HAND.
What is it? Intellect, nerve, sympathy, confidence, skill? None of these
can be said to constitute this quality; rather it is a combination of
all, with something superinduced that can only be called a magnetic
affinity between the aggressive spirit of man and the ductile nature of
the beast.
"He spurred the old horse, and _he held him tight_,
And leaped him out over the wall,"
says Kingsley, in his stirring ballad of "The Knight's Last Leap at
Alten-ahr;" and Kingsley, an excellent rider himself, thus described
exactly how the animal should have been put at its formidable fence.
Most poets would have let their horse's head go--the loose rein is a
favourite method of making play in literature--and a fatal refusal must
have been the result. The German Knight, however, whose past life seems
to have been no less disreputable than his end was tragic, had not
"Lived by the saddle for years a score,"
to fail in his horsemanship at the finish, and so, when he came to jump
his last fence, negotiated it with no less skill than daring--grim,
quiet, resolute, strong of seat, and firm of hand. The latter quality
seems, however, much the rarer of the two. For ten men who can stick to
the saddle like Centaurs you will hardly find one gifted with that
nicety of touch which horses so willingly obey, and which, if not
inborn, seems as difficult to acquire by practice as the draughtsman's
eye for outline, or the musician's ear for sound. Attention, reflection,
painstaking, and common sense, can, nevertheless, do much; and, if the
brain will only take the trouble to think, the clumsiest fingers that
ever mismanaged a bridle may be taught in time to humour it like a
silken thread.
I have been told, though I never tried the experiment, that if you take
bold chanticleer from his perch, and, placing his bill on a table, draw
from it a line of chalk by candle-light, the poor dazed fowl makes no
attempt to stir from this imaginary bondage, persuaded that it is
secured by a cord it has not strength enough to break. We should never
get on horseback without remembering this unaccountable illusion; our
control by means of the bridle is, in reality, little more substantial
than the chalk-line that seems to keep the bird in durance. It should be
our first consideration so to manage the rein we handle as never to give
our horse the opportunity of discovering our weakness and his own
strength.
How is this to be effected? By letting his head go, and allowing him to
carry us where he will? Certainly not, or we should have no need for the
bridle at all. By pulling at him, then, with main strength, and trying
the muscular power of our arms against that of his shoulders and neck?
Comparing these relative forces again, we are constrained to answer,
Certainly not; the art of control is essentially founded on compromise.
In riding, as in diplomacy, we must always be ready to give an inch that
we may take an ell. The first principle of horsemanship is to make the
animal believe we can rule its wildest mood; the next, to prevent, at
any sacrifice, the submission of this plausible theory to proof. You get
on a horse you have never seen before, improperly bitted, we may fairly
suppose, for few men would think of wasting as many seconds on their
bridle as they devote minutes to their boots and breeches. You infer,
from his wild eye and restless ear that he is "a bit of a romp;" and you
observe, with some concern, that surrounding circumstances, a race, a
review, a coursing-meeting, or a sure find, it matters little which, are
likely to rouse all the tumultuous propensities of his nature. Obviously
it would be exceedingly bad policy to have the slightest
misunderstanding. The stone of Sisyphus gathered impetus less rapidly
than does a horse who is getting the better of his rider; and John
Gilpin was not the first equestrian, by a good many, for whom
"The trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein."
"I am the owner, I wish I could say the _master_, of the four best
hunters I ever had in my life," wrote one of the finest horsemen in
Europe to a brother proficient in the art; and although so frank an
avowal would have seemed less surprising from an inferior performer, his
friend, who was also in the habit of riding anything, anywhere, and over
everything, doubtless understood perfectly what he meant.
Now in equitation there can be no divided empire; and the horse will
most assuredly be master if the man is not. In the interests of good
government, then, beware how you let your authority literally slip
through your fingers, for, once lost, it will not easily be regained.
Draw your reins gently to an equal length, and ascertain the precise
bearing on your horse's mouth that seems, while he is yet in a walk, to
influence his action without offending his sensitiveness. But this
cannot be accomplished with the hands alone; these members, though
supposed to be the prime agents of control, will do little without the
assistance of legs and knees pressing the sides and flanks of the
animal, so as to urge him against the touch of his bit, from which he
will probably show a tendency to recoil, and, as it is roughly called,
"forcing him into his bridle."
The absence of this leg-power is an incalculable disadvantage to ladies,
and affords the strongest reason, amongst many, why they should be
mounted only on temperate and perfectly broken horses. How much oftener
would they come to grief but that their seat compels them to ride with
such long reins as insure light hands, and that their finer sympathy
seems fully understood and gratefully appreciated by the most
sympathetic of all the brute creation!
