o the man who "knows a horse," and whose inclinations tend toward what has, for many years been recognised as the fashionable national sport, there is probably no spot in the country, or, indeed, throughout the world, around which so much combined interest and curiosity is centred as Newmarket. Newmarket, as a town, is distinctly modest and undeniably unpretentious. Its High-street presents a happy division between modern improvements and old-time associations. There are quaint and odd corners where one can almost picture the gay cavaliers of Charles II.'s time wending their way towards the racecourse at the top of the hill, and even imagine the Merry Monarch himself being summarily interrupted in following his "fancy" as the animal flew over the grassy sward—for was he not at the races at Newmarket when news came of the outburst of rioting at Rye House? To-day Newmarket is the capital of the world of sport. From fifteen hundred to two thousand horses are in course of training here, under the care of some eighty trainers in and around the town, whilst a veritable army of stable boys are patiently waiting and longing to guide one day to victory the winner of the blue ribbon of the Turf.
Seeing that a horse is everything at Newmarket, we propose to visit some of the homes of the finest thoroughbreds in the world. As we leave the station yard a fine view of the famous Heath lies before us. To the right the great expanse of green slopes up towards a fine cluster of trees, known as Warren Hill. We can just catch sight of the spires of Warren Tower, and a distant view of Mr. Gurry's training establishment; we have an excellent view of Sefton Lodge, the Newmarket home of the Duchess of Montrose; while to the left is Mr. John Dawson's house and stables, surrounded with magnificent trees and lilac in full bloom.
"One moment, sir."
A friendly porter tells us that the horses are just returning from the Manchester Races. Newmarket station sees the arrival and departure of many animals in the course of a year. Last year no fewer than 91 were sent to Epsom, 105 to Goodwood, and 106 to Ascot. The special train has just come in, and the next moment the great horse-boxes are opened. The boxes are, in reality, travelling stables, for they are all fitted up exactly on the same principle, with accommodation for "two." A small "third-class" compartment is attached for the lad who accompanies the horse on its journey. The platform is carpeted with straw, and no sooner are the huge doors opened than the occupier evinces the greatest possible desire to get out. But these stable lads seem to know every weak spot in a horse's disposition, and their methods of pacification are a
