Geoffery Gambado

He had rode the same horse ten years, and had got so attached to him, that when that horse was seized with a lameness in the off hind leg, and could no longer stand or go upon it, the Doctor's sympathies increased with his favourite, though he was no longer any use to him. Like his master, the animal fed well, and could sleep well, but he could not go.

"Have you seen my horse?"

"I came to see yourself first, Doctor, and I can have no objection to go and see your horse, in company with my friend Mr. John Tattsall, who I should say knows more of a horse than any man living; and can make a horse go, I verily believe, on three legs."

The very idea gave animation to Doctor Greathead's features.

"I will walk with you to the stables."

He rang the bell, ordered his hat, gloves, and even his riding whip, so precocious was the idea that the Doctor had conceived of being able to mount once more his favourite gray.

The horse was led out, and came out upon three legs; the other evidently of no use to him. In fact he could not put it to the ground.

John examined the sturdy old fellow, who had a small head and stout legs; he pronounced him to be afflicted with an incurable disease in the coffin-bone, and said he never could go upon that leg. He looked at all the other limbs, and pronounced them all right.

"A fine old horse, your Reverence; a fine old horse, fit to carry your worship's weight; but he never will go again upon all fours."

"Can he ever be made to go upon three?"

"I see no reason to doubt it. The disabled limb is only such from the fetlock to the hoof; if the joint could be supported from the hock to the fetlock, and pressure be produced so as to keep that leg up to his body, without any weight falling upon the tendons of the foot, I see no reason why the horse should not canter upon three legs, – I do not say with the same ease as he would upon four sound ones; but certainly easier far than he could upon the four as they now are."

"You are a sensible man, sir, and what you say seems feasible. What would you suggest?"

"Let one of your grooms go and get a Yorkshire weaver's strap that will go once round the animal's body, and at the same time catch up the animal's leg, – and fasten it with a stout Birmingham buckle, so that the power shall be exerted in the leg bone without the fetlock or the foot; and I think your Reverence will be able to show to all the world how to ride a horse on three legs."

"Good! good! Let it be done immediately: I verily believe it can be done."

It literally was done, and in one hour Doctor Greathead showed that he himself was alive again. He mounted his favourite gray; and though the animal laid its ears, and lifted up its hind quarters, rather higher than usual, it went; and did perform what the Doctor never expected it to do again – namely, carried him a mile on the Carlisle road, and that without a fall.

It did the Doctor good whenever he did ride it. How often that was, we have no record to tell us.

He paid the Doctor of Medicine and his friend John Tattsall more than would have purchased three fine Yorkshire horses. In fact he paid for his whim.

He was cured of his whim.

And Doctor Gambado and his friend John returned to town satisfied.

If men have fancies, bugbears of the mind,And money, too, to pay for what they want;Why should they not, like Doctor Greathead, findTheir fancies made to profit more than cant?We all have fancies! what more should we say,Than if we would indulge them, we must pay?

CHAPTER VI

Tricks upon Travellers

The descent from the sublime to the ridiculous is a very easy transition in this mortal life. Even in the moments of utmost seriousness, we have seen something flit across the vision of the brain, or eye, or the spirit, that for a moment diverts the current of thought from the simplicity of the most devout and earnest Christian. Every moment we learn a new lesson of life and thought, from nature or from grace.

Thoughts are continually arising as to the probability of doing anyone any good, in these narratives. They form a diversion of thought, and much must depend upon the disposition of the mind of the reader. A good man will make some good out of every thing, and a bad man will find nothing good in anything.

To look simply at the picture, and to laugh at it, is easy; but to say, that they who played tricks upon others deserved to be whipped out of them, might be easier said than done.

Among the Doctor's patients was a singular mean old gentleman, Sir Abraham Crusty, who was recommended by the Doctor to ride out hunting, or to give the hounds a look, by way of diversion to his usual nothingness in his country-box. Sir Abraham had retired from city friends, city business, city thoughts, – to enjoy, as he hoped, the breezes and the green fields, and rural occupation at his country seat in Surrey; but being very hypochondriacal and very mean as well, he was desirous of being as economical as possible, and not desirous of being considered a regular fox-hunter.