The style adopted by good horsewomen, especially in crossing a country,
has in it much to be admired, something, also, to be deprecated and
deplored. They allow their horses plenty of liberty, and certainly
interfere but little with their heads, even at the greatest emergencies;
but their ideas of pace are unreasonably liberal, and they are too apt
to "chance it" at the fences, encouraging with voice and whip the haste
that in the last few strides it is judicious to repress. It seems to me
they are safer in a "bank-and-ditch" country than amongst the high
strong fences of the grazing districts, where a horse must be roused and
held together that he may jump well up in the air, and extend himself
afterwards, so as to cover the wide "uncertainties" he may find on the
landing side. For a bank he is pretty sure to collect himself without
troubling his rider; and this is, perhaps, why Irishmen, as a general
rule, use such light bridles.
Now, a woman cannot possibly bring her horse up to a high
staked-and-bound fence, out of deep ground, with the strength and
resolution of a man, whose very grip in the saddle seems to extort from
the animal its utmost energies. Half measures are fatal in a difficulty,
and, as she seems unable to interfere with good effect she is wise to
let it alone.
We may learn from her, however, one of the most effective secrets of
the whole art, and that is, to ride with long reins. "Always give them
plenty of rope," said poor Jem Mason, when instructing a beginner; and
he certainly practised what he preached. I have seen his hands carried
so high as to be level with his elbows, _but his horse's head was always
in the right place_; and to this must be attributed the fact that, while
he rode to hounds straighter than anybody else, he got comparatively few
falls. A man with long reins not only affords his horse greater liberty
at his fences, but allows him every chance of recovery should he get
into difficulties on landing, the rider not being pulled with a jerk on
the animal's neck and shoulders, so as to throw both of them down, when
they ought to have got off with a scramble.
Let us return to the horse you have lately mounted, not without certain
misgivings that he may be tempted to insubordination under the
excitement of tumult, rivalry, or noise. When you have discovered the
amount of repression, probably very slight, that he accepts without
resentment, at a walk, increase your pace gradually, still with your
legs keeping him well into his bridle, carrying your hands low down on
his withers, and, if you take my advice, with a rein in each. You will
find this method affords you great control of your horse's head, and
enables you, by drawing the bit through his mouth, to counteract any
arrangement on his part for a dead pull, which could have but one
result. Should you, moreover, find it necessary to jump, you can thus
hold him perfectly straight at his fences, so that he must either
decline altogether or go exactly _where you put him_. Young, headstrong
horses are exceedingly apt to swerve from the place selected for them,
and to rise sideways at some strong bit of timber, or impracticable part
of a bullfinch; and this is a most dangerous experiment, causing the
worst kind of falls to which the sportsman is liable.
Riding thus two-handed, you will probably find your new acquaintance
"bends" to you in his canter better than in his trot, and if so, you may
safely push him to a gallop, taking great care, however, not to let him
extend himself too much. When he goes on his shoulders, he becomes a
free agent; so long as his haunches are under him, you can keep him, as
it is called, "in your hand."
There is considerable scope for thought in this exercise of manual
skill, and it is always wise to save labour of body by use of brain.
Take care then, to have your front clear, so that your horse may flatter
himself he is leading his comrades, when he will not give you half so
much trouble to retain him in reasonable bounds. Strategy is here
required no less than tactics, and horsemanship even as regards the
bridle, is quite as much a matter of head as hand. If you are out
hunting, and have got thus far on good terms, you will probably now be
tempted to indulge in a leap. We cannot, unfortunately, select these
obstacles exactly as we wish; it is quite possible your first fence may
be high, strong, and awkward, with every probability of a fall. Take
your horse at it quietly, but resolutely, in a canter, remembering that
the quicker and _shorter_ his strides, while gathering _impetus_, the
greater effort he can make when he makes his spring. Above all, measure
with your eye, and endeavour to show him by the clip of your thighs, and
the sway of your body, exactly where he should take off. On this
important point depends, almost entirely, the success of your leap. Half
a stride means some six or seven feet; to leave the ground that much too
soon adds the width of a fair-sized ditch to his task, and if the sum
total prove too much for him you cannot be surprised at the result. This
is, I think, one of the most important points in horsemanship as applied
to riding across a country. It is a detail in which Lord Wilton
particularly excels, and although so good a huntsman must despise a
compliment to his mere riding, I cannot refrain from mentioning Tom
Firr, as another proficient who possesses this enviable knack in an
extraordinary degree.
