CHAPTER XII.

PACES, VICES, AND FAULTS.

Cantering is a very nice pace for park or road riding, when the ground is soft, and not cut up by stones. A trained horse will start from a walk to a canter at a very slight indication from his rider, but surmising (as in the last chapter) that you have accepted the loan of a somewhat unmannerly or not sufficiently educated mount, you must induce him to canter by collecting him well on his haunches (from which the motion is in reality performed), touching him with the whip on the off side, and drawing his head gently round to the near until he makes a start. When he does so, balance yourself in time to his movement, and use the bridle lightly, with a very slight give-and-take motion of your hands. Do not allow him to get into a gallop; but, at the same time, remember that it will be cruel to keep him cantering too long, especially unless you permit him to change his leg, for which purpose you must pull him quietly up, and reverse the movement by which, in the first instance, you have urged him to go off. A slow, handsome canter, collected and dignified, looks extremely well no doubt in the park, but it is terribly trying to a horse when kept up too long; in fact, a smart, stirring gallop will not distress him nearly so much.

When cantering keep your knees firmly pressed against the pommels--sit close to the saddle, like a part of your horse--and throw your shoulders well back.

The very nice pace called a hand-gallop may be indulged in by slackening the rein a little, and encouraging your mount by voice or bridle to go a trifle faster. The hand-gallop never distresses a horse, even a broken-winded one; it is a joyous, exhilarating motion, in which both steed and rider find pleasure. Conversation need not be stopped by it, or even interrupted for a moment, and it will be found a delightful pace at which to go to covert in the morning, or to travel on to the next one, when “blank” has been called at the first.

The hand-gallop is only pastime--mere play, without any peril--but the gallop proper, to which I now come to allude, is a very serious business indeed for a young rider to take in hand. If your horse is a trained one, you have only to sit down close when he gallops, and hold the reins firmly in both hands: your seat secure, your body as motionless as you can make it, your elbows like hinges, your hands low on the withers, keeping your horse’s head straight and steady, while you give-and-take with his every stride, and on no account, or under any circumstances whatever, keep a dead pull on his mouth.

I shall surmise, however, as before (for the purpose of instructing you) that your steed is not by any means perfect, and that he will probably give you a good deal of trouble before you have quite done with him. He will not be likely to have all the vices, or even one-half of those for which I am about to prepare you, but you will probably meet with them in one form or another at different periods of your career as a horsewoman: therefore a few words about such matters will not, I think, be amiss.

If called upon to ride a puller, get his head up, and then drop your hands a little to him, to see whether he will yield to your will. If he fails to do so, catch the reins short, draw back your foot, give him one good pull, and then another: in short, a succession of them--but yield to him always between whiles, and speak to him in a quiet, soothing manner. Do not attempt to fight him, or he may run away with you, and that is nasty for a lady. If you think that he has the bit between his teeth, you may saw at it from side to side until you get him to release it.

Boring is a very unpleasant vice, if I may call it one. Few horses have it naturally, and I attribute it in most cases to an undue use of the curb. I have found that the best method of treating it is to take up the cheek-pieces of the headstall. If a horse bores to one side (a most unsightly habit), attach the throat-latch to the ring of the snaffle-bridle by a small strap on the side opposite to that on which the head is bent. This is generally effectual, because it brings the mouthpiece to bear upon the gum.

A kicker is not a pleasant mount for a lady, and the powers which some animals possess in this especial line are simply astonishing. As a rule you will perceive, either by the laying back of your horse’s ears, or a queer wriggle of his body, that he is going to do something that will stamp him as a villain, and if these indications are accompanied by a backward turning of a very whitened eye, look out at once for your life! Many horses will, however, give no warning of any kind, and they of course are the most dangerous sort. Thoroughbreds are quite dreadful in this particular. They will kick when going a brisk gallop. I have twice had my hat _lashed_ by the tails of high kickers--and the most stunning fall I ever got in my life was through being caught napping by one of these volatile gentlemen, who pretended to be going up to his bridle in the most collected manner possible (when exercising one day in frosty weather, in a wood), and suddenly shot me off like an arrow from a bow!--so high, too, that to this day I am ready to swear I saw the tops of the bare elms, while the force of my contact with the ground, when at length I came down upon it, gave me concussion of the spine, from which I suffered for several succeeding months.

A horse that kicks must be ridden in a severe bit, except in cases where it is only an ebullition of spirits. Where this is the case, ride him hard, and get it out of him; when it amounts to an actual vice, you must keep him partially in order by using a bit such as I seriously decry for other forms of misdemeanor, and when he begins his unpleasant pranks get his head _well_ up, so that he can’t force it between his knees, and bend him round until you compel him to turn. By doing this a few times he will probably leave off kicking.

