230 THE POST AND THE PADDOCK. 



trasting its misty quiet, with the restless spirit of 

 speculation, which went to and fro, month after 

 month, the whole length and breadth of its republic, 

 when Peter Simple 



" With Cunning Tom upon his back. 

 And half the tin of Beverlac" 



was the hero of English steeple-chasers, or when 

 Nancy, the bay pride of Burton Pidsea, was luring 

 it, as well as its neighbour, Hull, to sell the very 

 beds from under them to back her. 



Following the footpath, we arrived at a high white 

 gate on the left, the proscenium to an avenue of 

 elms, which leads to the Hall, and the church in 

 which Mr. Watt lies buried. Here and at Bishop 

 Burton Hall, which he left about three- and-twenty 

 years since, the old man was always roaming amongst 

 his paddocks and watching his favourites with anxious 

 care. The last of his brood mares, which still revels 

 here, is a mare called Birthday, by Assault, out of 

 Nitocris, who was foaled on his birthday. He never 

 could find in his heart to have her trained; twice or 

 thrice she was under orders for departure : but when 

 the day arrived, he could not bear to let her go, as 

 he said they would only break her down. There are 

 not a few pictures in the Hall by Dolby ana Herring. 

 Blacklock by the former, and as large as life, faced 

 us on the staircase ; but Manuella, Altisidora, and 

 Belshazzar were far more to our taste. Passing down 

 the hill, and near the bachelor residence of Mr. Frank 

 Watt, we crossed the road to the old Bishop Burton 

 Hall, originally purchased by one Roger Gee, a 

 Liverpool merchant, who rebuilt the place, and laid 

 down a two-mile gallop on the Wold in front of it. 

 Its late owner took a dislike to it, and the very 

 mantel-pieces and door-frames have been pulled 

 down. A narrow walk, with one of the best yew- 

 fences we ever yet saw in " merrie England," led us 



