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Black Beauty by Anna Sewell CHAPTER 29.
Cockneys
Then there is the steam-engine style of driving; these drivers were mostly people
from towns, who never had a horse of their own and generally traveled by rail.
They always seemed to think that a horse was something like a steam-engine, only
smaller.
At any rate, they think that if only they pay for it a horse is bound to go just as
far and just as fast and with just as heavy a load as they please.
And be the roads heavy and muddy, or dry and good; be they stony or smooth, uphill
or downhill, it is all the same--on, on, on, one must go, at the same pace, with no
relief and no consideration.
These people never think of getting out to walk up a steep hill.
Oh, no, they have paid to ride, and ride they will!
The horse?
Oh, he's used to it! What were horses made for, if not to drag
people uphill? Walk!
A good joke indeed!
And so the whip is plied and the rein is chucked and often a rough, scolding voice
cries out, "Go along, you lazy beast!"
And then another slash of the whip, when all the time we are doing our very best to
get along, uncomplaining and obedient, though often sorely harassed and down-
hearted.
This steam-engine style of driving wears us up faster than any other kind.
I would far rather go twenty miles with a good considerate driver than I would go ten
with some of these; it would take less out of me.
Another thing, they scarcely ever put on the brake, however steep the downhill may
be, and thus bad accidents sometimes happen; or if they do put it on, they often
forget to take it off at the bottom of the
hill, and more than once I have had to pull halfway up the next hill, with one of the
wheels held by the brake, before my driver chose to think about it; and that is a
terrible strain on a horse.
Then these cockneys, instead of starting at an easy pace, as a gentleman would do,
generally set off at full speed from the very stable-yard; and when they want to
stop, they first whip us, and then pull up
so suddenly that we are nearly thrown on our haunches, and our mouths jagged with
the bit--they call that pulling up with a dash; and when they turn a corner they do
it as sharply as if there were no right side or wrong side of the road.
I well remember one spring evening I and Rory had been out for the day.
(Rory was the horse that mostly went with me when a pair was ordered, and a good
honest fellow he was.)
We had our own driver, and as he was always considerate and gentle with us, we had a
very pleasant day. We were coming home at a good smart pace,
about twilight.
Our road turned sharp to the left; but as we were close to the hedge on our own side,
and there was plenty of room to pass, our driver did not pull us in.
As we neared the corner I heard a horse and two wheels coming rapidly down the hill
toward us.
The hedge was high, and I could see nothing, but the next moment we were upon
each other. Happily for me, I was on the side next the
hedge.
Rory was on the left side of the pole, and had not even a shaft to protect him.
The man who was driving was making straight for the corner, and when he came in sight
of us he had no time to pull over to his own side.
The whole shock came upon Rory.
The gig shaft ran right into the chest, making him stagger back with a cry that I
shall never forget. The other horse was thrown upon his
haunches and one shaft broken.
It turned out that it was a horse from our own stables, with the high-wheeled gig that
the young men were so fond of.
The driver was one of those random, ignorant fellows, who don't even know which
is their own side of the road, or, if they know, don't care.
And there was poor Rory with his flesh torn open and bleeding, and the blood streaming
down.
They said if it had been a little more to one side it would have killed him; and a
good thing for him, poor fellow, if it had.
As it was, it was a long time before the wound healed, and then he was sold for
coal-carting; and what that is, up and down those steep hills, only horses know.
Some of the sights I saw there, where a horse had to come downhill with a heavily
loaded two-wheel cart behind him, on which no brake could be placed, make me sad even
now to think of.
After Rory was disabled I often went in the carriage with a mare named Peggy, who stood
in the next stall to mine.
She was a strong, well-made animal, of a bright dun color, beautifully dappled, and
with a dark-brown mane and tail.
There was no high breeding about her, but she was very pretty and remarkably sweet-
tempered and willing.
Still, there was an anxious look about her eye, by which I knew that she had some
trouble.
The first time we went out together I thought she had a very odd pace; she seemed
to go partly a trot, partly a canter, three or four paces, and then a little jump
forward.
It was very unpleasant for any horse who pulled with her, and made me quite fidgety.
When we got home I asked her what made her go in that odd, awkward way.
"Ah," she said in a troubled manner, "I know my paces are very bad, but what can I
do? It really is not my fault; it is just
because my legs are so short.
I stand nearly as high as you, but your legs are a good three inches longer above
your knee than mine, and of course you can take a much longer step and go much faster.
You see I did not make myself.
I wish I could have done so; I would have had long legs then.
