The next morning after breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress’s low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good bye to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across the country, about fifteen miles to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of W—— lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of stabling; we went into the yard through a stone gateway, and John asked for Mr. York. It was some time before he came. He was a fine-looking middle-aged man, and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. He was very friendly and polite to John, and after giving us a slight look, he called a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some refreshment.
We were taken to a light airy stable, and placed in boxes adjoining each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half-an-hour John and Mr. York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to 102 see us. “Now Mr. Manly,” he said, after carefully looking at us both, “I can see no fault in these horses, but we all know that horses have their peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different treatment; I should like to know if there is anything particular in either of these, that you would like to mention.”
“Well,” said John, “I don’t believe there is a better pair of horses in the country, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not alike; the black one is the most perfect temper I ever knew; I suppose he has never known a hard word or a blow since he was foaled, and all his pleasure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chestnut I fancy must have had bad treatment; we heard as much from the dealer. She came to us snappish and suspicious, but when she found what sort of place ours was, it all went off by degrees; for three years I have never seen the smallest sign of temper, and if she is well treated there is not a better, more willing animal than she is; but she is naturally a more irritable constitution than the black horse; flies tease her more; anything wrong in the harness frets her more; and if she were or unfairly treated she would not be unlikely to give tit for tat; you know that many high mettled horses will do so.”
“Of course,” said York, “I quite understand, but you know it is not easy in stables like these to have all the grooms just what they should be; I do my best, and there I must leave it. I’ll remember what you have said about the mare.”103
They were going out of the stable, when John stopped and said, “I had better mention that we have never used the ‘bearing rein’ with either of them; the black horse never had one on, and the dealer said it was the gag-bit that spoiled the other’s temper.”
“Well,” said York, “if they come here, they must wear the bearing rein. I prefer a loose rein myself, and his lordship is always very reasonable about horses; but my lady—that’s another thing, she will have style; and if her carriage horses are not reined up tight, she wouldn’t look at them. I always stand out against the gag-bit, and shall do so, but it must be tight up when my lady rides!”
“I am sorry for it, very sorry,” said John, “but I must go now, or I shall lose the train.”
He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time; his voice sounded very sad.
I held my face close to him, that was all I could do to say good bye; and then he was gone, and I have never seen him since.
The next day Lord W—— came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our appearance.
“I have great confidence in these horses,” he said, “from the character my friend Mr. Gordon has given me of them. Of course they are not a match in colour, but my idea is, that they will do very well for the carriage whilst we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try to match Baron; the black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding.”104
York then told him what John had said about us. “Well,” said he, “you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the bearing rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a little humouring at first. I’ll mention it to your lady.”
In the afternoon we were harnessed and put in the carriage, and as the stable clock struck three we were led round to the front of the house. It was all very grand, and three or four times as large as the old house at Birtwick, but not half so pleasant, if a horse may have an opinion. Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet breeches and white stockings. Presently we heard the rustling sound of silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round to look at us; she was a tall, proud-looking woman, and did not seem pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the carriage. This was the first time of wearing a bearing rein, and I must say—though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed to carry it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but she seemed to be quiet and content.
The next day at three o’clock we were again at the door, and the footmen as before; we heard the silk dress rustle, and the lady came down the steps and in an imperious voice, she said, “York, you must put those horses’ heads higher, they are not fit to be seen.” York got down and said very respectfully, “I beg your pardon, my lady, but these horses have 105 not been reined up for three years, and my lord said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but if your ladyship pleases, I can take them up a little more.”
“Do so,” she said.
York came round to our heads and shortened the rein himself, one hole I think; every little makes a difference, be it for better or worse, and that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I began to understand what I had heard of. Of course I wanted to put my head forward and take the carriage up with a will, as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull with my head up now, and that took all the spirit out of me, and the strain came on my back and legs. When we came in, Ginger said, “Now you see what it is like, but this is not bad, and if it does not get much worse than this, I shall say nothing about it, for we are very well treated here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let ’em look out! I can’t bear it, and I won’t.”
Day by day, hole by hole our bearing reins were shortened, and instead of looking forward with pleasure to having my harness put on as I used to do, I began to dread it. Ginger too seemed restless, though she said very little. At last I thought the worst was over; for several days there was no more shortening, and I determined to make the best of it and do my duty, though it was now a constant harass instead of a pleasure; but the worst was not come.106
One day my lady came down later than usual, and the silk rustled more than ever.
“Drive to the Duchess of B’s,” she said, and then after a pause—“Are you never going to get those horses’ heads up, York? Raise them up at once, and let us have no more of this humouring and nonsense.”
York came to me first, whilst the groom stood at Ginger’s head. He drew my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost intolerable; then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking her head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the terret in order to shorten it, she took her opportunity, and reared up so suddenly, that York had his nose roughly hit, and his hat knocked off; the groom was nearly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her head, but she was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and kicking in a most desperate manner; at last she kicked right over the carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near quarter. There is no knowing what further 107 mischief she might have done, had not York promptly sat himself down flat on her head, to prevent her struggling, at the same time calling out, “Unbuckle the black horse! run for the winch and unscrew the carriage pole; cut the trace here—somebody, if you can’t unhitch it.” One of the footmen ran for the winch, and another brought a knife from the house. The groom soon set me free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box. He just turned me in as I was, and ran back to York. I was much excited by what had happened, and if I had ever been used to kick or rear, I am sure I should have done it then; but I never had, and there I stood angry, sore in my leg, my head still strained up to the terret on the saddle, and no power to get it down. I was very miserable, and felt much inclined to kick the first person who came near me.
Before long, however, Ginger was led in by two grooms, a good deal knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave his orders, and then came to look at me. In a moment he let down my head.
“Confound these bearing reins!” he said to himself; “I thought we should have some mischief soon—master will be sorely vexed; but there—if a woman’s husband can’t rule her, of course a servant can’t; so I wash my hands of it, and if she can’t get to the Duchess’ garden party, I can’t help it.” York did not say this before the men; he always spoke respectfully when they were by. Now, he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he 108 ordered it to be sponged with hot water, and then some lotion was put on.
Lord W—— was much put out when he learned what had happened; he blamed York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied, that in future he would much prefer to receive his orders only from his lordship; but I think nothing came of it, for things went on the same as before. I thought York might have stood up better for his horses, but perhaps I am no judge.
