‘The unforeseen relief, that has been given to misfortune under
circumstances apparently quite hopeless, has frequently been remarked,
and not seldom affirmed to be an incontestible proof of a particular
providence.
‘I know not where I got the information, nor how, but in the very height
of my distress, I heard that Mr John Watson, training and riding groom
to Captain Vernon, a gentleman of acute notoriety on the turf, and in
partnership with the then Lord March, the present Duke of Queensbury,
was in want of, but just then found it difficult to procure a
stable-boy. To make this pleasing intelligence still more welcome, the
general character of John Watson was, that, though he was one of the
first grooms in Newmarket, he was remarkable for being good-tempered:
yet the manner in which he disciplined his boys, though mild, was
effectual, and few were in better repute. One consequence of this,
however, was, that, if any lad was dismissed by John Watson, it was not
easy for him to find a place.
‘With him Jack Clarke lived, the lad with whom I came from Nottingham:
this was another fortunate circumstance, and contributed to inspire me
with confidence. My present hopes were so strongly contrasted with my
late fears, that they were indeed enviable. To speak for once in
metaphor, I had been as one of those who walk in the shadow of the
valley of death: an accidental beam of the sun broke forth, and I had a
beatific view of heaven.
‘It was no difficult matter to meet with John Watson: he was so
attentive to stable-hours, that, except on extraordinary occasions, he
was always to be found. Being first careful to make myself look as much
like a stable-boy as I could, I came at the hour of four (the summer
hour for opening the afternoon stables, giving a slight feed of oats,
and going out to evening exercise), and ventured to ask if I could see
John Watson. The immediate answer was in the affirmative. John Watson
came, looked at me with a serious, but good-natured, countenance, and
accosted me first with, “Well, my lad, what is your business? I suppose
I can guess; you want a place?”—“Yes, Sir.”—“Who have you lived
with?”—“Mr Woodcock, on the forest: one of your boys, Jack Clarke,
brought me with him from Nottingham.” “How came you to leave Mr
Woodcock?”—“I had a sad fall from an iron grey filly, that almost killed
me.”—“That is bad indeed!—and so you left him?”—“He turned me away,
Sir.”—“That is honest: I like your speaking the truth. So you are come
from him to me?” At this question I cast my eyes down, and hesitated,
then fearfully answered, “No, Sir.”—“No! what, change masters twice in
so short a time?”—“I can’t help it, Sir, if I am turned away.” This last
answer made him smile. “Where are you now, then?”—“Mr Johnstone gave me
leave to stay with the boys a few days.” “That is a good sign. I suppose
you mean little Mr Johnstone at the other end of the town?”—“Yes,
Sir.”—“Well, as you have been so short a time in the stables, I am not
surprised he should turn you away: he would have every body about him as
clever as himself, they must all know their business thoroughly. However
they must learn it somewhere. I will venture to give you a trial, but I
must first inquire your character of my good friends, Woodcock and
Johnstone. Come to-morrow morning at nine, and you shall have an
answer.”
‘It may well be supposed I did not forget the appointment; and a
fortunate one I found it, for I was accepted on trial at four pounds or
guineas a year, with the usual livery clothing. My station was
immediately assigned me. Here was a remarkably quiet three years old
colt, lately from the discipline of the breaker; and of him I was
ordered to take charge, instructed by one of the upper boys in every
thing that was to be done, and directed to back him and keep pace with
the rest, when they went to exercise, only taking care to keep a strait
line, and to walk, canter, and gallop the last. Fortunately for me his
temper appeared to be so quiet (for he had been put into full training
at an early age), that I found not the least difficulty in managing him.
My reputation, therefore, among the boys, which is an essential
circumstance, suffered no stain.
‘I ought to mention, that though I have spoken of Mr Johnstone, and may
do of more Misters among the grooms, it is only because I have forgotten
their christian names: for, to the best of my recollection, when I was
at Newmarket, it was the invariable practice to denominate each groom by
his christian and surname, unless any one happened to possess some
peculiarity that marked him. For instance, I remember a little man in
years, grown timid from age, but otherwise supposed to be the best rider
in England, and remarkable for his knowledge of almost every
race-course, whose name, I think, was William Cheevers; and of whom it
was the custom to speak, by calling him Old Will, The Old One, and the
like. I mention this, as it may be now or hereafter, a distinctive mark
of the changes of manners. I know not what appellations are given to
grooms at Newmarket at the present day, but at the time I speak of, if
any grooms had been called Misters, my master would certainly have been
among the number; and his constant appellation by every body, except his
own boys who called him John, was simply John Watson.
