ah! it was dreadful; but it was not only the pain, though that was terrible and lasted a long time; it was not only the indignity of having my best ornament taken from me, though that was bad; but it was this, how could I ever brush the flies off my sides and my hind legs any more? You who have tails just whisk the flies off without thinking about it, and you can’t tell what a torment it is to have them settle upon you and sting and sting, and have nothing in the world to lash them off with. I tell you it is a life-long wrong, and a life-long loss; but thank Heaven! they don’t do it now.”
“What did they do it for then?” said Ginger.
“For fashion!” said the old horse with a stamp of his foot; “for fashion! if you know what that means; there was not a well-bred young horse in my time that had not his tail docked in that shameful way, just as if the good God that made us, did not know what we wanted and what looked best.”
“I suppose it is fashion that makes them strap our heads up with those horrid bits that I was tortured with in London,” said Ginger.
“Of course it is,” said he; “to my mind, fashion is one of the wickedest things in the world. Now look, for instance, at the way they serve dogs, cutting off their tails to make them look plucky, and shearing up their pretty little ears to a point to make them look sharp, forsooth. I had a dear friend once, a brown terrier; ‘Skye,’ they called her, she was so fond of me, that she never would sleep out of my stall; she made her bed under the manger, and there 50 she had a litter of five as pretty little puppies as need be; none were drowned, for they were a valuable kind, and how pleased she was with them! and when they got their eyes open and crawled about, it was a real pretty sight; but one day the man came and took them all away; I thought he might be afraid I should tread upon them. But it was not so; in the evening poor Skye brought them back again, one by one in her mouth; not the happy little things that they were, but bleeding and crying pitifully; they had all had a piece of their tails cut off, and the soft flap of their pretty little ears was cut quite off. How their mother licked them, and how troubled she was, poor thing! I never forgot it. They healed in time, and they forgot the pain, but the nice soft flap that of course was intended to protect the delicate part of their ears from dust and injury, was gone for ever. Why don’t they cut their own children’s ears into points to make them look sharp? why don’t they cut the end off their noses to make them look plucky? one would be just as sensible as the other. What right have they to torment and disfigure God’s creatures?”
Sir Oliver, though he was so gentle, was a fiery old fellow, and what he said was all so new to me and so dreadful, that I found a bitter feeling toward men rise up in my mind that I never had before. Of course Ginger was much excited; she flung up her head with flashing eyes, and distended nostrils, declaring that men were both brutes and blockheads.51
“Who talks about blockheads?” said Merrylegs, who just came up from the old apple tree, where he had been rubbing himself against the low branch; “Who talks about blockheads? I believe that is a bad word.”
“Bad words were made for bad things,” said Ginger, and she told him what Sir Oliver had said. “It is all true,” said Merrylegs sadly, “and I’ve seen that about the dogs over and over again where I lived first; but we won’t talk about it here. You know that master, and John, and James are always good to us, and talking against men in such a place as this, doesn’t seem fair or grateful, and you know there are good masters and good grooms besides ours, though of course ours are the best.” This wise speech of good little Merrylegs, which we knew was quite true, cooled us all down, specially Sir Oliver, who was dearly fond of his master; and to turn the subject I said, “Can any one tell me the use of blinkers?”
“No!” said Sir Oliver shortly, “because they are no use.”
“They are supposed,” said Justice in his calm way, “to prevent horses from shying and starting, and getting so frightened as to cause accidents.”
“Then what is the reason they do not put them on riding horses; especially ladies’ horses?” said I.
“There is no reason at all,” said he quietly, “except the fashion: they say that a horse would be so frightened to see the wheels of his own cart or carriage coming behind him, that he would be sure 52 to run away, although of course when he is ridden, he sees them all about him if the streets are crowded. I admit they do sometimes come too close to be pleasant, but we don’t run away; we are used to it, and understand it, and if we had never blinkers put on, we should never want them; we should see what was there, and know what was what, and be much less frightened than by only seeing bits of things, that we can’t understand.”
Of course there may be some nervous horses who have been hurt or frightened when they were young, and may be the better for them, but as I never was nervous, I can’t judge.
“I consider,” said Sir Oliver, “that blinkers are dangerous things in the night; we horses can see much better in the dark than men can, and many an accident would never have happened if horses might have had the full use of their eyes. Some years ago, I remember, there was a hearse with two horses returning one dark night, and just by farmer Sparrow’s house, where the pond is close to the road, the wheels went too near the edge, and the hearse was overturned into the water; both the horses were drowned, and the driver hardly escaped. Of course after this accident a stout white rail was put up that might be easily seen, but if those horses had not been partly blinded, they would of themselves have kept farther from the edge, and no accident would have happened. When our master’s carriage was overturned, before you came here, it was said, that if the lamp on the left side had not gone out, John would have seen 53 the great hole that the road makers had left; and so he might, but if old Colin had not had blinkers on, he would have seen it, lamp or no lamp, for he was far too knowing an old horse to run into danger. As it was, he was very much hurt, the carriage was broken, and how John escaped nobody knew.”
“I should say,” said Ginger, curling her nostril, “that these men, who are so wise, had better give orders, that in future, all foals should be born with their eyes set just in the middle of their foreheads, instead of on the side; they always think they can improve upon nature and mend what God has made.”
Things were getting rather sore again, when Merrylegs held up his knowing little face and said, “I’ll tell you a secret; I believe John does not approve of blinkers, I heard him talking with master about it one day. The master said, that ‘if horses had been used to them, it might be dangerous in some cases to leave them off,’ and John said he thought it would be a good thing if all colts were broken in without blinkers, as was the case in some foreign countries; so let us cheer up, and have a run to the other end of the orchard; I believe the wind has blown down some apples, and we might just as well eat them as the slugs.”
Merrylegs could not be resisted, so we broke off our long conversation, and got up our spirits by munching some very sweet apples which lay scattered on the grass.54
The longer I lived at Birtwick, the more proud and happy I felt at having such a place. Our master and mistress were respected and beloved by all who knew them; they were good and kind to everybody, and everything; not only men and women, but horses and donkeys, dogs and cats, cattle and birds; there was no oppressed or ill-used creature that had not a friend in them, and their servants took the same tone. If any of the village children were known to treat any creature cruelly, they soon heard about it from the Hall.
The Squire and farmer Grey had worked together, as they said, for more than twenty years, to get bearing reins on the cart horses done away with, and in our parts you seldom saw them; but sometimes if mistress met a heavily-laden horse, with his head strained up, she would stop the carriage and get out, and reason with the driver in her sweet serious voice, and try to shew him how foolish and cruel it was.
