BLACK BEAUTY

The Autobiography of a Horse

by Anna Sewell (English Quaker — 1820–1878)

Note: "Black Beauty" was first published in 1877. This version was copied from an American edition printed in 1911. A few small corrections were made after checking other sources.

To my dear and honored Mother,
whose life, just like her writing,
has been given to helping others,
this little book is lovingly dedicated.

Contents

Part I

1. My Early Home
2. The Hunt
3. My Breaking In
4. Birtwick Park
5. A Fair Start
6. Liberty
7. Ginger
8. Ginger's Story Continued
9. Merrylegs
10. A Talk in the Orchard
11. Plain Speaking
12. A Stormy Day
13. The Devil's Trade Mark
14. James Howard
15. The Old Hostler
16. The Fire
17. John Manly's Talk
18. Going for the Doctor
19. Only Ignorance
20. Joe Green
21. The Parting

Part II

1. Earlshall
2. A Strike for Liberty
3. The Lady Anne, or a Runaway Horse
4. Reuben Smith
5. How it Ended
6. Ruined and Going Downhill
7. A Job Horse and His Drivers
8. Cockneys
9. A Thief
10. A Humbug

Part III

1. A Horse Fair
2. A London Cab Horse
3. An Old War Horse
4. Jerry Barker
5. The Sunday Cab
6. The Golden Rule
7. Dolly and a Real Gentleman
8. Seedy Sam
9. Poor Ginger
10. The Butcher
11. The Election
12. A Friend in Need
13. Old Captain and His Successor
14. Jerry's New Year

Part IV

1. Jakes and the Lady
2. Hard Times
3. Farmer Thoroughgood and His Grandson Willie
4. My Last Home

Black Beauty

Part I

Chapter 1: My Early Home

The first place I remember was a big, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water. Shady trees leaned over the pond, and reeds and water-lilies grew at the deep end. On one side, over the hedge, we could see a plowed field. On the other side, over a gate, we could see our master's house by the road. At the top of the meadow stood a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom ran a little stream with a steep bank above it.

When I was very young, I drank only my mother's milk because I couldn't eat grass yet. During the day I stayed close to her side, and at night I lay down right next to her. When it was hot, we stood in the shade by the pond. When it was cold, we had a warm shed near the trees.

Once I was old enough to eat grass, my mother went out to work during the day and came back in the evening.

There were six other young colts (baby horses) in the meadow besides me. They were older than I was, and some were almost as big as grown horses. I ran around with them and had lots of fun. We galloped together around the field as fast as we could. Sometimes our games got rough, because the older colts liked to bite and kick while they ran.

One day, after some rough kicking, my mother called me over to her side. She said:

"I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you. The other colts here are good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, which means they haven't learned good manners. You come from a fine family. Your father is well known around here, and your grandfather won a big race at Newmarket two years in a row. Your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I've ever known, and you've never seen me kick or bite anyone. I hope you grow up gentle and good. Never learn bad habits. Do your work with a good attitude, lift your feet properly when you trot, and never bite or kick, even in play."

I never forgot my mother's advice. I knew she was wise, and our master respected her greatly. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.

Our master was kind and good. He gave us good food, a good place to sleep, and kind words — he spoke to us just as gently as he spoke to his own children. We all loved him, especially my mother. Whenever she saw him at the gate, she would neigh happily and trot over. He would pat her and say, "Well, old Pet, how is your little Darkie?" I was a plain black color, so he called me Darkie. Then he'd give me a piece of bread, which I loved, and sometimes he brought my mother a carrot. All the horses liked him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always pulled him to town in a light two-wheeled cart on market days.

A plowboy named Dick sometimes came into our field to pick blackberries from the hedge. After eating his fill, he liked to have what he called "fun" with the colts — throwing sticks and stones to make us run. We didn't mind too much, since we could just gallop away, but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt one of us.

One day Dick was playing this game again, not realizing our master was watching from the next field. Suddenly, the master jumped over the hedge, grabbed Dick by the arm, and smacked his ear so hard that Dick cried out in pain and shock. When we saw our master, we all trotted closer to watch.

"Bad boy!" he said. "Bad boy, chasing the colts like that! This isn't the first time, or even the second — but it will be the last. Here's your pay. Go home. You won't be working on my farm anymore." We never saw Dick again after that. Old Daniel, the man who took care of the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were lucky.

Chapter 2: The Hunt

Something happened before I turned two years old that I've never forgotten. It was early spring, with a light frost still on the ground and mist hanging over the woods and fields. The other colts and I were eating grass in the lower part of the field when we heard, far away, a sound like barking dogs. The oldest colt lifted his head, perked up his ears, and said, "Those are hunting hounds!" He immediately galloped to the upper part of the field, and the rest of us followed. From there, we could see over the hedge into several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse that belonged to our master stood nearby, watching closely.

