“After all, my dear Lady Rockville,” said Miss Perceval, yawning, “what have horses got legs for, except to run?”

“Yes, but not at such a pace! It always shocked me—formerly at Doncaster, where the jockeys were sometimes paid £1000 for winning—to see how the poor animals were lashed and spurred along the course, foaming with fatigue, gasping till they nearly expired. Horses, poor creatures, from the hour of their birth till their death, have a sad time of it!”

“Grandmama once read me a beautiful description of a wild horse in his natural state of liberty,” said Laura.

“Among the South American forests he was to be seen carrying his head erect, with sparkling eyes, flowing mane, and splendid tail, trotting about among the noble trees, or [195] ]cropping the grass at his feet, looking quite princely, and doing precisely what he pleased.”

“Then look at the contrast,” said Lady Rockville, pointing to a long row of cart-horses with galled sides, shrivelled skins, broken knees, and emaciated bodies, which were all dragging their weary load along. “Animals are all meant for the use of man, but not to be abused, like these poor creatures!”

“As for racing,” said Miss Perceval, “a thorough-bred horse enters into the spirit of it quite as much as his rider. Did you never hear of Quin’s celebrated steed, which became so eager to win, that when his antagonist passed he seized him violently by the leg, and both jockeys had to dismount that the furious animal might be torn away. The famous horse Forester, too, caught hold of his opponent by the jaw, and could scarcely be disengaged.”

“Think of all the cruel training these poor creatures went through before they came to that,” added Lady Rockville; “of the way in which horses are beaten, spurred, and severely cut with the whip; then, after their strength fails, like the well-known ‘high-mettled racer,’ the poor animal is probably sold at last to perpetual hard labour and ill-usage.”

“Uncle David shewed me yesterday,” said Laura, “that horrid picture which you have probably seen, by Cruickshanks, of the Knackers’ Yards in London, where old horses are sent to end their miserable days, after it is impossible to torture them any longer into working. Oh! it was dreadful! and yet grandmama said the whole sketch had been taken from life.”

“I know that,” answered Lady Rockville. “In these places the wretched animals are literally put to death by starvation, and may be seen gnawing each other’s manes in the last agonies of hunger.”

“My dear Lady Rockville,” exclaimed Miss Perceval, [196] ]affectedly, “how can you talk of such unpleasant things!—there is an Act of Parliament against cruelty to animals, so of course no such thing exists now. Many gentlemen are vastly kind to old horses, turning them out to grass for years, that they may enjoy a life of elegant leisure and rural retirement, to which, no doubt, some are well entitled; for instance, the famous horse Eclipse, which gained his owner £25,000! I wish he had been mine!”