Ginger was never put into the carriage again, but when she was well of her bruises, one of Lord W’s younger sons said he should like to have her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged still to go in the carriage, and had a fresh partner called Max; he had always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it. “Well,” he said, “I bear it because I must, but it is shortening my life, and so it will yours, if you have to stick to it.”
“Do you think,” I said, our masters know how bad it is for us?”
“I can’t say,” he replied, “but the dealers and the horse doctors know it very well. I was at a dealer’s once, who was training me and another horse to go as a pair; he was getting our heads up as he said, a little higher and a little higher every day. A gentleman who was there asked him why he did so; ‘Because,’ said he, ‘people won’t buy them unless we do. The London people always want their horses to carry their heads high, and to step high; of 109 course it is very bad for the horses, but then it is good for trade. The horses soon wear up, or get diseased, and they come for another pair.’ That,” said Max, “is what he said in my hearing, and you can judge for yourself.”
What I suffered with that rein for four long months in my lady’s carriage, it would be hard to describe, but I am quite sure that, had it lasted much longer, either my health or my temper would have given way. Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the action of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the constrained position of my head and throat, always caused me to froth at the mouth more or less. Some people think it very fine to see this, and say, “What fine-spirited creatures!” But it is just as unnatural for horses as for men, to foam at the mouth: it is a sure sign of some discomfort, and should be attended to. Besides this, there was a pressure on my windpipe, which often made my breathing very uncomfortable; when I returned from my work, my neck and chest were strained and painful, my mouth and tongue tender, and I felt worn and depressed.
In my old home, I always knew that John and my master were my friends; but here, although in many ways I was well treated, I had no friend. York might have known, and very likely did know, how that rein harassed me; but I suppose he took it as a matter of course that could not be helped; at any rate nothing was done to relieve me.110
Early in the spring, Lord W—— and part of his family went up to London, and took York with them. I and Ginger and some other horses were left at home for use, and the head groom was left in charge.
The Lady Harriet, who remained at the Hall, was a great invalid, and never went out in the carriage, and the Lady Anne preferred riding on horseback with her brother, or cousins. She was a perfect horse-woman, and as gay and gentle as she was beautiful. She chose me for her horse, and named me “Black Auster.” I enjoyed these rides very much in the clear cold air, sometimes with Ginger, sometimes with Lizzie. This Lizzie was a bright bay mare, almost thoroughbred, and a great favorite with the gentlemen, on account of her fine action and lively spirit; but Ginger, who knew more of her than I did, told me she was rather nervous.
There was a gentleman of the name of Blantyre staying at the Hall; he always rode Lizzie, and praised her so much, that one day Lady Anne ordered the side-saddle to be put on her, and the other 111 saddle on me. When we came to the door, the gentleman seemed very uneasy. “How is this?” he said, “are you tired of your good Black Auster?”
“Oh! no, not at all,” she replied, “but I am amiable enough to let you ride him for once, and I will try your charming Lizzie. You must confess that in size and appearance she is far more like a lady’s horse than my own favourite.”
“Do let me advise you not to mount her,” he said; “she is a charming creature, but she is too nervous for a lady. I assure you she is not perfectly safe; let me beg you to have the saddles changed.”
“My dear cousin,” said Lady Anne, laughing, “pray do not trouble your good careful head about me; I have been a horse-woman ever since I was a baby, and I have followed the hounds a great many times, though I know you do not approve of ladies hunting; but still that is the fact, and I intend to try this Lizzie that you gentlemen are all so fond of; so please help me to mount like a good friend as you are.”
There was no more to be said, he placed her carefully on the saddle, looked to the bit and curb, gave the reins gently into her hand, and then mounted me. Just as we were moving off, a footman came out with a slip of paper and message from the Lady Harriet—“Would they ask this question for her at Dr. Ashley’s, and bring the answer?”
The village was about a mile off, and the Doctor’s house was the last in it. We went along gaily enough till we came to his gate. There was a short drive 112 up to the house between tall evergreens. Blantyre alighted at the gate and was going to open it for Lady Anne, but she said, “I will wait for you here, and you can hang Auster’s rein on the gate.”
He looked at her doubtfully—“I will not be five minutes,” he said.
“Oh, do not hurry yourself; Lizzie and I shall not run away from you.”
He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hidden amongst the trees. Lizzie was standing quietly by the side of the road a few paces off, with her back to me. My young mistress was sitting easily with a loose rein, humming a little song. I listened to my rider’s footsteps until they reached the house, and heard him knock at the door. There was a meadow on the opposite side of the road, the gate of which stood open; just then, some cart horses and several young colts came trotting out in a very disorderly manner, whilst a boy behind was cracking a great whip. The colts were wild and frolicksome, and one of them bolted across the road, and blundered up against Lizzie’s hind legs; and whether it was the stupid colt, or the loud cracking of the whip, or both together, I cannot say, but she gave a violent kick, and dashed off into a headlong gallop. It was so sudden, that Lady Anne was nearly unseated, but she soon recovered herself. I gave a loud shrill neigh for help: again and again I neighed, pawing the ground impatiently, and tossing my head to get the rein loose. I had not long to wait. Blantyre came running to the 113 gate; he looked anxiously about, and just caught sight of the flying figure, now, far away on the road. In an instant he sprang to the saddle. I needed no whip, or spur, for I was as eager as my rider: he saw it, and giving me a free rein, and leaning a little forward, we dashed after them.
For about a mile and a half, the road ran straight, and then bent to the right, after which it divided into two roads. Long before we came to the bend, she was out of sight. Which way had she turned? A woman was standing at her garden gate, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking eagerly up the road. Scarcely drawing the rein, Blantyre shouted, “Which way?” “To the right,” cried the woman, pointing with her hand, and away we went up the right-hand road; then, for a moment we caught sight of her; another bend, and she was hidden again. Several times we caught glimpses, and then lost them. We scarcely seemed to gain ground upon them at all. An old road-mender was standing near a heap of stones—his shovel dropped, and his hands raised. As we came near he made a sign to speak. Blantyre drew the rein a little. “To the common, to the common, sir; she has turned off there.” I knew this common very well; it was for the most part very uneven ground, covered with heather and dark green furze bushes, with here and there a scrubby old thorn tree; there were also open spaces of fine short grass, with anthills and mole turns everywhere; the worst place I ever knew for a headlong gallop.
