WAITING FOR DEATH.
In the morning of his days he was handsome, sleek as a raven, sprightly and spirited, and was then much caressed and happy. When he grew to perfection, in his performances, even on the turf, and afterwards in the chase, and in the field, he was equalled by few of his kind. At one time of his life he saved that of his master, whom he bore, in safety, across the rapid flood; but having, in climbing the opposite rocky shore, received a blemish, it was thought prudent to dispose of him; after which he fell into the hands of different masters, but from none of them did he ever eat the bread of idleness; and, as he grew in years, his cup of misery was still augmented with bitterness.
It was once his hard lot to fall into the hands of Skinflint, a horse-keeper, an authorised wholesale and retail dealer in cruelty, who employed him alternately, but closely, as a hack, both in the chaise and for the saddle; for when the traces and trappings, used in the former, had peeled the skin from off his breast, shoulders, and sides, he was then, as his back was whole, thought fit for the latter; indeed, his exertions, in this service of unfeeling avarice and folly, were great beyond belief. He was always, late and early, made ready for action; he was never allowed to rest, even on the Sabbath day, because he could trot well, had a good bottom, and was the best hack in town; and, it being a day of pleasure and pastime, he was much sought after by beings, in appearance, something like gentlemen; in whose hands his sufferings were greater than his nature could bear. Has not the compassionate eye beheld him whipped, spurred, and galloped beyond his strength, in order to accomplish double the length of the journey that he was engaged to perform, till, by the inward grief expressed in his countenance, he seemed to plead for mercy, one would have thought most powerfully, but, alas, in vain! In the whole load which he bore (as was often the case), not an ounce of humanity could be found; and, his rider being determined to have pennyworths for his money, the ribs of this silent slave, where not a hair had for long been suffered to grow, were still ripped up. He was pushed forward through a stony rivulet, then on hard road against the hill, and having lost a shoe, split his hoof, and being quite spent with hunger and fatigue, he fell, broke his nose and his knees, and was unable to proceed;—and becoming greased, spavined, ringboned, blind of an eye, and the skin, by repeated friction, being worn off all the large prominences of his body, he was judged to be only fit for the dogs:—however, one shilling and sixpence beyond the dog-horse price saved his life, and he became the property of a poor dealer and horse doctor.
It is amazing to think upon the vicissitudes of his life: he had often been burnished up, his teeth defaced by art, peppered under his tail; having been the property of a general, a gentleman, a farmer, a miller, a butcher, a higgler, and a maker of brooms. A hard winter coming on, a want of money, and a want of meat, obliged his poor owner to turn him out to shift for himself. His former fame and great value are now, to him, not worth a handful of oats. But his days and nights of misery are now drawing to an end; so that, after having faithfully dedicated the whole of his powers and his time to the service of unfeeling man, he is at last turned out, unsheltered and unprotected, to starve of hunger and of cold.
1785.
JOHN BEWICK.
That rare old book, “A Collection of all the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads, relative to Robin Hood,” published by Ritson, 1795, was embellished by John Bewick. Three of the cuts are introduced in the following pages. A comparison of them with the book itself, will show the great improvement which has taken place in the printing of wood cuts since that day. It may not, perhaps, be out of place to insert an extract from a letter, on the subject of these cuts, written by the antiquary to the artist, more than half a century ago.
“Gray’s Inn.