regarded as calculated to extend the stride
and improve the wind of the animals.
Extending right across the moor is a tan
gallop, of nearly two miles in length, with
a circular track at the far end, by
continuing in which any requisite distance can
be attained. Making our way to Mr. Scott's
brougham, we find him in conversation
with a man who is mounted on an old
pony, whose fired legs tell of service done
in past days. This is Jim Perren, the
superintendent of the stable department, a
position of great trust, which he has held
for years, discharging its duties with the
strictest fidelity. The string of horses,
nine or ten in number, was, at a signal
from Jim Perren to the foremost boy, led
past the brougham, and each, on passing,
was pointed out to me under some well-
known name. Here was one that had won
last week at Newmarket, that one ought to
have won, but was somehow always a
disappointing horse; the third was going to
Edinburgh next week, and so on.

"What are these two coming, Jim?"
asked Mr. Scott, whose eyesight is not
certainly dimmed by age, pointing to two
specks at the extreme end of the tan gallop.

"Haricot and Hotchpotch" (I purposely
give false names), answered Jim, then
added in explanation to me, "Two two-
year olds." As the horses came thundering
by at the top of their speed, remarks were
passed on them by the company. When they
had died away over the brow of the hill, Jim
pointed to a single horse coming up the
gallop, and said to me, "This is old
Tarradiddle, sir. Tardy Tarradiddle, as one of
the sporting prophets calls him; not but
what he can go if he likes, and has good
work in him yet."

"He seems to be coming pretty fast just
now," I ventured to remark.

"Oh, no, sir, he knows his riders well;
his regular boy is ill, and this boy that
is on him cannot get anything like speed
out of him. You'll see he will drop out of
that pace as soon as ever he passes me."
And so he did.

The horses which had been galloping
were now taken to the rubbing shed, where
they are stripped, and scraped with a fine
wooden scraper, after which they have a dry
suit of clothes put on them, and are walked
quietly home, while we follow Mr. Scott's
brougham to that part of the ground where
a dozen yearlings, which had only arrived
two days before, were undergoing their first
lesson. For the information of the
uninitiated, I may state that a yearling is a
foal born in the preceding year, as all
race-horses, no matter in what month they
may be born, date their age from the 1st
of January. These yearlings are being
"lounged," as it is called, each having a
steady boy in attendance on him, whose duty
is to accommodate himself to the temper
of the animal, and give the lounging reins
full play, while preserving an adequate
control over his pupil. There were some
splendid-looking creatures amongst them,
and Mr. Scott was pleased to compliment
me on my selection of a roan colt, and a
bay filly, as showing more penetration
and knowledge of horseflesh than he could
have given so unprofessional a person
credit for.

After half an hour's contemplation of
the tuition of the yearlings, Mr. Scott gave
orders for a retreat homewards, and Mr.
Peart and I rattled off in the chaise to see
the brood mares and foals at Mr. I'Anson's
farm, where, as I understood, amongst
several other celebrated race-horses, were to
be found Caller Ou and Borealis, noted
names in the Turf Calendar. The groom
who received us, and who has been for
many years in Mr. I'Anson's employ, led
the way to the paddock, at the extremity
of which we saw two horses feeding. He
called aloud with a kind of invitation cry,
and they both came towards us. When the
foremost of them, a common-looking, dark-
brown mare, her coat covered with the traces
of the mud in which she had been rolling,
her long unkempt tail switching carelessly
about her, came into close proximity, I could
scarcely believe that this was Caller Ou,
the mare who some nine years previously
had won the Leger, while the Yorkshire
tykes rent the air with the vehemence of
their applauding shouts. In all my
experience, I had never seen such an example
of played-out greatness.

On our return to Whitewall we refreshed
ourselves with some excellent sherry, and
the horses' toilettes being then complete, I
was invited to walk round the stables under
Jim Perren's superintendence. The first
thing that strikes one is, that on each door
are one or two portraits of racers, previous
occupants of the stables, painted on a metal
plate, and framed by a thin little shoe, or
"dancing pump," as it is called, in which
the horses run, a record of his or her
performances being appended underneath.
The boxes themselves are models of neatness
and order; at each horse's head stands
the boy who attends to him, between whom
and the animal there generally exists an
extraordinary amount of mutual attachment,
while the animals themselves were all