We had hardly turned on the common, when we 114 caught sight again of the green habit flying on before us. My lady’s hat was gone, and her long brown hair was streaming behind her. Her head and body were thrown back, as if she were pulling with all her remaining strength, and as if that strength were nearly exhausted. It was clear that the roughness of the ground had very much lessened Lizzie’s speed, and there seemed a chance that we might overtake her.
Whilst we were on the high road, Blantyre had given me my head; but now with a light hand and a practised eye, he guided me over the ground in such a masterly manner, that my pace was scarcely slackened, and we were decidedly gaining on them.
About half way across the heath there had been a wide dyke recently cut, and the earth from the cutting was cast up roughly on the other side. Surely this would stop them! but no; with scarcely a pause Lizzie took the leap, stumbled among the rough clods, and fell. Blantyre groaned, “Now Auster, do your best!” he gave me a steady rein, I gathered myself well together, and with one determined leap cleared both dyke and bank.
Motionless among the heather, with her face to the earth, lay my poor young mistress. Blantyre kneeled down and called her name—there was no sound; gently he turned her face upward, it was ghastly white, and the eyes were closed. “Annie, dear Annie, do speak!” but there was no answer. He unbuttoned her habit, loosened her collar, felt her hands and wrist, then started up and looked wildly round him for help.115
At no great distance there were two men cutting turf, who seeing Lizzie running wild without a rider had left their work to catch her.
Blantyre’s halloo soon brought them to the spot. The foremost man seemed much troubled at the sight, and asked what he could do.
“Can you ride?”
“Well, sir, I bean’t much of a horseman, but I’d risk my neck for the Lady Anne; she was uncommon good to my wife in the winter.”
“Then mount this horse, my friend; your neck will be quite safe, and ride to the Doctor’s, and ask him to come instantly—then on to the Hall—tell them all that you know, and bid them send the carriage with Lady Anne’s maid and help. I shall stay here.”
“All right, sir, I’ll do my best, and I pray God the dear young lady may open her eyes soon.” Then seeing the other man, he called out, “Here, Joe, run for some water, and tell my missis to come as quick as she can to the Lady Anne.” He then somehow scrambled into the saddle, and with a “Gee up” and a clap on my sides with both his legs, he started on his journey, making a little circuit to avoid the dyke. He had no whip, which seemed to trouble him, but my pace soon cured that difficulty, and he found the best thing he could do was to stick to the saddle, and hold me in, which he did manfully. I shook him as little as I could help, but once or twice on the rough ground he called out, “Steady! Woah! Steady.” On the high road we were all right; and 116 at the Doctor’s, and the Hall, he did his errand like a good man and true. They asked him in to take a drop of something. “No! no,” he said, “I’ll be back to ’em again by a short cut through the fields, and be there afore the carriage.”
There was a great deal of hurry and excitement after the news became known. I was just turned into my box, the saddle and bridle were taken off, and a cloth thrown over me.
Ginger was saddled and sent off in great haste for Lord George, and I soon heard the carriage roll out of the yard.
It seemed a long time before Ginger came back, and before we were left alone; then she told me all that she had seen.
“I can’t tell much,” she said; “we went a gallop nearly all the way, and got there just as the Doctor rode up. There was a woman sitting on the ground with the lady’s head in her lap. The Doctor poured something into her mouth, but all that I heard was, ‘she is not dead.’ Then I was led off by a man to a little distance. After awhile she was taken to the carriage, and we came home together. I heard my master say to a gentleman who stopped him to enquire, that he hoped no bones were broken, but that she had not spoken yet.”
When Lord George took Ginger for hunting, York shook his head; he said it ought to be a steady hand to train a horse for the first season, and not a random rider like Lord George.
Ginger used to like it very much, but sometimes 117 when she came back, I could see that she had been very much strained, and now and then she gave a short cough. She had too much spirit to complain, but I could not help feeling anxious about her.
Two days after the accident, Blantyre paid me a visit: he patted me and praised me very much, he told Lord George that he was sure the horse knew of Annie’s danger as well as he did. “I could not have held him in, if I would,” said he; “she ought never to ride any other horse.” I found by their conversation, that my young mistress was now out of danger, and would soon be able to ride again. This was good news to me, and I looked forward to a happy life.118
must now say a little about Reuben Smith, who was left in charge of the stables when York went to London. No one more thoroughly understood his business than he did, and when he was all right, there could not be a more faithful or valuable man. He was gentle and very clever in his management of horses, and could doctor them almost as well as a farrier, for he had lived two years with a veterinary surgeon. He was a first-rate driver; he could take a four-in-hand, or a tandem, as easily as a pair. He was a handsome man, a good scholar, and had very pleasant manners. I believe everybody liked him; certainly the horses did; the only wonder was, that he should be in an under situation, and not in the place of a head coachman like York: but he had one great fault, and that was the love of drink. He was not like some men, always at it; he used to keep steady for weeks or months together, and then he would break out and have a “bout” of it, as York called it, and be a disgrace to himself, a terror to his wife, and a nuisance to all that had to do with him. He was, however, so useful, that two or 119 three times York had hushed the matter up, and kept it from the Earl’s knowledge; but one night, when Reuben had to drive a party home from a ball, he was so drunk that he could not hold the reins, and a gentleman of the party had to mount the box and drive the ladies home. Of course this could not be hidden, and Reuben was at once dismissed; his poor wife and little children had to turn out of the pretty cottage by the Park gate and go where they could. Old Max told me all this, for it happened a good while ago; but shortly before Ginger and I came, Smith had been taken back again. York had interceded for him with the Earl, who is very kind-hearted, and the man had promised faithfully that he would never taste another drop as long as he lived there. He had kept his promise so that York thought he might be safely trusted to fill his place whilst he was away, and he was so clever and honest, that no one else seemed so well fitted for it.
It was now early in April, and the family was expected home some time in May. The light brougham was to be fresh done up, and as Colonel Blantyre was obliged to return to his regiment, it was arranged that Smith should drive him to the town in it, and ride back; for this purpose, he took the saddle with him, and I was chosen for the journey. At the station the Colonel put some money into Smith’s hand and bid him good bye, saying, “Take care of your young mistress, Reuben, and don’t let Black Auster be hacked about by any random 120 young prig that wants to ride him—keep him for the lady.”
