It is a fact that no man who has once been a School-rider ever abandons either the knowledge he has gained or its constant practice.

No one can underrate the pleasure of simple motion upon a vigorous horse. But the School-rider has this in equal degree with the uneducated horseman, coupled with a feeling of control and power and ability to perform which the mere man on horseback never attains.

Moreover, all the powers of the School-rider's horse are within the grasp of his hand; and that the powers of the high-strung steed of the average equestrian are all too often resident mainly in the animal itself is shown by the chapter of accidents daily reiterated in the news-columns. The School-man is apt to ride more moderately, and to indulge in a bracing gallop less frequently, because to him the pleasure of slow and rhythmic movement on a fleet and able horse is far greater than mere rapidity can ever be; the untrained rider resorts to speed because this is the one exhilaration within the bounds of his own or his horse's knowledge.

I do not wish to be understood as advocating the School habit of _always_ keeping a horse collected. However much for some purposes I admire it, I do not practice it. I often saunter off a half-dozen miles without lifting the rein, while Patroclus wanders at his own sweet will. I often trot or gallop at my nag's quite unrestrained gait. But if I want to collect him, if I want that obedience which the School teaches him to yield, he must, to be to me a perfect horse, at my slightest intimation give himself absolutely to my control, and take all his art from me. I feel that I am a good judge of either habit of riding, as I have well tried both, and absolutely adhere to neither. I pretend by no means, in School-riding, to have carried my art so far as to be even within hail of the great masters of equitation; but I have not for many years been without one or more horses educated in all the School airs which are applicable to road-riding, and I know their value and appreciate it.

Because, then, the cowboy is nowhere in the hunting-field; or because the hard-riding squire and M. F. H. cannot drop to the further side of his horse while he shoots at his galloping enemy, or pick up a kerchief from the ground at a smart gallop; or because the Frenchman has to learn his racing trade from an English jockey, it will not do to say that each is not among the best of hors.e.m.e.n, or that either is better than the other. The style of riding is always the outgrowth of certain conditions of necessity or pleasure, and invariably fits those conditions well. With us in the East the English habit is no doubt the most available; but it can only be made the test of our own needs or fashions, not of general equestrianism.

XVII.

While all this has been buzzing through your master's brain, you, Patroclus, knowing full well that the loosely hanging rein has meant liberty within reason to yourself, have wandered away to the nearest thicket, and begun to crop the tender leaves and shoots as peacefully as you please. To look at your quiet demeanor at this moment one would scarcely think that you were such a bundle of nerves. You can be as sedate as Rosinante till called upon. But when the bit plays in your mouth, you are as full of life and action as the steeds of Diomed with flowing manes. Your eye and ear are an index to your mood, and you reflect your rider's wish in every step. No man ever bestrode a more generous beast than you. Do you remember, Patroclus, the days when you carried your little twelve-year-old mistress, and how her first lessons in fine equitation were taken in your company? And cleverly did she learn indeed. Do you remember how we used to put you on your honor, though you were only a five-year-old and dearly loved to romp and play? Ay, Patroclus, and fairly did you answer the appeal! With the gentle burden on your broad, strong back, her golden-red hair streaming behind her in the breeze from under her jaunty hat, you would have ridden through fire, my beauty, rather than betray your trust. However tempted to a bound, or however startled at some fearsome thing, one word--a "Quiet, Pat!"--from that soft girlish voice, now hushed for both of us, would never fail to keep you kind and steady. And you were ever willing, with even more than your accustomed alacrity, to perform your airs at the slightest encouragement of the soft hands and gentle voice; and having done so would lay back your ears and shake your head with very pleasure at the rippling laughter in which your pretty rider's thanks were wont to be expressed. I knew, Patroclus, that in your care the little maid was quite as safe as with her doll at home.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PLATE VI.

A TEN-MILE TROT.]

XVIII.

And now a word about the horse in action, as shown by instantaneous photography, and about the war waged between artists and photographers. Some disciples of Muybridge would fain have the artist depict an animal in an ungainly att.i.tude, because the lens is apt to catch him at a point in his stride which looks ungainly, there being many more such points than handsome ones. It is the moving creature which we admire. The poetry of motion is rarely better seen than in a proudly stepping horse. But arrest that motion and you are apt to have that which the human eye can neither recognize nor delight itself withal. Arrested motion rarely suggests the actual motion we aim to depict. The lens will show you every spoke of a rapidly revolving wheel, as if at rest. The eye, or the artist, shows you a blur of motion. And so with other objects. The lens works in the hundredth part of a second; the eye is slower far.