I don’t think any man could withstand our mistress. I wish all ladies were like her. Our master too, used to come down very heavy sometimes; I remember he was riding me towards home one 55 morning, when we saw a powerful man driving towards us in a light pony chaise, with a beautiful little bay pony, with slender legs, and a high-bred sensitive head and face. Just as he came to the Park gates, the little thing turned towards them; the man without word or warning, wrenched the creature’s head round with such force and suddenness, that he nearly threw it on its haunches: recovering itself, it was going on when he began to lash it furiously; the pony plunged forward, but the strong heavy hand held the pretty creature back with force almost enough to break its jaw, whilst the whip still cut into him. It was a dreadful sight to me, for I knew what fearful pain it gave that delicate little mouth; but master gave me the word, and we were up with him in a second. “Sawyer,” he cried in a stern voice, “is that pony made of flesh and blood?”
“Flesh and blood and temper,” he said, “he’s too fond of his own will, and that won’t suit me.” He spoke as if he was in a strong passion; he was a builder who had often been to the Park on business. “And do you think,” said master sternly, “that treatment like this, will make him fond of your will?”
“He had no business to make that turn; his road was straight on!” said the man roughly.
“You have often driven that pony up to my place,” said master, “it only shews the creature’s memory and intelligence; how did he know that you were not going there again? but that has little to do with it. I must say, Mr. Sawyer, that more unmanly, brutal treatment of a little pony, it was never my 56 painful lot to witness; and by giving way to such passion, you injure your own character as much, nay more, than you injure your horse, and remember, we shall all have to be judged according to our works, whether they be towards man or towards beast.”
Master rode me home slowly, and I could tell by his voice how the thing had grieved him. He was just as free to speak to gentlemen of his own rank as to those below him; for another day, when we were out, we met a Captain Langley, a friend of our master’s; he was driving a splendid pair of greys in a kind of break. After a little conversation the Captain said,
“What do you think of my new team, Mr. you know, you are the judge of horses in these parts, and I should like your opinion.”
The master backed me a little, so as to get a good view of them. “They are an uncommonly handsome pair,” he said, “and if they are as good as they look, I am sure you need not wish for anything better; but I see you yet hold to that pet scheme of yours for worrying your horses and lessening their power.”
“What do you mean,” said the other, “the bearing reins? Oh, ah! I know that’s a hobby of yours; well, the fact is, I like to see my horses hold their heads up.”
“So do I,” said master, well as any man, but I don’t like to see them held up; that takes all the shine out of it. Now you are a military man, Langley, and no doubt like to see your regiment look well on parade, ‘Heads up’, and all that; but you would 57 not take much credit for your drill, if all your men had their heads tied to a backboard! It might not be much harm on parade, except to worry and fatigue them, but how would it be in a bayonet charge against the enemy, when they want the free use of every muscle, and all their strength thrown forward? I would not give much for their chance of victory, and it is just the same with horses; you fret and worry their tempers, and decrease their power, you will not let them throw their weight against their work, and so they have to do too much with their joints and muscles, and of course it wears them up faster. You may depend upon it, horses were intended to have their heads free, as free as men’s are; and if we could act a little more according to common sense, and a good deal less according to fashion, we should find many things work easier; besides, you know as well as I, that if a horse makes a false step, he has much less chance of recovering himself if his head and neck are fastened back. And now,” said the master, laughing, “I have given my hobby a good trot out, can’t you make up your mind to mount him too, Captain? your example would go a long way.”
“I believe you are right in theory,” said the other, “and that’s rather a hard hit about the soldiers; but—well—I’ll think about it,” and so they parted.58
ne day late in the autumn, my master had a long journey to go on business. I was put into the dog-cart, and John went with his master. I always liked to go in the dog-cart, it was so light, and the high wheels ran along so pleasantly. There had been a great deal of rain, and now the wind was very high, and blew the dry leaves across the road in a shower. We went along merrily till we came to the toll-bar, and the low wooden bridge. The river banks were rather high, and the bridge, instead of rising, went across just level, so that in the middle, if the river was full, the water would be nearly up to the woodwork and planks; but as there were good substantial rails on each side, people did not mind it.
The man at the gate said the river was rising fast, and he feared it would be a bad night. Many of the meadows were under water, and in one low part of the road, the water was half way up to my knees; the bottom was good, and master drove gently, so it was no matter.
When we got to the town, of course I had a good bait, but as the master’s business engaged him a long 59 time, we did not start for home till rather late in the afternoon. The wind was then much higher, and I heard the master say to John, he had never been out in such a storm; and so I thought, as we went along the skirts of a wood, where great branches were swaying about like twigs, and the rushing sound was terrible.
“I wish we were well out of this wood,” said my master, “Yes, sir,” said John, “it would be rather awkward if one of these branches came down upon us.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when there was a groan, and a crack, and a splitting sound, and tearing, crashing down amongst the other trees, came an oak, torn up by the roots, and it fell right across the road just before us. I will never say I was not frightened, for I was. I stopped still, and I believe I trembled; of course I did not turn round or run away; I was not brought up to that. John jumped out and was in a moment at my head.
“That was a very near touch,” said my master, “What’s to be done now?” “Well, sir, we can’t drive over that tree nor yet get round it; there will be nothing for it, but to go back to the four cross-ways, and that will be a good six miles before we get round to the wooden bridge again; it will make us late, but the horse is fresh.” So back we went, and round by the cross roads; but by the time we got to the bridge, it was very nearly dark, we could just see that the water was over the middle of it; but as that happened sometimes when the floods were out, master did not stop. We were going along at a 60 good pace, but the moment my feet touched the first part of the bridge, I felt sure there was something wrong. I dare not go forward, and I made a dead stop. “Go on, Beauty,” said my master, and he gave me a touch with the whip, but I dare not stir; he gave me a sharp cut, I jumped, but I dare not go forward.
“There’s something wrong, sir,” said John, and he sprung out of the dog-cart and came to my head and looked all about. He tried to lead me forward, “Come on, Beauty, what’s the matter?” Of course I could not tell him, but I knew very well that the bridge was not safe.
Just then, the man at the toll-gate on the other side ran out of the house, tossing a torch about like one mad. “Hoy, hoy, hoy, halloo, stop!” he cried. “What’s the matter?” shouted my master, “The bridge is broken in the middle, and part of it is carried away; if you come on you’ll be into the river.”
