It will be well, when you are seated comfortably in your saddle and have felt your horse’s mouth a little, to inquire of your host (should the animal belong to him) whether or not he has any peculiarities, or “little tricks,” for which it may be as well you should be prepared. You will be almost certain to hear “No,” for it is a strange coincidence that men are quite as infatuated about their equine possessions as women are about their children, and will never on any account be induced to believe that such a thing as a fault can possibly exist in the nature or training of any of their stud. At the same time, it can be no harm to _ask_, and then, if the owner can be reluctantly brought to acknowledge that he “wants a bit of rousing,” you may prepare yourself for the discomforts of riding a slug, or, if the animal is allowed to be “a trifle skittish,” you can ask for an ounce or two of diachylon, or the same quantity of birdlime, to stick yourself well in the saddle!
Joking apart, it is really an unwise thing to be too foolhardy about riding strange horses. The most courageous equestrian in the world ought not to fancy herself above asking, in a pleasant off-hand way, for some information concerning the character of her casual mount; in fact, the more accomplished the rider, the more necessary it may be to do so, for there are many owners of horses who know very little themselves about riding, or of the perils attendant upon supplying ladies with unsuitable mounts--and the consequence is, that if there happens to be in the stable a creature whom that Irish groom, already mentioned, would call a “tattherin’ divil,” he is quietly told off on a hunting day, or otherwise, for the use of the lady or gentleman who may be esteemed the most capable of managing him.
A Hungerton farmer--one of a big class--once volunteered to lend me a magnificent high-flyer to negotiate the big thorn fences with the Quorn pack. I was foolish enough to accept, without asking anything about the animal, except whether he could jump; and when I tell you that between Beeby and Scraptoft he gave me two falls, that he knocked down a boy on a pony, and damaged a wrecker to the extent of a couple of sovereigns, besides bringing me home without a hat, and with my face well stuck over with thorns and a general need of surgical assistance all about me, it will be readily imagined that the “high-flyer” was not exactly an eligible beast for a lady to ride. But his owner only stood in the doorway laughing from ear to ear when he saw me, and uttered a great “guffaw” on hearing the recital of his property’s misdeeds. “Glory be to Christmas! I thought you could ride anything!” was all that he said, fairly doubled in two with merriment at the sight of my forlorn appearance,--and I answered crossly enough, that had I been as wise when setting out as I was on returning, I would have seen that the animal was differently bitted, and have clothed myself in sackcloth--to say nothing of ashes--instead of in the best hunting-gear of which I was possessed. “Well, you never asked me a word about him,” his owner said, still in a roar, “or I’d have told you that he was a rum one when once he got going!” and as I had nothing to say in reply to this, I took myself and my rags upstairs out of sight, and spent the next day in bed, with a leech to my eye, and plasters all over my body.