Black Beauty

The Autobiography of a Horse

by Anna Sewell (English Quaker, 1820–1878)

[Note: "Black Beauty" was first published in 1877. This text was transcribed from an American edition of 1911, with a few small corrections confirmed against other sources.]

To my dear and honored mother, whose life, as much as her writing, has been devoted to helping others—this little book is affectionately 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

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Part I

1. My Early Home

The first place I can clearly remember was a large, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Shady trees leaned over the pond, and reeds and water lilies grew at its deeper end. On one side, past the hedge, lay a plowed field; on the other side, over a gate, stood our master's house by the road. At the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom ran a brook, with a steep bank hanging over it.

While I was young, I lived on my mother's milk, since I couldn't yet eat grass. During the day I stayed close by her side, and at night I lay down near her. In hot weather we stood in the shade of the trees by the pond; in cold weather we had a warm shed near the grove.

Once I was old enough to eat grass, my mother began going out to work during the day, returning each evening.

Six other young colts shared the meadow with me, all older than I was—some nearly full-grown. I ran and played with them, and we had great fun galloping around the field as fast as we could. Sometimes our play grew rough, since they often bit and kicked while galloping.

One day, after a bout of kicking, my mother called me over with a whinny and said, "I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you. The colts living here are good colts, but they're cart-horse colts and haven't learned proper manners. You come from good breeding, and you were born well; your father has an excellent reputation in this area, and your grandfather won the prize race at Newmarket two years running. Your grandmother had the gentlest temper of any horse I've known, and I think you've never once seen me bite or kick. I hope you grow up gentle and good, and never pick up bad habits. Do your work willingly, lift your feet properly when you trot, and never bite or kick, even in play."

I never forgot her advice. I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought highly of her too. Her name was Duchess, though he often called her Pet.

Our master was a kind, good man. He gave us good food, comfortable shelter, and gentle words—speaking to us just as kindly as he spoke to his own children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him dearly. Whenever she spotted him at the gate, she would neigh with joy and trot over. He'd pat her and say, "Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?" Since I was a solid black, he called me Darkie, and he'd give me a piece of bread—which I loved—and sometimes bring my mother a carrot. All the horses came to him, but I believe we were his favorites. My mother always pulled him into town in a light two-wheeled carriage called a gig on market days.

A plowboy named Dick sometimes wandered into our field to pick blackberries from the hedge. Once he'd eaten his fill, he liked to have what he called "fun" with the colts—throwing stones and sticks to make us run. We usually ignored him, since we could simply gallop away, but sometimes a stone would strike and hurt us.

One day he was at it again, not realizing our master was watching from the next field. Suddenly the master leapt over the hedge, grabbed Dick by the arm, and boxed his ear so hard that the boy howled from the shock and pain. Hearing the commotion, we trotted closer to see what was happening.

"Bad boy!" the master said. "Bad boy, chasing the colts! This isn't the first time, or even the second—but it will be the last. Here's your pay; go home. I won't have you on my farm again." We never saw Dick again after that. Old Daniel, the man who cared for the horses, was every bit as gentle as our master, so we were fortunate indeed.

2. The Hunt

Something happened before I turned two that I've never forgotten. It was early spring, with a light frost still lingering from the night and a thin mist hanging over the woods and meadows. The other colts and I were grazing at the lower end of the field when we heard, far in the distance, what sounded like dogs barking. The oldest colt lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" He immediately cantered toward the upper part of the field, and the rest of us followed, where we could see over the hedge into the fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse belonging to our master stood nearby, clearly familiar with what was happening.

"They've found a hare," my mother said, "and if they come this way, we'll see the hunt."

Soon the dogs came tearing through the young wheat field next to ours, making a strange noise—not barking or howling, but a constant "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at full volume. Behind them came riders on horseback, some wearing green coats, all galloping hard. The old horse snorted and watched eagerly, and we young colts longed to join the chase, but the hunt soon moved into the lower fields and came to a stop. The dogs stopped barking and ran about with their noses pressed to the ground.