To ride a kicker in the hunting-field is highly injudicious and unfair. Some excellent hunters, however, though not by any means confirmed kickers, will lash out dangerously when riders are crowded together at a gap, and this is about the very worst time at which a horse can possibly misconduct himself. When riding one of this sort, you must be content to pay the penalty of his vagaries by isolating yourself from the rest of the field--a disadvantage, of course, for all riders naturally make for the best places at which to get out; and if, in spite of this, you are pressed upon by others, you must put your hand to the back of your waist, the fingers turning outwards, and motion slightly with them, in order that those in the rear of you may know that they are in peril.

Buck-jumping is another most unpleasant vice, although happily not a very common one in this country. I have only come across one horse who possessed it. He belonged to a Meath farmer, and I bought him for a song on account of his failing. He got me off five times the first day that I attempted to ride him, and so delighted was he with himself when he succeeded in gaining the odd number, that he actually kept bucking about, like a playful goat, all around me--squealing and romping, and flourishing his horrid heels at me--while I lay exhausted upon the ground, too much bruised to be able to get up without help. After this I put a gag-snaffle on him, pulled the reins sharply when he attempted to get his head down, and then, when he lowered it in spite of me, let the leathers slip through my fingers on to his neck, leaned back as far as ever I could (still, however, keeping hold of the reins), and the moment I was able to get a pull at him, turned him round and round from one side to the other, until both he and I were pretty tired of the work. All things considered, I cannot conscientiously recommend a buck-jumper for a lady’s use.

Rearing is a very dangerous vice for a horsewoman to have to contend against, owing to the side position which she occupies in the saddle. If ever you are unlucky enough to have to mount a rearer, do not touch him with a curb at all; ride him on the snaffle only, and when he attempts to rise up with you, lean well forward and clutch his mane firmly with your hands, holding the bridle very loosely all the while, and touching him sharply with your heel. Do not on any account lay your whip upon him, be it ever so lightly. I myself have found the butt end of such an article, brought down briskly between the ears of a rearer, a very efficient mode of bringing him to his senses,--but please bear in mind that I do not either advocate or recommend it: in fact, rather than do so, I should prefer to warn you _against_ it, for once, when, flushed with my own success, I chanced to say something in favour of the system, my temerity brought thirty-two letters down upon me (most of them from horrified old gentlemen who declared that their daughters were practising on the carriage horses!), and the columns of more than one sporting paper were inundated for a month or two with an inane correspondence.

I have found a rearing bit most useful at times; but, if taken aback when riding without one, it will be well to follow the practice of holding on to the mane with one hand, say the left, while with the right the reins are pulled in a downward direction, bringing the horse’s head round ever so little, in order if possible to make him change his leg. The fact is, there are vicious rearers whom nothing will cure--cunning ones who know enough never to tumble back upon you, and are sufficiently amenable in other ways to encourage the hope that something may be made of them--playful ones who transgress more from skittishness than vice--and timid ones who, having suffered from too severe bitting, throw themselves upward as soon as they feel the touch of the bridle upon their mouths. An accomplished horsewoman will soon distinguish the differences which mark these various offenders, and will act with coolness and judgment, according as her training may point out to her. I believe that to be perfectly cool on all occasions, never to be flurried, or taken unawares, and above all things never to lose temper, no matter how trying the circumstances, will best ensure successful equestrianism, both for men and women. To expect to ride without encountering difficulties and worries, as well as risks and dangers, is only to look for something that cannot possibly be attained. Ride, of course, you may--if to sit calmly on a slug’s back, and walk him round a grass field, or along a country road, can be called riding--but the term, in the sense in which I apply it, means something very different indeed. It is replete with dangers and anxieties of all sorts, but surely it is worth them. Many a time, when I have come in fagged, heated, and dirty, after battling with a young beginner--or ragged and weary after a hard day’s hunting through bush and briar, it has been said to me, “Surely the pleasure, such as it is, cannot repay you for the toil.” Utter nonsense, of course! Is _any_ trouble, or any loss, for an instant remembered in the joyous burst of music with which hounds rattle their fox out of covert, or the delight of feeling a hitherto intractable youngster bending at length submissively to one’s will?

Often and often now, when sitting alone in my quiet study, or watching the active pleasures from which I am wholly debarred, I feel how truly I have “had my day”--a most happy one--and how willingly I would go through the same sufferings, if consequent upon the same joys. _Tempora mutantur._ Even so, let it pass.

