The Sportswoman's Library, Vol. 1 of 2

by Unknown

It is as well for your own comfort and that of other people to ride sane horses as far as in you lies. I once had a ride on an insane one, and it was far from satisfactory. It was perfectly immaterial to that horse whether he arrived at his fence with his head or his tail foremost. Now it is not a pleasant sensation to waltz round and round, or to find yourself bounding backward towards an impenetrable black bullfinch and at the last moment to whip round and swish through or over as chance befalls. It was rather like having a hunt on a wild cat, for I never knew where or how he intended either to take off or land, but he would not fall, though the bridle behind his ears was a mass of mud and grass, after one double distilled peck into a boggy field.

Of course a woman has not half the strength on a phlegmatic horse that a man has to "gar them gang," as we say in the North. A man can squeeze a half-hearted one over a fence, where a woman would be simply powerless to do anything, and I think the worst sort of a horse a woman can ride is a refuser. It is bad for her in every way, for body, temper, and nerve. One can forgive a horse everything if he will but try, but a sulky or funking brute, who grows more and more slack as he nears each fence until he collapses at the brink, is too high a trial, especially when the fight which must come generally ends in rearing, which is of all things most dangerous for a woman.

I once had a racehorse given me, which had been spoiled in training, with the temper simply of a fiend. In racing, he never would try, but always shut up just when he ought to have won with ease, for to give the devil his due—and he was one—he could gallop. That horse out hunting was simply purgatory; he could jump like a stag, which was the most irritating part of the whole thing, and sometimes he would gallop and jump with the best for a few fields, then all of a sudden collapse, stop, dig in his toes, and that was the end of my hunt, for no power on earth after that would induce him to go forwards. Backwards he would go all round the field, with intervals of rearing. I saw him fall backwards twice in one day, when one of the whippers-in was riding him, because he refused to go through an open gate.

Riding a refuser does I think teach one to be strong on a horse; but is it worth it? You can always acquire strength to a certain degree by riding different horses, which is a far more agreeable form of education, and much more interesting than always sticking to two or three of your own. For a beginner, of course, it is necessary she should above all things have confidence in her horse that he will carry her safely, so that when she finds one she had better stick to him. A made hunter in the prime of life with nice manners, easy paces, and good temper is the horse for her, for he will carry her safely without fatigue, and for that there is nothing like the action of a thoroughbred, whose low, slinking stride hardly makes one rise. A woman should not ride too big a horse for her size, as a great stride is very tiring, especially when hacking on the roads. One of the greatest luxuries is a smooth hack, and if you wish to keep warm on your way to the meet, then, instead of driving, to canter along the grassy sides of our English roads on a thoroughbred polo pony, is one of the most delightful sensations in life.

The ideal hunter would be neither too young nor too old. For the young one will be too brave, if he is bold by nature and ridden by a keen beginner, he will with his rider probably come to grief through want of discrimination. The old hunter will fall short, in the sense of being too cunning to jump one inch bigger than he need; moreover when he falls he will not pick himself up as quickly as he might. Therefore if, when riding him he falls, you do not happen to be "top side" your peril will be prolonged, though mercifully horses are mostly kind and really try not to tread on one or hurt one if they can avoid it.

It is more than foolish ever to jump a tired horse, it is unfair, for it he is fond of hunting, horses mostly are, he will jump as long as he can, so if, after a long run he refuses a place, take the hint and go home.

No one knows better than I the lonely feeling of being obliged to pull up in the middle of a good run because one's horse is beat, "while the merry chase goes heedless sweeping by." But if you have only one horse out, it is hopeless to compete with more fashionable souls who are on their fresh second horses, so it is really wiser to make the best of a bad job, and though you feel it hard, go home. Your horse will come out again the oftener, too, and you can enjoy a hunt but little, if you know you are asking more of your horse than you ought. A tired horse, too, makes a tired rider, and that makes a sore back, and then—where are you? Talking of going home and tired horses, reminds me that if you are at all far from home it is best to put your horse in a public, or some friendly stable on the way, and give him a drink of gruel, for this will freshen him up and make your ride home all the pleasanter. Perhaps it would be as well to mention how the gruel should be made, in case you should ever have to do it yourself. Thus, place two double-handfulls of oatmeal in a bucket, pour boiling water over it and stir until it becomes a thick cream; then pour cold water till cool enough for the horse to drink, which will be when it is about blood heat. Should your horse be very done, add a pint of ale or a little gin, to revive him.

The ride home is now shorn of some of its terrors, by the saddles which let you sit downhill. What a boon these are, for one used to suffer anguish, jogging for miles on the old-fashioned saddle whose pommels rose higher than the seat, so that your knee was almost under your chin, and the consequence was a pain between the shoulder blades, which made you long for rest. Oh! those long jogs home. Miles and miles at hounds' pace, on a rough or tired horse. How I used to pull up and walk, and then gallop to catch up my father, he jogging even on, even on, all the time. I can hear him now answering my complaints with, "nonsense, child; it rests one all the way."