PACES, VICES, AND FAULTS.
Cantering is a very nice pace for park or road riding, when the ground
is soft, and not cut up by stones. A trained horse will start from
a walk to a canter at a very slight indication from his rider, but
surmising (as in the last chapter) that you have accepted the loan of a
somewhat unmannerly or not sufficiently educated mount, you must induce
him to canter by collecting him well on his haunches (from which the
motion is in reality performed), touching him with the whip on the off
side, and drawing his head gently round to the near until he makes a
start. When he does so, balance yourself in time to his movement, and
use the bridle lightly, with a very slight give-and-take motion of
your hands. Do not allow him to get into a gallop; but, at the same
time, remember that it will be cruel to keep him cantering too long,
especially unless you permit him to change his leg, for which purpose
you must pull him quietly up, and reverse the movement by which, in the
first instance, you have urged him to go off. A slow, handsome canter,
collected and dignified, looks extremely well no doubt in the park, but
it is terribly trying to a horse when kept up too long; in fact, a
smart, stirring gallop will not distress him nearly so much.
When cantering keep your knees firmly pressed against the pommels--sit
close to the saddle, like a part of your horse--and throw your
shoulders well back.
The very nice pace called a hand-gallop may be indulged in by
slackening the rein a little, and encouraging your mount by voice or
bridle to go a trifle faster. The hand-gallop never distresses a horse,
even a broken-winded one; it is a joyous, exhilarating motion, in which
both steed and rider find pleasure. Conversation need not be stopped by
it, or even interrupted for a moment, and it will be found a delightful
pace at which to go to covert in the morning, or to travel on to the
next one, when “blank” has been called at the first.
The hand-gallop is only pastime--mere play, without any peril--but
the gallop proper, to which I now come to allude, is a very serious
business indeed for a young rider to take in hand. If your horse is
a trained one, you have only to sit down close when he gallops, and
hold the reins firmly in both hands: your seat secure, your body as
motionless as you can make it, your elbows like hinges, your hands low
on the withers, keeping your horse’s head straight and steady, while
you give-and-take with his every stride, and on no account, or under
any circumstances whatever, keep a dead pull on his mouth.
I shall surmise, however, as before (for the purpose of instructing
you) that your steed is not by any means perfect, and that he will
probably give you a good deal of trouble before you have quite done
with him. He will not be likely to have all the vices, or even one-half
of those for which I am about to prepare you, but you will probably
meet with them in one form or another at different periods of your
career as a horsewoman: therefore a few words about such matters will
not, I think, be amiss.
If called upon to ride a puller, get his head up, and then drop your
hands a little to him, to see whether he will yield to your will. If he
fails to do so, catch the reins short, draw back your foot, give him
one good pull, and then another: in short, a succession of them--but
yield to him always between whiles, and speak to him in a quiet,
soothing manner. Do not attempt to fight him, or he may run away with
you, and that is nasty for a lady. If you think that he has the bit
between his teeth, you may saw at it from side to side until you get
him to release it.
Boring is a very unpleasant vice, if I may call it one. Few horses
have it naturally, and I attribute it in most cases to an undue use of
the curb. I have found that the best method of treating it is to take
up the cheek-pieces of the headstall. If a horse bores to one side
(a most unsightly habit), attach the throat-latch to the ring of the
snaffle-bridle by a small strap on the side opposite to that on which
the head is bent. This is generally effectual, because it brings the
mouthpiece to bear upon the gum.
A kicker is not a pleasant mount for a lady, and the powers which some
animals possess in this especial line are simply astonishing. As a rule
you will perceive, either by the laying back of your horse’s ears, or
a queer wriggle of his body, that he is going to do something that
will stamp him as a villain, and if these indications are accompanied
by a backward turning of a very whitened eye, look out at once for your
life! Many horses will, however, give no warning of any kind, and they
of course are the most dangerous sort. Thoroughbreds are quite dreadful
in this particular. They will kick when going a brisk gallop. I have
twice had my hat _lashed_ by the tails of high kickers--and the most
stunning fall I ever got in my life was through being caught napping
by one of these volatile gentlemen, who pretended to be going up to
his bridle in the most collected manner possible (when exercising one
day in frosty weather, in a wood), and suddenly shot me off like an
arrow from a bow!--so high, too, that to this day I am ready to swear I
saw the tops of the bare elms, while the force of my contact with the
ground, when at length I came down upon it, gave me concussion of the
spine, from which I suffered for several succeeding months.
A horse that kicks must be ridden in a severe bit, except in cases
where it is only an ebullition of spirits. Where this is the case, ride
him hard, and get it out of him; when it amounts to an actual vice, you
must keep him partially in order by using a bit such as I seriously
decry for other forms of misdemeanor, and when he begins his unpleasant
pranks get his head _well_ up, so that he can’t force it between his
knees, and bend him round until you compel him to turn. By doing this a
few times he will probably leave off kicking.