He could look on, enjoy the variety, and not be expected to pay anything towards the support of the hounds. Hence he would drop in upon them, look at them, ride a little way with them, and then return quietly to his own mansion. He would not keep a hunting stud, nor any man-servant to ride out with him. He was old enough to take care of himself, wise to do his own will, and mean enough to think about nobody else but himself.

When he consulted the Doctor, and was told what to do, he asked him if he could tell him the best way to do it. "Go to John Tattsall's, buy a steady hunter with good strong limbs, and one that will make no mistake."

He did so: but John mistook him for an old farmer, and, consequently, gave him a good old hunter for a very little money. Any body might take Sir Abraham Crusty for what they pleased, so long as they did not take too much of his money; and that he took care not to throw away upon even saddle, bridle, or riding whip, for he rode on an old saddle covered with a thick cloth, and had a drover's cart whip for his hunting whip; and few would imagine Sir Abraham was going out to follow the hounds. He used to go himself overnight to the King Charles in the Oak, sleep there, and, as if he were merely a travelling man of business, who came for lodging for man and beast, he paid packman's fare for supper at night, and breakfasted upon eggs and bacon in the morning; and started off quietly for the covert's side, without any intention of being considered a hunter.

He went, however, one day with a very bitter complaint to Doctor Gambado, saying, he thought his horse would be the death of him, for that he never started from the Royal Oak without such a violent fit of kicking, that he was afraid of a fall; and that made him so nervous, he thought the Doctor ought to return him his fee, and Mr. Tattsall take the horse back and allow him something handsome for his keep of it.

"And so I will," replied the Doctor, "if John Tattsall do not cure him, or at least account for his kicking."

"Where do you say he exhibits these tricks?" said John.

"At the Royal Oak, Norwood."

John was there the next Easter hunt day. So was Sir Abraham.

John saw him start, and saw that two urchins, viz. the post boy and the boots, stuck a stick under his tail, which seldom fell off until the old gentleman had had quite enough of the kicking. But once the stick dropped, the old horse went quiet enough.

When Sir Abraham was gone, John came from his dormitory, and soon put this question to the lads:

"Why do you treat that old gentleman in this shabby way?"

"Vy, sar, because he is a shabby, crusty old fellow, and treats all the sarvents of the hestablishment in the shabbiest vay. He pays for his bed, and for his 'orse's bed, – for his board, and his 'orse's board, – but he never gives Sal anything, vat beds him up at night, nor Bill anything, vat beds his 'orse up, – nor me anything, vat cleans his old boots for him; so ve just shows him vun of our tricks upon travellers: that's all, and sarves him right."

This was told to the Doctor, who, the next time he saw Sir Abraham, said to him:

"Sir Abraham, you will forgive my honesty; but, if you wish to cure your horse of kicking at the Royal Oak, you must know how to be penny wise, and pay the chambermaid, the hostler, and the boots. I am sure you will never be pound foolish."

Sir Abraham took the hint, and the horse never kicked again at the King Charles in the Oak.

To all their dues, let no man flinch to pay,If he would prosper in an honest way;Customs are good, if carried not too far,And a good custom, oft prevents a jar;Sir Abraham's horse no more gave out his kicks,Nor John nor Bill on travellers played tricks.

CHAPTER VII

How to prevent a Horse slipping his Girth

My dear Gambado," said Lord Rosier to the Doctor, "I know not how I shall ever repay you for your good advice. I am your debtor, for two things; first for inducing me to take up horseback exercise again, and then for recommending me to your friend John Tattsall, who has furnished me with a most excellent trotter, and one that does one good to ride it."

"I am glad to hear it, my Lord: but to what purpose is your visit to me this morning? You look the picture of health; I hope nothing is the matter."

"Oh! dear no! Nothing is the matter with me; but, I thought I might, without any intentional offence, just call and speak to you about the horse. I hope I do not offend."

"By no means, my Lord; pray go on. Your Lordship will not impute to me any thing wrong in the character of the horse?"

"By no means, Doctor; by no means. I only sought your advice, because I thought you so skillful that you could get me into the right method of treating a horse."

"Humph!"

This was the first direct slap at the Doctor's veterinary powers. He had a request from York to bring with him a veterinary surgeon; but he was now consulted by a British nobleman about the treatment of a horse. Well, thought the Doctor, let us hear the complaint; for after all it may be the fault of the rider more than of the beast.

