We entered the blacksmith’s shed by the door I have mentioned, which
fronted the high road, and had just finished changing our dress, when we
heard a tremendous racket outside. We ran to the door, and there was a
little horseman on a night-black nag, galloping furiously in front of
the smithy.
In a moment the horse was checked, and back came the
rash rider again, sweeping by like the wind. But instead of continuing
on the carriage road, the smoking steed dashed over the heaps of rubbish
behind the shed, where a horse had never been known to have gone
before. Round, and round, and round the shed it rushed at a frantic
pace, each time faster than before. as if the weird animal had wings. I
could see no whip in the rider’s hand, or bridle-rein—no saddle-stirrup
or spur, neither could I discover any face to the horseman. The mystic
horse then dashed by us so near that the wind it stirred rushed in our
faces. On it went in the very direction of our home, over the road we
walked.
The smithy stood in a mineral valley known as Bottom Hill,
and its sides were very steep, so that it was no easy task to go up
them. The carriage road wound along its side, running on a considerable
length until it reached the top. There was, however, a footpath for
passengers almost in a direct line from the lowest part of the valley to
the very edge of the hill. At the distance of every few yards there
were flights of steps, so as to surmount it more easily. But a horse to
go up that way would be almost like scaling a cliff. What was our
surprise, then, when this hazardous horseman, but a few feet in advance
of us, dashed right up over these steps! As he leaped from level to
level, and from stone to stone, the black horse seemed standing upright
on its hind legs. No sound was heard, no ' crack of whip, no breathing
of the jaded beast, but all was still as death.
Of course, the wild
horse and its wilder rider reached the high-road on the top of the
valley long before we did, though we paced on considerably faster than
we were wont. I felt no fear, and hardly expected to see it again, but
had resolved that, should it make its appearance, to call out boldly and
ask what it wanted. Exactly as we reached the last step of the
footpath, which would land us on the main road, there was the black
horse and its sooty rider coming full tilt in our faces! I had an
opportunity, for a second, to examine the horseman; for by this time the
moon had risen, and the light was tolerably good. He seemed as black as
ink, armless and legless, and no bigger than a farmer’s watchdog. He
was bent forward upon the horse’s neck, so that he was almost double. I
could see no face or features of any kind—no whip, or bridle, or
saddle-girth. But down he came sweeping like a storm-wave. We stepped
quickly aside, and I shouted “Good night!” but there was no reply, no
recognition of our presence, or murmur of any kind. On went the black
horse galloping into the midnight—on, on! For several minutes we heard
the animal’s hoofs rattling and ringing upon the road towards
Tuckingmill; and then all was silent, and we saw it no more. What it was
I have never discovered to this day—but it was no ghost.
extracted from My Autobiography by John Harris