A Morning at Newmarket 237 



by train, Newmarket seems to consist of the High Street 

 and the Heath beyond. They know no more of the 

 place than that, going up the street, the stands come 

 into view as they mount the hill at ' the top of the town,' 

 passing near the cemetery where Frederick Archer, most 

 resolute of riders as he sat down and seemed to drive 

 his horse before him, now lies. ' After life's fitful fever 

 he sleeps well.' The casual visitor, as he leaves the 

 station, sees an expanse of turf before him, but he 

 regards it with very little interest, even if some horses 

 are walking about on it, or a yearling or two is being 

 lunged round in a circle at the time of year when break- 

 ing is in progress. As for the Limekilns — a name that 

 means so much to the lover of the real Newmarket — he 

 has no idea even where they are. 



Let us mount our hacks and see what is to be seen 

 this bright morning in that direction, on the Limekilns 

 and the Bury Hill ; for a hack is an essential to a morn- 

 ing at Newmarket, and happy is the man who has a 

 really good one, a creature that will stand when he is 

 wanted to do so, not swerving, curvetting, jumping, or 

 playing at being a racehorse when his rider, race-glasses 

 in hand, is intent on watching the approaching field, 

 and then, dropping the glasses, on taking careful note 

 of all that is happening as the horses thunder past ; a 

 hack that can also go a bit when wanted to go, for occa- 

 sionally one is anxious to get over the ground quickly. 

 We will start from the bottom of the High Street, close 

 to the Clock Tower, which Blanton, a trainer, whose 

 name is remembered in connection with Eobert the Devil, 

 presented to the town. To the left are The Sever als — 

 uncle derivatur no one knows — an irregularly shaped area 

 of well-w^orn turf on which a long string of horses walks 