We left the carriage at the maker’s, and Smith rode me to the White Lion, and ordered the ostler to feed me well and have me ready for him at four o’clock. A nail in one of my front shoes had started as I came along, but the ostler did not notice it till just about four o’clock. Smith did not come into the yard till five, and then he said he should not leave till six, as he had met with some old friends. The man then told him of the nail and asked if he should have the shoe looked to. “No,” said Smith, “that will be all right till we get home.” He spoke in a very loud off-hand way, and I thought it very unlike him, not to see about the shoe, as he was generally wonderfully particular about loose nails in their shoes. He did not come at six, nor seven, nor eight, and it was nearly nine o’clock before he called for me, and then it was with a loud rough voice. He seemed in a very bad temper, and abused the ostler, though I could not tell what for.
The landlord stood at the door and said, “Have a care, Mr. Smith!” but he answered angrily with an oath; and almost before he was out of the town he began to gallop, frequently giving me a sharp cut with his whip, though I was going at full speed. The moon had not yet risen, and it was very dark. The roads were stony, having been recently mended; going over them at this pace, my shoe soon became looser, and when we were near the turnpike gate, it came off.121
If Smith had been in his right senses, he would have been sensible of something wrong in my pace; but he was too madly drunk to notice anything.
Beyond the turnpike was a long piece of road, upon which fresh stones had just been laid; large sharp stones, over which no horse could be driven quickly without risk of danger. Over this road, with one shoe gone, I was forced to gallop at my utmost speed, my rider meanwhile cutting into me with his whip, and with wild curses urging me to go still faster. Of course my shoeless foot suffered dreadfully; the hoof was broken and split down to the very quick, and the inside was terribly cut by the sharpness of the stones.
This could not go on; no horse could keep his footing under such circumstances, the pain was too great. I stumbled, and fell with violence on both my knees. Smith was flung off by my fall, and owing to the speed I was going at, he must have fallen with great force. I soon recovered my feet and limped to the side of the road, where it was free from stones. The moon had just risen above the hedge, and by its light I could see Smith lying a few yards beyond me. He did not rise, he made one slight effort to do so, and then, there was a heavy groan. I could have groaned too, for I was suffering intense pain both from my foot and knees; but horses are used to bear their pain in silence. I uttered no sound, but I stood there and listened. One more heavy groan from Smith; but though he now lay in the full moonlight, I could see no motion. I could do nothing for him 122 nor myself, but, oh! how I listened for the sound of horse, or wheels, or footsteps. The road was not much frequented, and at this time of the night, we might stay for hours before help came to us. I stood watching and listening. It was a calm sweet April night; there were no sounds, but a few low notes of a nightingale, and nothing moved but the white clouds near the moon, and a brown owl that flitted over the hedge. It made me think of the summer nights long ago, when I used to lie beside my mother in the green pleasant meadow at Farmer Grey’s.
It must have been nearly midnight, when I heard at a great distance the sound of a horse’s feet. Sometimes the sound died away, then it grew clearer again and nearer. The road to Earlshall led through plantations that belonged to the Earl: the sound came in that direction, and I hoped it might be some one coming in search of us. As the sound came nearer and nearer, I was almost sure I could distinguish Ginger’s step; a little nearer still, and I could tell she was in the dog-cart. I neighed loudly, and was overjoyed to hear an answering neigh from Ginger, and men’s voices. They came slowly over the stones, and stopped at the dark figure that lay upon the ground.
One of the men jumped out, and stooped down over it. “It is Reuben!” he said, “and he does not stir.”
The other man followed and bent over him, “He’s dead,” he said; “feel how cold his hands are.” They raised him up, but there was no life, and his hair was soaked with blood. They laid him down again and came and looked at me. They soon saw my cut knees.124
“Why, the horse has been down and thrown him! who would have thought the black horse would have done that? nobody thought he could fall. Reuben must have been lying here for hours! Odd too, that the horse has not moved from the place.”
Robert then attempted to lead me forward. I made a step, but almost fell again. he’s bad in his foot as well as his knees; look here—his hoof is cut all to pieces, he might well come down, poor fellow! I tell you what, Ned, I’m afraid it hasn’t been all right with Reuben! Just think of him riding a horse over these stones without a shoe! why, if he had been in his right senses, he would just as soon have tried to ride him over the moon; I’m afraid it has been the old thing over again. Poor Susan! she looked awfully pale when she came to my house to ask if he had not come home. She made believe she was not a bit anxious, and talked of a lot of things that might have kept him. But for all that, she begged me to go and meet him—but what must we do? There’s the horse to get home as well as the body—and that will be no easy matter.”
Then followed a conversation between them, till it was agreed that Robert as the groom should lead me, and that Ned must take the body. It was a hard job to get it into the dog-cart, for there was no one to hold Ginger; but she knew as well as I did, what was going on, and stood as still as a stone. I noticed that, because, if she had a fault, it was that she was impatient in standing.
Ned started off very slowly with his sad load, and 125 Robert came and looked at my foot again; then he took his handkerchief and bound it closely round, and so he led me home. I shall never forget that night walk; it was more than three miles. Robert led me on very slowly, and I limped and hobbled on as well as I could with great pain. I am sure he was sorry for me, for he often patted and encouraged me, talking to me in a pleasant voice.
At last I reached my own box, and had some corn, and after Robert had wrapped up my knees in wet cloths, he tied up my foot in a bran poultice to draw out the heat, and cleanse it before the horse doctor saw it in the morning, and I managed to get myself down on the straw, and slept in spite of the pain.
The next day, after the farrier had examined my wounds, he said he hoped the joint was not injured, and if so, I should not be spoiled for work, but I should never lose the blemish. I believe they did the best to make a good cure, but it was a long and painful one; proud flesh, as they called it, came up in my knees, and was burnt out with caustic, and when at last it was healed, they put a blistering fluid over the front of both knees to bring all the hair off: they had some reason for this, and I suppose it was all right.
As Smith’s death had been so sudden and no one was there to see it, there was an inquest held. The landlord and ostler at the White Lion, with several other people, gave evidence that he was intoxicated when he started from the inn. The keeper of the said he rode at a hard gallop 126 through the gate; and my shoe was picked up amongst the stones, so that the case was quite plain to them, and I was cleared of all blame.