“Thank God!” said my master. “You Beauty!” said John, and took the bridle and gently turned me round to the right-hand road by the river side. The sun had set some time, the wind seemed to have lulled off after that furious blast which tore up the tree. It grew darker and darker, stiller and stiller. I trotted quietly along, the wheels hardly making a sound on the soft road. For a good while neither master nor John spoke, and then master began in a serious voice. I could not understand much of what they said, but I found they thought, if I had gone on 61 as the master wanted me, most likely the bridge would have given way under us, and horse, chaise, master and man would have fallen into the river; and as the current was flowing very strongly, and there was no light and no help at hand, it was more than likely we should all have been drowned. Master said, God had given men reason by which they could find out things for themselves, but He had given animals knowledge which did not depend on reason, and which was much more prompt and perfect in its way, and by which they had often saved the lives of men. John had many stories to tell of dogs and horses, and the wonderful things they had done; he thought people did not value their animals half enough, nor make friends of them as they ought to do. I am sure he makes friends of them if ever a man did.
At last we came to the Park gates, and found the gardener looking out for us. He said that mistress had been in a dreadful way ever since dark, fearing some accident had happened, and that she had sent James off on Justice, the roan cob, towards the wooden bridge to make enquiry after us.
We saw a light at the hall door and at the upper windows, and as we came up, mistress ran out, saying, “Are you really safe, my dear? Oh! I have been so anxious, fancying all sorts of things. Have you had no accident?”
“No, my dear; but if your Black Beauty had not been wiser than we were, we should all have been carried down the river at the wooden bridge.” I 62 heard no more, as they went into the house, and John took me to the stable. Oh! what a good supper he gave me that night, a good bran mash and some crushed beans with my oats, and such a thick bed of straw, and I was glad of it, for I was tired.63
One day when John and I had been out on some business of our master’s, and were returning gently on a long straight road, at some distance we saw a boy trying to leap a pony over a gate; the pony would not take the leap, and the boy cut him with the whip, but he only turned off on one side; he whipped him again, but the pony turned off on the other side. Then the boy got off and gave him a hard thrashing, and knocked him about the head; then he got up again and tried to make him leap the gate, kicking him all the time shamefully, but still the pony refused. When we were nearly at the spot, the pony put down his head and threw up his heels and sent the boy neatly over into a broad quickset hedge, and with the rein dangling from his head, he set off home at a full gallop. John laughed out quite loud, “Served him right,” he said.
“Oh! oh! oh!” cried the boy, as he struggled about amongst the thorns; “I say, come and help me out.”
“Thank ye,” said John, “I think you are quite in the right place, and maybe a little scratching will teach you not to leap a pony over a gate that is too 64 high for him,” and so with that John rode off. “It may be,” said he to himself, “that young fellow is a liar as well as a cruel one; we’ll just go home by farmer Bushby’s, Beauty, and then if anybody wants to know, you and I can tell ’em, ye see;” so we turned off to the right, and soon came up to the stack yard, and within sight of the house. The farmer was hurrying out into the road, and his wife was standing at the gate, looking very frightened.
“Have you seen my boy?” said Mr. Bushby, as we came up, “he went out an hour ago on my black pony, and the creature is just come back without a rider.”
“I should think, sir,” said John, “he had better be without a rider, unless he can be ridden properly.”
“What do you mean?” said the farmer.
“Well, sir, I saw your son whipping, and kicking, and knocking that good little pony about shamefully, because he would not leap a gate that was too high for him. The pony behaved well, sir, and shewed no vice; but at last he just threw up his heels, and tipped the young gentleman into the thorn hedge: he wanted me to help him out; but I hope you will excuse me, sir, I did not feel inclined to do so. There’s no bones broken, sir, he’ll only get a few scratches. I love horses, and it roiles me to see them badly used; it is a bad plan to aggravate an animal till he uses his heels; the first time is not always the last.”
During this time the mother began to cry, “Oh! my poor Bill, I must go and meet him, he must be hurt.”65
“You had better go into the house, wife,” said the farmer; “Bill wants a lesson about this, and I must see that he gets it; this is not the first time nor the second that he has that pony, and I shall stop it. I am much obliged to you, Manly. Good evening.”
So we went on, John chuckling all the way home, then he told James about it, who laughed and said, “Serve him right. I knew that boy at school; he took great airs on himself because he was a farmer’s son; he used to swagger about and bully the little boys; of course we elder ones would not have any of that nonsense, and let him know that in the school and the playground, farmers’ sons and labourers’ sons were all alike. I well remember one day, just before afternoon school, I found him at the large window catching flies and pulling off their wings. He did not see me, and I gave him a box on the ears that laid him sprawling on the floor. Well, angry as I was, I was almost frightened, he roared and bellowed in such a style. The boys rushed in from the playground, and the master ran in from the road to see who was being murdered. Of course I said fair and square at once what I had done, and why; then I shewed the master the poor flies, some crushed and some crawling about helpless, and I shewed him the wings on the window sill. I never saw him so angry before; but as Bill was still howling and whining, like the coward that he was, he did not give him any more punishment of that kind, but set him up on a stool for the rest of the afternoon, and 66 said that he should not go out to play for that week. Then he talked to all the boys very seriously about cruelty, and said how hard-hearted and cowardly it was to hurt the weak and the helpless; but what stuck in my mind was this, he said that cruelty was the Devil’s own trade mark, and if we saw any one who took pleasure in cruelty, we might know who he belonged to, for the devil was a murderer from the beginning, and a tormentor to the end. On the other hand, where we saw people who loved their neighbours, and were kind to man and beast, we might know that was God’s mark, for ‘God is Love.’”
“Your master never taught you a truer thing,” said John; “there is no religion without love, and people may talk as much as they like about their religion, but if it does not teach them to be good and kind to man and beast, it is all a sham—all a sham, James, and it won’t stand when things come to be turned inside out and put down for what they are.”67
One morning early in December, John had just led me into my box after my daily exercise, and was strapping my cloth on, and James was coming in from the corn chamber with some oats, when the master came into the stable; he looked rather serious, and held an open letter in his hand. John fastened the door of my box, touched his cap, and waited for orders.
“Good morning, John,” said the master; “I want to know if you have any complaint to make of James.”
“Complaint, sir? No, sir.”
“Is he industrious at his work and respectful to you?”
“Yes, sir, always.”
“You never find he slights his work when your back is turned?”
“That’s well; but I must put another question; have you no reason to suspect when he goes out with the horses to exercise them, or to take a message, that he stops about talking to his acquaintances, or goes into houses where he has no business, leaving the horses outside?”68
“No, sir, certainly not, and if anybody has been saying that about James, I don’t believe it, and I don’t mean to believe it unless I have it fairly proved before witnesses; it’s not for me to say who has been trying to take away James’ character, but I will say this, sir, that a steadier, pleasanter, honester, smarter young fellow I never had in this stable. I can trust his word and I can trust his work; he is gentle and clever with the horses, and I would rather have them in charge with him, than with half the young fellows I know of in laced hats and liveries; and whoever wants a character of James Howard,” said John, with a decided jerk of his head, “let them come to John Manly.”