"What is the matter, my Lord?"

"It is simply this, – the creature, though in every other respect a suitable one, has a strange propensity or habit of slipping his girths; so that when I have rode out a mile or two, I find myself upon his rump; and once, indeed, I happened to let go the reins, and the saddle came over his tail, and I slipped off behind. He then quietly walked out of his saddle and went away, leaving me to carry my own saddle to the nearest hostelry, and to have a walk home, instead of a ride."

"My Lord, you acknowledge that it was your own fault for letting go the reins. Never, under any circumstances, let the reins go out of your own hands; if you do, you are sure to have a fall. The same, my Lord, with all who hold the reins of government; a tight rein can always be sufficiently slackened, when an improvement is required in the pace; but once let them entirely go, and you have no longer any power to guide. Your horse must run away, and you must have a fall."

"But what is a man to do, when he finds that the animal he rides gets the bit into his mouth, and bores so strongly upon his arms that it gives him the cramp in his muscles to hold the reins in his hands?"

"There you puzzle me. I confess, I should very soon give up riding such a horse altogether. But," said the Doctor, looking at his watch, "if you do not mind walking with me as far as Tattsall's, I think John could give you better advice upon this head than I can. Come, it is worth the trouble."

"With all my heart: I esteem it a favour. My groom shall lead the horse to his stables, and we will walk on after him."

The Doctor and his noble patient were soon in John Tattsall's yard.

"John, I have brought Lord Rosier to you, to learn a lesson. He is in a fix about a horse he bought of you, which he approves in every other respect but that of slipping his girth; can you tell the gentleman how to prevent it?"

"To be sure I can, Doctor, if the gentleman will only condescend to give me a little attention. I will mount the horse myself, and show him how I prevent the horse from slipping his girths." He did so; and when he gave up the horse, he said, "There, sir, observe what I have done.

"Stick your feet, my Lord, home in the stirrups, press all your weight thereupon, and so push the saddle forward. If the horse bores upon your arms, bore him well with your legs the moment he lifts his head; the saddle, if it has slipped, will immediately regain its position. And when he bores his head down again, you have nothing to do but to repeat the boring him in his sides; and as the horse suits your Lordship so well, this will only form a little agreeable variety of exercise for the benefit of your Lordship's health; which I am heartily glad to find so greatly improved."

"Thank you, John; thank you, it will do, it will do!"

'Tis a bore, a horse to ride,Slipping girths from side to side;'Tis a bore with many pains,For a man to lose the reins.Keep your seat, and keep command,And hold your bridle well in hand:Fast and firm the steed will go.And slips and slides you'll never know.

CHAPTER VIII

How to ride without a Bridle

Doctor, what am I to do?" said Mr. Broadcloth, the wealthy tailor of Bond-street. "Here am I, just fifty years of age, now in the prime of life, and cannot enjoy a moment's content. I have forty-nine hands at work for me, in my shop every day, beside piece-work out-doors. I have six runners of errands; four porters, to carry out my goods, and to bring me home work. Beside all this, I have such incessant customers to be measured, and coats to make, that from morning to night I hear nothing but snip go, snip go, snip go! and although I work like a journeyman, I half wish I was one of my own porters, and could go from house to house for fresh air and exercise."

"Oh, my dear sir!" said the Doctor, "you must ride on horseback, – you must indeed! you must be a journeyman yourself, – carry out your clothes to Clapham, and find yourself all the better in health and spirits."

"Doctor, I have heard that all who can do as you bid them, are sure to recover."

"The first of all blessings is health, – for without itMen may think there's enjoyment in life, – but I doubt it."

"Then recover yourself, and you will own my advice to be good."

"What shall I do for a horse?"

"Do as everybody else does, – go to John Tattsall's, and get the horse that will suit you. I shall be glad to see you on one."

The tailor was soon mounted; – but it is one thing to be mounted, – another to be seated.

He soon complained to Mr. Tattsall, that the horse he had bought of him would not mind the bridle.

"Then," says John, "ride him without one. In fact, your horse did belong to a lame letter-carrier, and he never rode him with a bridle. You may have one round his neck by way of a check rein; but this horse, you will find, will never deceive you.