Everybody pitied Susan; she was nearly out of her mind: she kept saying over and over again, “Oh! he was so good—so good! it was all that cursed drink; why will they sell that cursed drink? Oh Reuben, Reuben!” so she went on till after he was buried; and then, as she had no home or relations, she, with her six little children, were obliged once more to leave the pleasant home by the tall oak trees, and go into that great gloomy Union House.127
s soon as my knees were sufficiently healed, I was turned into a small meadow for a month or two; no other creature was there, and though I enjoyed the liberty and the sweet grass, yet I had been so long used to society that I felt very lonely. Ginger and I had become fast friends, and now I missed her company extremely. I often neighed when I heard horses’ feet passing in the road, but I seldom got an answer; till one morning the gate was opened, and who should come in but dear old Ginger. The man slipped off her halter and left her there. With a joyful whinny I trotted up to her; we were both glad to meet, but I soon found that it was not for our pleasure that she was brought to be with me. Her story would be too long to tell, but the end of it was that she had been ruined by hard riding, and was now turned off to see what rest would do.
Lord George was young and would take no warning; he was a hard rider, and would hunt whenever he could get the chance, quite careless of his horse. Soon after I left the stable there was a steeple chase, and he determined to ride, though the groom told 128 him she was a little strained, and was not fit for the race. He did not believe it, and on the day of the race, urged Ginger to keep up with the foremost riders. With her high spirit, she strained herself to the utmost; she came in with the first three horses, but her wind was touched, beside which, he was too heavy for her, and her back was strained; “And so,” she said, “here we are—ruined in the prime of our youth and strength—you by a drunkard, and I by a fool; it is very hard.” We both felt in ourselves that we were not what we had been. However, that did not spoil the pleasure we had in each other’s company; we did not gallop about as we once did, but we used to feed, and lie down together, and stand for hours under one of the shady lime trees with our heads close to each other; and so we passed our time till the family returned from town.
One day we saw the Earl come into the meadow, and York was with him. Seeing who it was, we stood still under our lime tree, and let them come up to us. They examined us carefully. The Earl seemed much annoyed. “There is three hundred pounds flung away for no earthly use,” said he, “but what I care most for is, that these horses of my old friend, who thought they would find a good home with me, are ruined. The mare shall have a twelvemonth’s run, and we shall see what that will do for her; but the black one, he must be sold: ’tis a great pity, but I could not have knees like these in my stables.”129
“No, my lord, of course not,” said York, “but he might get a place where appearance is not of much consequence, and still be well treated. I know a man in Bath, the master of some livery stables, who often wants a good horse at a low figure; I know he looks well after his horses. The inquest cleared the horse’s character, and your lordship’s recommendation, or mine, would be sufficient warrant for him.”
“You had better write to him, York: I should be more particular about the place than the money he would fetch.” After this they left us.
“They’ll soon take you away,” said Ginger, I shall lose the only friend I have, and most likely we shall never see each other again; ’tis a hard world!”
About a week after this, Robert came into the field with a halter, which he slipped over my head and led me away. There was no leave-taking of Ginger; we neighed to each other as I was led off, and she trotted anxiously along by the hedge, calling to me as long as she could hear the sound of my feet.
Through the recommendation of York, I was bought by the master of the livery stables. I had to go by Train, which was new to me, and required a good deal of courage the first time; but as I found the puffing, rushing, whistling, and more than all, the trembling of the horse box in which I stood did me no real harm, I soon took it quietly.
When I reached the end of my journey, I found 130 myself in a tolerably comfortable stable and well attended to. These stables were not so airy and pleasant as those I had been used to. The stalls were laid on a slope instead of being level, and as my head was kept tied to the manger I was obliged always to stand on the slope, which was very fatiguing. Men do not seem to know yet, that horses can do more work if they can stand comfortably and can turn about: however, I was well fed and well cleaned, and on the whole, I think our master took as much care of us as he could. He kept a good many horses and carriages of different kinds, for hire. Sometimes his own men drove them; at others, the horse and chaise were let to gentlemen or ladies who drove themselves.131
Hitherto I had always been driven by people who at least knew how to drive; but in this place, I was to get my experience of all the different kinds of bad and ignorant driving to which we horses are subjected; for I was a “job-horse,” and was let out to all sorts of people, who wished to hire me; and as I was good-tempered and gentle, I think I was oftener let out to the ignorant drivers, than some of the other horses, because I could be depended upon. It would take a long time to tell of all the different styles in which I was driven, but I will mention a few of them.
First, there were the tight-rein drivers—men, who seemed to think that all depended on holding the reins as hard as they could, never relaxing the pull on the horse’s mouth, or giving him the least liberty of movement. They are always talking about “keeping the horse well in hand,” and “holding a horse up,” just as if a horse was not made to hold himself up.
Some poor broken-down horses, whose mouths have been made hard and insensible by just such drivers as these, may, perhaps, find some support in 132 it: but, for a horse who can depend upon his own legs, and who has a tender mouth, and is easily guided, it is not only tormenting, but it is stupid.
Then there are the loose-rein drivers, who let the reins lie easily on our backs, and their own hand rest lazily on their knees. Of course, such gentlemen have no control over a horse, if anything happens suddenly. If a horse shys, or starts, or stumbles, they are nowhere, and cannot help the horse or themselves, till the mischief is done. Of course, for myself, I had no objection to it, as I was not in the habit either of starting or stumbling, and had only been used to depend on my driver for guidance and encouragement; still, one likes to feel the rein a little in going down-hill, and likes to know, that one’s driver is not gone to sleep.
Besides, a slovenly way of driving gets a horse into bad, and often lazy habits; and when he changes hands, he has to be whipped out of them with more or less pain and trouble. Squire Gordon always kept us to our best paces, and our best manners. He said that spoiling a horse, and letting him get into bad habits, was just as cruel as spoiling a child, and both had to suffer for it afterwards.
Besides, these drivers are often careless altogether, and will attend to anything else more than their horses. I went out in the phaeton one day with one of them; he had a lady, and two children behind. He flopped the reins about as we started, and of course, gave me several unmeaning cuts with the whip, though I was fairly off. There had been a 133 good deal of road-mending going on, and even where the stones were not freshly laid down, there were a great many loose ones about. My driver was laughing and joking with the lady and the children, and talking about the country to the right and the left; but he never thought it worth while to keep an eye on his horse, or to drive on the smoothest parts of the road; and so it easily happened, that I got a stone in one of my fore feet.