The master stood all this time grave and attentive, but as John finished his speech, a broad smile spread over his face, and looking kindly across at James, who, all this time had stood still at the door, he said, “James, my lad, set down the oats and come here; I am very glad to find that John’s opinion of your character agrees so exactly with my own. John is a cautious man,” he said, with a droll smile, “and it is not always easy to get his opinion about people, so I thought if I beat the bush on this side, the birds would fly out, and I should learn what I wanted to know quickly; so now we will come to business. I have a letter from my brother-in-law, Sir Clifford Williams, of Clifford Hall; he wants me to find him a trustworthy young groom, about twenty or twenty-one, who knows his business. His old coachman, who has lived with him thirty years, is getting feeble, 69 and he wants a man to work with him and get into his ways, who would be able, when the old man was pensioned off, to step into his place. He would have eighteen shillings a week at first, a stable suit, a driving suit, a bedroom over the coach-house, and a boy under him. Sir Clifford is a good master, and if you could get the place, it would be a good start for you. I don’t want to part with you, and if you left us, I know John would lose his right hand.”
“That I should, sir,” said John, “but I would not stand in his light for the world.”
“How old are you, James?” said master.
“Nineteen next May, sir.”
“That’s young; what do you think, John?”
“Well, sir, it is young: but he is as steady as a man, and is strong, and well grown, and though he has not had much experience in driving, he has a light firm hand, and a quick eye, and he is very careful, and I am quite sure no horse of his will be ruined for want of having his feet and shoes looked after.”
“Your word will go the furthest, John,” said the master, “for Sir Clifford adds in a , ‘If I could find a man trained by your John, I should like him better than any other;’ so James, lad, think it over, talk to your mother at dinner time, and then let me know what you wish.”
In a few days after this conversation, it was fully settled that James should go to Clifford Hall in a month or six weeks, as it suited his master, and in the mean time he was to get all the practice in driving that 70 could be given to him. I never knew the carriage go out so often before: when the mistress did not go out, the master drove himself in the two-wheeled chaise; but now, whether it was master or the young ladies, or only an errand, Ginger and I were put into the carriage and James drove us. At the first, John rode with him on the box, telling him this and that, and after that James drove alone.
Then it was wonderful what a number of places the master would go to in the city on Saturday, and what queer streets we were driven through. He was sure to go to the railway station just as the train was coming in, and cabs and carriages, carts and omnibusses were all trying to get over the bridge together; that bridge wanted good horses and good drivers when the railway bell was ringing, for it was narrow, and there was a very sharp turn up to the station, where it would not have been at all difficult for people to run into each other, if they did not look sharp and keep their wits about them.71
After this, it was decided by my master and mistress to pay a visit to some friends who lived about forty-six miles from our home, and James was to drive them. The first day we travelled thirty-two miles; there were some long heavy hills, but James drove so carefully and thoughtfully that we were not at all harassed. He never forgot to put on the drag as we went downhill, nor to take it off at the right place. He kept our feet on the smoothest part of the road, and if the uphill was very long, he set the carriage wheels a little across the road, so as not to run back, and gave us a breathing. All these little things help a horse very much, particularly if they get kind words into the bargain.
We stopped once or twice on the road, and just as the sun was going down, we reached the town where we were to spend the night. We stopped at the principal hotel, which was in the Market Place; it was a very large one; we drove under an arch-way into a long yard, at the further end of which were the stables and coach-houses. Two ostlers came to take us out. The head ostler was a pleasant, active little man, with a crooked leg, and a yellow striped 72 waistcoat. I never saw a man unbuckle harness so quickly as he did, and with a pat and a good word he led me to a long stable, with six or eight stalls in it, and two or three horses. The other man brought Ginger; James stood by whilst we were rubbed down and cleaned.
I never was cleaned so lightly and quickly as by that little old man. When he had done, James stepped up and felt me over, as if he thought I could not be thoroughly done, but he found my coat as clean and smooth as silk.
“Well,” he said, “I thought I was pretty quick, and our John quicker still, but you do beat all I ever saw for being quick and thorough at the same time.”
“Practice makes perfect,” said the crooked little ostler, “and ’twould be a pity if it didn’t; forty years’ practice, and not perfect! ha, ha! that would be a pity; and as to being quick, why, bless you! that is only a matter of habit; if you get into the habit of being quick, it is just as easy as being slow; easier, I should say; in fact, it don’t agree with my health to be hulking about over a job twice as long as it need take. Bless you! I couldn’t whistle if I crawled over my work as some folks do! You see, I have been about horses ever since I was twelve years old, in hunting stables, and racing stables; and being small, ye see, I was a jockey for several years; but at the Goodwood, ye see, the turf was very slippery and my poor Larkspur got a fall, and I broke my knee, and so of course I was of no more use there; but I could not 73 live without horses, of course I couldn’t, so I took to the Hotels, and I can tell ye it is a downright pleasure to handle an animal like this, well-bred, well-mannered, well-cared for; bless ye! I can tell how a horse is treated. Give me the handling of a horse for twenty minutes, and I’ll tell you what sort of a groom he has had; look at this one, pleasant, quiet, turns about just as you want him, holds up his feet to be cleaned out, or anything else you please to wish; then you’ll find another, fidgetty, fretty, won’t move the right way, or starts across the stall, tosses up his head as soon as you come near him, lays his ears, and seems afraid of you; or else squares about at you with his heels. Poor things! I know what sort of treatment they have had. If they are timid, it makes them start or shy; if they are high-mettled, it makes them vicious or dangerous; their tempers are mostly made when they are young. Bless you! they are like children, train ’em up in the way they should go, as the good book says, and when they are old they will not depart from it, if they have a chance, that is.”
“I like to hear you talk,” said James, “that’s the way we lay it down at home, at our master’s.”
“Who is your master, young man? if it be a proper question. I should judge he is a good one, from what I see.”
“He is Squire Gordon, of Birtwick Park, the other side the Beacon hills,” said James.
“Ah! so, so, I have heard tell of him; fine judge of horses, ain’t he? the best rider in the county?”74
“I believe he is,” said James, “but he rides very little now, since the poor young master was killed.”
“Ah! poor gentleman; I read all about it in the paper at the time; a bad job it was; a fine horse killed too, wasn’t there?”
“Yes,” said James, “he was a splendid creature, brother to this one, and just like him.”
“Pity! pity!” said the old man, “’twas a bad place to leap, if I remember; a thin fence at top, a steep bank down to the stream, wasn’t it? no chance for a horse to see where he is going. Now, I am for bold riding as much as any man, but still there are some leaps that only a very knowing old huntsman has any right to take; a man’s life and a horse’s life are worth more than a fox’s tail, at least I should say they ought to be.”
