SAD SCENES OF LIFE.
I was awakened in the morning by a knocking overhead, which Sam, who was
already up and stirring, told me proceeded from the head of the family
in the room above, who was a cobbler. I also heard the tongue of a
loud-talking woman, and the murmur of the voices of several children.
‘How many up there?’ I inquired.
‘Father, mother, and six children,’ replied Sam. ‘The father works hard,
and is a patient, quiet man; but the mother drinks and scolds, and the
home is a wretched one. Home I called it—ah! a poor home it is, and many
a pig would turn up his nose at it.’
Mr. Harkaway and his son entered and interrupted our conversation. Jim,
under the eye of his father, gave us a fairish grooming and a feed of
corn; then I was taken out, harnessed, and put to my first day’s work in
the furniture line. Mr. Harkaway drove me to a house in the Old Kent
Road, with the walls all plastered with bills, and leaving Jim in charge
of the cart, went in.
Everything was so novel to me that the time passed very quickly. A
street in London or the suburbs is a perfect panorama to any observant
creature, and no one need languish for want of food for the mind. The
faces alone are sufficient to amuse and interest any thoughtful horse or
man. Watch two as they meet and salute, and you will see whether they be
friend or foe. Mark their style of greeting, their faces as they meet
and part, and you will have a very good idea of the true nature of the
feeling between them. The varieties of life are endless, the shades of
emotion numberless, and he who cares to study the book of nature may
read on throughout his days, and find in the end that he has but
imperfectly scanned a single page.
There was much to study in the other horses I met with daily, and the
dogs too were very interesting; but my great study was man, and I shall
devote the principal part of these pages to him. I hope my experience of
our lord and master was a very exceptional one, but I am sorry to say
that I found very little good in him.
My life with Mr. Harkaway was for the most part very monotonous; he
worked me very hard, and fed me as little as was consistent with the
amount of work required of me. Sometimes Sam and I were taken out
together in a large van to move the goods and chattels of some
tradesman; but as a rule we were employed apart on small jobs, Mr.
Harkaway driving me, and Sam being under the guidance of that atom of
vice, the boy Jim. I do not care to speak ill of any one, but I must say
that the training of this lad was fatal to every good quality which must
have been born in him. He was cruel, crafty, and fond of low
self-indulgence; he smoked and even drank with men—some of whom were old
and grey, and ought to have checked the boy in his evil ways.
Sometimes it happened that I fell into his hands, and his father took
Sam, and then I had a very pretty day of it. He would make me gallop
until I flagged, and then beat me until I galloped again, and this with
a heavy load behind me too, without the least remorse; and often I have
returned to the stable in such a condition that I did not expect to
leave it again alive.
I used to complain to Sam, but he said it was a common mode of treatment
towards horses in London, and that thousands died yearly from overwork
and neglect, or gave in with a broken heart, the result of unnecessary
cruelty.
‘A good horse does not need the whip,’ he said; ‘but there are some
people who use it upon every possible occasion. If a horse is tired,
they lash him without mercy—they must have an idea that there is virtue
in the whipcord, and that it gives us a renewal of the strength we have
expended in their service.’
‘That wretched boy, Jim,’ I remarked, ‘must use a deal of whipcord.’
‘That boy is fond of giving pain,’ returned Sam; ‘if he is grooming me,
and wants me to stand over, he does not say so, but to save his tongue
kicks me in the ribs as if I were a log of wood or a feather bed. I have
known the day when I would have repaid him amply, but this miserable
life has taken all the spirit out of me. Heigho!’
‘You have had a very hard life,’ I said.
‘Very,’ replied Sam. ‘I was born in the country, but left it quite
young. A dealer, Putney way, broke me in; he was celebrated for such
work, and a cruel fellow he was. The bits he used were fearful, and I
can almost feel his spurs now; as for his whip, it used to cross my ribs
like a thin band of red-hot iron—ugh! What horse could stand it? So we
all gave in; and he was celebrated as a trainer of horses. Isn’t it
disgusting!’
‘Men will be wiser some day,’ I said consolingly. ‘How old are you,
Sam?’
‘Somewhere about twelve,’ said Sam; ‘not at all old for a horse well
used—but I am almost worked out. I heard Harkaway tell his wife to-day
that I was scarcely worth my feed. Well! the knacker may come for aught
I care.’
‘What is a knacker?’ inquired I.
‘A horse _murderer_,’ replied Sara. ‘When a horse gets old and past
work, this man is sent for, or we are taken to him. In either case it is
his business to kill us, and he makes very short work of it. But we are
useful to the end; they make shoes, glue, and all sorts of useful things
out of our very carcases; and if man had any real love or gratitude in
his composition, he would treat us all well when we are alive.’
