Cavendish, Part I: In which Cavendish is snarky

     I’d been debating livetweeting my reread of Cavendish’s snarky training treatise. I did this instead. This series was begun in January, but never finished. I have revisited it here and updated my commentary.

On Cavendish’s “New Method” 

Part I: In which Cavendish is snarky, and disparages all riders he has not trained.
 

Cavendish opens with a “genealogy” of equestrian art, and this comment:

“And though the French think, That all the Horse-manship in the World is in France.”  

         I laughed unreasonably. To be fair, for a hand of centuries prior to Cavendish, much of Europe was stealing France’s equestrian vocabulary.

“This Noble Art was first begun and Invented in Italy, and all the French and other Nations went thither to learn; the seate of Horse-manship being at Naples: The first that ever Writ of it was Frederick Grison.”

         Duarte predates Grisone by a century and change, but Duarte was not in the “genealogy” of trainers Cavendish described. Duarte was virtually unknown (possibly due to only being available in an incomplete manuscript, cut short by his death). Because Duarte’s manuscript spent some time in Naples, it is entirely plausible that Duarte’s thoughts or even writing does belong in this family tree. For more on the life of this manuscript, I recommend this translation of Duarte.    

         More curiously, Cavendish makes no mention on Xenophon, which was available at least in Italy by Grisone’s time. Unsurprisingly, Kikkuli is left out as well, along with innumerable other folks who undoubtedly wrote about horsemanship through the ages and remain as lost to us as the were to Cavendish. As to development of the French school itself, Cavendish remarks:

 “As for Pluvinel, no doubt but he was a Good Horse-man; but his Invention of the Three Pillars, of which his Book Pretends to be an absolute Method, is no more than an absolute Routine; and hath spoyl’d more Horses, than ever any Thing did; for Horses are not Made to the Hand and the Heel at all with them; nor will they go from the usual place where they are Ridden, nor well there neither.”

         I’ll drink to that.

And then about the Italian school (by which he mostly means Grisone, despite his hat-tip at the beginning, and it seems also includes Blundeville’s gloss of Grisone):

“I must tell you that the Italian Writers are Tedious, and write more of Marks, Colours, Temperatures, Elements, Moon, Stars, Winds, and Bleedings, than of the Art of Rideing;…

         He’s not wrong.

 …only to make up a Book, though they wanted Horse-manship.”

burn

     He doesn’t stop there. The introduction turns into quite the rant. Next he turns his attention to riders outside the burgeoning academies:

“Many say, that all things in the Mannage is nothing but Tricks, and Dancing, and Gamballs, and of no Use”

         Some things haven’t changed. Cavendish’s answer, being in effect that these are the foundation skills for all pursuits, will also sound familiar to modern horsefolks.

“But, What makes these Men speak against it?…the Main Reason is this; They find they cannot Ride well”
burn2.gif

     He goes on to explain that this is because the manage horse cannot be ridden by “inspiration,” but only though the long work of training rider as well as horse. And on, and on, and just a bit more. He takes aim again at riders who think the manage to be useless tricks:

“They cannot do it, and therefore it is Naught: A very good and sensless Reason! He that will take Pains for Nothing, shall never do any thing Well; for Arts, Sciences, and good Qualities, come not by Instinct, but are got by great Labour, Study, and Practice.”

       It seems he had some feelings on the subject. After what seems like eons, he returns to the horse!

“I would have every Horse (that wears a Bitt) Gelding, or Nagg, wrought in the Mannage, to be firm on the Hand, both for Readiness, and Safety.”

    I do quite agree with him regarding the foundational nature of what we now call dressage, having turned out even some nice western and saddleseat horses from a dressage start. To clarify, however, by “bitt” he means curb. He continues:

“But, sayes a Gallant, when I should have Use of him in the Field, then he will be playing Tricks: That Gallant is Deceived; for, the Helps to make Horses go in Ayres, and to make them go upon the Ground, are Several; and Good Horse-men have much ado to make them go in Ayres, with their best Helps; so that, if you let them alone, they will not trouble you; besides, two or three dayes March will make them, that they will not go in Ayres, if you would have them; and they are much the Readier to go on the Ground.”

        This neatly undermines the received wisdom that dressage (and it’s predecessor the manage) was merely off season practice of military maneuvers. They are related traditions, but a simple glance at a calendar shows a marked disparity.