Many of us can remember "Cap" Tomline, a professional "rough rider,"
living at or near Billesdon, within the last twenty years, as fine a
horseman as his namesake, whom I have already mentioned, and a somewhat
lighter weight. For one sovereign, "Cap," as we used to call him, was
delighted to ride anybody's horse under any circumstances, over, or into
any kind of fence the owner chose to point out. After going brilliantly
through a run, I have seen him, to my mind most injudiciously, desired
to lark home alongside, while we watched his performance from the road.
He was particularly fond of timber, and notwithstanding that his horse
was usually rash, inexperienced, or bad-tempered, otherwise he would not
have been riding him, I can call to mind very few occasions on which I
saw him down. One unusually open winter, when he hunted five and six
days a week from October to April, he told me he had only fifteen falls,
and that taking the seasons as they came, thirteen was about his
average. Nor was he a very light-weight--spare, lengthy, and muscular,
he turned twelve stone in his hunting clothes, which were by no means of
costly material. Horses rarely refused with him, and though they often
had a scramble for it, as seldom fell, but under his method of riding,
sitting well down in the saddle, with the reins in both hands, they
never took off wrong, and in this lay the great secret of his
superiority. When I knew him he was an exceedingly temperate man; for
many years I believe he drank only water, and he eschewed tobacco in
every form. "The reason you gentlemen have such _bad nerves_," he said
to me, jogging home to Melton one evening in the dusk that always meets
us about Somerby, "is because you smoke so much. It turns your brains to
a kind of vapour!" the inference was startling, I thought, and not
complimentary, but there might be some truth in it nevertheless.
We have put off a great deal of time at our first fence, let us do it
without a fall, if we can.
When a hunter's quarters are under him in taking off, he has them ready
to help him over any unforeseen difficulty that may confront him on the
other side. Should there be a bank from which he can get a purchase for
a second effort, he will poise himself on it lightly as a bird, or
perhaps, dropping his hind-legs only, shoot himself well into the next
field, with that delightful elasticity which, met by a corresponding
action of his rider's loins, imparts to the horseman such sensations of
confidence and dexterity as are felt by some buoyant swimmer, wafted
home on the roll of an incoming wave. Strong hocks and thighs, a mutual
predilection for the chase, a bold heart between the saddle-flaps,
another under the waistcoat, and a pair of light hands, form a
combination that few fences after Christmas are strong enough or blind
enough to put down.
And now please not to forget that soundest of maxims, applicable to all
affairs alike by land or sea--"While she lies her course, let the ship
steer herself." If your horse is going to his own satisfaction, do not
be too particular that he should go entirely to yours. So long as you
can steady him, never mind that he carries his head a little up or a
little down. If he shakes it you know you have got him, and can pull him
off in a hundred yards. Keep your hands quiet and not too low. It is a
well-known fact, of which, however, many draughtsmen seem ignorant, that
the horse in action never puts his fore-feet beyond his nose. You need
only watch the finish of a race to be satisfied of this, and indeed the
Derby winner in his supreme effort is almost as straight as an
old-fashioned frigate, from stem to stern, while a line dropped
perpendicularly from his muzzle would exactly touch the tips of his
toes. Now, if your hands are on each side of your horse's withers, you
make him bend his neck so much as to contract his stride within
three-quarter speed, whereas when you carry them about the level of your
own hips, and nearly as far back, he has enough freedom of head to
extend himself without getting beyond your control, and room besides to
look about him, of which be sure he will avail himself for your mutual
advantage.
I have ridden hunters that obviously found great pleasure in watching
hounds, and, except to measure their fences, would never take their eyes
off the pack from field to field, so long as we could keep it in sight.
These animals too, were, invariably fine jumpers, free, generous,
light-hearted, and as wise as they were bold.
I heard a very superior performer once remark that he not only rode
every horse differently, but he rode the same horse differently at every
fence.