All my troubles come from my short legs," said Peggy, in a desponding tone.
"But how is it," I said, "when you are so strong and good-tempered and willing?"
"Why, you see," said she, "men will go so fast, and if one can't keep up to other
horses it is nothing but whip, whip, whip, all the time.
And so I have had to keep up as I could, and have got into this ugly shuffling pace.
It was not always so; when I lived with my first master I always went a good regular
trot, but then he was not in such a hurry.
He was a young clergyman in the country, and a good, kind master he was.
He had two churches a good way apart, and a great deal of work, but he never scolded or
whipped me for not going faster.
He was very fond of me. I only wish I was with him now; but he had
to leave and go to a large town, and then I was sold to a farmer.
"Some farmers, you know, are capital masters; but I think this one was a low
sort of man. He cared nothing about good horses or good
driving; he only cared for going fast.
I went as fast as I could, but that would not do, and he was always whipping; so I
got into this way of making a spring forward to keep up.
On market nights he used to stay very late at the inn, and then drive home at a
gallop.
"One dark night he was galloping home as usual, when all of a sudden the wheel came
against some great heavy thing in the road, and turned the gig over in a minute.
He was thrown out and his arm broken, and some of his ribs, I think.
At any rate, it was the end of my living with him, and I was not sorry.
But you see it will be the same everywhere for me, if men must go so fast.
I wish my legs were longer!" Poor Peggy!
I was very sorry for her, and I could not comfort her, for I knew how hard it was
upon slow-paced horses to be put with fast ones; all the whipping comes to their
share, and they can't help it.
She was often used in the phaeton, and was very much liked by some of the ladies,
because she was so gentle; and some time after this she was sold to two ladies who
drove themselves, and wanted a safe, good horse.
I met her several times out in the country, going a good steady pace, and looking as
gay and contented as a horse could be.
I was very glad to see her, for she deserved a good place.
After she left us another horse came in her stead.
He was young, and had a bad name for shying and starting, by which he had lost a good
place. I asked him what made him shy.
"Well, I hardly know," he said.
"I was timid when I was young, and was a good deal frightened several times, and if
I saw anything strange I used to turn and look at it--you see, with our blinkers one
can't see or understand what a thing is
unless one looks round--and then my master always gave me a whipping, which of course
made me start on, and did not make me less afraid.
I think if he would have let me just look at things quietly, and see that there was
nothing to hurt me, it would have been all right, and I should have got used to them.
One day an old gentleman was riding with him, and a large piece of white paper or
rag blew across just on one side of me. I shied and started forward.
My master as usual whipped me smartly, but the old man cried out, 'You're wrong!
you're wrong!
You should never whip a horse for shying; he shies because he is frightened, and you
only frighten him more and make the habit worse.'
So I suppose all men don't do so.
I am sure I don't want to shy for the sake of it; but how should one know what is
dangerous and what is not, if one is never allowed to get used to anything?
I am never afraid of what I know.
Now I was brought up in a park where there were deer; of course I knew them as well as
I did a sheep or a cow, but they are not common, and I know many sensible horses who
are frightened at them, and who kick up
quite a shindy before they will pass a paddock where there are deer."
I knew what my companion said was true, and I wished that every young horse had as good
masters as Farmer Grey and Squire Gordon.
Of course we sometimes came in for good driving here.
I remember one morning I was put into the light gig, and taken to a house in Pulteney
Street.
Two gentlemen came out; the taller of them came round to my head; he looked at the bit
and bridle, and just shifted the collar with his hand, to see if it fitted
comfortably.
"Do you consider this horse wants a curb?" he said to the hostler.
"Well," said the man, "I should say he would go just as well without; he has an
uncommon good mouth, and though he has a fine spirit he has no vice; but we
generally find people like the curb."
"I don't like it," said the gentleman; "be so good as to take it off, and put the rein
in at the cheek.
An easy mouth is a great thing on a long journey, is it not, old fellow?" he said,
patting my neck. Then he took the reins, and they both got
up.
I can remember now how quietly he turned me round, and then with a light feel of the
rein, and drawing the whip gently across my back, we were off.
I arched my neck and set off at my best pace.
I found I had some one behind me who knew how a good horse ought to be driven.
It seemed like old times again, and made me feel quite gay.
This gentleman took a great liking to me, and after trying me several times with the
saddle he prevailed upon my master to sell me to a friend of his, who wanted a safe,
pleasant horse for riding.
And so it came to pass that in the summer I was sold to Mr. Barry.