“There can be no Horse else Safe and Useful; nor can any Horse go well in a Snaffle, except he be formerly Ridd with a Bitt.”
        On this I will part ways with his Grace. Though I do tend to finish my horses in some sort of shanked bit, it is not always beneficial and certainly not always needed. I did once start a horse in a neck rope and a halter, alternatingly, because he’d had a terrible ear infection. He wasn’t the most “useful,” but a curb certainly wouldn’t have helped him.

       To be fair, Cavendish advocates the use of a riding cavesson for starting horses. I’m honestly a fan of this myself (though I’ll just clip reins to a regular noseband or a well fitted halter), but despite the various traditions that go from bit-less to curb (like, say, bosal to spade), I don’t think a curb should ever be the first bit a horse carries.

Cavendish concludes his argument:

“Thus it is Proved, That there is nothing of more Use than A Horse of Mannage; nor any thing of more State, Manliness, or Pleasure, than Rideing.”
        I’ve been called manly before, but oddly not for riding.
Next: Part II, in which Cavendish throws shade.
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Grinding Peas Sounds Like Death

Originally from March ’16, with added update.

   As some of you know, I am researching horsebread. A friend sent me this fantastic article by William Rubel last year, and off down the rabbit hole I went. Because there are a few questions (or theories) I have that the textual sources can’t answer– like, say, the actual caloric density of late medieval bran-rye-fava horsebread– I get to destroy the kitchen and reconstitute some history.

   For today’s experiment, I had but one question: can legumes hold a loaf together?

   You see, Rubel suggest that a strike of beans is equal to two bushels. This seems entirely reasonable, considering the range of measurements a strike was used for, from two pecks to four bushels. I, however, am accustomed to a strike being one level bushel (a strike was also the name of the tool used to level bushels).

   For Rubel’s purposes, it doesn’t make a large difference. However, since many of my questions revolve around nutritional content (specifically calories, crude protein, and certain mineral ratios), that is a critical difference. And, looking at the recipes, I thought it unusual that Gervase Markham’s (1607) first two recipes called for more than twice as much, by volume, of beans than of grain, while his third called for three times more grain than beans (if the measurement of a strike as two bushels were used). If you consider a strike to be a single bushel, it is a much less drastic change (being then 4:3 to 3:1, rather than 8:3 to 3:1).

   I was also convinced that legumes couldn’t bake into a loaf without more grain flour.

I was wrong.

Benefits of reconstitution, eh?

So, on to my adventure in culinary history:

     First, my local market does not carry horsebeans. How dare they, right? I guess driedpeasinninja fava beans aren’t really a staple of the modern southern California diet. They did, of course, have dried split green peas, which were also commonly used in horsebread. So I got out my trusty Ninja (I love this thing, it lets me abuse it so much), and set out to grind my peas.

Grinding peas sounds like death.
     Seriously. It is awful. Alyse hid behind two doors. I recommend earplugs. About two 20-second bursts seemed to do the trick. Set a timer, it seems like So. Much. Longer. Ok, so I’m a little sound-sensitive, but still. Loud. I found that not filling the Ninja so full was helpful.

 

bolting
bolting

I don’t actually own a bolter, but this steamer tray was very effective. I have a nice bowl that fits it exactly, which cut down on the mess. Though…if you do try this for some insane reason, be prepared to breath pea dust. A face mask might be a good idea.

      

after first bolt
After first bolt. If i had a sieve (or, say, an industrial bolter with proper screens), I could have gotten a more consistent product with fewer bolts. But, hey, it’s supposed to be coarse.

 I separated the flour from the chunky bits (I’m sure there’s a name for them), and reground the bits. I did this a few times, and set aside the last of the bits that wouldn’t fill the blender enough. I’ll probably make soup later.

first mix of flour
Tiny amount. I didn’t expect this to work, and didn’t want to be wasteful. 8 tbsp. pea flour, 2 tbsp. AP, and 1tbsp. bran, based on Markham’s “ordinary” horsebread.
       Next, I added pea flour, all purpose flour, and bran together in my makeshift bolter (Markham’s recipes call for the flours to be sifted together). Now, I did track down some mills that will custom grind heirloom grains for flour, but at this stage that would just be overkill. After all, I was concerned with whether or not pea flour could hold a loaf. I did mix some bran into my AP flour to better approximate flours used for horsebread. 