During this time the other man had finished Ginger, and had brought our corn, and James and the old man left the stable together.75
Later on in the evening, a traveller’s horse was brought in by the second ostler, and whilst he was cleaning him, a young man with a pipe in his mouth lounged into the stable to gossip.
“I say, Towler,” said the ostler, “just run up the ladder into the loft and put some hay down into this horse’s rack, will you? only lay down your pipe.”
“All right,” said the other, and went up through the trap door; and I heard him step across the floor overhead and put down the hay. James came in to look at us the last thing, and then the door was locked.
I cannot say how long I had slept, nor what time in the night it was, but I woke up very uncomfortable, though I hardly knew why. I got up, the air seemed all thick and choking. I heard Ginger coughing, and one of the other horses seemed very restless; it was quite dark, and I could see nothing, but the stable seemed full of smoke and I hardly knew how to breathe. The trap door had been left open, and I thought that was the place it came through. I listened and heard a soft rushing sort of noise, and a low crackling and snapping. I did not know what it 76 was, but there was something in the sound so strange, that it made me tremble all over. The other horses were now all awake, some were pulling at their halters, others were stamping.
At last I heard steps outside, and the ostler who had put up the traveller’s horse, burst into the stable with a lantern, and began to untie the horses, and try to lead them out; but he seemed in such a hurry, and so frightened himself that he frightened me still more. The first horse would not go with him; he tried the second and third, they too would not stir. He came to me next and tried to drag me out of the stall by force; of course that was no use. He tried us all by turns and then left the stable.
No doubt we were very foolish, but danger seemed to be all round, and there was nobody we knew to trust in, and all was strange and uncertain. The fresh air that had come in through the open door made it easier to breathe, but the rushing sound overhead grew louder, and as I looked upward, through the bars of my empty rack, I saw a red light nickering on the wall. Then I heard a cry of “Fire” outside, and the old ostler quietly and quickly came in; he got one horse out, and went to another, but the flames were playing round the trap door, and the roaring overhead was dreadful.
The next thing I heard was James’s voice, quiet and cheery, as it always was.
“Come, my beauties, it is time for us to be off, so wake up and come along.” I stood nearest the door, so he came to me first, patting me as he came in.
“Come, Beauty, on with your bridle, my boy, we’ll soon be out of this smother.” It was on in no time; then he took the scarf off his neck, and tied it lightly over my eyes, and patting and coaxing he led me out of the stable. Safe in the yard, he slipped the scarf off my eyes, and shouted, “Here, somebody! take this horse while I go back for the other.”
A tall broad man stepped forward and took me, and James darted back into the stable. I set up a shrill whinny as I saw him go. Ginger told me afterwards, that whinny was the best thing I could have done for her, for had she not heard me outside, she would never have had courage to come out.
There was much confusion in the yard; the horses being got out of other stables, and the carriages and gigs being pulled out of houses and sheds, lest the flames should spread further. On the other side the yard, windows were thrown up, and people were shouting all sorts of things; but I kept my eye fixed on the stable door, where the smoke poured out thicker than ever, and I could see flashes of red light; presently I heard above all the stir and din a loud clear voice, which I knew was master’s:—
“James Howard! James Howard! are you there?” There was no answer, but I heard a crash of something falling in the stable, and the next moment I gave a loud joyful neigh, for I saw James coming through the smoke leading Ginger with him; she was coughing violently and he was not able to speak.
“My brave lad!” said master, laying his hand on his shoulder, “are you hurt?”78
James shook his head, for he could not yet speak.
“Aye,” said the big man who held me; “he is a brave lad and no mistake.”
“And now,” said master, “when you have got your breath, James, we’ll get out of this place as quickly as we can,” and we were moving towards the entry, when from the Market Place there came a sound of galloping feet and loud rumbling wheels.
“’Tis the fire engine! the fire engine!” shouted two or three voices, “stand back, make way!” and clattering and thundering over the stones two horses dashed into the yard with the heavy engine behind them. The fireman leaped to the ground; there was no need to ask where the fire was—it was torching up in a great blaze from the roof.
We got out as fast as we could into the broad quiet Market Place: the stars were shining, and except the noise behind us, all was still. Master led the way to a large Hotel on the other side, and as soon as the ostler came, he said, “James, I must now hasten to your mistress; I trust the horses entirely to you, order whatever you think is needed,” and with that he was gone. The master did not run, but I never saw mortal man walk so fast as he did that night.
There was a dreadful sound before we got into our stalls; the shrieks of those poor horses that were left burning to death in the stable—it was very terrible! and made both Ginger and me feel very bad. We, however, were taken in and well done by.79
The next morning the master came to see how we were and to speak to James. I did not hear much, for the ostler was rubbing me down, but I could see that James looked very happy, and I thought the master was proud of him. Our mistress had been so much alarmed in the night, that the journey was put off till the afternoon, so James had the morning on hand, and went first to the Inn to see about our harness and the carriage, and then to hear more about the fire. When he came back, we heard him tell the ostler about it. At first no one could guess how the fire had been caused, but at last a man said he saw Dick Towler go into the stable with a pipe in his mouth, and when he came out he had not one, and went to the tap for another. Then the under ostler said he had asked Dick to go up the ladder to put down some hay, but told him to lay down his pipe first. Dick denied taking the pipe with him, but no one believed him. I remembered our John Manly’s rule, never to allow a pipe in the stable, and thought it ought to be the rule everywhere.
James said the roof and floor had all fallen in, and that only the black walls were standing; the two poor horses that could not be got out, were buried under the burnt rafters and tiles.80
The rest of our journey was very easy, and a little after sunset we reached the house of my master’s friend. We were taken into a clean snug stable; there was a kind coachman, who made us very comfortable, and who seemed to think a good deal of James when he heard about the fire.
“There is one thing quite clear, young man,” he said, “your horses know who they can trust; it is one of the hardest things in the world to get horses out of a stable, when there is either fire or flood. I don’t know why they won’t come out, but they won’t—not one in twenty.”
We stopped two or three days at this place and then returned home. All went well on the journey; we were glad to be in our own stable again, and John was equally glad to see us.
Before he and James left us for the night, James said, “I wonder who is coming in my place.”
“Little Joe Green at the Lodge,” said John.
“Little Joe Green! why he’s a child!”
“He is fourteen and a half,” said John.
“But he is such a little chap!”81
“Yes, he is small, but he is quick, and willing, and kind-hearted too, and then he wishes very much to come, and his father would like it; and I know the master would like to give him the chance. He said, if I thought he would not do, he would look out for a bigger boy; but I said I was quite agreeable to try him for six weeks.”
“Six weeks!” said James, “why it will be six months before he can be of much use! it will make you a deal of work, John.”
“Well,” said John with a laugh, “work and I are very good friends; I never was afraid of work yet.”
