In fact, his appearance was anything but beautiful at that moment. His Roman nose, carried a long way forward and a little on one side, gave him somewhat the air of a camel; his coat showed no recent acquaintance with the brush; and as he stood there sleepily in the sun, with one hind-leg hitched up, he did not present at all a picture to charm a lady’s eye. Nevertheless, he was, in fact, a reasonably well-made horse, a full black, fifteen and three-quarter hands high, sound, kind, and seven years old.
“He’s just horrid,” said my wife.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said I; “that’s only a bad habit he has. We will soon cure him of such slovenly tricks. Just see what good points he has. His legs are a little long, to be sure, but they are broad, and have excellent hoofs; his breast is narrow, but then it is deep; and that large nostril was not given him for nothing. You will see he will run like a race-horse.”
“If you once get him started you can never stop him,” said my wife. “You know how he pulls, and how nervous he is. He will go till he drops. You are not strong enough to ride such a horse.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said I; “you can see that there is no mischief in him. Look what a kind eye he has! The fact is, horses are often very sensitive; and while this one may never have been cruelly treated, yet he has been misunderstood, and his feelings hurt a great many times a day. Human beings are the only things he seems afraid of. As for his awkward carriage, it is no worse than that of the farm hand who has made such a failure of trying to use him, and who is, nevertheless, when he stands up straight, a well-made, good-looking fellow. A little careful handling will make that animal as different from his present self as a dandified English sergeant is from the raw recruit he once was. What do you think of his name? It is Sambo.”
But my wife was not to be led off on any side question, and after intimating that such a plebeian appellation struck her as quite suitable, she continued; “Now you know that Mr. ——” (the farmer of whom I purchased) “knows a great deal more about horses than you do; you must admit that, for he has been buying and selling and driving them all his life, and he doesn’t like him, or he wouldn’t sell so cheap; and as for training him, for my part I don’t believe horse-training can be learned out of books, as a woman would learn a receipt for making cake. Do get him to take the horse back!”
Now I have a great respect for my wife’s opinion in general, and in this particular case all her points seemed well taken.
The horse was tall, and I was short; he was excitable, and I hadn’t the strength of a boy; he was very awkward, and I had never trained a horse in my life. However, I had been reading up a little on the subject, and feeling the confidence in myself which a very little knowledge is apt to impart, I was determined to try my hand.
I had remarked that there was a certain French system which was, in the several works I had consulted, always spoken of with respect as a complete and original method, so I obtained a copy of the book, in which is set forth the Méthode d’Équitation basée sur de nouveaux Principes, par F. Baucher, and having disentangled (no easy task) what was really practical from the enveloping mass of conceited sham scientific nonsense, I had numbered the margin so as to make a series of simple progressive lessons of half an hour each. The volume in question, which was not, by-the-bye, the present improved edition, I now produced in a somewhat dog-eared condition from under my arm. My wife, seeing that remonstrance was of no avail, took a seat on the veranda, so as to be ready to advise and assist, while my excellent friends, the farmer and his wife, came out “to see the circus,” as they said, and established themselves in suitable midsummer attitudes, with countenances of amused expectation.
“The first few lessons must be given on foot,” said I, and spreading my Baucher open upon the “horse-block,” I proceeded to carry out its first injunction by placing myself, with riding-whip under my arm, in front of the horse, which was already saddled and bridled, and “looking him kindly in the face.” He bore my gaze with equanimity, but when the riding-whip was produced he started violently; and when I raised my hand to pat his neck reassuringly he threw up his head and ran back. This evidently was not temper, but alarm. Clearly, moral suasion was not the kind that had been used with him hitherto. In plain English, he had been beaten on the head; and it was some time before he got over the impression made by such ill-treatment and ceased dodging at every sudden motion on my part.