to be roasted, and dished, and garnished, by
the Derby Day. Twenty rounds of beef, four
hundred lobsters, one hundred and fifty
tongues, twenty fillets of veal, one hundred
sirloins of beef, five hundred spring chickens,
three hundred and fifty pigeon-pies; a
countless number of quartern loaves, and an
incredible quantity of ham have to be cut
up into sandwiches; eight hundred eggs have
got to be boiled for the pigeon-pies and salads.
The forests of lettuces, the acres of cress, and
beds of radishes, which will have to be chopped
up; the gallons of " dressing " that will have
to be poured out and converted into salads
for the insatiable Derby Day, will be best
understood by a memorandum from the chief
of that department to the chef-de-cuisine,
which happened, accidentally, to fall under
our notice: " Pray don't forget a large tub
and a birch-broom for mixing the salad!"

We are preparing to ascend, when we hear
the familiar sound of a printing machine.
Are we deceived ? O, no! The Grand
Stand is like the kingdom of China— self-
supporting, self-sustaining. It scorns foreign
aid; even to the printing of the Racing
Lists. This is the source of the
innumerable cards with which hawkers persecute
the sporting world on its way to the Derby,
from the Elephant and Castle to the Grand
Stand. " Dorling's list! Dorling's correct
list! with the names of the horses, and
colours of the riders!"

We are now in the hall. On our left, are
the parlours, — refreshment-rooms specially
devoted to the Jockey Club; on our right, a
set of seats, reserved, from the days of Flying
Childers, for the members of White's
Clubhouse.

We step out upon the lawn; in the midst
is the betting-ring, where sums of money
of fabulous amounts change hands. The
following salutary notice, respecting too
numerous a class of characters, is printed
on the admission card:—

"The Lessee of the Epsom Grand Stand hereby
gives notice that no person guilty of any
malpractices, or notoriously in default in respect of
stakes, forfeits, or bets lost upon horse-racing, will
be admitted within the Grand Stand or its enclosure
during any race meetings at Epsom; and if any
such person should gain admittance therein or
thereupon, he will be expelled, upon his presence
being pointed out to the Stewards for the time
being, or to the Clerk of the Course."

The first floor is entirely occupied with a
refreshment-room and a police court.
Summary justice is the law of the Grand Stand.
Two magistrates sit during the races. Is a
pickpocket detected, a thimble-rigger caught,
a policeman assaulted? The delinquent is
brought round to the Grand Stand, to be
convicted, sentenced, and imprisoned in as short
a time as it takes to run a mile race.

The sloping roof is covered with lead, in
steps; the spectator from that point has a
bird's-eye view of the entire proceedings, and
of the surrounding country, which is beautifully
picturesque. When the foreground of
the picture is brightened and broken by the
vast multitude that assembles here upon the
Derby Day, it presents a whole which has no
parallel in the world.

On that great occasion, an unused spectator
might imagine that all London turned out.
There is little perceptible difference in the bustle
of its crowded streets, but all the roads leading
to Epsom Downs are so thronged and blocked
by every description of carriage that it is
marvellous to consider how, when, and where,
they were all made — out of what possible
wealth they are all maintained — and by what
laws the supply of horses is kept equal to the
demand. Near the favourite bridges, and
at various leading points of the leading
roads, clusters of people post themselves by
nine o'clock, to see the Derby people pass.
Then come flitting by, barouches, phaetons,
broughams, gigs, four-wheeled chaises,
four-in-hands, Hansom cabs, cabs of lesser note,
chaise-carts, donkey-carts, tilted vans made
arborescent with green boughs and carrying
no end of people, and a cask of beer,—
equestrians, pedestrians, horse-dealers, gentlemen,
notabilities, and swindlers, by tens of thousands
—gradually thickening and accumulating,
until, at last, a mile short of the turnpike,
they become wedged together, and are
very slowly filtered through layers of policemen,
mounted and a-foot, until, one by one,
they pass the gate and skurry down the hill
beyond. The most singular combinations
occur in these turnpike stoppages and presses.
Four-in-hand leaders look affectionately over
the shoulders of ladies, in bright shawls,
perched in gigs; poles of carriages appear,
uninvited, in the midst of social parties in
phaetons; little, fast, short-stepping ponies
run up carriage-wheels before they can be
stopped, and hold on behind like footmen.
Now, the gentleman who is unaccustomed to
public driving, gets into astonishing
perplexities. Now, the Hansom cab whisks
craftily in and out, and seems occasionally to
fly over a waggon or so. Now the postboy
on a jibbing or a shying horse, curses the
evil hour of his birth, and is ingloriously
assisted by the shabby hostler out of place,
who is walking down with seven shabby
companions more or less equine, open to the
various chances of the road. Now, the air
is fresh, and the dust flies thick and fast.
Now, the canvas-booths upon the course are
seen to glisten and flutter in the distance.
Now, the adventurous vehicles make cuts
across, and get into ruts and gravel-pits.
Now, the heather in bloom is like a field of
gold, and the roar of voices is like a wind.
Now, we leave the hard road and go smoothly
rolling over the soft green turf, attended by
an army of unfortunate worshippers in red
jackets and stable-jackets, who make a very
Juggernaut-car of our equipage, and now