STABLE HARTSHORN--HOW TO MANAGE A HORSE ON A JOURNEY--YOUR BEST FRIEND
Of one thing I am certain, that the reader must be much delighted with
the wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages are
redolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of some
of my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highly
fashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they be
styled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops,
bishops, mayors, mayoresses--not forgetting the writers themselves, both
male and female--congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, how
refreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such an
atmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. Oh! the
reader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, for
which he or she will doubtless exclaim, 'Much obliged!'--and lest I
should forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now.
I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old man, which I
listened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of the
stable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch of
coach-horses. It related to the manner in which a gentleman should take
care of his horse and self, whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, and
was addressed to myself, on the supposition of my one day coming to an
estate, and of course becoming a gentleman.
'When you are a gentleman,' said he, 'should you ever wish to take a
journey on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better than
the one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder--I wonder
by-the-by, how you ever came by it--you can't do better than follow the
advice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal and
yourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfuls
of corn, and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink a
pint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the better
during the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for about
ten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and see
your horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till
you come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an English
terrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, and
praise its black and tawn; and if he does not happen to be a dog-fancier,
ask him how he's getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; that
kind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just what
you please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he'll say
to his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he has
seen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and before you have
finished breakfast, get up and go and give your horse a feed of corn,
chat with the ostler two or three minutes till your horse has taken the
shine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of it
away when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done--not
that I ever did such a thing myself when I was at the inn at Hounslow.
Oh, dear me, no! Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have
finished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water your
horse, letting him have about one pailful, then give him another feed of
corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the
prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken the
shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper--and I
hope for your sake it may be the "Globe," for that's the best paper
going--then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay
without counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter
sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for
the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk
him gently for five miles; and whilst you are walking him in this manner,
it may be as well to tell you to take care that you do not let him down
and smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly good
one, for it is not at a desperate hiverman {152} pace, and over very bad
roads, that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on your
particularly nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and is
half asleep, like the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the five
miles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you may
begin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and then
walking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; and
you may go on in that manner for thirty miles, never galloping of course,
for none but fools or hivermen ever gallop horses on roads; and at the
end of that distance you may stop at some other nice inn for dinner. I
say, when your horse is led into the stable, after that same thirty miles
trotting and walking, don't let the saddle be whisked off at once, for if
you do your horse will have such a sore back as will frighten you, but
let your saddle remain on your horse's back, with the girths loosened,
till after his next feed of corn, and be sure that he has no corn, much
less water, till after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may be
watered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him a
regular rub down; you may then sit down to dinner, and when you have
dined get up and see to your horse as you did after breakfast, in fact
you must do much after the same fashion you did at t'other inn; see to
your horse, and by no means disoblige the ostler. So when you have seen
to your horse a second time, you will sit down to your bottle of
wine--supposing you to be a gentleman--and after you have finished it,
and your argument about the corn-laws with any commercial gentleman who
happens to be in the room, you may mount your horse again--not forgetting
to do the proper thing to the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horse
again and ride him, as you did before, for about five-and-twenty miles,
at the end of which you may put up for the night after a very fair day's
journey, for no gentleman--supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I
suppose you will by the time you become a gentleman--ought to ride a
horse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard
for his horse's back, or his own either. See to your horse at night, and
have him well rubbed down. The next day you may ride your horse forty
miles just as you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles will
bring you to your journey's end, unless your journey be a plaguy long
one, and if so, never ride your horse more than five-and-thirty miles a
day, always, however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him
than yourself; which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horse
is the best animal of the two.
'When you are a gentleman,' said he, after a pause, 'the first thing you
must think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your own
particular riding; you will, perhaps, keep a coach and pair, but they
will be less your own than your lady's, should you have one, and your
young gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam,
your housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble your
head less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay away
your money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your own
riding; and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy one
that's young and has plenty of belly--a little more than the one has
which you now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, of
course, look to his head, his withers, legs and other points, but never
buy a horse at any price that has not plenty of belly, no horse that has
not belly is ever a good feeder, and a horse that ain't a good feeder
can't be a good horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the belly
behind, a horse of that description can't feed, and can never carry
sixteen stone.
'So when you have got such a horse be proud of it--as I dare say you are
of the one you have now--and wherever you go swear there ain't another to
match it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him by
the nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speak
ill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care of
your horse as you would of the apple of your eye--I am sure I would, if I
were a gentleman, which I don't ever expect to be, and hardly wish,
seeing as how I am sixty-nine, and am rather too old to ride--yes,
cherish and take care of your horse as perhaps the best friend you have
in the world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thin
as your horse will? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, nor your
housekeeper, nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your lady
would, that is, if she is a wopper, and one of the right sort; the others
would be more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided they
saw you in trouble, than to help you. So take care of your horse, and
feed him every day with your own hands; give him three-quarters of a peck
of corn each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besides
one hundred weight of hay in the course of the week; some say that the
hay should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let it
be clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summer
and winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and in
winter hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by which
means you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, have
the satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, and
hearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies saying
what a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten to
one, if you do, your groom will be wishing to show off before company,
and will fling your horse down. I was groom to a gemman before I went to
the inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, by
endeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road. Turn
your horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, for
then the grass is sweetest, and the flies don't sting so bad as they do
later in summer; afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swale
of the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good for
little, lash and sour at best; every horse should go out to grass, if not
his blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to become
affected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat and
flies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in the
year--Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to me
as you are, I could go on talking about 'orses to the end of time.'