400 ASHGILL; OR, THE LIFE 



breath sweetened by the incense of meadow, of foliage, 

 and of flowers, 'tis not well to indulge in the retro- 

 spective, and to mope about the Past. The Present is 

 to be dealt with, and the present eye must catch up its 

 features. This is the very opening of the three days' 

 racing festival beloved of Northumbrians. The gee- 

 gees are here from Langton's breezy wolds, from 

 Middleham's uplands, from Newmarket's chalky flats, 

 from Gullane's downy pastures. Listen, old son, to the 

 unbolting of stable doors, view apparitions of sheeted 

 thoroughbreds, led and ridden by precocious-looking 

 jockeys and stable-boys. See the rosy-cheeked trainers 

 appearing one by one; the "touts," lynx-eyed, on the 

 alert for any limp or halt in a favourite ; the handful of 

 spectators from the yet sleeping city, and the " scribes '* 

 with book and pencil ready to despatch " copy " to 

 satisfy the voracious maw of the race-loving public at 

 the low charge of one penny. Wake up, old son, cast 

 your eyes about, and unfold the morning tale. Cudgel 

 thy brains no more with retrospect, for your dull ass 

 will not mend his pace with beating. This is a bright 

 scene, full of life and action. Enter into the spirit of 

 the thing. No more wool-gathering; let the fancy, if 

 you lack your facts, have its play for a few moments. 



" Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

 For old Time is still a stealing." 



Surely that is a familiar figure at the head of some 

 half a dozen nags in the distance. Yes, our old friend 

 John Osborne once more keeps up his reputation as 

 being the early bird of his fellow-craftsmen in the art. 

 of training. How lightly does the scythe-bearer deal 

 with the Middleham wizard ! " No lumber about him," 

 you say. Clear is the eye which, when you wish him 