“You are a very good man,” said James, “I wish I may ever be like you.”
“I don’t often speak of myself,” said John, “but as you are going away from us out into the world, to shift for yourself, I’ll just tell you how I look on these things. I was just as old as Joseph when my father and mother died of the fever, within ten days of each other, and left me and my crippled sister Nelly alone in the world, without a relation that we could look to for help. I was a farmer’s boy, not earning enough to keep myself, much less both of us, and she must have gone to the workhouse, but for our mistress (Nelly calls her, her angel, and she has good right to do so). She went and hired a room for her with old widow Mallet, and she gave her knitting and needlework, when she was able to do it; and when she was ill, she sent her dinners and many nice comfortable things, and was like a mother to 82 her. Then the master, he took me into the stable under old Norman, the coachman that was then. I had my food at the house, and my bed in the loft, and a suit of clothes and three shillings a week, so that I could help Nelly. Then there was Norman, he might have turned round and said, at his age he could not be troubled with a raw boy from the plough-tail, but he was like a father to me, and took no end of pains with me. When the old man died some years after, I stepped into his place, and now of course I have top wages, and can lay by for a rainy day or a sunny day as it may happen, and Nelly is as happy as a bird. So you see, James, I am not the man that should turn up his nose at a little boy, and vex a good kind master. No! no! I shall miss you very much, James, but we shall pull through, and there’s nothing like doing a kindness when ’tis put in your way, and I am glad I can do it.”
“Then,” said James, “you don’t hold with that saying, ‘Everybody look after himself, and take care of number one.’”
“No, indeed,” said John, “where should I and Nelly have been, if master and mistress and old Norman had only taken care of number one? Why—she in the workhouse and I hoeing turnips! Where would Black Beauty and Ginger have been if you had only thought of number one? why, roasted to death! No, Jim, no! that is a selfish heathenish saying, whoever uses it, and any man who thinks he has nothing to do, but take care of number one, why, it’s pity but what he had been drowned like a puppy or 83 a kitten, before he got his eyes open, that’s what I think,” said John, with a very decided jerk of his head.
James laughed at this; but there was a thickness in his voice when he said, “You have been my best friend except my mother; I hope you won’t forget me.”
“No, lad, no!” said John, “and if ever I can do you a good turn, I hope you won’t forget me.”
The next day Joe came to the stables to learn all he could before James left. He learned to sweep the stable, to bring in the straw and hay; he began to clean the harness, and helped to wash the carriage, as he was quite too short to do anything in the way of grooming Ginger and me, James taught him upon Merrylegs, for he was to have full charge of him; under John. He was a nice little bright fellow, and always came whistling to his work.
Merrylegs was a good deal put out, at being “mauled about,” as he said, “by a boy who knew nothing;” but towards the end of the second week, he told me confidentially, that he thought the boy would turn out well.
At last the day came when James had to leave us: cheerful as he always was, he looked quite down-hearted that morning.
“You see,” he said to John, “I am leaving a great deal behind; my mother and Betsey, and you, and a good master and mistress, and then the horses, and my old Merrylegs. At the new place, there will not be a soul that I shall know. If it were not that I 84 shall get a higher place, and be able to help my mother better, I don’t think I should have made up my mind to it: it is a real pinch, John.”
“Aye James, lad, so it is, but I should not think much of you, if you could leave your home for the first time and not feel it; cheer up, you’ll make friends there and if you get on well—as I’m sure you will, it will be a fine thing for your mother, and she will be proud enough that you have got into such a good place as that.”
So John cheered him up, but every one was sorry to lose James; as for Merrylegs, he pined after him for several days, and went quite off his appetite. So John took him out several mornings with a leading rein, when he exercised me, and trotting and galloping by my side, got up the little fellow’s spirits again, and he was soon all right.
Joe’s father would often come in and give a little help, as he understood the work, and Joe took a great deal of pains to learn, and John was quite encouraged about him.85
ne night, a few days after James had left, I had eaten my hay and was laid down in my straw fast asleep, when I was suddenly awoke by the stable bell ringing very loud. I heard the door of John’s house open, and his feet running up to the Hall. He was back again in no time; he unlocked the stable door, and came in, calling out, “Wake up, Beauty, you must go well now, if ever you did;” and almost before I could think, he had got the saddle on my back and the bridle on my head; he just ran round for his coat, and then took me at a quick trot up to the Hall door. The Squire stood there with a lamp in his hand.
“Now John,” he said, “ride for your life, that is, for your mistress’s life; there is not a moment to lose; give this note to Dr. White; give your horse a rest at the Inn, and be back as soon as you can.”
John said, “Yes, sir,” and was on my back in a minute. The gardener who lived at the lodge had heard the bell ring, and was ready with the gate open, and away we went through the Park, and through the village, and down the hill till we came to 86 the toll-gate. John called very loud and thumped upon the door: the man was soon out and flung open the gate. “Now,” said John, “do you keep the gate open for the Doctor; here’s the money,” and off we went again. There was before us a long piece of level road by the river side; John said to me, “Now Beauty, do your best,” and so I did; I wanted no whip nor spur, and for two miles I galloped as fast as I could lay my feet to the ground; I don’t believe that my old grandfather who won the race at Newmarket, could have gone faster.
When we came to the bridge, John pulled me up a little and patted my neck. “Well done, Beauty! good old fellow,” he said. He would have let me go slower, but my spirit was up, and I was off again as fast as before. The air was frosty, the moon was bright, it was very pleasant; we came through a village, then through a dark wood, then uphill, then downhill, till after an eight miles run we came to the town, through the streets and into the Market Place. It was all quite still except the clatter of my feet on the stones everybody was asleep. The church clock struck three as we drew up at Doctor White’s door. John rung the bell twice, and then knocked at the door like thunder. A window was thrown up, and Doctor White in his nightcap, put his head out and said, “What do you want?”
“Mrs. Gordon is very ill, sir; master wants you to go at once, he thinks she will die if you cannot get there—here is a note.”
“Wait,” he said, “I will come.”87
He shut the window and was soon at the door. “The worst of it is,” he said, “that my horse has been out all day and is quite done up; my son has just been sent for and he has taken the other. What is to be done? can I have your horse?”
“He has come at a gallop nearly all the way, sir, and I was to give him a rest here; but I think my master would not be against it if you think fit, sir.”
“All right,” he said, “I will soon be ready.”
John stood by me and stroked my neck, I was very hot. The Doctor came out with his riding whip, “You need not take that, sir,” said John, “Black Beauty will go till he drops; take care of him, sir, if you can; I should not like harm to come to him.”
“No! no! John,” said the Doctor, “I hope not,” and in a minute we had left John far behind.