"You have nothing to do but to mount, and say, 'Go on:' he will be off in a gentle canter along the gutter, keeping close to the pavement, avoiding the lamp posts, oyster stalls, orange tables, trucks, and barrows; and whenever you say 'Wo-ho,' he will make a dead stop. You may get off, and wait an hour, if you like, he will never stir, but will know how to take care of himself; only give him a bit of carrot or an apple, just to let him know you are his master, as the poor old lame duck did, – and you may mount and say 'Go on,' and 'Wo-ho,' twenty times in a day, – and he will obey you. You will not need a bridle or a rein."

Mr. Broadcloth did so, – and never complained of his horse after, – and quite recovered of his complaint.

Go on! – wo-ho! Good words will all command,And gentle treatment bring the steed to hand.

CHAPTER IX

How to make a Mare go

Money makes the mare to go," is a very old proverb. Very few men have read the original poem upon this subject, except they have met with a very old volume of Crashaw's Poems.

"Will thou lend me thy mare to go a mile?No, she is lame, leaping over a stile.But if thou wilt her to me spare,I'll give thee money for thy mare.Ho! ho! say ye so?Money makes the mare to go."

But one of the Doctor's patients was an old active fishmonger, of the name of Sturgeon; one well to do indeed in his line, a hundred years ago. There are a great many who now supply the London market, without any of that hard road work from Greenwich to Billingsgate. Now trains run to and fro, and fish are alive in London from the smacks. But it was smack and go, then, with carts every morning, one after the other in succession, loaded almost top heavy. Then there was unpacking, packing and off for the coaches, Times, Phenomena, Telegraph, Exeter Mail, Yorkshire Old Blue, and a host of others, to supply provincial fishmongers, &c. and great houses in the country.

But Mr. Sturgeon had, by command of his surgeon, to drive no longer. But Doctor Gambado insisted upon it, that he must ride on horseback. Now Mr. Sturgeon had a very favourite mare, which could trot well in harness; but could not be persuaded into any but a slow pace, if any one rode on her back.

"What would I not give," he said to the Doctor, "if she could be made to go."

"Well," said the Doctor, "money makes the mare to go; and I have no doubt old John Tattsall, who was never yet at a loss what to do with horseflesh, would soon put you into the way of making your mare to go."

"What! with me on her back?"

"Oh, yes! and another besides, if wanted."

John was duly consulted.

"Well, Mr. Sturgeon, I see no difficulty in the matter. It requires only a little courage on your part, and I am sure you will find it answer you purpose well. You have nothing to do, but exercise a little ingenuity in your own line. When you are next at Greenwich, just take a good strong lobster, with a pair of tremendous claws; fasten him by the tail to the inside of your fishmonger's coat, and let his head and clinchers hang out against the mare's flank. Sit you firm in the saddle, with your feet well out of the black pincher's way. One gripe, and the mare will go like a shot; nor will she stop to let you pick up your hat and wig; but wherever her stable is in town, you will see she will never stop till she reaches it."

The trial was made, and

Away went Sturgeon, like a shot, —Away, away! The mare could trot;And so she did, – nor did she pause. —John Tattsall gained the world's applause;For one sharp bite upon the side,And such a gripe of hair and hide,The monster held within his claw,That Sturgeon scarce could hold her jaw.With head uplift, and leg up high,The mare, like swallow, seemed to fly,And soon, from Sturgeon's round bald pate,The wig and hat flew o'er the gate;But on rode Sturgeon, made to knowHow well to make a mare to go.

CHAPTER X

The Tumbler, or its Affinities

We cannot narrate all the varieties of patients the Doctor had to deal with. We leave the ladies' cases out of the question, though he strongly recommended to them his great receipt – a ride on horseback.

Of all the difficult cases the Doctor had to deal with, was that of a little stingy, dyspeptic, middle aged pin-man, retired from business, and resident in Pimlico.

He was never satisfied. No one could convince him that he was not a good rider, though he had caused more broken-kneed horses in one month, than any other rider had made in twelve months. He literally went by the name of Tumble-down-Pincushion. It was no use furnishing him with a good horse; down it would come before long, and the little man would roll over like a pincushion; pick himself up, and declare it was the fault of the horse.