Now if Mr. Gordon, or John, or in fact, any good driver had been there, he would have seen that something was wrong, before I had gone three paces. Or even if it had been dark, a practised hand would have felt by the rein that there was something wrong in the step, and they would have got down and picked out the stone. But this man went on laughing and talking, whilst at every step the stone became more firmly wedged between my shoe and the frog of my foot. The stone was sharp on the inside and round on the outside, which as every one knows, is the most dangerous kind that a horse can pick up; at the same time cutting his foot, and making him most liable to stumble and fall.
Whether the man was partly blind, or only very careless, I can’t say; but he drove me with that stone in my foot for a good half mile before he saw anything. By that time I was going so lame with the pain, that at last he saw it and called out, “Well, here’s a go! Why they have sent us out with a lame horse! What a shame!”
He then chucked the reins and flipped about with 134 the whip, saying, “Now then, it’s no use playing the old soldier with me; there’s the journey to go, and it’s no use turning lame and lazy.”
Just at this time a farmer came riding up on a brown cob; he lifted his hat and pulled up. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I think there is something the matter with your horse, he goes very much as if he had a stone in his shoe. If you will allow me, I will look at his feet; these loose scattered stones are confounded dangerous things for the horses.”
“He’s a hired horse,” said my driver; “I don’t know what’s the matter with him, but it is a great shame to send out a lame beast like this.”
The farmer dismounted, and slipping his rein over his arm, at once took up my near foot. “Bless me, there’s a stone! lame! I should think so!”
At first he tried to dislodge it with his hand, but, as it was now very tightly wedged, he drew a stone-pick out of his pocket, and very carefully, and with some trouble, got it out. Then holding it up, he said, “There, that’s the stone your horse had picked up; it is a wonder he did not fall down and break his knees into the bargain!”
“Well, to be sure!” said my driver, “that is a queer thing! I never knew that horses picked up stones before.”
“Didn’t you?” said the farmer, rather contemptuously; “but they do, though, and the best of them will do it, and can’t help it sometimes on such roads as these. And if you don’t want to lame 135 your horse, you must look sharp and get them out quickly. This foot is very much bruised,” he said, setting it gently down and patting me. “If I might advise, sir, you had better drive him gently for a while; the foot is a good deal hurt, and the lameness will not go off directly.” Then, mounting his cob and raising his hat to the lady, he trotted off.
When he was gone, my driver began to flop the reins about, and whip the harness, by which I understood that I was to go on, which of course I did, glad that the stone had gone; but still in a good deal of pain.
This was the sort of experience we job-horses often came in for.136
Then there is the steam-engine style of driving; these drivers were mostly people from towns, who never had a horse of their own, and generally travelled by rail.
They always seemed to think that a horse was something like a steam-engine, only smaller. At any rate, they think that if only they pay for it, a horse is bound to go just as far, and just as fast, and with just as heavy a load as they please. And be the roads heavy and muddy, or dry and good; be they stony or smooth, up-hill or down-hill, it is all the same—on, on, on, one must go at the same pace, with no relief, and no consideration.
These people never think of getting out to walk up a steep hill. Oh, no, they have paid to ride, and ride they will! The horse? Oh, he’s used to it! What were horses made for, if not to drag people up-hill? Walk! A good joke indeed! And so the whip is plied and the rein is chucked, and often a rough scolding voice cries out; “Go along, you lazy beast!” And then another slash of the whip, when all the time we are doing our very best 137 to get along, uncomplaining and obedient, though often sorely harassed and down-hearted.
This steam-engine style of driving wears us up faster than any other kind. I would far rather go twenty miles with a good considerate driver, than I would go ten with some of these; it would take less out of me.
Another thing—they scarcely ever put on the drag, however steep the down-hill may be, and thus bad accidents sometimes happen; or if they do put it on, they often forget to take it off at the bottom of the hill: and more than once, I have had to pull half way up the next hill, with one of the wheels lodged fast in the drag-shoe, before my driver chose to think about it; and that is a terrible strain on a horse.
Then these Cockneys, instead of starting at an easy pace as a gentleman would do, generally set off at full speed from the very stable yard; and when they want to stop, they first whip us, and then pull up so suddenly, that we are nearly thrown on our haunches, and our mouths jagged with the bit; they call that pulling up with a dash! and when they turn a corner, they do it as sharply as if there were no right side or wrong side of the road.
I well remember one spring evening I and Rory had been out for the day. (Rory was the horse that mostly went with me when a pair was ordered, and a good honest fellow he was.) We had our own driver, and as he was always considerate and gentle with us, we had a very pleasant day. 138 We were coming home at a good smart pace about twilight; our road turned sharp to the left; but as we were close to the hedge on our own side, and there was plenty of room to pass, our driver did not pull us in. As we neared the corner I heard a horse and two wheels coming rapidly down the hill towards us. The hedge was high and I could see nothing, but the next moment we were upon each other. Happily for me I was on the side next the hedge. Rory was on the right side of the pole, and had not even a shaft to protect him. The man who was driving, was making straight for the corner, and when he came in sight of us, he had no time to pull over to his own side. The whole shock came upon Rory. The gig shaft ran right into the chest, making him stagger back with a cry that I shall never forget. The other horse was thrown upon his haunches, and one shaft broken. It turned out that it was a horse from our own stables, with the high-wheeled gig, that the young men were so fond of.
The driver was one of those random, ignorant fellows, who don’t even know which is their own side of the road, or if they know, don’t care. And there was poor Rory with his flesh torn open and bleeding, and the blood streaming down. They said if it had been a little more to one side, it would have killed him; and a good thing for him, poor fellow, if it had.
As it was, it was a long time before the wound healed, and then he was sold for coal carting; and 139 what that is, up and down those steep hills, only horses know. Some of the sights I saw there, where a horse had to come down-hill with a heavily-loaded two-wheel cart behind him, on which no drag could be placed, make me sad even now to think of.
After Rory was disabled, I often went in the carriage with a mare named Peggy, who stood in the next stall to mine. She was a strong, well-made animal, of a bright dun colour, beautifully dappled, and with a dark-brown mane and tail. There was no high breeding about her, but she was very pretty, and remarkably sweet-tempered and willing. Still there was an anxious look about her eye, by which I knew that she had some trouble. The first time we went out together I thought she had a very odd pace; she seemed to go partly a trot, partly a canter—three or four paces, and then a little jump forward.