     Then a splash of beer (I don’t have ale barm handy) and hot water (160º, electric kettle ftw). 

like glue
like glue

     

mini test loaf
mini test loaf

Markham specifies the use of hot water to “take the savour from the beans.” Both split peas and fava beans have an intense, sour,  sulfurous smell. This would be very unappealing to the horse. The unspecified sideeffect is how much water the ground beans would take up. They absorb moisture very slowly, and hot water hastens this and increase the total intake. A tiny splash. It was too wet. I sprinkled on a bit more of each flour in proportion, until it wasn’t so sticky, and finally was able to form a mini-loaf.

    It really doesn’t look appetizing, does it? Good thing it’s not for me. 

mini test loaf- cooked
mini test loaf- cooked

     Medieval ovens were shockingly hot, and presumably didn’t get cooler in the early modern period. I have found no hints as to what time of day horsebread was baked (ok, morning, but for bakeries anywhen that leaves a large window), or what part of the oven was used. I played it safe and used a standard 350º, starting at five minutes, then another five, then a few more…maybe it was done?

   Well, it seems to have held up. I’ll see what it’s like in two or three days when it’s correctly stale, but apparently at least peas can form a loaf. Very well actually, since it didn’t need a loafpan. Of course, that makes sense, as they wouldn’t have used loafpans.

On to the second loaf! I made this one larger, more loaf like.

peadough

Looks like it needs more liquid, right? Nope. Just a whole lot of kneading. The pea flour turns to glue at the barest hint of moisture, but it doesn’t absorb much.

Left is raw, right is baked. Hardly looks different after baking. Forgot to incise the H. Oops. Thats a fine.

     I sprinkled the top with bran (tradition, y’know) and rolled it in plastic like rolling sushi (because ew it was sticky). This one baked for 15 minutes, and then I turned the oven off but left it in while the oven cooled. And stuck the small loaf back in, too. They seem to get very hard…like brick…on the outside quickly, but seem squishy inside if you flex the crust.

     I believe Rubel chose the two bushel measure in order to line Markham’s recipes up with John Halfpenny‘s (1696), who he also discusses. Halfpenny appears to have based his recipes on Markham’s. Thomas de Grey (1639) clearly favors a large amount of grain compared to legumes, but he references the fact that more legumes had previously been traditional. While I’m still not convinced about Markham’s measurements, this does show that a dough made primarily from pea flour will indeed hold together.

Update:

     Three days later, the loaf had not staled, but rather fermented. So, if high-peaflour doughs were used, a longer, lower temperature cooking time would be needed. The test for pony approval would have to wait. 
     The leftovers from the grind and from the dough made an excellent porridge. Some day I’ll re-run this experiment and try to make porridge from the baked loaf. Not anytime soon. Somehow I don’t think that level of kitchen destruction will be tolerated a second time soon.
     A year later, my local grocery seems to have heard me, and now carries favabeans. Sadly, only canned.

#ShelfieSunday: War Horse: Mounting the Cavalry with America’s Finest Horses — Equine History Collective

War Horse started as a project by two horsemen to uncover the relationship between pedigree and confirmation, especially pertaining to soundness and athleticism. It became an immense tome on the short lived but massively influential U.S. Army Remount Service breeding program. Livingston and Roberts, in their search to quantify the pedigrees of the best […]

via #ShelfieSunday: War Horse: Mounting the Cavalry with America’s Finest Horses — Equine History Collective

Bit-less, not Pressure-less

This post was originally from December 26, 2016 on my old blog.

   I’ve mentioned before that some bit-less bridles, particularly the Dr. Cook’s and bridles based on it, can actually apply a huge amount of psychological and physical pressure to the horse. Those I’ve ridden with know that I am generally a fan of riding bit-less, but do not like rigs that directly apply unfettered poll pressure. I certainly do not agree that such rigs are kinder to most horses than a simple snaffle (or even, in some cases, a basic curb).
  