Shying cannot properly be called a vice, though many consider it one. I think it generally proceeds from defective vision, and where this is the case the animal may be led quietly up to the object of his aversion, and shown that it is nothing very dreadful after all. Shying at a bicycle or road-engine is so extremely natural that the rider--so far from showing any anger against his mount--ought to soothe and quiet him by every means in his power. A young, fresh horse will shy at a bird, a piece of paper--anything--but a clever equestrian should never be discomposed by such trifles. A steady seat ought to be sufficient security against all possible disaster.

Stumbling is a very unpleasant weakness, though not a vice. Being too heavily shod is often a cause of it, and this of course can be remedied; but there is little chance of effecting any good when the fault proceeds from defective muscular action, or from malformation of the feet. Neither can it be cured when it arises from the shoulders being too straight, or the forelegs shaky. A bad, cramped trotter without any proper knee action, is extremely likely to stumble and come down, and all that a rider can possibly do with such a one is to keep him well collected--I do not mean reined in, but going properly up to his bridle--and to make him bring his hind legs under him, at whatever pace he may be going. I greatly dislike the habit, common among ignorant riders and drivers, of _striking_ a horse when he stumbles: it cannot then effect any good, and is calculated to give him an unpleasant habit of prancing about whenever the mishap occurs.

Disquietude in mounting is a very serious fault. Some horses plunge and dance in a highly dangerous manner--the result of nervousness, or of having at some time or another been frightened by some mischance. When this is the case the horse ought to be held for a moment or two by the snaffle rein _only_, quite close to the cheek, and be spoken to at the same time in a soothing manner. He should never on any account be scolded, and by-and-by, when he quiets down a little, the groom should stand at his head, and hold the snaffle-reins firmly but lightly in both hands. If you perceive that he (the attendant) is not thoroughly master of his business, it will be yours to see that he does not by any movement bring the curb into action, or pinch the horse’s jaw.

Running away is a desperate vice for a lady to have to grapple with, and my own experiences of it warn me to put others on their guard. If a horse is _known_ to be a runaway, never be induced to trust yourself upon his back. He will do it again at some time or another, even though his first offence may have almost passed out of mind, and it will be better that you should give him a wide berth. I must candidly say, however, that I would rather, for my own safety, ride ten practised runaways--what are called old hands at it--than one mad, frightened horse that had lost his wits from some real cause of alarm.

The best advice that I can give in either case is this: Do not keep a dead pull upon the reins, because that will not be a particle of use; in fact, by doing so you will only be supporting his head, and giving him stamina to go faster. Try by _a succession_ of strong jerks and pulls to prevent him getting fully into his stride, for once he does so you may bid good-bye to any chance of stopping him until he has run himself clean out. A horse that is not a confirmed runaway may be checked by sawing his mouth hard with the snaffle, but my advice is, do not try to stop him at all, if you have fair going ground before you, or that you can possibly breast him up any sort of incline. In such case, let him go--sit close down in your saddle--and when you feel him slacken, take up your whip in earnest, and give it him within an inch of his life. This _latter_ advice, however, only applies to “rogues”--animals who habitually run away and endanger their riders. To whip a really startled horse would be both cruel and unwise; nor is it ever judicious to do so in cases where the going is not both fair and _open_ in front of you. If run away with in park or street, you must endeavour to keep clear of trees and vehicles, and strive to get your horse stopped as best you can. Happily, such catastrophes do not very often occur.

I am against the theory that a rider ought in all instances to stick to a runaway horse. As a _rule_ it is better to do so, but there are decidedly a few exceptions. A pet idea of my own is to bring him down, in whatever way it can best be done; but I do not for a moment want to persuade others to do this. One man’s meat is another man’s poison; and on this principle a plan which is, or has been, successful in my own hands might prove a dangerous failure in another’s. I once stopped a maddened horse that had made away with me at Melton, by letting him have his head for about a furlong, or something less, and then giving him one stupendous tug with the reins. The sudden jerk to his mouth caused him to cross his legs, and he came down a “thundering cropper,” giving me one, of course, also; but riding, as I always did, in a plain racing stirrup, without having my foot thrust “home,” I got clear off, and escaped without any more serious injury than a very severe shaking. The sensation was not a nice one, I confess, and the peril was great; but, on the whole, I should prefer it again to enacting Mazeppa, or something like it, on the back of a wild steed, who would probably not stop until he had landed his rider at that fatal bourne from whence no traveller returns.