It was very unpleasant for any horse who pulled with her, and made me quite fidgetty. When we got home, I asked her what made her go in that odd, awkward way.
“Ah,” she said in a troubled manner, “I know my paces are very bad, but what can I do? it really is not my fault, it is just because my legs are so short. I stand nearly as high as you, but your legs are a good three inches longer above your knee than mine, and of course you can take a much longer step, and go much faster. You see I did not make myself; I wish I could have done so, I would have had long legs then; all my troubles come from my short legs;” said Peggy, in a desponding tone.140
“But how is it,” I said, “when you are so strong and good-tempered and willing?”
“Why, you see,” said she, “men will go so fast, and if one can’t keep up to other horses, it is nothing but whip, whip, whip, all the time. And so I have had to keep up as I could, and have got into this ugly shuffling pace. It was not always so; when I lived with my first master I always went a good regular trot, but then he was not in such a hurry. He was a young clergyman in the country, and a good kind master he was. He had two churches a good way apart, and a great deal of work, but he never scolded or whipped me for not going faster. He was very fond of me. I only wish I was with him now; but he had to leave and go to a large town, and then I was sold to a farmer.
“Some farmers, you know, are capital masters; but I think this one was a low sort of man. He cared nothing about good horses, or good driving, he only cared for going fast. I went as fast as I could, but that would not do, and he was always whipping; so I got into this way of making a spring forward to keep up. On market nights he used to stay very late at the inn, and then drive home at a gallop. One dark night he was galloping home as usual, when all on a sudden the wheel came against some great heavy thing in the road, and turned the gig over in a minute. He was thrown out and his arm broken, and some of his ribs, I think. At any rate, it was the end of my living with him, and I was not sorry. But you see it will be the same every where for 141 me, if men must go so fast. I wish my legs were longer!”
Poor Peggy! I was very sorry for her, and I could not comfort her, for I knew how hard it was upon slow-paced horses to be put with fast ones; all the whipping comes to their share, and they can’t help it.
She was often used in the phaeton, and was very much liked by some of the ladies, because she was so gentle; and some time after this she was sold to two ladies who drove themselves, and wanted a safe good horse.
I met her several times out in the country, going a good steady pace, and looking as gay and contented as a horse could be. I was very glad to see her, for she deserved a good place.
After she left us, another horse came in her stead. He was young, and had a bad name for shying and starting, by which he had lost a good place. I asked him what made him shy.
“Well, I hardly know,” he said, “I was timid when I was young, and was a good deal frightened several times, and if I saw anything strange, I used to turn and look at it—you see with our blinkers, one can’t see or understand what a thing is unless one looks round; and then my master always gave me a whipping, which of course made me start on, and did not make me less afraid. I think if he would have let me just look at things quietly, and see that there was nothing to hurt me, it would have been all right, and I should have got 142 used to them. One day an old gentleman was riding with him, and a large piece of white paper or rag, blew across just on one side of me; I shied and started forward—my master as usual whipped me smartly, but the old man cried out, ‘You’re wrong! you’re wrong! you should never whip a horse for shying: he shys because he is frightened, and you only frighten him more, and make the habit worse.’ So I suppose all men don’t do so. I am sure I don’t want to shy for the sake of it; but how should one know what is dangerous and what is not, if one is never allowed to get used to anything? I am never afraid of what I know. Now I was brought up in a park where there were deer; of course, I knew them as well as I did a sheep or a cow, but they are not common, and I know many sensible horses who are frightened at them, and who kick up quite a shindy before they will pass a paddock where there are deer.”
I knew what my companion said was true, and I wished that every young horse had as good masters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon.
Of course we sometimes came in for good driving here. I remember one morning I was put into the light gig, and taken to a house in Pultney Street. Two gentlemen came out; the taller of them came round to my head, he looked at the bit and bridle, and just shifted the collar with his hand, to see if it fitted comfortably.
“Do you consider this horse wants a curb?” he said to the ostler.143
“Well,” said the man, “I should say he would go just as well without, he has an uncommon good mouth, and though he has a fine spirit, he has no vice; but we generally find people like the curb.”
“I don’t like it,” said the gentleman; “be so good as to take it off, and put the rein in at the cheek; an easy mouth is a great thing on a long journey, is it not, old fellow?” he said, patting my neck.
Then he took the reins, and they both got up. I can remember now how quietly he turned me round, and then with a light feel of the rein, and drawing the whip gently across my back, we were off.
I arched my neck and set off at my best pace. I found I had some one behind me, who knew how a good horse ought to be driven. It seemed like old times again, and made me feel quite gay.
This gentleman took a great liking to me, and after trying me several times with the saddle, he prevailed upon my master to sell me to a friend of his, who wanted a safe pleasant horse for riding. And so it came to pass that in the summer I was sold to Mr. Barry.144
My new master was an unmarried man. He lived at Bath, and was much engaged in business. His doctor advised him to take horse exercise, and for this purpose he bought me. He hired a stable a short distance from his lodgings, and engaged a man named Filcher as groom. My master knew very little about horses, but he treated me well, and I should a good and easy place, but for circumstances of which he was ignorant. He ordered the best hay with plenty of oats, crushed beans, and bran, with vetches, or rye grass, as the man might think needful. I heard the master give the order, so I knew there was plenty of good food, and I thought I was well off.
For a few days all went on well; I found that my groom understood his business. He kept the stable clean and airy, and he groomed me thoroughly; and was never otherwise than gentle. He had been an ostler in one of the great hotels in Bath. He had given that up, and now cultivated fruit and vegetables for the market; and his wife bred and fattened poultry and rabbits for sale. After awhile it seemed to me 145 that my oats came very short; I had the beans, but bran was mixed with them instead of oats, of which there were very few; certainly not more than a quarter of what there should have been. In two or three weeks this began to tell upon my strength and spirits. The grass food, though very good, was not the thing to keep up my condition without corn. However, I could not complain, nor make known my wants. So it went on for about two months; and I wondered my master did not see that something was the matter. However, one afternoon he rode out into the country to see a friend of his—a gentleman farmer, who lived on the road to Wells. This gentleman had a very quick eye for horses; and after he had welcomed his friend, he said, casting his eye over me, “It seems to me, Barry, that your horse does not look so well as he did when you first had him; has he been well?”