To a certain extent photography, _quoad_ art, is wrong and the limner is right. There are some horses which possess a very elegant carriage.

In their action there are certain periods--generally those at which one fore and one hind leg are slowing up at the limit of their forward stride--when the eye catches an agreeable impression which is capable of being reduced to canvas,--though it is after all the proud motion itself which pleases, and this can only be suggested. Now, photography robs you of almost all the suggestiveness of the horse's action, unless you select only those photographs which approach the action caught by the human eye. Even after long study of the Muybridge silhouettes, the artistic lover of the horse feels that he must reject all but a small percentage of these wonderful anatomical studies. If there are periods in the horse's stride which are agreeable to the eye, why should the artist not select these for delineation? Why indeed does his art not bind him to do so?

You, Patroclus, are peculiarly elegant in motion. It is difficult to pick a flaw in the symmetry of your gaits. Slow or fast, fresh or tired, your motion is always proud and graceful. And yet out of many photographs, few suggest your action at all, fewer still even pa.s.sably; none convey to its full extent what all your intimates well know.

To photograph well, a horse must have a good deal, but not an excessive amount of action, and with unquestioned grace of curves. The reason why horses in very rapid motion photograph illy is to be found in the too extreme curves described by their legs in the powerful strides of great speed, any position in which, arrested by the lens, looks exaggerated,--sprawling. The reason why, on the other hand, the photograph of a daisy-clipper moving slowly looks tame is the lack of action to suggest the motion which the eye follows in real life. Many of the best performers are plain in action. Some of the most faultless movers, so far as results or form are concerned, even when agreeable to the eye, will show unsightly photographs. Let any one who desires to test this matter have a half-dozen instantaneous photographs of his pet saddle beast taken. He will surely be convinced that a horse must be extremely handsome in motion to give even a pa.s.sable portrait. If he gets one picture in four which shows acceptably, he may be sure that he owns a good-looking nag. Among the silhouettes in the Stanford Book, scarcely one in twenty shows a handsome outline. This seems to be owing, as above explained, to the speed exhibited in almost all the performances; and in the slow gaits, to the want of action in the subjects. Still, if the pictures had shown the light and shade which instantaneous photography is now able to give, many of the plates would have made artistic pictures.

There are certainly many minutiae in which the artist can learn from the photograph. To give an instance: before reaching the ground, the leg in every gait must be stiffened, and the bottom of the foot brought parallel to the surface traveled over, or a stumble will ensue. This, at first blush, may look awkward; but it is not really so. The artist often forgets that a horse must sustain his weight on stiff legs, and that these straighten from their graceful curves to the supporting position in regular gradation, and reach this position just before the foot comes down. Some in other respects most attractive sketches fail in this. Often one sees the picture of an otherwise handsomely moving horse whose fetlock joint of the foot just being planted is so bent forward as to make a drop inevitable. This is certainly without the domain of true art.

The origin of such drawing lies probably in the fact that the eye catches the bent rather than the straight position of the fetlock, because the former occurs when the foot is higher above the ground, while the latter position is not so noticeable as being more out of the line of sight. But such stumbling pictures are as much a worry to the horseman's eye as the ugliest of the Muybridge gallopers is to the artist's; and they are wholly unnecessary.

There are many such minor points of criticism of the usual artistic work, which the artists should not deem beyond consideration. It is quite possible to make the truthful and the artistic go hand in hand.

Except, perhaps, in the gallop. This most disheartening gait _will_ not be reduced to what we have been taught to like. There is but one of the five "times" of the gallop which suggests even tolerable speed,--the one when all four feet are in the air and gathered well under the horse. At the instant when one of the hind legs is reaching forward to land, there is sometimes a suggestion of great speed and vigor. But the successive stilted strides when the straightened legs in turn a.s.sume the body's weight oppress the very soul of the lover of the Racing Plates. It must fain be left to the wisest heads, and perhaps better to time, to bring daylight from this darkness.

The late John Leech, as far back as the forties, essayed to draw running horses as his very keen eye showed him that they really looked; but he was laughed out of the idea, and thenceforth stuck to the artist's quadruped, though he had been, in his new departure, much more nearly approaching anatomy than any one was then aware. And thirty years ago, on Epsom Downs, it was revealed to the author, as it has no doubt been to thousands of others, that it is the gathered and not the spread position of the racer which is impressed upon the eye.

