NEWMARKET 



BY CAPTAIN R. BIRD THOMPSON 



Newmarket is termed, and justly so, the metro- 

 polis of racing, but a greater contrast than New- 

 market presents during the race-weeks and the rest 

 of the year can scarcely be imagined. Any one 

 who stood on the top of the hill on the Cambridge 

 road, and looked down the main street, in one of 

 the off-weeks, would think that he had hardly ever 

 seen such a desolate forsaken-looking sort of place ; 

 the only living things to be seen being a few old 

 women standing at the corners of the streets 

 scratching their elbows, and two or three lads 

 lounging about. Occasionally a tradesman will 

 come out of his shop, and, after looking disconso- 

 lately up and down the street, will go and look into 

 his own shop-window ; his idea being, I suppose, 

 either to see if he can dress his window more 

 attractively, or that he would rather stare into his 

 own shop-window than that nobody at all should ; 

 and the only way you would discover you were in 

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