Chap­ter 47: Hard Times begins with Black Beau­ty caught in one of the most pun­ish­ing phas­es of his life, work­ing under Nicholas Skin­ner, a man whose every deci­sion revolves around prof­it. His phys­i­cal descrip­tion alone—cold black eyes and a sharp nose—mirrors his strict and joy­less nature. For Skin­ner, hors­es are tools to be drained of ener­gy, then dis­card­ed once they can no longer turn a prof­it. Beauty’s dai­ly rou­tine is marked by relent­less trips, bare­ly any rest, and a com­plete absence of com­pas­sion. Each day blends into the next, as his body weak­ens from the grind and his spir­it dims under the weight of neglect. Skin­ner sees no issue in forc­ing his hors­es through rain, cold, or heavy traf­fic. His indif­fer­ence is a dai­ly bur­den Beau­ty must car­ry, and the cost of that cru­el­ty con­tin­ues to accu­mu­late with every jour­ney through the city.

One of the harsh­est expe­ri­ences occurs when a group hires the cab for a long trip across the city, despite Beau­ty already being vis­i­bly exhaust­ed. The pas­sen­gers include a young girl who notices Beauty’s frail con­di­tion and speaks up, plead­ing that he needs a break. Her con­cern, while kind, is swift­ly brushed aside by Skin­ner, who orders the jour­ney to con­tin­ue with­out delay. The weight of the pas­sen­gers and the steep inclines of the city roads make each step more painful than the last. Beau­ty feels every pull in his joints, every strain in his back, until his legs begin to trem­ble with fatigue. But no one, except that com­pas­sion­ate child, even con­sid­ers eas­ing his bur­den. It becomes clear that empa­thy is a lux­u­ry not often found in the busi­ness of hired cabs. And for hors­es like Beau­ty, the absence of kind­ness can be fatal.

The break­ing point arrives at Ludgate Hill, where Beau­ty col­laps­es beneath the weight of the car­riage and years of overuse. His legs give out com­plete­ly, and for a brief moment, he feels noth­ing but a cold still­ness, ready to accept that this may be the end. Around him, peo­ple gather—some curi­ous, some concerned—but their reac­tions are var­ied. A few express sor­row, while oth­ers impa­tient­ly sug­gest remov­ing the horse and find­ing anoth­er to take his place. Skin­ner, always prag­mat­ic and void of remorse, sees only incon­ve­nience. No effort is made to under­stand the suf­fer­ing that led to this moment, nor is there any thought to allow Beau­ty rest or prop­er care. He is pulled aside rough­ly, as if his col­lapse were a minor set­back in an oth­er­wise rou­tine day.

Lat­er, Skin­ner con­sults a far­ri­er to exam­ine Beau­ty, hop­ing for a quick solu­tion that won’t cut into his earn­ings. The far­ri­er con­firms what is obvious—Beauty needs rest, pos­si­bly weeks of it—but Skin­ner scoffs at the sug­ges­tion. To him, a horse that can­not work is a loss, and loss­es must be removed. He casu­al­ly decides to get rid of Beau­ty rather than con­sid­er recov­ery. It’s a moment that stark­ly reveals the ugly truth behind the work­ing con­di­tions of many cab hors­es in Vic­to­ri­an cities. They are bought for ser­vice, not for life. Once their legs give out or their spir­its fal­ter, they are deemed worth­less and dis­card­ed. There is no retire­ment, no sanctuary—only exhaus­tion and an uncer­tain fate.

This chap­ter offers read­ers more than a trag­ic turn in the sto­ry; it opens a win­dow into the cru­el eco­nom­ic mod­el of labor ani­mals in that era. It’s a cri­tique of society’s accep­tance of such mis­treat­ment, dri­ven by con­ve­nience and prof­it. Anna Sewell draws atten­tion to how ordi­nary peo­ple can either be com­plic­it or take a stand, as seen through the con­trast between the young girl’s con­cern and Skinner’s cold effi­cien­cy. The mes­sage res­onates beyond its set­ting. Even today, ani­mals used for work or enter­tain­ment often face sim­i­lar fates if not pro­tect­ed by wel­fare laws and advo­ca­cy. Beau­ty’s suf­fer­ing reminds read­ers that behind every ser­vice ani­mal is a liv­ing crea­ture capa­ble of pain and deserv­ing of care.

Orga­ni­za­tions today con­tin­ue to cam­paign for the rights and pro­tec­tion of work­ing ani­mals around the world. Horse sanc­tu­ar­ies, leg­is­la­tion on ani­mal labor lim­its, and edu­ca­tion about humane treat­ment all find their roots in sto­ries like Beauty’s. Through Black Beauty’s col­lapse, Sewell wasn’t just telling a story—she was issu­ing a call for reform. The chapter’s strength lies in its emo­tion­al hon­esty and refusal to soft­en the truth. Read­ers are not just saddened—they are awak­ened. And per­haps, moved by that awak­en­ing, they begin to ques­tion how they treat not only ani­mals, but all those whose labor sup­ports our dai­ly lives.