He would exasperate his Doctor, and his Doctor's friend, by pretending to show them how a man ought to sit on horseback; and truly, if ever there was a contrast visible, it was in the upright figure of John Tattsall on horseback, and Mr. Jeremiah Hinchman, the retired pin-man of Pimlico. John always knew how to make the most of a horse. Mr. Hinchman never did make any thing but the least of himself and of his horse also. There was a strange affinity between his horse and himself, – at least, between him and one, a favourite rat-tailed sorrel gray. If it tumbled down, it was never disturbed: it was so accustomed to the affinity with the ground, that its knees became hardened with a species of horney excrescence, that seldom showed any thing but dirt, if it did tumble. Nor did the little man either, for having a remarkably light weight in the saddle, and a prominent disposition to bend over his horse's neck, he generally cast a very light summersault in his exit from the seat to the ground.

"I wish," he said one day to Mr. Tattsall, in no very amiable mood, "I wish you would put me in some way of not falling off the tumble-down-horses which you sent me."

"Sir," said Tattsall, "I would not let you ride a horse of mine, till you had paid for it as your own, or paid me the price of it, by way of insurance against the surety of his being a tumbler in your hands. You say you are suited with a very quiet tumbler, and one that takes it easy when he is down. You want yourself to be made to take it as easy as your horse; and, now, sir, to prove my readiness to serve you as a customer, and to serve you well too, I will put you into a way of having such affinity with your horse, that you shall tumble off no more."

"If you do," said Mr. Hinchman, "I will forgive you for having sent me twenty horses, not one of which could keep its legs, or keep me on his back."

John was not easily puzzled.

"Sir," said he, "you must manage the thing your own self. Only just hear my proposed plan. Let an incision be made in two places upon each flap of the saddle; let a thong pass under the saddle-flap, and tie it yourself over your knee. You will then never fall off; but be enabled to keep your seat until your horse shall rise again with ease, and you thus prove the truth of the motto

The Tumbler, or its Affinities

Affinity is defined by Johnson, to be relation by marriage, as opposed to consanguinity, – by others, as relation or agreeableness between things. No one could think of Mr. Hinchman being of the same consanguinity as his horse Tumbler, but as a relation of agreeableness between two things, in this latter, the tumbler had his affinity with his master.

Thus they kept the road together,Whether fine or foul the weather;And when they tumbled, both went down;And when they rose, they both went on.So on they went, and all men's eyesSaw Tumblers with Affinities.

CHAPTER XI

How to do Things by Halves

There is an old saying, and generally considered a good one: "Never do things by halves." But there are exceptions to every rule, and the sending a banknote by halves, is one of them; and a very good exception too. We wish anyone who reads this, would only be induced to send to the Publisher half a bank of England note, and get it acknowledged by the Author, for the good work he has in hand, even in this publication; and he will be sure to be rejoiced to receive the other half as well, and acknowledge that things done by halves, may answer a better purpose than the being done all at once.

Meet an old friend half way, and I'll warrant you they will go together the other half ten thousand times more pleasantly than if they had both met only at the journey's end. Still, in a general way, things done by halves do not always fit, so as to make the whole agreeable. They may become so conjoint as to be agreeable to each other; but who does not like to see a good house built all at once, rather than patched from time to time? Who likes to see a church half restored, and half a ruin? So, who likes to have half the heart of his sweetheart, and never to have the whole. Let him learn to have a whole heart himself, first, and he will be sure to possess the whole heart of another, and fulfil the whole law.

Alderman Goodbeheard, who had been one of Doctor Gambado's patients, delighted, when in the country, to see the hounds; but being a very portly person, and not one of the highflyers in the field, he told John Tattsall, that he wanted a horse that would get over gates and styles, without taking a flying leap. He must have one that could creep over them, by putting first his forelegs on, and then his hind, so as to give him time to lean forward and to lean backward, without those sudden jerks, which he had seen some gentlemen get in the saddle. He did not mind his horse breaking a bar or so, provided he did no mischief to himself or to his rider; for, as the Alderman generally rode along convenient roads and footpaths, he wished to do so with comfort to himself and convenience to his creature.