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 a 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-
bye, 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 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 a'n'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 a'n'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."