The Romany Rye

by George Borrow

  CHAPTER XXV

  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 withthe wholesome smell of the stable, with which many of these pages areredolent; what a contrast to the sickly odours exhaled from those of someof my contemporaries, especially of those who pretend to be of the highlyfashionable class, and who treat of reception-rooms, well may they bestyled so, in which dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, archbishops,bishops, mayors, mayoresses--not forgetting the writers themselves, bothmale and female--congregate and press upon one another; how cheering, howrefreshing, after having been nearly knocked down with such anatmosphere, to come in contact with genuine stable hartshorn. Oh! thereader shall have yet more of the stable, and of that old ostler, forwhich he or she will doubtless exclaim, 'Much obliged!'--and lest Ishould forget to perform my promise, the reader shall have it now.

  I shall never forget an harangue from the mouth of the old man, which Ilistened to one warm evening as he and I sat on the threshold of thestable, after having attended to some of the wants of a batch ofcoach-horses. It related to the manner in which a gentleman should takecare of his horse and self, whilst engaged in a journey on horseback, andwas addressed to myself, on the supposition of my one day coming to anestate, and of course becoming a gentleman.

  'When you are a gentleman,' said he, 'should you ever wish to take ajourney on a horse of your own, and you could not have a much better thanthe one you have here eating its fill in the box yonder--I wonderby-the-by, how you ever came by it--you can't do better than follow theadvice I am about to give you, both with respect to your animal andyourself. Before you start, merely give your horse a couple of handfulsof corn, and a little water, somewhat under a quart, and if you drink apint of water yourself out of the pail, you will feel all the betterduring the whole day; then you may walk and trot your animal for aboutten miles, till you come to some nice inn, where you may get down and seeyour horse led into a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him tillyou come. If the ostler happens to be a dog-fancier, and has an Englishterrier dog like that of mine there, say what a nice dog it is, andpraise 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; thatkind of thing will please the ostler, and he will let you do just whatyou please with your own horse, and when your back is turned, he'll sayto his comrades what a nice gentleman you are, and how he thinks he hasseen you before; then go and sit down to breakfast, and before you havefinished 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 theshine out of his corn, which will prevent the ostler taking any of itaway when your back is turned, for such things are sometimes done--notthat 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 havefinished your breakfast and called for the newspaper, go and water yourhorse, letting him have about one pailful, then give him another feed ofcorn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, theprime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken theshine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper--and Ihope for your sake it may be the "Globe," for that's the best papergoing--then pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will paywithout counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waitersixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay forthe corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walkhim 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 downand smash his knees, more especially if the road be a particularly goodone, for it is not at a desperate hiverman {152} pace, and over very badroads, that a horse tumbles and smashes his knees, but on yourparticularly nice road, when the horse is going gently and lazily, and ishalf asleep, like the gemman on his back; well, at the end of the fivemiles, when the horse has digested his food, and is all right, you maybegin to push your horse on, trotting him a mile at a heat, and thenwalking him a quarter of a one, that his wind may be not distressed; andyou 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 theend of that distance you may stop at some other nice inn for dinner. Isay, when your horse is led into the stable, after that same thirty milestrotting and walking, don't let the saddle be whisked off at once, for ifyou do your horse will have such a sore back as will frighten you, butlet 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, muchless water, till after a long hour and more; after he is fed he may bewatered to the tune of half a pail, and then the ostler can give him aregular rub down; you may then sit down to dinner, and when you havedined get up and see to your horse as you did after breakfast, in factyou must do much after the same fashion you did at t'other inn; see toyour horse, and by no means disoblige the ostler. So when you have seento your horse a second time, you will sit down to your bottle ofwine--supposing you to be a gentleman--and after you have finished it,and your argument about the corn-laws with any commercial gentleman whohappens to be in the room, you may mount your horse again--not forgettingto do the proper thing to the waiter and ostler; you may mount your horseagain 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'sjourney, for no gentleman--supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as Isuppose you will by the time you become a gentleman--ought to ride ahorse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regardfor his horse's back, or his own either. See to your horse at night, andhave him well rubbed down. The next day you may ride your horse fortymiles just as you please, but never foolishly, and those forty miles willbring you to your journey's end, unless your journey be a plaguy longone, and if so, never ride your horse more than five-and-thirty miles aday, always, however, seeing him well fed, and taking more care of himthan yourself; which is but right and reasonable, seeing as how the horseis the best animal of the two.

  'When you are a gentleman,' said he, after a pause, 'the first thing youmust think about is to provide yourself with a good horse for your ownparticular riding; you will, perhaps, keep a coach and pair, but theywill be less your own than your lady's, should you have one, and youryoung gentry, should you have any; or, if you have neither, for madam,your housekeeper, and the upper female servants; so you need trouble yourhead less about them, though, of course, you would not like to pay awayyour money for screws; but be sure you get a good horse for your ownriding; and that you may have a good chance of having a good one, buy onethat's young and has plenty of belly--a little more than the one haswhich you now have, though you are not yet a gentleman; you will, ofcourse, look to his head, his withers, legs and other points, but neverbuy a horse at any price that has not plenty of belly, no horse that hasnot belly is ever a good feeder, and a horse that ain't a good feedercan't be a good horse; never buy a horse that is drawn up in the bellybehind, a horse of that description can't feed, and can never carrysixteen stone.

  'So when you have got such a horse be proud of it--as I dare say you areof the one you have now--and wherever you go swear there ain't another tomatch it in the country, and if anybody gives you the lie, take him bythe nose and tweak it off, just as you would do if anybody were to speakill of your lady, or, for want of her, of your housekeeper. Take care ofyour horse as you would of the apple of your eye--I am sure I would, if Iwere 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 havein the world; for, after all, who will carry you through thick and thinas your horse will? not your gentlemen friends, I warrant, nor yourhousekeeper, nor your upper servants, male or female; perhaps your ladywould, that is, if she is a wopper, and one of t
he right sort; the otherswould be more likely to take up mud and pelt you with it, provided theysaw you in trouble, than to help you. So take care of your horse, andfeed him every day with your own hands; give him three-quarters of a peckof corn each day, mixed up with a little hay-chaff, and allow him besidesone hundred weight of hay in the course of the week; some say that thehay should be hardland hay, because it is wholesomest, but I say, let itbe clover hay, because the horse likes it best; give him through summerand winter, once a week, a pailful of bran mash, cold in summer and inwinter hot; ride him gently about the neighbourhood every day, by whichmeans you will give exercise to yourself and horse, and, moreover, havethe satisfaction of exhibiting yourself and your horse to advantage, andhearing, perhaps, the men say what a fine horse, and the ladies sayingwhat a fine man: never let your groom mount your horse, as it is ten toone, 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 tothe inn at Hounslow, and flung him a horse down worth ninety guineas, byendeavouring to show off before some ladies that I met on the road. Turnyour horse out to grass throughout May and the first part of June, forthen the grass is sweetest, and the flies don't sting so bad as they dolater in summer; afterwards merely turn him out occasionally in the swaleof the morn and the evening; after September the grass is good forlittle, lash and sour at best; every horse should go out to grass, if nothis blood becomes full of greasy humours, and his wind is apt to becomeaffected, but he ought to be kept as much as possible from the heat andflies, always got up at night, and never turned out late in theyear--Lord! if I had always such a nice attentive person to listen to meas you are, I could go on talking about 'orses to the end of time.'