233 



A MORNING AT NEWMARKET 



Newmarket Heath ! For centuries past the name has 

 been full of memories for, pregnant with meaning to, 

 multitudes of Englishmen — since, and indeed before, 

 King Charles II. 's devotion to the best of all conceivable 

 racecourses secured for a portion of it the immortal title 

 of ' The Kowley Mile.' The ' mind's eye ' sees more 

 clearly than the actual organs of vision ; and we may 

 easily guess the familiar scenes that have been conjured 

 up to wandering lovers of the turf in all quarters of the 

 globe. They have looked over the Indian landscape, the 

 strange Eastern foliage before them, the jungle beyond ; 

 but they have seen that stretch of green turf, bush- 

 harrowed so that it is marked with alternate rows of 

 light and dark, such as the finger makes on a piece of 

 velvet, and watched the line of horses that constitute the 

 Cesarewitch field, still indistinct in the distance, turn 

 the corner of the Ditch into the straight. Around the 

 wanderer, as he leans against the ship's side, has been 

 nothing but endless miles of grey-green sea ; yet the 

 mind's eye plainly perceives the field for some big race 

 approaching the Bushes, and notes how the favourite 

 begins to flag — how his jockey, after riding with his 

 hands, presently has recourse to whip and spur, while 

 the unthought-of outsider easily holds his own, his rider 

 glancing from right to left to see if among the beaten 