‘But all masters are not cruel, Sam.’
‘No: many are very kind, and keep their stables in better condition than
they do their cottages for the labouring poor; and some keep both horse
and labourer well, but these are the exception, and not the rule. For my
part, I do not care for a rich master; give me a quiet family of the
middle class, living, let us say, at Finchley, Hampstead, or somewhere
about eight miles the north of London; these are the people who feed and
treat a horse well.’
‘Were you ever in such a family, Sam?’
‘No; but once I was almost bought by a gentleman of that class, but the
chance went by, and I am now too old to hope for such a thing. I have,
however, heard a deal of this life, and I am sure nothing could be more
agreeable. Now you are a likely fellow to drop upon this sort of thing,
if ever Harkaway makes up his mind to sell you.’
The picture drawn by Sam pleased me very much, and I earnestly hoped
that such a lot might befall me.
So my life passed on. I dragged furniture about—now from a general sale,
now at midnight from a fraudulent debtor’s house, and once from a ruined
home, where the law had deprived the widow and fatherless of the
comforts of life. Sometimes Mr. Harkaway beat me very cruelly; but he
was generally sparing of the whip, as he had an idea that it knocked
some of the value off a horse—as rubbing removes gilt from gingerbread;
still he did not hesitate to overload me, and gave me such burdens to
bear that I often felt I must die beneath them. Yet I kept on, supported
by youth, I suppose, and endured this life for four long years.
During this time I had not forgotten my place of birth, or those
connected with it. Of my mother I thought a great deal; but I had no
anxiety on her account, as I had often heard Mr. Bayne declare that he
intended to keep her all his life. Rip was very often in my mind, and a
thousand times I wondered what had become of him, with a yearning such
as one true friend feels for another. I loved Rip; he was so full of
life, so spirited, so brilliant in action, that any one with an eye for
beauty must have admired him. Ah, noble Rip! I did indeed love you, and
wonder if the humble companion of your youth, pining in the dingy stable
of a furniture dealer, ever entered your thoughts. Nor did I forget the
beauty of the scene where I was born: the paddock, the stream, the old
mill, and the rich surrounding foliage oft rose before me, and never
faded away again without leaving behind an aching heart. Often and often
I have, in fancy, smelt the sweet meadow flowers, and heard the
melodious beating of Rip’s feet upon the soft turf, as he gaily pranced
about the field; and such memories, if they have brought pain, have had
a softening influence too, and I have lain down to sleep a sadder but a
better horse.
The four years gave me a good knowledge of the great metropolis, as
business at various times took me to every part of it; and the more I
knew, the more I wondered at the magnitude of the place. I have learnt
more since, and I have not ceased to wonder.
About this period a very terrible thing happened. I had been out all day
with my master, and was back in the stable quite worn-out, thankful for
the prospect of rest, when Jim, now a morose, sullen, dissipated young
man, came into the stable, and without putting any harness upon me led
me away. The act was so novel that my mind became full of vague terror,
and the terrible knackers talked of by Sam arose before my eyes; but I
dismissed the thought as a piece of folly—for I was yet active and full
of work, and Mr. Harkaway was not the man to waste capital by useless
slaughter—and looked about me for a more reasonable solution of the
mystery.
With his head down, Jim Harkaway slouched beside me, giving no clue, and
I wondered in vain as we walked the length of several streets, and came
at last into the presence of a small crowd of people. An opening was
made for Jim, and he led me through. The first thing I saw was a
cartload of furniture resting upon the shafts; the next, a horse lying
in the road, quite still.
The shock was dreadful. I read the truth at once. Poor Sam was dead—had
died in the midst of his daily duty. It was indeed terrible, but I found
no tears then. My sorrow was tempered with a dawning conviction that
this sudden death was to him a merciful and happy release. In the
morning before starting he had complained of a pain in his side, but
such a form of suffering was common to us both, and I did not dream of
finding him dead that night. Jim harnessed me in, and drove away,
leaving poor Sam in charge of a man in a very dirty blue slop—a
knacker’s assistant, I have since been informed.
That was a long night for me, and I slept but little. Sam, and Rip, and
mother, and home were alternately in my thoughts through the long dark
hours; and when the morning came, it found me but little prepared for
work. Prepared or not, there was the work to do, and during that and
many days following I toiled early and late, until I began to give out
signs of really breaking down; and then Mr. Harkaway, still influenced
by the pounds, shillings, and pence idea, kindly sent me into the
country for a month’s rest and fresh green food.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: DEATH OF POOR SAM.]
[Illustration]