This is most clearly shown by watching the distant horses through a gla.s.s. But still we stick to the anatomically impossible spread-eagle stride of the turf, and feel that it conveys the idea of speed which is not compa.s.sed by the set _fac-similes_ of photography.

It has been alleged that a horse never does, nor can take the spread position of the typical racer of the artist. This is true enough, for he never does extend himself to so great a degree. But at one part of the leap he may do this very thing, though by no means to the extent usually depicted (see Plate XI.). It is, however, certain that he cannot do so at all in the gallop. At the only time when all his feet are off the ground in this gait, they are all close together under his girths. At all other times there are one or more feet on the ground, with legs straight, and at greater or less inclination to the body.

From front to rear the legs move almost like the spokes of a wheel.

What the pictures of the turf in the future may be it is hard indeed to say.

And yet, the longer one examines the many hundred silhouettes of running horses, so well grouped for anatomical study in the Stanford Book, the more reconciled to what there is of truth in them one may become. Many years ago, I sat during the forenoon in the Turner Room of the National Gallery in London, in the company of a friend, herself no mean artist, and of decidedly strong artistic taste and correct judgment, whose ideas of Turner had been founded solely on what she had read, or seen and heard in America, and whose prejudice against his apparently overwrought work was excessive. For a full hour few words were pa.s.sed. Then, rising to go: "If I sit here any longer, I shall end by liking the man!" quoth she.

It seems to me that the power in these Muybridge photographs grows upon you. It is universally acknowledged that one does not see the running horse as he is usually drawn; in other words, that the artist's run is incorrect. Now, if the retina has anything impressed upon it, it must a.s.suredly be either one of the positions actually taken by the galloping animal, or else a mere blur of motion. The artist draws a blurred wheel because he sees it blurred, and it suggests rapid motion. But he will not draw blurred legs, because such drawing will not suggest what he desires to convey in his picture. And yet, if he is true to what his eye has seen, he must draw some of the positions the horse has been in, and not positions which he cannot by any possibility have pa.s.sed through in this gait. I take it for granted that the eye catches the gathered positions, and these are the ones in which the horse is entirely in the air, with his legs under his girths, and with hind feet reaching forward to land. Why should not the artist draw these positions, in their thousand variations, in lieu of the one single impossible position now universally in vogue?

Without alleging that he should do so, will the artist tell me why he should not? For unless it be a.s.sumed that the usually drawn position is a sort of geometrical resultant of the rapid series of positions pa.s.sed through, and is hence adopted because the eye mathematically and unconsciously reduces these positions to the resultant, where is the truth which the artist aims to produce? For I understand art to be the reproduction of what the eye can see, or at least its close suggestion. And though there may be room to doubt what the eye may see, there is no room to doubt what the horse actually does in the gallop.

It is probable that the spread-eagle position is a mere outgrowth of the canter, which in a slight degree approximates to the action of the artist's run, and that the latter has been exaggerated as a means of conveying the idea of increased speed. I have yet heard no allegation that the eye catches any but the gathering positions of the horse's gallop. Now, given this, given an artist equal to and interested in the task, and the anatomical results of photography, and it would seem as if a sincere desire to reconcile the eye with positions which the retina must certainly catch as the horse bounds by might evoke more satisfactory results. Here is a life-work worthy of the best of animal painters. Who will take it up? I plead for "more light."

XIX.

To return to our muttons, it is not too much to aver that any well-trained horse knows much more than the average good equestrian.

It requires a light and practiced hand to evoke Patroclus' highest powers. He has never refused an obstacle with his master, or failed to clear what he fairly went at. But the least uncertainty betrayed in the hand, and Patroclus knows something is wrong, and acts accordingly.

I learned a good lesson about spoiling him for my own comfort not long ago, when asked the privilege of riding him over a few hurdles on my lawn by a friend who had an excellent seat in the saddle, but liked, and had been used to a horse who seized hold of the bridle. Patroclus took the first, but to my own and my friend's surprise quite refused the second, and could by no means be persuaded to face it. On my friend's yielding me the saddle, I mounted, and walked Patroclus up to the hurdle with a firm word of encouragement; and though he wavered, he took it on a standing jump. The slight reward of a tuft of gra.s.s and a pat made him do better on the second trial, but for weeks afterwards he was nervous at that particular hurdle, though at anything else he went with his accustomed nerve. My friend and I were both unaware of how his hands had erred, but the horse's fine mouth had felt it.