All I can say is, he used to ride them all in the same place, well up
with the hounds, but I think I understand what he meant. He had his
system of course, like every other master of the art, but it admitted of
endless variations according to circumstances and the exigencies of the
case. No man, I conclude, rides so fast at a wall as a brook, though he
takes equal pains with his handling in both cases, if in a different
way, nor would he deny a half-tired animal that support, amounting even
to a dead pull, which might cause a hunter fresh out of his stable to
imagine his utmost exertions were required forthwith. Nevertheless,
whether "lobbing along" through deep ground at the punishing period,
when we wish our fun was over, or fingering a rash one delicately for
his first fence, a stile, we will say, downhill with a bad take-off,
when we could almost wish it had not begun, we equally require such a
combination of skill, science, and sagacity, or rather common-sense, as
goes by the name of "hand." When the player possesses this quality in
perfection it is wonderful how much can be done with the instrument of
which he holds the strings. I remember seeing the Reverend John Bower,
an extraordinarily fine rider of the last generation, hand his horse
over an ugly iron-bound stile, on to some stepping-stones, with a drop
of six or seven feet, into a Leicestershire lane, as calmly as if the
animal had been a lady whom he was taking out for a walk. He pulled it
back into a trot, sitting very close and quiet, with his hand raised two
or three inches above the withers, and I can still recall, as if I had
seen it yesterday, the curve of neck and quarters, as, gently mouthing
the bit, that well-broken hunter poised lightly for its spring, and
landing in the same collected form, picked its way daintily, step by
step, down the declivity, like a cat. There was a large field out, but
though Leicestershire then, as now, had no lack of bold and jealous
riders, who could use heads, hands, and beyond all, their heels, nobody
followed him, and I think the attempt was better left alone.
Another clergyman of our own day, whose name I forbear mentioning,
because I think he would dislike it for professional reasons, has the
finest bridle-hand of any one I know. "_You good man_," I once heard a
foreigner observe to this gentleman, in allusion to his bold style of
riding; "_it no matter if you break your neck!_" And although I cannot
look on the loss of such valuable lives from the same point of view as
this Continental moralist, I may be permitted to regret the present
scarcity of clergymen in the hunting-field. It redounds greatly to their
credit, for we know how many of them deny themselves a harmless pleasure
rather than offend "the weaker brethren," but what a dog in the manger
must the weaker brother be!
I have never heard that these "hunting parsons," as they are called,
neglect the smallest detail of duty to indulge in their favourite sport,
but when they _do_ come out you may be sure to see them in the front
rank. Can it be that the weaker brother is jealous of his pastor's
superiority in the saddle? I hope not. At any rate it seems unfair to
cavil at the enjoyment by another of the pursuit we affect ourselves.
Let us show more even-handed justice, if not more charity, and endeavour
at least to follow the good man's example in the parish, though we are
afraid to ride his line across the fields.
It would be endless to enter on all the different styles of
horsemanship in which fine hands are of the utmost utility. On the
race-course, for instance, it seems to an outsider that the whole
performance of the jockey is merely a dead pull from end to end. But
only watch the lightest urchin that is flung on a two-year-old to
scramble home five furlongs as fast as ever he can come; you will soon
be satisfied that even in these tumultuous flights there is room for the
display of judgment, patience, though briefly tried, and manual skill.
The same art is exercised on the light smooth snaffle, held in tenacious
grasp, that causes the heavily-bitted charger to dance and "passage" in
the school. It differs only in direction and degree. As much dexterity
is required to prevent some playful flyer recently put in training from
breaking out in a game of romps, when he ought to be minding his
business in "the string" as to call forth the well-drilled efforts of a
war-horse, answering wrist and leg with disciplined activity, ready to
"rein back," "pass," "wheel,"--
"And high curvet that not in vain,
The sword-sway may descend amain
On foeman's casque below."
Chifney, the great jockey of his day, wrote an elaborate treatise on
handling, laying down the somewhat untenable position, that even a
racehorse should be held as if with a silken thread.
I have noticed, too, that our best steeplechase riders have particularly
fine hands when crossing a country with hounds; nor does their
professional practice seem to make them over-hasty at their fences, when
there is time to do these with deliberation. I imagine that to ride a
steeplechase well, over a strong line, is the highest possible test of
what we may call "all-round" horsemanship. My own experience in the silk
jacket has been of the slightest; and I confess that, like Falstaff with
his reasons, I never fancied being rattled quite so fast at my fences
"on compulsion."
One of the finest pieces of riding I ever witnessed was in a
steeplechase held at Melton, as long ago as the year 1864, when,
happening to stand near the brook, _eighteen feet of water_, I observed
my friend Captain Coventry come down at it. Choosing sound ground and a
clear place, for it was already beginning to fill with numerous
competitors, he set his horse going, at about a hundred yards from the
brink; in the most masterly manner, increasing the pace resolutely but
gradually, so as not to flurry or cause the animal to change his leg,
nearly to full speed before he took off. I could not have believed it
possible to make a horse go so fast in so collected a form; but with the
rider's strength in the saddle, and perfectly skilful hands, he
accomplished the feat, and got well over, I need hardly say, in his
stride.