"They've found a rabbit," said my mother. "If they come this way, we'll get to see the hunt."

Soon the dogs came tearing across the wheat field next to ours. I'd never heard such noise — they didn't bark or howl, but kept crying "yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. Behind them came several men on horseback, some wearing green coats, all galloping fast. The old horse snorted and watched eagerly, and we young colts wanted to join the chase too. But the hunters soon moved farther down the fields, where they seemed to stop. The dogs quit barking and ran around sniffing the ground.

"They've lost the scent," said the old horse. "Maybe the rabbit will get away."

"What rabbit?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know exactly which one," he said. "It's probably one from our own woods. Any rabbit will do for the dogs and men to chase." Soon the dogs started their "yo! yo, o, o!" cry again and came racing back toward our meadow, right where the high bank and hedge hang over the stream.

"Now we'll see the rabbit," said my mother. Just then, a terrified rabbit dashed past us, running for the woods. The dogs followed, leaping over the bank and stream, racing across the field with the hunters right behind. Six or eight riders jumped their horses cleanly over the water, right on the dogs' heels. The rabbit tried to squeeze through a fence, but it was too thick. She turned sharply to run for the road instead — but it was too late. The dogs caught her, crying out wildly. We heard one sharp shriek, and that was the end of her. A hunter rode up and pulled the dogs off her before they could tear her apart completely. He held her up by the leg, torn and bleeding, and all the men seemed pleased with the hunt.

I was so shocked by this that I almost missed what was happening by the stream. When I looked, I saw something sad — two fine horses had fallen. One was struggling in the water, and the other lay groaning on the grass. One rider was climbing out of the water, covered in mud. The other rider lay completely still.

"His neck is broken," said my mother.

"Serves him right," said one of the colts.

I agreed at first, but my mother didn't.

"No," she said, "you shouldn't say that. I'm an old horse, and I've seen and heard many things, but I still don't understand why men love this sport so much. They often hurt themselves, ruin good horses, and tear up the fields — all to catch a rabbit, fox, or deer that they could get some easier way. But we're just horses. We don't understand everything."

While my mother spoke, we all watched. Many riders rushed to help the fallen young man, but our master, who had been watching from a distance, reached him first and lifted him up. The young man's head fell back, and his arms hung loosely. Everyone looked very serious. It grew quiet — even the dogs sensed something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I later learned his name was George Gordon, the only son of the squire (a local landowner), a fine, tall young man and the pride of his family.

Riders rushed off in every direction — to fetch the doctor, the farrier (a person who cares for horses' feet and shoes), and to tell Squire Gordon about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, examined the black horse groaning on the grass, he felt along its legs and shook his head sadly — one leg was broken. Someone ran back to the house and returned with a gun. Soon there was a loud bang and a terrible cry, and then silence. The black horse didn't move again.

My mother looked very troubled. She said she'd known that horse for years — his name was Rob Roy, a good horse with no bad habits. She never went near that part of the field again.

A few days later, we heard the church bell ringing slowly and steadily for a long time. Looking over the gate, we saw a long, strange black coach covered in black cloth, pulled by black horses. Then came another coach, and another, and another — all black — while the bell kept tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to be buried at the churchyard. He would never ride again. I never found out what happened to Rob Roy — and all of this over one little rabbit.

Chapter 3: My Breaking In

By now, I was growing handsome. My coat had become soft and shiny black. I had one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. Everyone thought I looked fine. My master waited to sell me until I turned four, saying that young horses shouldn't work hard, just like young boys shouldn't work like grown men.

When I turned four, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He checked my eyes, mouth, and legs carefully, feeling all along them. Then he watched me walk, trot, and gallop. He seemed pleased and said, "Once he's properly broken in, he'll do just fine." My master decided to train me himself, since he didn't want me to get scared or hurt. He started the very next day.

Not everyone knows what "breaking in" means, so let me explain. It means teaching a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry a person — man, woman, or child — going exactly where they want, calmly and obediently. The horse must also learn to wear a collar, a crupper (a strap under the tail), and a breeching (a strap around the back legs), and to stand still while these are put on. Then the horse learns to pull a cart or carriage behind him, so he can't walk or trot without dragging it along. He must go fast or slow, whatever the driver wants. He must never get startled by things he sees, never talk to other horses, never bite or kick, and never act on his own — always following his master's wishes, even when tired or hungry. But the hardest part was still to come.