To ride a kicker in the hunting-field is highly injudicious and
unfair. Some excellent hunters, however, though not by any means
confirmed kickers, will lash out dangerously when riders are crowded
together at a gap, and this is about the very worst time at which a
horse can possibly misconduct himself. When riding one of this sort,
you must be content to pay the penalty of his vagaries by isolating
yourself from the rest of the field--a disadvantage, of course, for
all riders naturally make for the best places at which to get out; and
if, in spite of this, you are pressed upon by others, you must put
your hand to the back of your waist, the fingers turning outwards, and
motion slightly with them, in order that those in the rear of you may
know that they are in peril.
Buck-jumping is another most unpleasant vice, although happily not a
very common one in this country. I have only come across one horse who
possessed it. He belonged to a Meath farmer, and I bought him for a
song on account of his failing. He got me off five times the first day
that I attempted to ride him, and so delighted was he with himself when
he succeeded in gaining the odd number, that he actually kept bucking
about, like a playful goat, all around me--squealing and romping, and
flourishing his horrid heels at me--while I lay exhausted upon the
ground, too much bruised to be able to get up without help. After this
I put a gag-snaffle on him, pulled the reins sharply when he attempted
to get his head down, and then, when he lowered it in spite of me, let
the leathers slip through my fingers on to his neck, leaned back as far
as ever I could (still, however, keeping hold of the reins), and the
moment I was able to get a pull at him, turned him round and round
from one side to the other, until both he and I were pretty tired of
the work. All things considered, I cannot conscientiously recommend a
buck-jumper for a lady’s use.
Rearing is a very dangerous vice for a horsewoman to have to contend
against, owing to the side position which she occupies in the saddle.
If ever you are unlucky enough to have to mount a rearer, do not touch
him with a curb at all; ride him on the snaffle only, and when he
attempts to rise up with you, lean well forward and clutch his mane
firmly with your hands, holding the bridle very loosely all the while,
and touching him sharply with your heel. Do not on any account lay your
whip upon him, be it ever so lightly. I myself have found the butt end
of such an article, brought down briskly between the ears of a rearer,
a very efficient mode of bringing him to his senses,--but please bear
in mind that I do not either advocate or recommend it: in fact, rather
than do so, I should prefer to warn you _against_ it, for once, when,
flushed with my own success, I chanced to say something in favour of
the system, my temerity brought thirty-two letters down upon me (most
of them from horrified old gentlemen who declared that their daughters
were practising on the carriage horses!), and the columns of more than
one sporting paper were inundated for a month or two with an inane
correspondence.
I have found a rearing bit most useful at times; but, if taken aback
when riding without one, it will be well to follow the practice of
holding on to the mane with one hand, say the left, while with the
right the reins are pulled in a downward direction, bringing the
horse’s head round ever so little, in order if possible to make him
change his leg. The fact is, there are vicious rearers whom nothing
will cure--cunning ones who know enough never to tumble back upon you,
and are sufficiently amenable in other ways to encourage the hope
that something may be made of them--playful ones who transgress more
from skittishness than vice--and timid ones who, having suffered from
too severe bitting, throw themselves upward as soon as they feel the
touch of the bridle upon their mouths. An accomplished horsewoman will
soon distinguish the differences which mark these various offenders,
and will act with coolness and judgment, according as her training
may point out to her. I believe that to be perfectly cool on all
occasions, never to be flurried, or taken unawares, and above all
things never to lose temper, no matter how trying the circumstances,
will best ensure successful equestrianism, both for men and women.
To expect to ride without encountering difficulties and worries, as
well as risks and dangers, is only to look for something that cannot
possibly be attained. Ride, of course, you may--if to sit calmly on
a slug’s back, and walk him round a grass field, or along a country
road, can be called riding--but the term, in the sense in which I apply
it, means something very different indeed. It is replete with dangers
and anxieties of all sorts, but surely it is worth them. Many a time,
when I have come in fagged, heated, and dirty, after battling with a
young beginner--or ragged and weary after a hard day’s hunting through
bush and briar, it has been said to me, “Surely the pleasure, such as
it is, cannot repay you for the toil.” Utter nonsense, of course! Is
_any_ trouble, or any loss, for an instant remembered in the joyous
burst of music with which hounds rattle their fox out of covert, or the
delight of feeling a hitherto intractable youngster bending at length
submissively to one’s will?
Often and often now, when sitting alone in my quiet study, or watching
the active pleasures from which I am wholly debarred, I feel how truly
I have “had my day”--a most happy one--and how willingly I would go
through the same sufferings, if consequent upon the same joys. _Tempora
mutantur._ Even so, let it pass.
