Poor Blossom: The Story of a Horse

by Edith Carrington

By-and-by we came upon a stupendous hill, and here a boy sitting upon a horse volunteered to help us up the hill for sixpence. Benjamin Bunter was in an excellent humour, and the offer was accepted; the horse was attached to the shafts of the cart, and we moved forward.

Now I do not wish to speak ill of any of my race, but I must out with the truth at all times—that helping horse was a disgrace to his fellows. He was as cunning as a fox, and made a deal of show, pretending to strain his muscles and spluttering his feet about, but he did not pull a bit. He was as bad as the boy upon his back, who shouted and pretended to urge him on, while he really encouraged him to hold back. I ventured to remonstrate in a whisper to my helper, but he only answered with a short contemptuous laugh, which I have no doubt Benjamin Bunter interpreted as a cough, and I had to do the work of the hill in reality alone. At the top my master paid the boy the sixpence, and the precious pair went back in search of other victims.

After a brief rest we proceeded, and presently came upon the downs where the races were held, and my master guided me past a long line of white booths, erected for refreshment and various purposes. In some I have been told men gamble and fight, but I have never seen such things, and I only pretend to give the results of my actual experience. There was one large wooden erection which Benjamin Bunter pointed out to his wife as the Grand Stand; it was empty then, but I saw it later filled with ladies and gentlemen most magnificently dressed.

We were very early, and my master secured a good place near the ropes, after paying ten shillings for the privilege. He and Mr. King then got down and went away, and Mrs. Bunter brought out a bottle full of rum. She had a sip, Mrs. King had a sip, and the children were induced to wet their lips with it. All this seemed to me to be very shocking, but there were many cartloads of people around doing much the same thing, and nobody cried out against it.

Turning from Mrs. Bunter and her friend, I took a look at the scene around me. Like the great city, it defies description. Early as it was thousands had already assembled, and the air was full of shouts and laughter, and cries that some might have thought the outburst of joy; but I could detect a wail beneath it which told me that the joy was after all but a hollow thing. I was now old enough and had seen enough to read man at a glance, and as the thousands walked by I scanned their faces and read no real satisfaction there. They were hilarious it is true, but they lacked the contented expression which true happiness brings. But even the apparently happy were in the minority; the main part of this throng were eager, restless creatures, who walked quickly up and down, and talked in low whispers to their friends, or scanned little pocket-books with a forlorn look, as if they read their doom therein. ‘Knave and gamester’ were written in the looks of many—alas! too many—of the young as well as old. Every amusement presented by the itinerant took the gambling form—betting was the order of the day, from pence to pounds. Some held up purses and talked of large sums to be sold for a shilling, and the thoughtless, untutored novice in race-course ways bought them, to find themselves deceived, and to hear the laughter of those who find fun in a miserable lie. Wheels of fortune, spinning jennies, cards, dice, all were there, and vice, forgetting her shame, walked boldly in the sunlight.

Opposite, the big wooden stand and others on either side were filling, and a babel of voices rose from the shifting mass. This, I was told afterwards, was the noise of betting men, who risked their money—some all their wealth, honour, good name—on the race to come. Some of the noblest names in our land have been blackened in the betting ring. Some of the richest among the people have left their all upon the race-course, and gone home to shame and ruin. And yet men call racing ‘pleasure;’ but who can reason with them on the subject when they call pigeon-slaughter by the name of ‘sport’?

It was a strange motley scene, interesting in many points, but painful in most, for I could see that there was more folly than fun in everything around me; and folly, every thinking creature, horse and man, knows, is but the herald of ruin and shame.

I was musing on the scene when my thoughts were interrupted by a carriage which drew up beside me; it was open, and contained two young fellows barely arrived at the recognised age of manhood. Both were well dressed and in the highest possible spirits. I was immediately interested in them; but my attention was withdrawn by the horse in the brougham, who was in front of me—we stood in fact face to face.

There was a form a little more developed than I had hitherto known it, but quite familiar, from the tip of the well-shaped nose to the end of the ample tail. No need for that amused expression of face to guide me to a recognition; I knew him at once—it was my old friend Rip, and involuntarily I uttered a loud neigh of joyful surprise.

‘Hush! pray do,’ remonstrated Rip. ‘Don’t be so vulgar. You really astonish me with your want of breeding.’