Blood Mares, 219 



the time, 3000 guineas, in consequence of their heavy 

 forfeits. 



The walk to the Bishop Burton Paddocks from 

 Beverley lost half its beauty in our eyes, from the me- 

 lancholy associations it revived of the olden time, when 

 Squire Watt, in his *' truly British " blue coat and buff 

 waistcoat, made thorough-breds his heart's delight. 

 We left Beverley by the York road, and wended our 

 way through the pleasant common-lands of Westwood, 

 along the side of the racecourse. The prospect from 

 the hill opposite the Stand, on the morning we first 

 climbed it, was one that would have softened an an- 

 chorite. Just in front of us was the Stand, whose 

 silken jackets and burly crowd with their shouts of 

 " T'oud Squire wins," and " she'll give him ten poond 

 and lick his heed off," had given way for the nonce, 

 to " Sim " and a quiet group of scarlets, who were 

 awaiting The Holderness, as, with their " many-twink- 

 ling feet" and sterns, they trotted gently up the course. 

 Pretty little Beverley, flanked by its magnificent gothic 

 minster, and coloured here and there with the red-tile 

 roofs so peculiar to this part of Yorkshire, just peeped 

 over the undulating Westwood foreground, and we 

 could not help contrasting 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 