Shying cannot properly be called a vice, though many consider it one.
I think it generally proceeds from defective vision, and where this
is the case the animal may be led quietly up to the object of his
aversion, and shown that it is nothing very dreadful after all. Shying
at a bicycle or road-engine is so extremely natural that the rider--so
far from showing any anger against his mount--ought to soothe and quiet
him by every means in his power. A young, fresh horse will shy at a
bird, a piece of paper--anything--but a clever equestrian should never
be discomposed by such trifles. A steady seat ought to be sufficient
security against all possible disaster.
Stumbling is a very unpleasant weakness, though not a vice. Being
too heavily shod is often a cause of it, and this of course can be
remedied; but there is little chance of effecting any good when the
fault proceeds from defective muscular action, or from malformation
of the feet. Neither can it be cured when it arises from the shoulders
being too straight, or the forelegs shaky. A bad, cramped trotter
without any proper knee action, is extremely likely to stumble and
come down, and all that a rider can possibly do with such a one is to
keep him well collected--I do not mean reined in, but going properly
up to his bridle--and to make him bring his hind legs under him, at
whatever pace he may be going. I greatly dislike the habit, common
among ignorant riders and drivers, of _striking_ a horse when he
stumbles: it cannot then effect any good, and is calculated to give him
an unpleasant habit of prancing about whenever the mishap occurs.
Disquietude in mounting is a very serious fault. Some horses plunge
and dance in a highly dangerous manner--the result of nervousness, or
of having at some time or another been frightened by some mischance.
When this is the case the horse ought to be held for a moment or two by
the snaffle rein _only_, quite close to the cheek, and be spoken to at
the same time in a soothing manner. He should never on any account be
scolded, and by-and-by, when he quiets down a little, the groom should
stand at his head, and hold the snaffle-reins firmly but lightly in
both hands. If you perceive that he (the attendant) is not thoroughly
master of his business, it will be yours to see that he does not by any
movement bring the curb into action, or pinch the horse’s jaw.
Running away is a desperate vice for a lady to have to grapple with,
and my own experiences of it warn me to put others on their guard. If
a horse is _known_ to be a runaway, never be induced to trust yourself
upon his back. He will do it again at some time or another, even though
his first offence may have almost passed out of mind, and it will be
better that you should give him a wide berth. I must candidly say,
however, that I would rather, for my own safety, ride ten practised
runaways--what are called old hands at it--than one mad, frightened
horse that had lost his wits from some real cause of alarm.
The best advice that I can give in either case is this: Do not keep a
dead pull upon the reins, because that will not be a particle of use;
in fact, by doing so you will only be supporting his head, and giving
him stamina to go faster. Try by _a succession_ of strong jerks and
pulls to prevent him getting fully into his stride, for once he does
so you may bid good-bye to any chance of stopping him until he has
run himself clean out. A horse that is not a confirmed runaway may be
checked by sawing his mouth hard with the snaffle, but my advice is,
do not try to stop him at all, if you have fair going ground before
you, or that you can possibly breast him up any sort of incline. In
such case, let him go--sit close down in your saddle--and when you
feel him slacken, take up your whip in earnest, and give it him within
an inch of his life. This _latter_ advice, however, only applies to
“rogues”--animals who habitually run away and endanger their riders. To
whip a really startled horse would be both cruel and unwise; nor is it
ever judicious to do so in cases where the going is not both fair and
_open_ in front of you. If run away with in park or street, you must
endeavour to keep clear of trees and vehicles, and strive to get your
horse stopped as best you can. Happily, such catastrophes do not very
often occur.
I am against the theory that a rider ought in all instances to stick
to a runaway horse. As a _rule_ it is better to do so, but there are
decidedly a few exceptions. A pet idea of my own is to bring him down,
in whatever way it can best be done; but I do not for a moment want to
persuade others to do this. One man’s meat is another man’s poison;
and on this principle a plan which is, or has been, successful in my
own hands might prove a dangerous failure in another’s. I once stopped
a maddened horse that had made away with me at Melton, by letting him
have his head for about a furlong, or something less, and then giving
him one stupendous tug with the reins. The sudden jerk to his mouth
caused him to cross his legs, and he came down a “thundering cropper,”
giving me one, of course, also; but riding, as I always did, in a plain
racing stirrup, without having my foot thrust “home,” I got clear off,
and escaped without any more serious injury than a very severe shaking.
The sensation was not a nice one, I confess, and the peril was great;
but, on the whole, I should prefer it again to enacting Mazeppa, or
something like it, on the back of a wild steed, who would probably not
stop until he had landed his rider at that fatal bourne from whence no
traveller returns.