to life, or from beyond seas, to be re-killed or
re-transported. The poor-laws were a very rich topic, and the poor lands
a very ruinous one. But all this was merely the light conversation, just
to vary, in an agreeable mode, which all could understand, the regular
material of discourse, and that was of stakes and stallions, pedigrees
and plates.

Our party rose early, for their pleasure was their business. Here were
no lounging dandies and no exclusive belles, who kept their bowers until
hunger, which also drives down wolves from the Pyrenees, brought them
from their mystical chambers to luncheon and to life. In short, an
air of interest, a serious and a thoughtful look, pervaded every
countenance. Fashion was kicked to the devil, and they were all too much
in earnest to have any time for affectation. Breakfast was over, and
it was a regular meal at which all attended, and they hurried to
the course. It seems, when the party arrive, that they are the only
spectators. A party or two come on to keep them company. A club
discharges a crowd of gentlemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. At length
a sprinkling of human beings is collected, but all is wondrous still and
wondrous cold. The only thing that gives sign of life is Lord Breedall's
movable stand; and the only intimation that fire is still an element is
the sailing breath of a stray cigar.

'This, then, is Newmarket!' exclaimed the young Duke. 'If it required
five-and-twenty thousand pounds to make Doncaster amusing, a plum, at
least, will go in rendering Newmarket endurable.'

But the young Duke was wrong. There was a fine race, and the
connoisseurs got enthusiastic. Sir Lucius Grafton was the winner. The
Duke sympathised with his friend's success.

He began galloping about the course, and his blood warmed. He paid a
visit to Sanspareil. He heard his steed was still a favourite for a
coming race. He backed his steed, and Sanspareil won. He began to find
Newmarket not so disagreeable. In a word, our friend was in an entirely
new scene, which was exactly the thing he required. He was interested,
and forgot, or rather forcibly expelled from his mind, his late
overwhelming adventure. He grew popular with the set. His courteous
manners, his affable address, his gay humour, and the facility with
which he adopted their tone and temper, joined with his rank and wealth,
subdued the most rugged and the coldest hearts. Even the jockeys were
civil to him, and welcomed him with