But, although a fine "bridle-hand," as it is called, proves of such
advantage to the horseman in the hurry-skurry of a steeplechase or a
very quick thing with hounds, its niceties come more readily under the
notice of an observer on the road than in the field. Perhaps the Ride in
Hyde Park is the place of all others where this quality is most
appreciated, and, shall we add? most rarely to be found. A perfect Park
hack, that can walk or canter five miles an hour, no light criterion of
action and balance, should also be so well broke, and so well ridden, as
to change its leg, if asked to do so, at every stride. "With woven
paces," if not "with waving arms," I have seen rider and horse threading
in and out the trees that bisect Rotten Row, without missing _one_, for
half a mile on end; the animal leading with near or off leg, as it
inclined to left or right, guided only by the inflection of the rider's
body, and the touch, too light to be called a pressure, of his knee and
leg. How seldom does one see a horse ridden properly round a corner. He
is usually allowed to turn on his shoulders, with his hind-legs too far
back to be of the slightest assistance if he slips or stumbles, and
should the foothold be greasy, as may happen in London streets, down he
comes flat on his side. Even at a walk, or slow trot, he should be
collected, and his outer flank pressed inwards by his rider's heel, so
that the motive power in hocks and thighs is kept under his own body,
and the weight on his back. In the canter it stands to reason that he
should lead with the inner leg, otherwise it is very possible he may
cross the other over it, and fall like a lump of lead.
I remember seeing the famous Lord Anglesey ride his hack at that pace
nineteen times out of Piccadilly into Albemarle Street, before it turned
the corner exactly to his mind. The handsome old warrior who _looked_ no
less distinguished than he _was_, had, as we know, a cork leg, and its
oscillation no doubt interfered with those niceties of horsemanship in
which he delighted. Nevertheless at the twentieth trial he succeeded,
and a large crowd, collected to watch him, seemed glad of an opportunity
to give their Waterloo hero a hearty cheer as he rode away.
Perhaps the finest pair of hands to be seen amongst the frequenters of
the Park in the present day belong to Mr. Mackenzie Greaves, a retired
cavalry officer of our own service, who, passionately fond of hunting
and everything connected with horses, has lately turned his attention to
the subtleties of the _haute ecole_, nowhere better understood, by a
select few, than in Paris, where he usually resides. To watch this
gentleman on a horse he has broken in himself, gliding through the
crowd, as if by mere volition, with the smoothness, ease, and rapidity
of a fish arrowing up a stream, makes one quite understand how the myth
of the Centaur originated in the sculpture and poetry of Greece.
In common with General Laurenson, whose name I have already mentioned
as just such another proficient, his system is very similar to that of
Monsieur Baucher, one of the few lovers of the animal either in France
or England, who have so studied its character as to reduce equine
education to a science. Its details are far too elaborate to enter on
here, but one of its first principles, applied in the most elementary
tuition, is never to let the horse recoil from his bridle.
"Drop your hands!" say nine good riders out of ten, when the pupil's
head is thrown up to avoid control. "Not so," replies Baucher. "On the
contrary, tighten and increase your pressure more and more, keeping the
rebel up to his bit with legs and spurs if necessary, till _he_ yields,
not you; then on the instant, rapidly and dexterously, as you would
strike in fly-fishing, give to him, and he will come into your hand!"
I have tried his method myself, in more than one instance, and am
inclined to think it is founded on common sense.
But in all our dealings with him, we should remember that the horse's
mouth is naturally delicate and sensitive though we so often find it
hardened by violence and ill-usage. The amount of force we apply,
therefore, whether small or great, should be measured no less accurately
than the drops of laudanum administered to a patient by the nurse. Reins
are intended for the guidance of the horse, not the support of his
rider, and if you do not feel secure without holding on by something,
rather than pluck at his mouth, accept the ridicule of the position with
its safety, and grasp the mane!
Seriously, you may do worse in a difficulty when your balance is in
danger, and instinct prompts you to restore it, as, if a horse is
struggling out of a bog, has dropped his hind-legs in a brook, or
otherwise come on his nose without actually falling, nothing so impedes
his endeavours to right himself as a tug of the bridle at an inopportune
moment.
That instrument should be used for its legitimate purposes alone, and a
strong seat in the saddle is the first essential for a light hand on the
rein.