These, with a sprinkling of ordinary
passengers, fill the train, which glides quickly
out of the station, and does not stop until
it reaches Malton.

I am an expected guest, and on the platform
stands, wrapped up in an immense
Ulster overcoat, Mr. Scott's alter ego, Mr.
John Peart, who for more than a quarter of
a century has been the great trainer's
confidential friend and right-hand man. He
has his little four-wheeled trap outside, and
in a few minutes we are rattling through
the street of Malton, at the heels of Polly,
an old grey pony, who has been driven by
her master for a dozen years, during which
time she has been, as he said, "never one day
sick nor sorry." Yonder stands Whitewall,
on the brow of a hill, a substantial, pretty
house, white as its name implies, with a
row of smaller houses attached to it, all of the
same colour, with green doors. These are
the offices or residences of persons belonging
to the establishment. The large folding
gates through which you enter the stableyard
are in the middle of this row, and the
whole block of buildings stands by itself,
looking down upon the suburbs of Norton,
with the church steeple and tall chimneys of
Malton in the distance.

Most people have heard of the heartiness
of a Yorkshire welcome, of the glories of a
Yorkshire breakfast, so that I simply place
on record that each of these were
experienced by me in the highest degree at
Whitewall. But I do not think that in
these days of "interviewing" it will be
considered in bad taste if I attempt to give
some personal description of one who is not
merely a celebrity on account of the
success which has attended him in his calling,
but by reason of the integrity which has
distinguished him throughout his lengthened
career, and which proves that a
connexion with the turf does not necessarily
result in moral turpitude. Mr. Scott might
stand for a picture of the sporting squire
of the old school; with his silvery white
hair, shaven cheeks, neatly folded
neckcloth, wide-skirted frock-coat, drab breeches
and gaiters, he looks the Englishman all
over, the kind of man whom William
Farren showed us on the stage, whom
Wilkie and Webster showed us on canvas,
but whose generation has passed away, and
whose like we shall never see again. In
his seventy-sixth year, he is yet hale and
hearty, and, with the exception of a slight
deafness, shows none of the discomforts of
old age; while in his frank, hearty manner
there is a touch of genuine courtesy, such
as might be expected from a man who, for
upwards of half a century, has been on
terms of confidential and familiar
intercourse with such noblemen as those by
whom the turf used to be supported.

During breakfast the conversation was
brisk and interesting, for few are the
subjects on which the domestic circle at Whitewall
is not well informed, and many are the
celebrities of all kinds by whom the
establishment has been visited. Actors and
authors, and lords of high degree, have
done justice to Mr. Scott's hospitality,
while the memory of a visit from JOHN
LEECH, who made some sketches of what
he saw, is tenderly cherished. Independent
of its human attraction, the house
must be full of interest to a lover of the
turf. The walls are hung with portraits of
racers and jockeys, and with representations
of celebrated contests; the sideboards
are covered with splendid gold and silver
cups, trophies which have been either won
by horses trained by Mr. Scott, or
presented to him by their owners; while the
equine taste is even exhibited in the enormous
carving-knife and fork, a silver plate
on the handle of each setting forth that
they are made of the shank bone of the
once celebrated stallion, Tramp.

Whilst breakfast was being discussed, I
had seen a string of horses, clothed and
hooded, each ridden by a boy, following
each other in Indian file past the window;
and when the meal was over, I was invited
by Mr. Peart again to take my seat beside
him in his trap to be driven to Langton
Wold, on which the horses are exercised.
This is a ceremony which Mr. Scott always
superintends in person. The distance is
now too far for him to walk, but he is
driven out there in his brougham, and
observes his charges from different points of
vantage. The steep hill leading to the
wolds made very little difference to Polly,
who rattled away at a smart pace till we
reached the top, when we turned through
a gate on the left, on to the moorland. The
training ground was formerly on the right,
but that portion of the wold has now been
cultivated, and the training quarter
transferred to the other side of the road. Langton
Wold is, as its name imports, an open
tract of moorland, from which a panoramic
view of some thirty miles can be obtained.
On the left the horizon is bound by
Middleham Moor, also celebrated as a training
ground for race-horses, between which
and Langton runs the Hull and Drifiield
Railway. The turf is short, smooth, and
elastic, and the ground a gentle undulation
of hill and dale, which is favourably