I will not tell about our way back; the Doctor was a heavier man than John, and not so good a rider; however, I did my very best. The man at the toll-gate had it open. When we came to the hill, the Doctor drew me up, “Now, my good fellow,” he said, “take some breath.” I was glad he did, for I was nearly spent, but that breathing helped me on, and soon we were in the Park. Joe was at the lodge gate, my master was at the Hall door, for he had heard us coming. He spoke not a word; the Doctor went into the house with him, and Joe led me to the stable. I was glad to get home, my legs shook under me, and I could only stand and pant. I had not a dry hair on my body, the water ran down my legs, and I 88 steamed all over—Joe used to say, like a pot on the fire. Poor Joe! He was young and small, and as yet, he knew very little, and his father, who would have helped him, had been sent to the next village; but I am sure he did the very best he knew. He rubbed my legs and my chest, but he did not put my warm cloth on me; he thought I was so hot I should not like it, then he gave me a pail full of water to drink; it was cold and very good, and I drank it all; then he gave me some hay and some corn, and thinking he had done all right, he went away. Soon I began to shake and tremble, and turned deadly cold, my legs ached, and my loins ached, and my chest ached, and I felt sore all over. Oh! how I wished for my warm thick cloth as I stood and trembled. I wished for John, but he had eight miles to walk, so I laid down in my straw and tried to go to sleep. After a long while I heard John at the door; I gave a low moan, for I was in great pain. He was at my side in a moment, stooping down by me; I could not tell him how I felt; but he seemed to know it all; he covered me up with two or three warm cloths, and then ran to the house for some hot water; he made me some warm gruel which I drank, and then I think I went to sleep.
John seemed to be very much put out. I heard him say to himself, over and over again, “Stupid boy! stupid boy! no cloth put on, and I dare say the water was cold too; boys are no good,” but Joe was a good boy after all.
I was now very ill; a strong inflammation had 89 attacked my lungs, and I could not draw my breath without pain. John nursed me night and day, he would get up two or three times in the night to come to me; my master too, often came to see me. “My poor Beauty,” he said one day, “my good horse, you saved your mistress’s life, Beauty! yes, you saved her life.” I was very glad to hear that, for it seems the Doctor had said if we had been a little longer it would have been too late. John told my master, he never saw a horse go so fast in his life, it seemed as if the horse knew what was the matter. Of course I did, though John thought not; at least I knew as much as this, that John and I must go at the top of our speed, and that it was for the sake of the mistress.90
do not know how long I was ill. Mr. Bond, the horse Doctor, came every day. One day he bled me; John held a pail for the blood; I felt very faint after it, and thought I should die, and I believe they all thought so too.
Ginger and Merrylegs had been moved into the other stable, so that I might be quiet, for the fever made me very quick of hearing; any little noise seemed quite loud, and I could tell every one’s footstep going to and from the house. I knew all that was going on. One night John had to give me a draught; Thomas Green came in to help him. After I had taken it and John had made me as comfortable as he could, he said he should stay half-an-hour to see how the medicine settled. Thomas said he would stay with him, so they went and sat down on a bench that had been brought into Merrylegs’ stall, and put down the lantern at their feet, that I might not be disturbed with the light.
For awhile both men sat silent, and then Tom Green said in a low voice,
“I wish, John, you’d say a bit of a kind word to Joe, the boy is quite broken-hearted, he can’t eat his 91 meals, and he can’t smile, he says he knows it was all his fault, though he is sure he did the best he knew, and he says, if Beauty dies, no one will ever speak to him again; it goes to my heart to hear him; I think you might give him just a word, he is not a bad boy.”
After a short pause, John said slowly, “You must not be too hard upon me, Tom. I know he meant no harm, I never said he did; I know he is not a bad boy, but you see I am sore myself; that horse is the pride of my heart, to say nothing of his being such a favorite with the master and mistress; and to think that his life may be flung away in this manner, is more than I can bear; but if you think I am hard on the boy, I will try to give him a good word to-morrow—that is, I mean if Beauty is better.”
“Well, John! thank you, I knew you did not wish to be too hard, and I am glad you see it was only ignorance.”
voice almost startled me as he “Only ignorance! only ignorance! how can you talk about only ignorance? don’t you know that it is the worst thing in the world, next to wickedness—and which does the most mischief heaven only knows. If people can say, Oh! I did not know, I did not mean any harm, they think it is all right. I suppose Martha Mulwash did not mean to kill that baby, when she dosed it with Dalby and soothing syrups; but she did kill it, and was tried for manslaughter.”
“And serve her right too,” said Tom, “a woman should not undertake to nurse a tender little child 92 without knowing what is good and what is bad for it.”
“Bill Starkey,” continued John, “did not mean to frighten his brother into fits, when he dressed up like a ghost, and ran after him in the moonlight; but he did; and that bright handsome little fellow, that might have been the pride of any mother’s heart, is just no better than an idiot, and never will be, if he live to be eighty years old. You were a good deal cut up yourself, Tom, two weeks ago, when those young ladies left your hothouse door open, with a frosty east wind blowing right in; you said it killed a good many of your plants.”
“A good many!” said Tom, “there was not one of the tender cuttings that was not nipped off; I shall have to strike all over again, and the worst of it is, that I don’t know where to go to get fresh ones. I was nearly mad when I came in and saw what was done.”
“And yet,” said John, “I am sure the young ladies did not mean it, it was only ignorance!”
I heard no more of this conversation, for the medicine did well and sent me to sleep, and in the morning I felt much better: but I often thought of John’s words when I came to know more of the world.93
Joe Green went on very well, he learned quickly, and was so attentive and careful, that John began to trust him in many things; but as I have said, he was small of his age, and it was seldom that he was allowed to exercise either Ginger or me; but it so happened one morning that John was out with “Justice” in the luggage cart, and the master wanted a note to be taken immediately to a gentleman’s house, about three miles distant, and sent his orders for Joe to saddle me and take it; adding the caution that he was to ride steadily.
The note was delivered, and we were quietly returning till we came to the brickfield; here we saw a cart heavily laden with bricks; the wheels had stuck fast in the stiff mud of some deep ruts; and the carter was shouting and flogging the two horses unmercifully. Joe pulled up. It was a sad sight. There were the two horses straining and struggling with all their might to drag the cart out, but they could not move it; the sweat streamed from their legs and flanks, their sides heaved, and every muscle was strained, whilst the man, fiercely pulling at the head of the forehorse, swore and lashed most brutally.
“Hold hard,” said Joe, “don’t go on flogging the horses like that, the wheels are so stuck, that they cannot move the cart.” The man took no heed, but went on lashing.
“Stop! pray stop,” said Joe, “I’ll help you to lighten the cart, they can’t move it now.”