‘With respect to me, his conduct seems to shew that he understood my
character better than the grooms who had judged of it before: as I did
not long ride a quiet colt at the tail of the string (on whose back he
soon put a new-comer), but had a dun horse, by no means a tame or safe
one, committed to my care. Instead of timidity, he must have remarked
various traits of courage in me, before he would have ventured on this
step. In corroboration of this I may cite the following proof. I
continued to ride the dun horse through the winter. It was John Watson’s
general practice to exercise his horses over the flat, and up Cambridge
hill on the west side of Newmarket; but the rule was not invariable. One
wintry day he ordered us up to the Bury hills. It mizzled a very sharp
sleet, the wind became uncommonly cutting, and Dun, the horse I rode,
being remarkable for a tender skin, found the wind and the sleet, which
blew directly up his nostrils, so very painful, that it suddenly made
him outrageous. He started from the rank in which he was walking, tried
to unseat me, endeavoured to set off full speed, and when he found he
could not master me so as to get head, began to rear, snorted most
violently, threw out behind, plunged, and used every mischievous
exertion, of which the muscular powers of a blood horse are capable. I,
who felt the uneasiness he suffered before his violence began, being
luckily prepared, sat firm, as steady and upright, as if this had been
his usual exercise. John Watson was riding beside his horses, and a
groom, I believe it was old Cheevers, broke out into an exclamation—“By
God, John, that is a fine lad!” “Aye, aye,” replied Watson, highly
satisfied, “you will find some time or other there are few in Newmarket
that will match him.” To have behaved with true courage, and to meet
with applause like this, especially from John Watson, was a triumph,
such as I could at this time have felt in no other way with the same
sweet satisfaction. My horsemanship had been seen by all the boys,—my
praises had been heard by them all.
‘It will not be amiss here to remark that boys with strait legs, small
calves, and knees that project but little, seldom become excellent
riders. I, on the contrary, was somewhat bow-legged, I had then the
custom of turning in my toes, and my knees were protuberant. I soon
learned that the safe hold for sitting steady was to keep the knee and
the calf of the leg strongly pressed against the side of the animal that
endeavours to unhorse you: and as little accidents afford frequent
occasions to remind the boys of this rule, it becomes so rooted in the
memory of the intelligent, that their danger is comparatively trifling.
‘Of the temperaments and habits of blood horses there are great
varieties, and those very strongly contrasted. The majority of them are
playful, but their gambols are dangerous to the timid or unskilful. They
are all easily and suddenly alarmed, when any thing they do not
understand forcibly catches their attention, and they are then to be
feared by the bad horseman, and carefully guarded against by the good.
Very serious accidents have happened to the best. But, besides their
general disposition to playfulness, there is a great propensity in them
to become what the jockeys call vicious. High-bred, hot in blood,
exercised, fed, and dressed so as to bring that heat to perfection,
their tender skins at all times subject to a sharp curry-comb, hard
brushing, and when they take sweats, to scraping with wooden
instruments, it cannot be but that they are frequently and exceedingly
irritated. Intending to make themselves felt and feared, they will watch
their opportunity to bite, stamp, or kick; I mean those among them that
are vicious. Tom, the brother of Jack Clarke, after sweating a grey
horse that belonged to Lord March, with whom he lived, while he was
either scraping or dressing him, was seized by the animal by the
shoulder, lifted from the ground, and carried two or three hundred yards
before the horse loosened his hold. Old Forester, a horse that belonged
to Captain Vernon all the while I remained at Newmarket, was obliged to
be kept apart, and being foundered, to live at grass, where he was
confined to a close paddock. Except Tom Watson, a younger brother of
John, he would suffer no lad to come near him: if in his paddock, he
would run furiously at the first person that approached, and if in the
stable, would kick and assault every one within his reach. Horses of
this kind seem always to select their favourite boy. Tom Watson, indeed,
had attained to man’s estate, and in his brother’s absence, which was
rare, acted as superintendent. Horses, commonly speaking, are of a
friendly and generous nature; but there are anecdotes of the malignant
and savage ferocity of some, that are scarcely to be credited: at least
many such are traditional at Newmarket.
‘Of their friendly disposition towards their keepers, there is a trait
known to every boy that has the care of any one of them, which ought not
to be omitted. The custom is to rise very early, even between two and
three in the morning, when the days lengthen. In the course of the day,
horses and boys have much to do. About half after eight, perhaps, in the
evening, the horse has his last feed of oats, which he generally stands
to enjoy in the centre of his smooth, carefully made bed of clean long
straw, and by the side of him the weary boy will often lie down: it
being held as a maxim, a rule without exception, that were he to lie
even till morning, the horse would never lie down himself, but stand
still, careful to do his keeper no harm. I should add, however, that the
boy must keep awake, not for fear of the horse, but of the mischievous
disposition of his comrades. Should sleep happen to overcome him, some
lad will take one of those tough ashen plants with which they ride, and
measuring his aim, strike him with all his force, and endeavour to make
the longest wale he possibly can, on the leg of the sleeper. I remember
to have been so punished once, when the blow, I concluded, was given by
Tom Watson, as I thought no other boy in the stable could have made so
large a wale: it reached from the knee to the instep, and was of a
finger’s breadth.