“Yes, I believe so,” said my master, “but he is not nearly so lively as he was; my groom tells me that horses are always dull and weak in the autumn, and that I must expect it.”
“Autumn! fiddlestick!” said the farmer; “why this is only August; and with your light work and good food he ought not to go down like this, even if it was autumn. How do you feed him?”
My master told him. The other shook his head slowly, and began to feel me over, “I can’t say who eats your corn, my dear fellow, but I am much mistaken if your horse gets it. Have you ridden very fast?”146
“No! very gently.”
“Then just put your hand here,” said he, passing his hand over my neck and shoulder; “he is as warm and damp as a horse just come up from grass. I advise you to look into your stable a little more. I hate to be suspicious, and, thank heaven, I have no cause to be, for I can trust my men, present or absent; but there are mean scoundrels, wicked enough to rob a dumb beast of his food; you must look into it.” And turning to his man who had come to take me, “Give this horse a right good feed of bruised oats, and don’t stint him.”
“Dumb beasts!” yes, we are; but if I could have spoken, I could have told my master where his oats went to. My groom used to come every morning about six o’clock, and with him a little boy, who always had a covered basket with him. He used to go with his father into the harness room where the corn was kept, and I could see them when the door stood ajar, fill a little bag with oats out of the bin, and then he used to be off.
Five or six mornings after this, just as the boy had left the stable, the door was pushed open and a policeman walked in, holding the child tight by the arm; another policeman followed, and locked the door on the inside, saying, “Shew me the place where your father keeps his rabbits’ food.”
The boy looked very frightened and began to cry; but there was no escape, and he led the way to the cornbin. Here, the policeman found another empty bag like that which was found full of oats in the boy’s basket.147
Filcher was cleaning my feet at the time, but they soon saw him, and though he blustered a good deal, they walked him off to the “lock-up,” and his boy with him. I heard afterwards, that the boy was not held to be guilty, but the man was sentenced to prison for two months.
My master was not immediately suited, but in a few days my new groom came. He was a tall, good-looking fellow enough; but if ever there was a humbug in the shape of a groom, Alfred Smirk was the man. He was very civil to me, and never used me ill; in fact, he did a great deal of stroking and patting, when his master was there to see it. He always brushed my mane and tail with water, and my hoofs with oil before he brought me to the door, to make me look smart; but as to cleaning my feet, or looking to my shoes, or grooming me thoroughly, he thought no more of that, than if I had been a cow. He left my bit rusty, my saddle damp, and my crupper stiff.
Alfred Smirk considered himself very handsome; he spent a great deal of time about his hair, whiskers, and necktie, before a little looking-glass in the harness room. When his master was speaking to him, it was always “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” touching his hat at every word; and every one thought he was a very nice young man, and that Mr. Barry was very fortunate to meet with him. I should say he was the laziest, most conceited 149 fellow I ever came near. Of course it was a great thing not to be ill-used, but then a horse wants more than that. I had a loose box, and might have been very comfortable if he had not been too indolent to clean it out. He never took all the straw away, and the smell from what lay underneath was very bad; while the strong vapours that rose up, made my eyes smart and inflame, and I did not feel the same appetite for my food.
One day his master came in and said, “Alfred, the stable smells rather strong; should not you give that stall a good scrub, and throw down plenty of water?”
“Well, sir,” he said, touching his cap, “I’ll do so if you please, sir, but it is rather dangerous, sir, throwing down water in a horse’s box, they are very apt to take cold, sir. I should not like to do him an injury, but I’ll do it if you please, sir.”
“Well,” said his master, “I should not like him to take cold, but I don’t like the smell of this stable; do you think the drains are all right?”
“Well, sir, now you mention it, I think the drain does sometimes send back a smell; there may be something wrong, sir.”
“Then send for the bricklayer and have it seen to,” said his master.
“Yes, sir, I will.”
The bricklayer came and pulled up a great many bricks, and found nothing amiss; so he put down some lime, and charged the master five shillings, and the smell in my box was as bad as 150 ever: but that was not all—standing as I did on a quantity of moist straw, my feet grew unhealthy, and tender, and the master used to say,
“I don’t know what is the matter with this horse, he goes very fumble-footed. I am sometimes afraid he will stumble.”
“Yes, sir,” said Alfred, “I have noticed the same myself, when I have exercised him.”
Now the fact was, that he hardly ever did exercise me, and when the master was busy, I often stood for days together without stretching my legs at all, and yet being fed just as high as if I were at hard work. This often disordered my health, and made me sometimes heavy and dull, but more often restless and feverish. He never even gave me a meal of green meat, or a bran mash, which would have cooled me, for he was altogether as ignorant as he was conceited; and then instead of exercise or change of food, I had to take horse balls and draughts; which, beside the nuisance of having them poured down my throat, used to make me feel ill and uncomfortable.
One day my feet were so tender, that trotting over some fresh stones with my master on my back, I made two such serious stumbles, that as he came down Lansdown into the city, he stopped at the farrier’s, and asked him to see what was the matter with me. The man took up my feet one by one and examined them; then standing up and dusting his hands one against the other, he said, “Your horse has got the ‘thrush,’ and badly too; his feet are 151 very tender; it is fortunate that he has not been down. I wonder your groom has not seen to it before. This is the sort of thing we find in foul stables, where the litter is never properly cleared out. If you will send him here to-morrow, I will attend to the hoof, and I will direct your man how to apply the liniment which I will give him.” The next day I had my feet thoroughly cleansed and stuffed with tow, soaked in some strong lotion; and a very unpleasant business it was.
The farrier ordered all the litter to be taken out of my box day by day, and the floor kept very clean. Then I was to have bran mashes, a little green meat, and not so much corn, till my feet were well again. With this treatment I soon regained my spirits, but Mr. Barry was so much disgusted at being twice deceived by his grooms, that he determined to give up keeping a horse, and to hire when he wanted one. I was therefore kept till my feet were quite sound, and was then sold again.
if she were ill-used or unfairly treated
text has illused
“Do you think,” I said, “that our masters know
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He had kept his promise so well,
text has so well. with . for comma
“Halloo! he’s bad in his foot
open quote missing
The keeper of the tollgate
text unchanged: elsewhere “toll-gate” with hyphen
said Ginger, “and I shall lose
open quote missing
[The small illustration at the beginning of this chapter is from the Altemus edition.]
I should have had
text has have have had
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.