“Mind your own business, you impudent young rascal, and I’ll mind mine.” The man was in a towering passion, and the worse for drink, and laid on the whip again. Joe turned my head, and the next moment we were going at a round gallop towards the house of the master brickmaker. I cannot say if John would have approved of our pace, but Joe and I were both of one mind, and so angry, that we could not have gone slower.
The house stood close by the roadside. Joe knocked at the door and shouted, “Hulloa! is Mr. Clay at home?” The door was opened, and Mr. Clay himself came out.
“Hulloa! young man! you seem in a hurry; any orders from the Squire this morning?”
“No, Mr. Clay, but there’s a fellow in your brickyard flogging two horses to death. I told him to stop and he wouldn’t; I said I’d help him to lighten the cart, and he wouldn’t; so I’ve come to tell you; pray sir, go.” Joe’s voice shook with excitement.
“Thank ye, my lad,” said the man, running in for his hat; then pausing for a moment—“Will you give evidence of what you saw if I should bring the fellow up before a magistrate?”
“That I will,” said Joe, “and glad too.” The 95 man was gone; and we were on our way home at a smart trot.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Joe? you look angry all over,” said John, as the boy flung himself from the saddle.
“I am angry all over, I can tell you,” said the boy, and then in hurried excited words he told all that had happened. Joe was usually such a quiet gentle little fellow, that it was wonderful to see him so roused.
“Right, Joe! you did right, my boy, whether the fellow gets a summons or not. Many folks would have ridden by and said ’twas not their business to interfere. Now I say, that with cruelty and oppression, it is everybody’s business to interfere when they see it; you did right, my boy.”
Joe was quite calm by this time, and proud that John approved of him, and he cleaned out my feet, and rubbed me down with a firmer hand than usual.
They were just going home to dinner when the footman came down to the stable to say, that, Joe was wanted directly in master’s private room; there was a man brought up for ill-using horses, and Joe’s evidence was wanted. The boy flushed up to his forehead, and his eyes sparkled. “They shall have it,” said he.
“Put yourself a bit straight,” said John. Joe gave a pull at his necktie and a twitch at his jacket, and was off in a moment. Our master being one of the county magistrates, cases were often brought to him to settle, or say what should be done. In the 96 stable we heard no more for some time, as it was the men’s dinner hour, but when Joe came next into the stable I saw he was in high spirits; he gave me a good-natured slap and said, “We won’t see such things done, will we, old fellow?” We heard afterwards, that he had given his evidence so clearly, and the horses were in such an exhausted state, bearing marks of such brutal usage, that the carter was committed to take his trial, and might possibly be sentenced to two or three months in prison.
It was wonderful what a change had come over Joe. John laughed and said, he had grown an inch taller in that week, and I believe he had. He was just as kind and gentle as before, but there was more purpose and determination in all that he did—as if he had jumped at once from a boy into a man.97
had now lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were about to come over us. We heard from time to time that our mistress was ill. The Doctor was often at the house, and the master looked grave and anxious. Then we heard that she must leave her home at once and go to a warm country for two or three years. The news fell upon the household like the tolling of a death-bell, everybody was sorry; but the master began directly to make arrangements for breaking up his establishment and leaving England. We used to hear it talked about in our stable; indeed nothing else was talked about.
John went about his work silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled. There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work.
The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora with their governess. They came to bid us good bye. They hugged poor Merrylegs like an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend the Earl of W——, for he thought we should have a good place there. 98 Merrylegs he had given to the Vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs. Bloomfield, but it was on the condition, that he should never he sold, and when he was past work that he should be shot and buried.
Joe was engaged to take care of him, and to help in the house, so I thought that Merrylegs was well off. John had the offer of several good places, but he said he should wait a little and look round.
The evening before they left, the master came into the stable to give some directions and to give his horses the last pat. He seemed very low-spirited; I knew that by his voice. I believe we horses can tell more by the voice than many men can.
“Have you decided what to do, John?” he said. “I find you have not accepted either of those offers.”
“No, sir, I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, that it would be the right thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong treatment, which need not be, if the right man took them in hand. I always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a fair start, I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think of it, sir?”
“I don’t know a man anywhere,” said master, “that I should think so suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they understand you, and in time you might set up for yourself; I think you could not do better. If in any way I can help you, write to me; I shall speak to my agent in London, and leave your character with him.”99
Master gave John the name and address, and then he thanked him for his long and faithful service; but that was too much for John. “Pray don’t, sir, I can’t bear it; you and my dear mistress have done so much for me that I could never repay it; but we shall never forget you, sir, and please God we may some day see mistress back again like herself; we must keep up hope, sir.” Master gave John his hand, but he did not speak, and they both left the stable.
The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone off the day before, and there was only master and mistress and her maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the Hall door for the last time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs and many other things, and when all were arranged, master came down the steps carrying the mistress in his arms (I was on the side next the house and could see all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the house servants stood round crying. “Good bye again,” he said, “we shall not forget any of you,” and he got in—“Drive on, John.” Joe jumped up, and we trotted slowly through the Park, and through the village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last look and to say, “God bless them.”
When we reached the railway station, I think mistress walked from the carriage to the waiting room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice, “Good bye, John, God bless you.” I felt the rein twitch, but John made no answer, perhaps he could not 100 speak. As soon as Joe had taken the things out of the carriage, John called him to stand by the horses, while he went on the platform. Poor Joe! he stood close up to our heads to hide his tears. Very soon the train came puffing up into the station; then two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to; the guard whistled and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of white smoke, and some very heavy hearts.
When it was quite out of sight, John came back—“We shall never see her again,” he said, “never.” He took the reins, mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home now.
six young colts
[The words “foal” and “filly” are extremely rare in this book; generally “colt” means a young horse of either sex.]
that, had more power
comma in the original
the old master, Mr. Ryder
text has Mr Ryder
spelling unchanged: should be Tattersall’s
that was the only thing
text has that,
The L-shaped illustration on page 51, showing a group of horses talking, is from the Altemus edition (copied from John Beer).
What do you think of my new team, Mr. Douglas?
text unchanged: error for Gordon
“as well as any man
open quote missing
he has ill-used that pony
text has illused
Sir Clifford adds in a postscript
text has postcript
John’s voice almost startled me as he answered,
text has ”John’s voice almost startled me as he answered,” with spurious quotation marks
[I was hoping to learn this was a real, high-profile manslaughter case. But either the author made it up, or she changed the name beyond recognition.]
there was only master and mistress and her maid . . . the house servants stood round crying
[Nobody had yet written a book subtitled The Autobiography of a House Servant.]
The original of this text is in the public domain—at least in the U.S.
My notes are copyright, as are all under-the-hood elements.
If in doubt, ask.