Dr. Cook's Bridle with poll studs
Figures from Patent for “Bitless bridle for governing horses and other animals”

   Today, while looking up something entirely different, I stumbled on the original patent for Dr. Cook’s bridle, which contained this terrifying addendum: “The centerpiece may include a plurality of holes for receiving studs for applying painless pressure on regions of special acuity at the poll and behind each ear of the animal, or may receive a separate sleeve which includes the studs in order to apply pressure over areas of special acuity. Studs of different sizes can be fitted in a range of locations, depending upon the amount of pressure required and the conformation of any particular horse or other animal.”

     Thankfully, I have never seen poll studs in use at any of my barns, nor even seen them for sale.

Four-beat Follow-up, Part III: Muybridge Myths

horse-race-19th-century (1)     Way back in 1878 Eadweard Muybridge disproved the idea that that a horse gallops with its front and hind legs in pairs, stretched out. Or so the story goes. That is the version most tossed around barns, and occasionally makes it into academic circles. In 2012, one of Muybridge’s series was the subject of a Google Doodle, and he briefly re-entered the spotlight. Since then, the version that has become common is that he sought to prove that there was a moment of suspension in the gallop. Stanford University calls this their “first research project,” because Muybridge used Leland Stanford’s racehorses as his models, allegedly to assist Stanford in winning a bet on the topic.

     But, wait, let’s talk about this “racehorse” term that gets bandied about. Muybridge’s first “horse in motion” photos were, indeed, of one of Stanford’s “racehorses.”

“In 1876, the experimental photographer Eadweard Muybridge captured on film Leland Stanford’s prized horse, Abe Edgington, at full gallop in an attempt to prove Stanford’s theory of “unsupported transit”, the idea that all four hooves of a horse at speed leave the ground. The plate itself was fuzzy and unsuitable for publication, so it was left to a little-known painter of horses to strengthen the image. Thomas Kirby Van Zandt reproduced the image twice, first as drawing of “crayon and ink wash” dated September 16, 1876, and again as the finished canvas, Abe Edgington (Iris & B. Gerald Cantor Center for Visual Arts, Stanford University), dated February 1877 (1).” Cooley Gallery, emphasis mine.

Stanford University’s account of the “first research project” concurs that this test was conducted at a gallop, and provides this picture:

Screen Shot 2017-11-04 at 2.44.54 PM

     There’s one problem. The photo series above, “Sallie Gardner,” was taken in 1878. The original photo series, from 1876, was of Abe Edgington, MorganAbe Edgington did race, but in harness at a trot. Whether or not Stanford had made a bet about the results, the first trial was at a trot, and he used the results to adjust the training of his harness horses.

abe

     Now that’s what I call a road horse! While there was some discussion as to whether or not all four feet left left the ground in the gallop, it was generally accepted that they did; the question was when. 

canterdefNote: what they call canter, we would consider a collected canter or park canter.
Every Horse Owner’s Cyclopedia, 1871, pg 89
Courtesy of the NSLM

See also Pantologia: A New Cabinet Cyclopaedia, 1819, pg 133:

gallopdef
   But, that question of timing was not Muybridge & Stanford’s original inquest. Stanford, being more owner than rider, may not have been aware of the consensus. Or, just as likely, he was, and that is why his first efforts focused on the trot. He was aware of Prof. Marey‘s work, but commented on his depiction of the walk, not the idea of suspension in the gallop.*  It was photos of the trot suspension that were submitted to newspapers as proof, and even by 1881, after Sallie Gardner was photographed at the gallop, the trot continued to receive the greatest amount of column space. Finally, Muybridge’s own Animals in Motion, finished in 1885, made much of the trot suspension, and little of that in the gallop.

animalsmuy

No such dispute was mentioned for the gallop. To the contrary, some surprise was expressed at maintaining a slow enough canter (what we might call a lope, though far more upheaded) to remove the moment of suspension.

*See the 1881 article.

This in an update on a prior series from Oct. ’16 on four beat gaits.