"They've lost the scent," the old horse said. "Maybe the hare will escape."

"What hare?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know exactly which hare—probably one from our own woods. Any hare will do for the dogs and riders to chase." Sure enough, the dogs soon picked up the trail again, crying "yo! yo, o, o!" and racing back toward our meadow, straight for the high bank and hedge above the brook.

"Now we'll see the hare," my mother said. Just then, a hare dashed past in terror, heading for the woods. The dogs surged after her, bursting over the bank, leaping the stream, and racing across the field with the huntsmen close behind. Six or eight riders jumped their horses cleanly over the brook, right on the dogs' heels. The hare tried to squeeze through the fence, but it was too thick; she turned sharply toward the road instead—too late. The dogs caught her, and amid their frenzied cries we heard one sharp shriek. That was the end of her. A huntsman rode up and pulled the dogs off before they could tear her apart completely, holding her up by the leg, bloodied and still. The gentlemen all looked satisfied.

I'd been so stunned by the chase that I hadn't noticed what was happening by the brook until I looked over and saw a terrible sight: two fine horses down, one thrashing in the stream, the other groaning on the grass. One rider was climbing out of the water, covered in mud; the other lay motionless.

"His neck is broken," my mother said.

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

I silently agreed, but my mother didn't share our view.

"No," she said, "you mustn't say that. I'm an old horse and have seen and heard a great deal, but I've never understood why men love this sport so much. They often injure themselves, ruin good horses, and tear up the fields—all for a hare, a fox, or a deer they could catch some easier way. But we're only horses, and we don't understand these things."

As she spoke, we watched the scene unfold. Several riders rushed to 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, his arms hung limp, and everyone's face turned grave. The noise died down; even the dogs fell silent, sensing something was terribly wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I later learned he was young George Gordon, the squire's only son—a tall, fine young man and the pride of his family.

Riders scattered in every direction—to fetch the doctor, the farrier (a craftsman who treats horses' hooves and legs), and surely to inform Squire Gordon of his son's accident. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, examined the black horse groaning on the ground, he ran his hands over its body and shook his head grimly: one leg was broken. Someone ran to the master's house and returned with a gun. A loud bang rang out, followed by a dreadful cry, and then silence. The black horse moved no more.

My mother was clearly shaken. She said she'd known that horse for years—his name was Rob Roy—and that he'd been a good horse with no bad habits at all. She never went near that part of the field again.

A few days later, we heard the church bell tolling steadily. Looking over the gate, we saw a long, unusual black carriage draped in black cloth, pulled by black horses, followed by another, and another, and another—all black, while the bell continued its slow, mournful ring. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard for burial. He would never ride again. I never learned what became of Rob Roy—but all of this had happened over a single hare.

3. My Breaking In

By now I was growing handsome. My coat had become fine, soft, and glossy black, with one white foot and a pretty white star on my forehead. Everyone considered me quite good-looking. My master refused to sell me until I turned four, believing that young horses—like young people—shouldn't be put to work before they were fully grown.

When I turned four, Squire Gordon came to examine me. He checked my eyes, my mouth, and my legs, feeling them carefully from top to bottom. Then he had me walk, trot, and gallop in front of him. He seemed pleased and said, "Once he's properly broken in, he'll do very well." My master decided to handle my training himself, not wanting me frightened or hurt by anyone else, and he began the very next day.

Not everyone knows what "breaking in" means, so I'll explain. It means teaching a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry a rider—man, woman, or child—wherever they wish to go, calmly and obediently. Beyond that, the horse must learn to wear a collar, a crupper (a strap under the tail that keeps the saddle in place), and a breeching (a strap across the hindquarters used for pulling a vehicle), standing still while they're fastened. Then a cart or carriage is attached behind, so the horse can't take a single step without dragging it along—moving fast or slow exactly as the driver commands. The horse must never startle at anything he sees, never call out to other horses, never bite or kick, and never act on his own will—always submitting to his master's wishes, no matter how tired or hungry he might be. But the hardest part of all—