THE CASE FOR THE HORSE.

Dunstan Times, Issue 3382, 11 July 1927, Page 8

THE CASE FOR THE HORSE.

(By James Agate.) [ A considerable number of letters having reached me descanting upon (a) the folly, and (b) the wisdom of giving up Bank Holiday to a horse show, 1 propose to say something further on that topic. Let me declare at once that I agree with those who claim that the Augustan day of the horse is over, and that the age is the vulgarer one of petrol. At this those others rejoice and I grieve, but w© agree substantially. That the horse had its glories will not be denied, I think, by the most frenzied worshipper of sparking-plugs vCnd carburetters. A motor-car may whirl you along the Great North road at the exhilarating pace of eighty miles an hour. But will its roaring cylinders ever deserve the adjectives “gay, “mettlesome,” “spanking”? I have seen an old villager doff his hat to a mar© of courage, but never to ironmongery, however brightly burnished. Every horseman at the end of a long day sees to it that his animal is rubbed down and made comfortable before his own wants are attended to. But what motorist ever went to his garage before he turned in, patted bis pet’s tin bonnet and asked if she was all right. I have known a horseman, when his favorite mare was seized with an attack of shivers, snatch a blanket from his sleeping wife —just cause in motor circles for divorce. The stableboy pinching an extra handful of oats for his horse is vitrue personified; the chauffeur who steals petrol is a thief. It may bo that in some future war fussy little oil-engines will wheel the guns into line, and that peacefully on the upland wold the ploughman will guide his steam-tractor. Well, every age has its poetry, and perhaps the heart of that day will be stirred equally with the old when the new Housman shall write: —

Is my tractor ploughing That I was used to drive And hear the engine throbbing When I was a man alive ?

But possibly lovers of “A Shropshire Lad” may ho forgiven for preferring the word “team” to “tractor,” and “harness-jingle” to enginethump. What happens to a favorite motor car at the end of a long life spent inloyal and faithful service? Is it pentioned off ? Is not the shameful truth, rather, the history oi the scrap-heap and the second-hand dealer? Ido not believe that of any motor-car, how-* ever beloved, it will ever be written: “Gay and self-assured is Mel-Valley s Wonder to this day; and gay he may well be, for to few ponies is it given to enjoy 22 years of life, and to stand knee-deep in kindness at the end.” I have seen no tablet recording the merits and the faithfulness of some deceased automobile. But 1 have seen the spot where Bounce lies buried, and the marble tablet let into the wall, with the following inscription; —

A mare they called Bounce in this grave lies at rest, She left stock behind her of the very best. She was over 15 hands high and her color dark brown, A brood mare or in harness in the show-ring well known. Her last record in the show-ring to end her show career, When she was 14 years of age she won the great Lincolnshire And she was plucky to the last with her action fresh and free. _ The time she reigned upon this cart:. was thirty years and three.

Can the truth of the matter be that even after 30 years of life the best • f motor-cars has never really lived? Do not motoring scribes give their casaway sooner than anybody else? What panegyrist of motoring is tliere who. after a picture of the road gleaming white in the mdonhght, will refrain from saying that the driver “opened out her throttle, and belt the car bound beneath him like a live thing”? Like a live thing, you notice. In other words, dead. And beiiig dead your car has no bones to rest and no spirit to save—except that which can be purchased by the gallon. I am not concerned to defend the horse as a utilitarian animal. As a conveyor of holiday-makers the charabanc leaves him behind. If I desire to be in Manchester in a little over three hours ho is useless for my purpose. If I must go to the theatre on a wet night I should not choose a high-stepper and a gig. Agreed. But are you going to tell me that at the sight of a fox pursued by a field oij nippy little runabouts, country parson and country doctor will interrupt their visitations to join in the chase ? We have heard of whippets pursuing an electric hare. Are you going to tell me that thousands will journey to Aintre to see Beecher’s Brook negotiated by some cylinderod thing? I have for the hunter, the hack and the highstepping harness horse exactly the same kind of admiration that I have for the boxer, the cricketer, or any man of prowess, jon cannot, by putting a penny, or ten pounds, or even a hundred pounds, into a slot, ensure that Hobbs will make a century. Whereas anybody with enough money can build himself a motor-car to go a hundred miles an hour every day of the week, including Sundays. If I love the harness horse, and if I go to shows, it is because the ring has its excitements and its drama. A horse is a bundle of nerves and temperament, very much like you, dear reader, and me. My horse may be fire and air to-day, and win the championship; to-morrow he may be half-way down the class. You cannot say definitely that oven your Olympia champion will reproduce on Saturday the form he 'showed on Tuesday. But having learnt your motor-car, you can predict for ever after what it will do. To conclude, the most damning thing about the automobile its its utter reliability, whereas the horse is a living thing and is saved by what I insist upon calling his human factor.