Black Beauty (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bless me, there's a stone! Lame! I should think so!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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