w at the
end of that time for upwards of twenty thousand golden sovereigns, but a
hundredweight of children's lamb's-wool socks, and warrants for thirteen
hogsheads of damaged sherry in the docks. No, take my adwice, and have
nothing to say to them--stay where you are, or, if you're short of swag,
come to Great Coram Street, where you shall have a bed, wear-and-tear
for your teeth, and all that sort of thing found you, and, if Saturday's
a fine day, I'll treat you with a jaunt to Margate."

"You are a regular old trump," said the Yorkshireman, after listening
attentively until Mr. Jorrocks had exhausted himself, "but, you see,
you've never been at Newmarket, and the people have been hoaxing you
about it. I can assure you from personal experience that the people
there are quite as honest as those you meet every day on 'Change,
besides which, there is nothing more invigorating to the human
frame--nothing more cheering to the spirits, than the sight and air of
Newmarket Heath on a fine fresh spring morning like the present. The
wind seems to go by you at a racing pace, and the blood canters up and
down the veins with the finest and freest action imaginable. A stranger
to the race-course would feel, and almost instinctively know, what turf
he was treading, and the purpose for which that turf was intended".

"There's a magic in the web of it."

"Oh, I knows you are a most persuasive cock," observed Mr. Jorrocks
interrupting the Yorkshireman, "and would conwince the devil himself
that black is white, but you'll never make me believe the Newmarket
folks are honest, and as to the fine hair (air) you talk of, there's
quite as good to get on Hampstead Heath, and if it doesn't make the
blood canter up and down your weins, you can always amuse yourself
by watching the donkeys cantering up and down with the sweet little
children--haw! haw! haw!--But tell me what is there at Newmarket that
should take a man there?" "What is there?" rejoined the Yorkshireman,
"why, there's everything that makes life desirable and constitutes
happiness, in this world, except hunting. First there is the beautiful,
neat, clean town, with groups of booted professors, ready for the
rapidest march of intellect; then there are the strings of clothed
horses--the finest in the world--passing indolently at intervals to
their exercise,--the flower of the English aristocracy residing in the
place. You leave the town and stroll to the wide open heath, where al