Patroclus is essentially a one-man horse. He will always serve well for the wage of kindness, but it would take a hard taskmaster but a short week to transform him into the semblance of the Biblical wild a.s.s's colt. He will change his gaits at will from any one to any other. But his rider's hands must be steady and as skilled as his own soft mouth, or how can the lesser mind comprehend? He may, at the bidding of uncertain reins, change from gait to gait and foot to foot, seeking to satisfy his ignorant rider, who, meanwhile, unable to catch his meaning, will dub him a stupid, restless brute. A well-trained horse needs an equally well-trained rider.

XX.

There are two kinds of "perfectly trained" saddle horses. One is the well-drilled cow of the riding-schools, fit only to give instruction to cla.s.s after cla.s.s of beginners, and who is safe because worked beyond his courage and endurance. The other is the School-horse, of perfect vigor and fine manners, who is obedient to the slightest whim of the clever rider, but who is so entire an enigma to the untrained one, that he is unable to ride him at even his quiet gaits.

One of my friends in Touraine used in his youth to be a pupil of the famous Baucher. He once told me how, at the instigation of his cla.s.smates, he begged hard for many days to be allowed to ride the master's favorite horse, with whom he was apt to join his higher cla.s.ses. My friend flattered himself that he could manage any horse, as he had long ridden under Baucher's instruction. As an example to the cla.s.s, the master finally gave way. But the experiment was short.

My friend soon found that he was so much less accomplished than the high-strung beast that he was utterly unable to manage or control him, much less to perform any of the School airs, and he was by no means sorry when his feat of equitation was terminated by so dangerous a rear that Baucher deemed it wise to come to the rescue. My friend's hands, though well-drilled, were so much less delicate than the horse's mouth, that the latter had at first mistaken some peculiar unsteadiness as the indication for a _pirouette_, to which he had obediently risen; but then, on feeling some additional unsteadiness of the reins, he had, in his uncertainty and confusion, reared quite beyond control. Yet under the master this horse's habit of obedience was so confirmed that he was apparently as moderate as any courageous horse should be, though actually of a hyper-nervous character.

Nothing but time will make a thorough horseman; but a few months will make a tolerable horseman of any man who has strength, courage, intelligence, and good temper. If a man confines his ambition to a horse whom he can walk, trot, and canter on the road in an unbalanced manner, and who will jump an ordinary obstacle, so as to follow the hounds over easy country, it needs but little time and patience to break in both man and beast to this simple work. If a man wants what the High School calls a saddle beast, a full half year's daily training is essential for the horse, and to give this the man must have had quite thrice as much himself. Fix the standard at an 'alf and 'alf 'unter and your requirements are soon met. Raise the standard of education to a horse well-balanced, who is always ready to be collected and always alert to his rider's wants and moods, and who can do any work well, and you need much more in both teacher, pupil, and rider. No horse can be alike perfect in the field and in the park. But the well-trained road horse can always hunt within the bounds prescribed by his condition, speed, and jumping ability; the finest hunter is apt to be either a nuisance on the road or too valuable for such daily work. It will not do to quote this as an invariable rule.

But it certainly has few exceptions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PLATE VII.

RISING AT A HURDLE.]

Moreover, a hunter requires many weeks to be got into fine condition, and can then perform well not exceeding half a dozen days a month, and needs a long rest after the season. And it is not the average man who is happy enough to own a stable so full or to boast such ample leisure as to tax his horseflesh to so very slight an extent.

XXI.

But what is that, Patroclus? Up goes your head, your lively ears p.r.i.c.ked out, with an inquisitive low-voiced whinny. What is it you sniff upon the softly-moving air? Well, well, I know. That neigh and again a neigh betrays you. As sure as fate it is one of your stable-mates coming along the road. Perhaps our young friend Tom, upon his new purchase, Penelope. We will go and see, at all events. I never found you wrong, and I never knew your delicate nose to fail to sniff a friend before the eye could catch him, or your pleasant whinny fail to speak what you had guessed as well. Sure enough, there he comes and Nell has heard you too. Both Tom and she are out for the lesson which either gives the other. Now for a sociable tramp and chat in the company you like so well. And you and I will try to give Penelope and Master Tom a few hints which he has often asked, and of which all young horses and riders are apt to stand in need.