Read:

Four beat canters & lopes

Four-beat follow-up, Part I: The Break 

Four-beat follow-up, Part II: Non-standard canters & gallops

 

Four-beat Follow-up, Part II: Non-standard canters & gallops

This in an update on a prior series from Oct. ’16 on four beat gaits.

greyhound
                                  This “second suspension” is usually missing from a horse’s gallop

    First, let’s talk about an anomalous form of the gallop whose existence is still, with todays slow motion video technology, debated. That is the double suspension gallop. In this, there are two moments of suspension, similar to a running greyhound. The hoof-falls would be hind, hind, suspension, opposite fore, fore, secretariatsuspension.  Secretariats immense stride is sometimes credited to his use of this gait. His winning photo from the Belmont Stakes shows him in a strange position, with all feet off the ground but legs outstretched. His outside fore hangs slightly, much like the dog in the photo above. It looks so strange that I, like many, wondered if it was a glitch. Then I realized that foreleg, and the opposite hind, could still be in the process of moving forward. He is on the left lead, with his left (inside) fore about to land. So I looked around to see if this glitch was repeated anywhere.

     I looked at some “most obvious suspects.” California Chrome. American Pharoah. Cigar. Zenyatta. All had huge closing strides– and acceleration within the gallop is where the double suspension seems to show– and none of them seem to exhibit this gait. And RedCadeauxthen I stumbled across this photo finish from the 2011 Melbourne Cup.  Red Cadeaux, the chestnut on the inside, is in almost the exact strange position that Secretariat was in at his Belmont finish. The photo IS distorted– the larger version shows one horse with a ridiculously large hock– but the distortion seems greatest the furthest from the finish line. And there are now a handful of interesting non-finish line photos floating around, like mrpremierthis Quarter Horse Mr Premier LVThis photo could be the moment after the phase shown above. The left fore has just touched the ground, but both hinds are already well in the air. The double suspension gallop’s effects on speed and soundness, as well as it’s possible heritability, are all conjecture at this point, as is its very existence. Finding evidence of horses galloping with out fulling weighting the diagonal at the same time is easy. Evidence of a second true suspension is inconclusive. Studies are ongoing.

     Now, back to the greyhound. The greyhound tends to employ a rotary gallop, with the hind-fore pair being lateral (usually the outside pair). The second non-standard hoofbeat pattern is what is often called the “gaited canter,” which is a rotary canter. The hoofbeats are hind, lateral pair, fore, which the pair occasionally exhibiting a slight break. It is often seen as just another crosscanter (i.e., disunited, with the fore and hind legs on opposite leads), but the tendency of gaited horses– especially those who exhibit lateral gaits– is strong, and the pairing of the lateral in the canter is not generally seen in other crosscanters. It is not a gait I would encourage, but for these horses it appears to be “natural.” I find that strengthening these horses diagonal gaits, if any, a great deal of working on circles, and is possible introducing haunches-in, helps to develop a standard canter, which is both more comfortable and better for long term soundness.

 

Read the rest of the series: 

Four-beat Follow-up, Part I: The Break

This in an update on a prior series from Oct. ’16 on four beat gaits.

  A while back I wrote a bit on four beat canters & lopes. In a footnote at the bottom, I mentioned the four-beat gallop as well as a non-standard gait that is sometimes four beat: the break. 

  We’ll take a quick tour of our understanding of this “gait,” seen most often out of the horserun starting gate, but first lets look at the related gallop. Prior to Muybridge’s 1870’s photographic study of equine locomotion, running horses were depicted stretch out, both hinds together behind the horse and both fore together in front of the horse, like this:

     And then, of course, came Muybridge’s stop motion photography study. This instantly “disproved” the common depiction, which quickly went out of fashion.

1024px-The_Horse_in_Motion
Muybridge’s The Horse in Motion, 1878

    And that was that. Right? Well…not quite. In the last decade or so, we’ve revisited this idea with new film technology. We need to add a few caveats. The frames above are of a mare galloping at the Palo Alto racetrack in California in 1878. The gallop exhibited by this mare is the most common way of going for horses in that gait, with the footfalls being hind, hind-opposite fore, fore, followed by a moment of suspension with all four legs curled in towards the center of the body. It is not, however, the only footfall pattern for the gallop, and the gallop is certainly not all we see from modern racehorses. The break is likely the root of the splay legged depictions of the gallop. Earlier versions include: 

ramses Mar14_stubbs1500x1053

This is something that was “disproven” by Muybridge, but it turns out actually happens. The gap between the hind pair and the front pair becomes much more pronounced, and the hinds occasionally push off together (though often still landing a half beat apart).

greatbreakfromstartinggategeneralcharleysraceatkeenelandracetrack070img_6510barrel

Next: different footfall patterns?